#manipulate Conditional Formatting

[cutehoons02]

I fell in love with a golden retriever vampire...

*pairing: Idol vampire Jake x Enhypen human stylist

*trope: grumpy x sunshine

*synopsis: In an alternative future, vampires and humans live together peacefully thanks to a treaty that regulates their relations. Jake is a member of the Enhypen one of the most famous groups in the world and thousands of fans are fascinated by his being a vampire but at the same time representing the most human part and golden retriever of the group, in a moment full of successes of the career of Enhypen appears in the life of Jake his new stylist. They couldn’t be more different than this: Jake is a vampire instead she is a human, Jake is a puppy in vampire format instead she thinks only of her work and is a little bit haughty and snobby, Jake loves fun and is a womanizer instead she is cynical about him and the charm of Jake does not perceive it as a beautiful thing but as a distraction. What will happen when Jake’s powers with his favorite stylist don’t work? And why is she the only one not to fall for his vampire charms…

*tags: A lot of humor, teased, jealousy, possession, Jake is a bit of a pervert, loves to touch and annoy his stylist, scenes where Jake bites his stylist, blood, unprotected sex (don't horny ppl), oral sex, fingering, a little degradation, multiple spicy scenes (pubblic), pet names (Good girl, baby) (Jackie,Golden retriever)+ 16, angst.

10k (🧛)

(English is not my native language)

In an alternative future, vampires and humans live together peacefully thanks to a treaty that regulates their relations. Vampires are known for their unnatural beauty and superhuman abilities, which makes them highly sought after in the world of entertainment, fashion, and entertainment, especially in the world of Idols, Vampires are rarely tired and need a few hours of sleep so they are perfect for the endless hours of dance training, various events that make as models or even actors. However, despite the peaceful coexistence, there is still a subtle mutual prejudice between the two species, there is a peace treaty but things do not always go well for humans when they meet on their way vampires who have not accepted the rules of the treaty imposed by the magical world and that of the humans.

Jake, one of the members of Enhypen, is a vampire with a special power: emotional manipulation through touch. It can calm, confuse, or intensify a person’s feelings with a simple touch, an ability that makes him useful on stage but makes him appear a little weaker than others in routine everyday situations.

All 7 members have powers: Heeseung the oldest member of the group has the power of vocal hypnotism. He is the calmest and most rational person in the group, and he is often the peacemaker between Jake and the designer.

Jay can hypnotize people, controlling their minds, emotions, and thoughts with his gaze. This allows him to manipulate the actions of others and influence their thoughts. However, his power is limited when he is not emotionally balanced if he lets himself be overwhelmed by his darkest desires, or if he stands beside sensitive people.

Sunghoon has the power of super speed and is the "prince" of the group, with an elegant but competitive air.

Sunoo is empathic and can capture any emotion or tension with his natural aura, he can perceive the emotions of others without the need for physical contact. He is the first to notice the tension between Jake and the designer.

Jungwon is the first of the group to be able to transform into a bat and fly. He can also move objects with his mind. Its flying power makes it super fast, but it requires a lot of energy and can be affected by weather conditions.

Finally, we have Ni-Ki the smallest of the group has the power of mimetism (can make itself invisible for long periods). He is the most lively of the group and enjoys teasing Jake.

The studio is a chaotic mix of lights, and clothes hanging mono color with red references to remind that the Enhypen were vampires and they fed mostly blood and staff ran everywhere to prepare members for their next shooting with a well-known brand of Italian high-rise clothing. For Y/n the new designer, It was her first day and she had been waiting for a long time after finishing her studies in fashion design to work for a fashion house or to be someone’s stylist when they accepted her for a year-paid trial she felt like, she was on top of the world. Y/n she could seem reserved, a little cynical, and maybe haughty but had struggled with herself to pay for her studies and learn everything there was to know about high fashion. Y/n found himself arranging a rack of perfectly ironed leather jackets and shirts. It’s the first day with the group, and his goal is simple: do his job perfectly, show the department boss that she is good, and go away without a hitch, But she doesn't know that soon a vampire in the guise of golden retrievers would be upset all her life and all its uncertainties. Jake walked backstage like a thunderbolt, with an aura that can’t go unnoticed: bright smile, relaxed posture, eyes that seemed to sparkle with pure charm wearing fake nerd glasses, and his artificial golden hair that gave him that aura even more as a non-human person. He observed the staff, 90% of the human people whom he had known well for 4 years now, but his eyes immediately turned to her, the girl with curly copper-colored hair who was putting their jackets away. He suddenly stopped to observe her, not that it was unusual for Jake to stop and look at a beautiful girl, both in vampire TV and in human TV was routine now was represent as a lover of adventure and did not make distinctions between vampire or human girls but this time... there was something different.

Jake with a smile like a book, the usual thing he did to get the attention that he loved to receive from women approached the new stylist. «Oh, hello. Are you new? I’m Jake, nice to meet you.» Jake reached out to him because with that excuse he would have the way to touch her and feel what she felt at that moment with his magic power.

The designer heard a melodic voice coming from next to her and that voice had already been heard a billion times on TV or when she listened to their songs. " Yes, i know who you are. You’re the one who’s always late and ruining staff time, right?" Y/n looked up for a second and found himself next to Jake Sim the womanizer of the group with his slightly frizzy blonde hair, his classic smile made all the girls drool for him and his body toned for the countless hours spent in the gym and training. But after a few seconds, she concentrated back on the jackets and Jake stood for an instant speechless. She didn’t even look at him. No smile, no blush, no nod of that typical "oh my god, it’s Jake from Enhypen" reaction.

«Wow, pungent. I like girls with character. What’s your name, honey? I bet that a girl like you will have a beautiful and particular name as your coppery blonde hair and your forest green eyes» Finally you look up and stare at him with a dry look. Jake’s eyes meet yours, but something goes wrong. He can’t read your emotions, or touch you for a second and it’s as if his usual power to manipulate the charm and feelings of others has disappeared. For the first time in hundreds of years, Jake feels... normal. "If you are done flirting with me i would be happy, i have to adjust your measurements for this jacket that i think is too big for you. Please stay still and try to keep it up until I’m done with the job, then you can go flirt with the other staff girls!" Jake, a little upset, lets himself take the measurements for the thousandth time. As she takes the measurements of his bust and shoulders,he smells her perfume: sweet but with a pungent note, just like her attitude towards him at this moment.

Jake is a serial chatterbox and tries to break the silence with another of his little jokes «You haven’t told me your name yet. I am always so irresistible with all the girls that i meet, what is it you have a magical power that you are particularly impervious to my charm?» Y/n looked at the vampire in front of her and looked up, God how self-centered this boy was.

"Well, maybe fate wanted you to meet for the first time a girl who does not find you irresistible to your charm, what if your little ego as a superstar is getting weaker because for the first time especially a human does not find you irresistible?" Jake looked at you slightly with his mouth open and felt his fangs become slightly longer and his eyes get darker than they should, why was he so excited about such a conversation? The little human was teasing him and seemed not to be afraid that there was a vampire in front of her who could temper or bleed her in an instant if she would not keep her mouth shut. As she continues to work, Jake realizes that not only can’t he use his powers on her, but that his natural charm doesn’t even seem to scratch her. This irritates him... and intrigues him.

It had been more than a month since your arrival in the world of Enhypen and you were always excited to discover and have adventures with them, In that month you were flying to Spain for a festival and had been able to design 2 dresses for members one for Sunghoon and the other for Jay and the department head was greatly surprised by the sketch and also how the set of the two vampire suits came out. With the other members, you had started to become less cynical and maybe even "friendly" but with the only one who could not get a professional and friendly relationship was Jake, he always made you some jokes inappropriate about how they dressed your jeans, how he loved seeing your beautiful legs while you were wearing skirts but at the same time he teased you about how you only became touchy when you were with him or how your cheeks warmed up when he whispered things a little dirty when you made it before you went out to sing on stage or when you were measuring him for a new suit. As it was happening at this exact moment: you had helped all the members to prepare and at the same time take photos that would go later on the various Fashion Blogs of the vampire world and human ones for the clothes worn by the 7 idols.

"Jake, it’s your turn to change the outfit," You said in a dry tone, trying to keep your cool as you were putting the sketch of the dress on the electronic board. Your heart is already agitated enough when Jake is near, with that mischievous smile and aura that seems to wrap around him. Jake came in and stood before you and looked at you with a puppy smile and slightly protruding lip and smiled at you with an expression that screamed amused and teasing. «Okay, but I’m a little tired, can you help me? Never know these leather pants seem so tight and i wouldn’t want to break them!» You ignored his words and pointed to the open shirt, leather jacket, and leather pants on the stand. “Hurry up with your clothes, Jake. We’re late." The vampire looked at his watch and had 10 minutes before he left for the event and of course, decided to complicate your life. With a languid smile, he pulls his shirt right in front of you, revealing his sculpted chest. You looked at him slightly amused but you were smoking out of anger because if they found you with only a finger too much put in a strange position for the department head they would fire you instantly, you shot to not look at it and not to let them see that you were slightly embarrassed, It wasn’t the first time you saw a bare chest but Jake had seriously sexy and muscular physique at the right spot and his muscular crests that formed a perfect V made you think of things you should never have imagined.

"Really? Couldn’t you change behind the partition like everyone else? What is it you have not yet understood that i'm not fascinated by you Jake" The vampire in front of you laughed and slipped his pants from the suit and remained only in boxers in front of you, were you cursing him in all possible languages because he wanted so much to embarrass you and tease you?

«Well, where is the fun if i went to change in knowing? It’s nice to see you so cheeky looking at my beautiful physique and who knows maybe in your mind you imagine being over my legs or while licking these beautiful muscles!» You were so tired of his insolence that you threw his shirt and heard him laugh. "Jake! Put some clothes on, for God’s sake!" «You are so boring Y/n, should you relax and have fun sometimes and why do you use words like Holy Heavens? i'm a vampire, not a priest or some clerical member». You sighed, trying to ignore it. But your work came before his stupid beats so you walked up and gently took his shirt. "Put this on. Right now, Jake. Otherwise, i'll send you out in just boxers." Jake took a step towards you, getting close enough to hold your breath. «Can you help me, right? You’re the designer. Touch me as well. I don’t bite... at least not without permission.»

You stared at him trying to keep calm. "Did anyone ever tell you that you’re unbearable?" Jake laughed softly as you might get slightly touchy, but when he felt her stylist’s little fingers touching his shoulder to fix his shirt, everything changed.

As your fingers touched his cold vampire skin, you both stiffened. There is something strange: an unexpected warmth spreads under your touch, as if only with your touch could feel the heat, something as unknown to a vampire. Jake was as amazed as he was, so he laid his big hand slightly over yours where you had just stopped for the heat shock you both received.

«You...you are hot Y/n» you laughed at his bat when you pushed your hand away to button the shirt buttons. "Wow what a scientific finding you just made Jake, of course, I’m hot in my body circulates blood, i'm a human if you don’t remember" Jake shook his head, it was seriously weird what was happening. For what reason did he feel the heat while touching it? Never happened. Then, with a more uncertain smile than usual, he looked at you, and you buttoned the last button and left two open to reveal his skin and toned physique. «No, you don’t understand Y/n. I’m a vampire i should be cold for you, you shouldn’t feel heat when you touch me, that only happens...» You didn’t want to hear his stupid comments anymore so you put the clothes on and made a sign to move “Jake... You talk too much, move that the other members are waiting for you. Give a little help from the hairstylist and run into the studio" you ran away from his presence and went to the studio where the other members were already ready, you put near your cape that smiled at you and made her see all the photos you had done to the members and fortunately Jake had made hairstylist so nobody noticed anything.

The months passed quickly and Y/n always pretended not to feel what she felt every time she accidentally touched the vampire and was unaware of what he felt and went through Jake’s head. You always tried to ignore what happened every time you touched Jake, but it wasn’t easy. At first, it was just isolated episodes: a touch of the arm to fix his jacket, a contact while you were fixing his collar. But each time, that unexpected heat returned, and each time it seemed to become more intense. Jake, for his part, did everything to provoke those moments and have an excuse to feel that touch. He came deliberately, with banal excuses: "Can you fix this sleeve?" or "I need help with this zip." He did not need any help, but he wanted to feel that heat that made him crazy. This thing was noticed by his companions and not only, no more gossip or drama between him and the other girls, was seriously focused on the comeback that would be there soon Jake every weekend was in the company of some girl and instead a couple of time seemed to have no more want to touch or date other girls, the only touch he wanted and was obsessed with was Y/n.

They had all worn the various costumes for the new comeback and were preparing to shoot the new video, Jake was training with the band members, but the presence of the stylist backstage distracted him. She was there talking to another stylist while she was bent over a box full of accessories, trying to fit them into a costume they would use later for recording outdoors.

Jake watches her in secret, trying to ignore the growing desire that assailed him every time he was in the same room with her, in the same plane, in the same bar where all the employees stopped in the morning practically her smell was getting more and more into Jake’s body and soul and it was strange because he had not yet felt or tasted her blood and seemed to attract him every day More and more.

Sunghoon gave him an elbow. <<Hey, what are you doing? You’ve missed the step for the third time. We have repeated this choreography a thousand times even the walls know it by heart>>

Jake clears his throat, trying to look natural. "Nothing, I’m just tired."

Jay, who is watching everything carefully, looks at him with a suspicious look. «Tired? Distracted? You’re a vampire we don’t rest almost ever Jake, these are all excuses»

Sunghoon follows Jake’s look and immediately understands. <<Oh, i see. It’s for you, isn’t it? Your favorite designer with whom you argue from morning to night, stop staring at her because besides us other people can follow your gaze right now. >>

Jake’s eyes are up, trying to hide the embarrassment. "Don’t be silly i wasn’t staring at her. For that moment when my eyes leaned on her figure you looked where my gaze was... that’s all." Jake was embarrassed and started to torture the fur of his hands

Jay with a mischievous grin looked at Jake. «Curious? How no. Your eyes are turning dark, brother. If you don’t calm down, you’ll make a vampire scene in front of everyone.»

Hoon laughed at Jay’s joke and came even closer to Jake << Look here not to mention the tusks. They are growing you every time you approach her. Maybe it’s time to do something.>>

Jake walked away from his brothers and looked at them badly "Nothing’s happening. There’s nothing wrong if sometimes my fangs become longer, it always happens when i’m near girls is my instinct as a predator what i'm"

Jay looks at him with a piercing look, as only a vampire can do. «You know that the heat and intensity you feel are not random. If she causes you all this, she could be your soul mate and not say that you have never thought about it because it is for a good few weeks that no gossip comes out about you, i don't see you flirting with any girl, and always seem so lost in your thoughts»

Jake would like to fight back but he gets stuck. He can’t deny it, but he doesn’t even admit it. The idea that she might be his soul mate scares him more than anything else, there are so few pairs of humans and a vampire, that they were seriously banned but since the two worlds made peace and began to collaborate subspecies of marriages between vampires and humans had been celebrated but were still seen as decidedly out of place especially by older generations.

Slowly, the other members also began to notice that something was wrong. Ni-Ki in particular enjoyed teasing Jake whenever the stylist was around.

Jungwon watched the older boy’s hair get tangled up from the sensations he was feeling when he saw Y/n. "Hey, Jake, are you all right? It seems your brain goes haywire every time she enters the room." Another time Ni-Ki was in the company of the golden retriever and Y/n had spent a second showing him a newspaper of Vogue Korea where they were and Ni-Ki was wearing a dress she had designed and when he left Jake was definitely desperate because the smell of Y/n was driving him crazy.

<<Maybe we should ask her to stay a little further away from you next time. We wouldn’t want Jake to lose control and throw himself at his neck, would we?>> Jake gave the group’s little boy a hateful look and cursed him when they bit him, nobody told him how hard it could be to feel and want a person who at first did not even much with his arrogance but now he was seriously tired and would do anything to understand if Y/n was his soul mate or if it was all fruit of his sick mind because he could not have it like all the other girls.

Enhypen flew to Japan for a festival where the top 5 bands of the moment would perform, both male and female, had just finished performing after another group called Stray Kids and when he came back backstage he went to grab something to nibble on but his look after a few seconds stopped on Y/n and felt his anger grow second by second. The reason why? His stylist was chatting with another idol, for his bad luck with one of the most beautiful humans in circulation as well as Hyunjin who belonged to the Stray Kids. Hyunjin was the representation of the classic model but at the same time idol, he was enigmatic with his aura as an artist, with his hair slightly long, and with his charm fake emo. The scene was innocent: you were getting a drink and Hyunjin came to you and as gentlemanly as he was asked if you wanted to taste some Japanese snacks that he loved because he had seen you busy preparing all the members for the day and how he deduced you had eaten almost nothing, the smiles and accepted until you started talking about the more and less of the various tours that the two groups were to do and Hyunjin without malice had touched your side. After all, he wanted to take more food to the table but Jake when he saw this scene something inside him clicked.

After a while, Y/n saw Jake arrive haughtily and stand in front of Hyunjin. «Are you finished? We need her. Work to do, you know how she gets paid to be our stylist not to have conversations with other idols."

Hyunhin confused took a step back. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. I just wanted to let her discover some snacks that we humans love so much, things you vampires can’t understand!" Y/n watched Jake tighten his hands around his jeans more and more and after a few seconds he took her away from Hyunjin until he pushed his stylist into a closet Jake looked immediately if there were cameras but that time was lucky because there were only him and the designer attached to the wall with arms crossed to the body to make them as baracer.

"What a scene, Jake. I didn’t know you were my babysitter." Jake closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again there was no longer the golden retriever version that everyone knew but perhaps a darker and maybe true version of him. «I don’t like it when you approach people you don’t know.» But who did he think he was? had no control over you.

"Oh, i see. And why? Aren’t you the one who flirts with everything that is human or not, since you are a vampire?"

Jake’s jaw is tight. He was really tired of you, of your arrogance, of how you ignored that warmth you felt too, and wanted to teach you a lesson. «Don't compare me to them. You don’t belong to this world of idols, you don’t belong to anyone... except to me.»

His words made you jump. For a moment you are speechless, and then you decide to answer him with your usual sarcasm.

"Oh, really? And since when did you decide to become possessive? I thought you were the one-night stand, and so when i listened to the gossip news every weekend they would photograph or film you with one or maybe more different girls!"

Jake stepped towards you, his face a few inches from yours «Maybe i was. But you have changed everything fucking don’t tell me that you don't feel what i feel, every time i'm near you when i touch you, i always feel that electric discharge of heat that for us vampires is almost impossible to perceive because we have no blood and no emanate heat.»

"Don’t think your movie lines impress me, Jake. I’m not one of your fans who faints as soon as you smile, I’m not fascinated by you, I don’t see in you the guy that is represented on all media and not." You didn’t finish the sentence that Jake’s lips crashed into yours, there was no hesitation, only physical need. Contact is an explosion of sensations: the heat that feels every time it touches you becomes almost unbearable, wrapping both.

You remain motionless, caught by surprise, but then you give in to the kiss, returning it with a passion that you did not think you had. Jake came even closer and lifted you off the floor and sat you down on the small table full of detergents that he dropped when he put his big hands around your ass to lean on you and then close again to him. «Baby fuck, you’re driving me crazy months i wanted to feel your lips in mine» you slightly pushed Jake away but he dived back into your lips and a little moan came out of your lips when you felt his canines close to your lip and without permission bit your lower lip lightly and when Jake saw the drops of your blood began to sucked and at the same time lifted the light shirt you had on, and when he saw you only with the bra and little drops that were pouring out of your mouth, his neck up to the breast was no longer controlled and began to lick and suck you every drop scattered in your little body around yours.

"I hate you Jake" Jake smiled when he licked and sucked the little wound he had made in your lip again, «You’ll make me crazy Y/n, this is definitely your end you will not be able to go back» you put your arms around his neck and kissed him again but this time it was you who taunted him and as he had done he bit his lip but from him no drop of blood came out but from his lips, a lot of groans and sighs of pleasure, still covered by the breast-rest to his body and at the same time you kissed desperately and after a while Jake licked the wound that had caused you with his tongue and you no longer felt pain because with his tongue could cure any injury with his powers.

You pushed him away and after a while, you pulled him to sit next to you and you put yourself on him, you didn’t know if that table would hold your weight but you didn’t care, You just wanted to feel Jake’s lips again in your body and swung slightly along its length; Jake was seriously ecstatic. Who would have thought you had so much energy and desire to ride him? As you kissed, you felt his big hands slightly cold but when they touched your body they became slightly warm, one hand was behind your back to keep you balanced, and with a single gesture he took off your bra and with the other began to tighten a breast and took his lips from the you and bent slightly to suck an bud of your breast, You were so sensitive in that part of your body and all these new discoveries about you will go all into a part of his brain where he wrote down all the things you liked and those less. Your nipples harden in the cold air but are quickly warmed by Jake’s fingers, he pinches and pulls the buds sharply, and the feeling makes you want to get aroused. He started to torture you both nipples slowly and pulled his hair slightly, "Jake pls, don’t always be a jerk with me" A grin formed on his face, and licked you and suck the bud but his canines were driving you crazy because every time he sucked them you felt more and more in contact with your skin but Jake was not a mad lunatic as some people had painted him and not you would ever do harm, so with all his patience he never let out his teeth but only his tongue.

«Fuck stop little move so on my dick or I’ll come in these pants for thousands of dollars» A little moan came out from your lips and laughed at that sentence of Jake

"That’s the point, Jake, stop calling me a little girl because I’m not one of the whores you fucked for no reason" Jake was really fucked by you, who were you really?

You wrapped your arms around his arms again and began to ride them lengthwise, and Jake leaned his head against the wall and wrapped his big hands around your hips covered in a light pull of black leggings, You were sending him off head whenever you rode his dick covered in jeans and after a few seconds he felt the flap of his pants wet and a finger intruded into your pussy still dressed in leggings and felt that you were completely wet. Fuck for the first time in hundreds of years, he came as a boy loser in his boxer shorts.

Jake drew you close to himself and pressed you to his body and he drew light circles above your leggings behind your back until he felt that you had calmed down, After a while he slightly moved away from you and took your face with his big hands and stroked your completely reddened cheeks.

"You really are a problem Jake" He smiled at you and passed his thumb around where he had bit you slightly with his canine.

«And you are mine. You know that, don’t you?»

You did not answer, but the blush on your cheeks and the look in his eyes said it all.

After what had happened in the Japanese locker, it seemed to have made Jake more and more sensitive to the scent and smell of Y/n, tried in every way to throw a few glances, to visit her even for a few minutes between breaks of some intense choreography or in the morning he always arrived first and left him in his art studio some humanoid food that loved his human like a chocolate muffin or a smoothie. His companions or in short vampire brothers were mocking him a little but they were happy that the first to have found (hopefully) his soul mate was Jake, they were also tired of seeing him always with some girl different and knew that when he would find her would see his true cub nature as they called him "the golden retriever vampire" because he always loved to cuddle, Embrace or play with all members, especially with Ni-Ki who found herself in that world of the idol at a young age.

The autumn festival was on the plan in Seoul and Enhypen was invited as guest of honor, there were many other groups both vampires and humans and they were always a little alert because so many people would be perfect for "bad" vampires, creatures who did not accept the peace treaty with humans and were always hunting for some human to bite or even worse if they felt or knew that a vampire had eyes on a human wanted absolutely to make the vampire in question suffer. Their mission is clear: hit the stylist to hurt Jake and the rest of the group, because even if Y/n was the soul mate Jake had a subtle connection with the other 6 members, and if they hurt Jake would also hurt the others in some way.

While you were putting the accessories behind the scenes, a vampire suddenly appeared in front of you with red eyes and exposed tusks. You had seen some vampires lose control and even the Enhypen sometimes showed their canines to their fans or red eyes but this vampire in front of you looked literally scary and you went a little backward, They always told you that you shouldn’t be afraid because they would hear it and they would feel even more with the heart and blood pumping more but at this moment you were really terrified until you saw his canines come out of your mouth and tried to touch you but Jake and the others immediately rushed to you.

Jay pushed you with a pussyfoot behind him, saying «Don’t dare to come near her again or even worse touch her is ours.»

Sunghoon with his usual cold, calculating, and scornful look looked at the vampire still with eyes on you << You’ve chosen the wrong target, do not allow yourself to touch her or any other person without powers, Don’t turn against me because if you don’t remember I’m of the royal family and I could send you to hell in an instant>>

Jake when he saw that it wasn’t him who had saved you or alienated you from that vampire completely lost control. With a deep growl, face the vampire who had dared to approach you. Eyes as black as darkness tusks fully exposed. In a few seconds, the danger was eliminated.

But when you watched the scene of Jake biting and maybe killing that vampire in front of you, you became terrified and looked at everyone with scared eyes, especially Jake. You walked away from Jay looked at him and cried with tears "Stay away from me! All of you! You’re monsters!"

Jake turns to you, his face still marked by anger and adrenaline, and yells «I saved you. You should be glad i got him out»

You backed away a little "From what? From other monsters like you? I don’t want to have anything to do with you, your sick world full of malice"

Your words are like a dagger for Jake. His confident smile disappeared completely, giving way to a wounded expression, and lowered his head as he watched you move away from them but above all from him, and in a low voice he said «I... I am not like them.»

Sunghoon put his hand on Jake’s shoulder and said << Jake. She just needs time. >

«And if that were not enough? for her, I’m only a monster...»

The Enhypen were training without breaks for almost three hours until a man entered the rehearsal room. He is tall and elegant, but there is a menacing aura around him. His eyes glimmer with a dark red, and every movement seems calculated. Jake recognizes him immediately.

«Rex. What do you want?»

"Quiet I’m not here to create problems I’m here to warn you."

The other members stop, the air suddenly tenses and Jay immediately stands near Jake

<< Warn him of what?>>

Rex looked at Jake "You're... human. The stylist. She attracted unwanted attention. There are vampires who do not respect the treaty, and you are an easy target."

Jake clenches his fists, his body tense. «They will not touch her»

Rex raised an eyebrow, "I hope so for you. But protecting her while she lives alone is practically impossible. It’s better if she comes live with you, at least until things calm down."

Jake remains silent for a long moment. The stylist’s words come to his mind: "You are all monsters." The thought of seeing her every day, knowing how much she fears him, makes him feel empty.

«No way.»

Jay stared at Jake << Rex is right. If something happens to her, you won’t forgive yourself. Let me convince her that you are... too involved. >>

Jake turns to Jay, face tense. «Do as you please. But don’t ask me to talk to her.»

Jay meets you at the end of a long day’s work, sitting in your studio surrounded by a pile of sketches, unfinished clothes, and several cups of coffee with deep dark circles, a sign of sleepless nights.

Jay came in unannounced << You don’t look well>> You looked up and with surprise there was Jay

"What are you doing here? You’re not the one who usually makes surprise visits."

Jay smiled slightly << For Jake it is... complicated. So I’m the one to bring you the message, he knows that i’m half human like you so he thinks i’m the perfect candidate to tell you this bomb without you getting angry or scared even more>> you looked curious Jay and made with my hands the gesture of continuing to speak.

<< You’re safe here but not at home, you have to come and live with us, at least for a while until things settle down between you and Jake>>

You raised an eyebrow "And why should I? I don’t feel exactly comfortable with you... vampires"

Jay sighs, sitting in front of her. << Look, I know you’re angry and scared. And you’re right to be. But if you don’t come with us, we can’t guarantee your protection. Rex himself said you’re a target. And trust me, you don’t want to know what happens if one of those vampires finds you. If you don’t trust others of me you can trust i have the blood that flows under my skin and a little i can understand you, so now get up that i accompany you home, You take a nice hot shower and then we prepare a suitcase and come to stay with us for a while and then when things have settled you can decide whether to go back to your house or stay with Jake>> These words make you shiver and annuities without objecting.

When you arrived at their house you were warmly welcomed by everyone... except for Jake. Every time you met him in the hallways, he would just nod cold or look at you for a moment before leaving.

One night, however, terror took over. A sudden noise woke you up, and the memories of the attack at the festival came to mind. You looked at the time and without doing it on purpose were 3 o'clock in the night the time of the devil. Trembling, you slipped out of his room and headed for Jake’s door.

Knocking slowly you felt your heart beat strong until after a few seconds the door opened and there in front of you was Jake in pajamas with black stripes, red and blue, and a bare chest; you felt the cheeks turn immediately red and married the look to his face «What do you want?»

"Can’t i sleep, can i come in?"

Jake opened the door, his impassive expression, and saw you enter his shelter

«You shouldn’t be here Y/n, the monster in front of you could bleed you dry and feed you to other monsters like me!» You watched his canines on display and a shiver ran through your body, bit your lip and you approached him and you leaned down where he was sitting in bed.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what i said. I was scared, confused, and when I saw you so angry and hurt that being me."

Jake finally looked up at you and looked at you with a bitter smile

«You said it, and you thought it. I’m nothing but a monster to you, am I?» You shook your head, unable to bear the distance that had been created between you and him by that event.

"You’re not a monster to me. You’re Jake. You’re the guy who makes me lose my patience every day, who makes me laugh when I least expect it, who looks at me as if I’m the only thing that matters in the world, who behaves a little bit of a pervert when I wear skirts or that always looks at me with that look you would like to claim yours and let everyone know! I was wrong, but... I don’t really mean it."

Before Jake could answer you kissed him. His lips were soft against hers, full of a sweetness that tried to erase the pain it had caused him, you felt immediately the heat that you had missed in those days and for a moment Jake let go responding to the kiss, but then he brusquely walked away and looked at you with those half-brown eyes with red shades.

Jake got up from his bed and put some distance away from you. «A kiss is not enough to fix everything. Not when you said those words... You don’t understand what it means to me to be seen like this by you, Y/n.»

You felt the tears burn your eyes, but he was not willing to give up.

"I didn’t understand it before but i do now. I know i hurt you, and maybe i don’t deserve your forgiveness. But... I want to make it right."

Jake stared at you, his eyes shining in the dim, full of conflict. Before he could answer you wrapped him in a sincere embrace, holding him as if it was something precious that maybe you had slowly understood that you too were feeling something for him.

"Please let me stay. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight."

Jake stood still for a long time, his body stiff against yours. Then, with a trembling breath, his arms rose and surrounded you

«You’re stubborn, you know? You drive me crazy»

You looked up, with a soft but provocative smile "I’m learning from the best golden retriever who can’t stop hugging people."

Jake laughed softly, shaking his head. His face became soft, and for the first time in those days, he seemed more serene.

«Do not make me regret this. Tomorrow when you wake up do the go away and don’t come back the girl cynical and a little haughty who loved to make fun of me, let’s discover Y/n»

You nodded against his chest, finally feeling some peace. You had been hugging for almost half an hour but after a while, you felt Jake’s belly growl with hunger and a little laugh came out of your mouths as you looked at each other, Jake broke away from you and took a small bottle of blood from under the bed and your face was at how much disgust but you saw immediately the expression of Jake become serious and maybe a little suffering? you bent slightly towards him and passed your little hand through his slightly long hair in the tuft "What’s wrong, Jake? Do you need a straw?"

Jake looked up at you exasperated «Don’t repeat Y/n, where did the sweet girl from before?» You raised your hands in surrender "I’m just saying. You’re a vampire, I thought drinking blood was like... your favorite thing."

«It’s not so simple Y/n, since i tasted yours, any blood sucks me and I have trouble feeding myself» you look at the boy next to you with a small grin

"Are you telling me that my blood is the best you’ve ever tasted?"

Jake looked at you with his little red eyes «It’s not funny.»

You said "He is a little bit. But hey, at least now I know that I’m irreplaceable for someone!"

Jake looked at you intensely and his little smile had vanished «You are much more than irreplaceable Y/n, now you sleep that it is almost 4»

The days passed and between exhausting workouts, events, and live, fan meetings the days went by quickly and even your stay in the protected villa of Enhypen continued. Jake kept teasing you and you did the same, It seemed that since the first time you slept together, embraced as two young boys who were to discover each other and not as a vampire who was afraid of losing you and a human who did not understand this thing about soul mate, But Jake that night was definitely in abstinence of something he had tasted from Y/n and wanted absolutely to possess it but at the same time did not want to scare her and be seen a "monster" from her eyes.

Jake walked into your room with quiet steps, slightly ruffled hair, and an unreadable expression on his face. You noticed it immediately: the way his eyes looked even darker than usual, the evident tension in his shoulders.

You looked up and there was a puppy-looking Jake in front of you, who was looking at you and honestly didn’t know what to do or say

"Can’t sleep, or did you miss me already? We met like an hour ago!"

Jake looked at you with his intense gaze as if he was eating with his eyes. «I can’t stay away from you.»

You were stuck for a moment, surprised by his sincerity," his voice was so serious, so vulnerable but you were literally a little bitch and loved to tease him and to hide the tension I said. " Oh, poor little golden retriever. Need a cuddle?"

Jake does not laugh. He comes slowly, until he sits on the edge of his bed, so close that you could feel the freshness of his skin. «Don’t joke, please Y/n. I need you tonight.»

His low, almost pleading tone made you shiver, you had never seen a Jake so direct and you approached him.

“Then what do you want to do, Jake? Stand there staring at me or..." You can’t finish the sentence that Jake moves suddenly, hands laying on the sides of your hips as he approaches you dangerously. His face is so close to you that he can feel his breath against your neck.

«Don’t ask me questions you’re not ready to hear answered.»

You held your breath but did not want to back out. In fact, you raised your hand and deliberately placed it on his chest, feeling his muscles tense under his shirt. "What if i was ready?"

Jake stiffens as if his words have broken something inside him. Then, slowly, he lets himself fall beside her, lying on the bed. «I don’t know if i can control myself tonight, you are too much Y/n for me.»

You’re turning towards him, a smile that plays on your lips. "Who said you had to control yourself? I thought you were a vampire, not a puppy."

Jake closed his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily. When he opens them again, there is something different about him: a vulnerability he had never shown before. He rises up on an elbow and fixes you with such intensity that you feel your cheeks warm.

Jake said in a roaring voice, «If I bite you, everything will change. I can’t risk hurting you.»

You bowed your head, your smile became a little more provocative. "What if i wanted to risk it?"

Jake doesn’t answer. He just stares at you for an infinite moment, then slowly lowers his head towards his neck. When his cold lips touch your skin, you feel a shiver run down your back.

"It’s not you who should be afraid, it’s me." Caress his cheeks and open your neck even more

Jake makes a low sound, almost a growl that sound was incredibly sexy and you would have wanted to hear it again forever. Then, without hesitation, gently sinks his fangs into your skin.

The pain is minimal, almost imperceptible, but the heat that follows is overwhelming. You felt the blood flow to him as if he was creating a bond that goes beyond the physical. Jake groans slowly, his body relaxing while he drinks with a sweetness that he would never have expected, he sucked gently but at the same time was unbridled by the heat that produced your body and the feeling of his lips around your neck and the taste that had your exquisite blood in his mouth. When he comes off, blood gushes from his lips and his eyes are dark, almost black. He took off your slightly stained shirt and little drops went into your body but he wanted to do something even dirtier with you.

Jake in a low voice, with a trembling smile, said to you «I know now why i can’t stay away from you. It’s you. It was always you.»

You touched your neck, still a little bit dizzy and sore, and felt Jake sit on his knees in front of your bed and take off your pajamas.

«You trust me, baby? I want to make you feel good but at the same time i too» watch Jake and to hide your nervousness you talked by doing one of your usual jokes." I just made you bite my neck and suck it, I think I do, Jake!"

Jake laughed softly, a deep guttural sound, and came close to touching your pussy, but he wanted to hear it with the tongue in which he had tasted you and still tasted your blood. He took off your already wet panties and you had the pussy totally stimulated because of his canines that sucked your blood and you were terribly excited, passed his tongue in your pussy and he moaned. «You’re so wet for me eh.?» He kissed you for a few seconds the inside cosca «So wet for the guy that you said it did not fascinate you eh.?» presses his pinky on your completely wet core, rotating around your inlet without any additional pressure.

"Jake pls, I’ve been so good to you i let you bite me i need..." was starting to tease you, and this time he was the one who was ruining you not you. He took his little finger off the clitoris and suddenly started to lick a path from your entrance to your clitoris where it snaps and sucks hard. The feeling makes you tremble on your knees and you reach for a hand to get caught in his hair, pulling hard. Jake works your clitoris just as you like it and you can feel your upcoming orgasm grow but he had another thought and let his hands off your thighs and suddenly stood up and opened your eyes for the loss of his tongue on your pussy and with canines in plain sight You felt his tongue with your juices give you little kisses where he had previously bitten you, and bit you again but this time for a few seconds and the contact of his canines on the skin another time made you moan both from pleasure and pain "Jakie". Jake was ecstatic when he heard that nickname and with the blood flowing back to taste your pussy «This is the sweetest thing i have ever tasted.» Jake opened you again with one hand before collecting your slimy cum and teasing your entrance. Your back bows giving him a better access and you groan as he puts one finger and then another.

«Are you close baby?» Jake bites your clitoris and you scream as he presses the sweet gummy spot inside of you that makes you see the stars. Come strong enough to get you shed tears again, your hand pulls the vampire stronger on your clitoris before it’s too much and you have to let go. Jake walks away but not before licking you clean and letting you shudder for all the sensations you had felt.

Jake gave you his shirt and I’ll pull you to myself to never let you go because you were really his and no one else would have you.

Morning light filters through the curtains of the room, creating a soft and warm atmosphere. You wake up slowly but your first thought is not work or your daily worries but Jake.

You look at him, noticing how his body is lying beside you, his arms around you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jake’s head is gently resting on your neck where a few hours before he bit you for the first time, you put your finger where he bit you but there was no visible sting but felt when you pressed lightly that it bothered you, His warm and regular breath made your neck tingle and you had never seen it so... Vulnerable. So human.

You smiled at the sight of him who didn’t look like a vampire but as his brothers said: he looked literally like a golden retriever in person size, he was so attached to you and you passed your hand through his cheeks, and then into his slightly ruffled hair. But you wanted to tease him as he had done last night and without thinking, your hand moved slowly towards his abdomen, touching it with a light movement. Jake’s skin is incredibly smooth, and you can’t help but follow the toning muscles that relax under his hand.

Jake barely moved, a low sound coming from his lips as a shiver seemed to run through his skin. You smiled, traced his muscle ridges, and whispered "Who would have thought a vampire could look like this... peaceful."

Jake didn’t answer, but his body reacts to your touch. The breath gets heavier, and he lifts his head slightly to look at you, his eyes are a little confused when he sees you looking at their muscles and touching them. «What are you doing?»

You bent forward and kissed him on the neck, letting your lips touch his cold skin. Don’t expect the reaction that follows. Jake stiffens and an immediate heat wave runs under his skin. His hands are clenched around your hips, and he looks at you with darker eyes than before.

Jake with a rock voice said to you «I didn’t think you liked playing with fire.»

You looked at yourself with a mischievous smile in front of you "I’m not playing, Jake. And then... who said I don’t like to take risks?"

Jake stared at you intensely, his body tense and incredibly close to yours. Then, without thinking too much, he comes even closer, his hands gently caressing your face before dropping down on your neck where it stops just uncertain.

«If I kiss you... I don’t know if I can stop.»

You smile amusingly, but also slightly provocatively. "What are you afraid of losing control, Jakey?"

Jake doesn’t answer, but the tension between you is palpable. It comes a little closer, his lips touch yours, and the intensity grows. «This time I will not stop if you keep teasing me like that Y/n, think carefully because you saw my two faces the one of vampire and I’m not so kind and the one from the Jake golden retriever. What would you like if I made you mine?» You felt your cheeks warm and you put your hand in his chest and both felt that warm elliptricity between your bodies. “I’d like both of them" Jake with a moan crashed into your lips and gently leaned over the pillows and laid himself on top of you holding onto his muscles and vampire strength as you kissed, He pulled your hair and to tease you he rubbed his cock in your fine pajamas. He groans in your mouth before his big hand takes your breast and pinches your nipple.

"Jakie," groaning, throwing his head backward as he creeps into your core. He leans over to clip his lips to your intact breast, pinching you as he rolls his hips forward again.

«Fuck my little human is rubbing on my dick like a slut» You pulled his hair and with one shot he slipped your pants and you were left alone with your panties but also those ended badly when he tore them off, He stood up slowly without taking his eyes from yours and took off his pajamas and boxer shorts too. You watched Jake pass a hand on his hard, slimy cock waiting for you. He almost gave in to the feeling, his free hand wrapped around your thigh to pull you close to him. «Look at you, who is going to fuck you in a moment. The boy you couldn’t stand» he whispers, taking his tip and dragging it between your wet folds.

"Jakie pls, I need you" Jake chuckled but did not move to slip inside you and was back to tease. «God had been dreaming of this moment for months, Y/n» sliding his cock’s head back and forth from your entrance to your clitoris waving your hips crying because you needed it inside you for the first time.

As he pushes in inch by inch, both groan quite loudly "fuck it’s so nice Jackie", was trying to slow down the pace but can’t hold back with you sucking his dick off perfectly, You put your arms around his neck, and pulled him closer so as he came out again pumped on your entrance and hit your G-spot.

Jake touches the bottom by bending forward and bending down halfway before burying his nose in your neck to try to catch his breath, felt how your heart was pumping and how your blood was running at a thousand in your body and was so proud of you feeling like this; you were hers and at that moment he would have wanted to do you. You don’t know how many dirty things: like biting you and fuck you at the same time but he knew it was too much for you so he hammered his cock in your pussy again and raised your leg to make it come in more and more and at the same time started to Tease your clitoris. You were beautiful under him moaning his name and looking at him with a face he had never seen, there was no more expression of a few days ago that you told him he was a monster, This was your true expression where with just a glance could see that you were slowly falling in love with him.

Eventually pushes you over the edge, coming strong around him, your eyes swirling towards the back of his head. Muscles tense and aching as he fucks you through your orgasm, sending shivers of pleasure all over your body. The cock was a little sloppy but kept pushing until you came in full and when it came out I held my breath.

He buries his face in your neck and kisses you again and again where yesterday he had you drooling, stabilizing your breath with his low moan coming out of your throat.

«I warn you, you are now completely mine. I will not let you go.» You looked up and embraced him.

"Stop being so possessive of me, maybe you’re my Jake. But for now, know that I like you a little... but I won’t tell you everything so easily."

Jake watched you, for a moment uncertain whether to believe what you said. Then he smiled, knowing that he would have his answer in his own way with time.

«Don’t worry. I’ll show you, baby»

You didn’t answer, but your heartbeat betrayed what you didn’t want to admit: Jake had already managed to take a part of you. And neither of them knew what would happen next.

Merry Christmas🎄comments are appreciated❤️

[tsukii0002]

My demons' periods cycles. By Mc

Note: these are purely my headcanons at the moment, they are based on animal ethology and behaviours that I think would suit each character depending on their personality and Lore. I would love to read your headcanon in case you have them.

Warning: Long text. Possible grammatical errors. It's written as if Mc was writing for themself.

Hey, it me Mc, the best human. Here is a compilation of the behaviours of my demons during their periods, cycles, for practical day to day use. It wasn't easy but I sat them down and got to talk to them, with a little effort I now know what they need. So now I am ready to assist them during these complicated times and be prepared in case I find a dead goat on the porch as a tribute.

Lucifer, Mammon & Levi || Satan, Asmo, & Beel || Belphie, Barbatos & Diavolo || Simeon & Raphael

Simeon

He is totally diurnal, so when he's in the Devildom is always sleepy and a bit disoriented. But with the help of artificial light (what a nice trick magic is) he can regulate his schedule.

Under normal conditions, during his period he spends most of his time awake and alert. But in hell he sleeps much more.

During his period Simeon feathers himself, with new feathers on his wings and fluff covering on other parts of his body such as his chest or lower back, sometimes with different coloured shine (iridescence)

He does not usually show them, but if he is relaxed he reveals his halo and celestial formations equivalent to eyes (among others) Sometimes those eyes watch you while his real eyes are looking elsewhere.

Simeon grooms himself constantly and will groom you with the same intensity. But you don't have feathers so be careful, he can hurt you, you can avoid this by helping him preen so he'll be. distracted.

Simeon's nest is small, cosy and compact, he usually nests in his bedroom. He spends a lot of time indoors, even more in the Devildom.

You won't be able to help him nest because he wants to surprise you. How do I tell him that I don't usually live in nests?

He needs things that give him comfort and remind him of the Celestial Realm.

Bring him lots of flowers and things that are brightly coloured and warm but not poisonous or dangerous, those thing are for Asmo.

Simeon is not territorial. But in his period he have a highly developed protective and paternal instinct.

That's because in the Celestial Realm the younger angels are mentored by the older ones and Simeon plays an important role in this.

That's why Simeon feels anxious without having "his chicks" around, which is why Luke cannot be around during his cycles in the Devildam because he would overwhelm the young angel.

Due to this he cries a lot, so to comfort him you have to let him cuddle and coo at you. (He won't say directly that he wants more chicks but with you, I'm not ready for that Simeon ).

Simeon has a couple of days of pre-heat. Can you tell? Yes, when he starts to eat more protein, to hide blankets in the corners, and when he is more vigilant and follows Luke everywhere, the cycle is approaching.

Although he eats a lot before the heat, he hardly eats at all during it. But being in a different place than usual, with a little insistence he will do it.

He thinks you can't eat without him, he has to make sure he provides for his mate.

Simeon is not non-verbal in his cycle, but prefers to communicate with cooing and chirping, after several days it is easy to identify them.

When he looks at you with his big eyes and makes a little chirp he has you in the bag, he is a master manipulator.

Simeon's pheromones are very strong, and harmful to low-ranking demons, but he only limits the marking to his mate and his nest. (Luke too but he usually goes with Barbatos or to the House of Lamentations)

During the cycle physical contact is a must, as he hardly ever leaves the nest, he is practically glued to you at all times.

Turtledoves are monogamous and spend many hours in pairs, Simeon is the same, he will treasure you as the most important thing in all three worlds.

Simeon's courtship consists of showing off, spreading his wings and puffing out his feathers, (angelic formations also play a part in this).

However, the most important part of his courtship is singing, cyclical melodies and with a wide vocal range ( you can't hear some notes with your human hearing range >:(), he can spend hours singing + make sure he is properly hydrated and rested.

Simeon's senses during his period are heightened, but especially his hearing, any sound will make him alert (soundproofing spells will be very helpful in calming him down).

Simeon's temperature rises. Snuggling next to him means instant warmth, especially in his chest (if he were a bird he would hatch his eggs with his chest, cero proof, cero doubt).

Simeon's purring is like continuous chirping (can it be called purring?), sometimes it produces no sound but you can feel the vibration in the chest and throat.

It is not common for him to purr, but he does it especially when you are about to sleep cuddled together he's so cute when he wraps you up in his wings

Simeon: *crying silently*

Mc: *worried * Hey what's wrong?

Simeon: *hugging them* Mc *sad chirp*

Mc: What's wrong Simeon?

Simeon: I miss the little ones...

Mc: *apprehensive* There, there, how can I make you feel better?

Simeon: *staring at them with tear-filled eyes* make a chick?

Mc: … *cheeks about to explode* maybe another time.

Simeon: *apparently sleeping while his angelic formations watch them*

Mc: … *waving their hand to see if they'll follow it*

Simeon: *the "eyes" follow Mc's movement*

Mc: Heh

Simeon: *smiling* If you're so entertained, I can show you my primal form….

Mc: … Sorry, *kissing his forehead' sweet dreams.

Mc: *wraps themself around Simeon's wings as they caresses them* I'm getting sleepy….

Simeon: *purring as he smiles* I'm going to take you to the Celestial realm.

Mc: *stunned* Won't that be a problem?

Simeon: *softly cooing at them* I don't think so.

Mc: *practically asleep* Hum?

Simeon: *hugging them with a big smile* No one will dare question the couple I've chosen.

Raphael

Raphael is also diurnal, but he tolerates the dark better than Simeon, and he sleeps much less than him, that doesn't mean that in Devildom he is not a little disoriented.

Like most angels, Raphael is feathered during his period, his wings acquire new feathers and parts of his body are filled with smaller feathers and fluff.

In his case he has no iridescence, his plumage blends in very well with his environment.

He lets his halo and celestial formations show normally (he also uses it as an intimidation technique) although he wasn't sure if he would continue to do so after seeing your first reaction to them. They're cool... but kind of disturbing.

He spends considerable time grooming, he is calm and independent, he won't need your help, but he likes you to be close by "as if you were grooming together".

He tries to hide it, but he constantly looks sideways at you to make sure you are still there.

Raphael nests high up, so in the Devildom he nests inside the roof of the purgatory hall (in the Celestial Realm he has several nests, to keep watch despite the period)

He doesn't expect you to be in the nest all the time, but when he rests he does like you to be together.

Raphael feels a bit guilty that you take care of him. Is that vulnerability?

He does not know how to express his feelings well and is very indipendent, although he worries that you'll think that you make he feel uncomfortable or that he does not like you to take care of him, he's kinda cute.

Always alert and vigilant. Raphael is very territorial, he has the perimeter constantly guarded, nothing and no one is allowed near the purgatory hall, several spears are seen around the building as a warning to demons passing by.

It is not sure if it can be considered pre-heat but... Raphael becomes elusive and leaves the house less, he hardly talks to other people outside his circle.

Rapahel, unlike other angels, hunts during his period. So he usually feeds on raw prey, often wanting to share it with you like a hawk. Occasionally an evil imp has crept in and you have quickly released it, demons are friends not food

Raphael is totally non-verbal, his communication consists of small grunts and warning cries.

Ironically, he expresses a lot with his wings. It's funny because his wings make him much more expressive than when he's not on his period.

Raphael's pheromones are not as strong as Simeon's, but he marks much more, the whole Purgatory Hall is filled with his pheromones. Sometimes one of the brothers had been marked.

Raphael become more nervous than Simeon, he's less familiar with the Devildom, so to calm him down, cut off stimuli, cover his eyes while you talk to him and stroke his hair or wings.

Although he likes physical contact, you should always ask permission before doing so or he may become upset. He will do the same before cuddling next to you or stroking your hair.

Raphael's courtship is impressive, it involves Bridal Flights, which consist of acrobatic flights and all kinds of aerial pirouettes to get your attention. In an angel-angel situation the couple would accompany him in flight.

Then he also uses singing, (and it's true, Raphael's voice is out of this world) , you can't fly but you can sing so he'll expect you to reciprocate, if you hum along he'll be more than happy.

The sense that Raphael develops the most during his period is vision, he is able to see for miles this helps him not only to hunt but also to defend the fort.

His body temperature rises during his period this means that he is constantly ventilating the nest, so he wears warm clothes as a precaution.

Raphael's purring is deep and soft. It is impossible to catch him purring, he seems to wait until you are asleep to do it. But all in all it is an indicator that he is at ease and relaxed.

Raphael was the first one to talk to you about the periods of angels and demons, since he felt that as a human you would be the best person to help him in that kind of situation in a new place. Soooo unconsciously he is the one who clarified a lot of things for us... a lot of things, and the one who has triggered all this :D.

Raphael: *preening his wings*

Mc: *laying down next to him* This is rare…

Raphael: *watching them*

Mc: It's almost disturbing... so much independence, used to what I'm used to.

Raphael: *caressing their cheek with his own*

Mc: Thank you, I feel much better now.

Mc: Is it ok if I touch you?

Raphael: *blindfolded* … *nodding*

Mc: *caressing his back gently* You have to rest, as long as I'm here nothing dangerous will happen.

Raphael: *melting into the touch* …

Mc: Do you want me to keep talking? Or do you prefer to be silent?

Raphael: *cuddling up next to them*

Mc: *smiling* All right… today I went to the market…

Raphael: *singing as he stares at Mc*

Mc: *totally enraptured* Wow.

Raphael: *smiling in an angelic manner*

Mc: Damn, that's courtship and the rest is nonsense.

Raphael: *wrapping his wing around them and singing again*

Mc: *flustered* Wow....

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If you haveade it this far thanks you 🩷 the angel's part is a little longer but they are only two so...

[buckyseternaldoll]

I just wanted to say I loooove your bucky fics you write him so well 🥹🥹 if you are taking requests I have one for a bucky x reader where reader is sent to infiltrate/kill the thunderbolt but falls in love instead...cue the angst 🫢 feel free to ignore if it doesn't spark inspiration!!

Sorry for the delay, anon! Work’s been hectic and I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. But I really hope this was worth the wait. Thank you so much for requesting it!

𝓐 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓦𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓓*𝓮

Summary: You were sent to kill the Thunderbolts. One bullet, one order, one clean exit. But you didn’t plan to fall in love with the man meant to die.

Disclaimer: suicidal self-sacrifice, blood/gore (not explicit), gun violence, emotional manipulation, grief, PTSD themes, explosive death, mentions of brainwashing/conditioning, guilt, betrayal, angst, reader is a double agent, team betrayal, final letter reading, quiet emotional breakdown, canon divergent

Word count: 6.3k

Author's Note: This involves multiple drafts being scrapped and me having mental breakdown in the midst of building the story 😔 Skipped formatting and not beta-d since it lags soooo much

They brought you in a few months after the Thunderbolts were formed.

You were no one special to them—just another weapon Valentina dusted off from some covert pile. Quiet, capable. A ghost in well-fitted tactical gear. Your aim was clean, your hand-to-hand record even cleaner. No frills, no baggage. You didn’t complain, didn’t ask questions, didn’t smile unless you needed to.

They didn’t welcome you, not really. But they didn’t reject you either.

You just… slipped in. Like water through cracks in the concrete. Like you were always there, just out of frame. A shadow that learned to cast itself beside theirs.

The team was a mess of personalities and pasts—grudges, trauma, sarcasm used like armor. They weren’t a unit. They were chaos stitched together with fraying thread. Nobody had room to hold anyone else’s weight. Not yours.

That was fine.

You weren’t here to belong.

You were here to finish the mission.

And you were very, very good at missions.

They didn’t know that while you watched their six from rooftops and cleared sniper nests with a single squeeze of your trigger… you were also out there every other night finishing jobs. Assassinations, poisonings, clean headshots behind diplomatic curtains. You slipped from the Watchtower like smoke, killed high-profile names while they slept, and came back just in time to pour yourself coffee and sit across from Bucky like nothing had happened.

Nobody questioned it. Not Valentina. Not Ava. Not even Sentry, with all his golden god perception.

You played emotion like a language. Smiled when needed. Looked tired when appropriate. Let your voice tremble just enough in mission briefs to seem human. It was all curated. Fabricated.

The only thing real was the mission.

Sunset Ops: Infiltrate. Observe. Eliminate. Terminate all Thunderbolts assets. Especially Bob Reynolds. Too unstable. Too dangerous.

So you studied them.

Learned how each one moved, fought, cracked under pressure. Mapped out their body language like pressure points on a doll. Even without the full spectrum of feelings, you could read them. You knew when Bob needed silence, when Yelena needed space, when Bucky needed grounding. Memorized the Watchtower’s layout until you could escape it blindfolded with one foot injured. You knew which rooms had faulty cameras. Which corridors echoed too loud. Which doors creaked.

You logged their weaknesses like you were sketching blueprints for destruction.

But somewhere along the way…

You started noticing the wrong things.

The quiet things.

You watched how Ava always kept one boot on when she slept, her back to the wall. How she blinked a few too many times when someone raised their voice, like her mind flinched faster than her body.

How John’s jaw clenched just slightly whenever someone mentioned Steve Rogers, the name sitting in his spine like a splinter.

How Bob could go full days without speaking, without moving much at all—book in hand, presence barely there. But Bucky always passed him tea. No one told him to. No one asked. He just did.

And Bucky…

You didn’t want to notice him.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked like he’d been tired for a hundred years. Like the world still sat too heavy on his shoulders. But he stood anyway. Always. Steady.

He spoke in short sentences, mostly to Valentina, sometimes to the team. But he spoke to you more than anyone else. Always in a voice softer than the one he used in briefings. Almost low. Almost careful.

He was the only one who’d repeat mission points when the room turned chaotic—when Ava and John argued or when Sentry’s grip on reality wavered. He’d calmly re-brief, every damn time, like he didn’t expect anyone to listen the first time. Like he understood.

He hovered behind the girls during recon. Watched corners others forgot. Subtle, silent coverage. When Ava limped, he adjusted his pace. When Valentina snapped too hard, he’d find a way to redirect the energy without saying much at all.

And then it got worse.

He noticed you.

“You changed your hair,” he said one morning, nonchalant but precise. You had—just shifted your part from left to right.

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. Didn’t look up from his gear. “Just looked different today.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even attention. It was just… observation. Like he was tracking you. Like he cared.

And it shouldn’t have made your skin warm like it did. It shouldn’t have made your stomach pull tight.

So you tried harder to ignore it.

You sharpened your knives with more force. You shot straighter. You reported back to your handlers late, but still lied and told them everything was on track. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like a mission.

And that scared you more than anything else.

—

You filed daily reports at first.

Detailed. Precise. Flawless.

“Walker has a blind spot on his right after shield recoil. Ava’s new phase control burns more energy than she lets on. Bob’s mental stability slips most severely after missions involving children.”

And Bucky?

You used to write plenty about him too. His reloading patterns. His soft knee from a past break. The way he always checked corners counter-clockwise. You studied him like you were supposed to—like a threat.

But over time… your reports on him thinned.

His name appeared less. Then barely at all.

You didn’t mean to do it. You just… stopped seeing him as an objective. You noticed less of his weaknesses and more of his habits. The way he always smelled faintly like gun oil and cedar soap. The creak of his boots when he walked into the briefing room two minutes early. How he’d look straight at you when he spoke—low voice, never rushed—like his words were meant for you and no one else.

You hadn’t written anything about him for almost three weeks.

And without knowing it… he’d become your weakness.

You just didn’t realize that yet.

—

Your handlers noticed.

They didn’t send questions. They sent silence.

And silence from them always meant danger.

They read your shortened logs like confessions. Words tapering off, softer, lazier. You said less. You felt more. They didn’t like it.

So they decided to act.

Without you.

You didn’t know the countdown had begun.

—

You kept spending time with Bucky.

Accidentally, at first.

The pantry was always cold after midnight, humming soft from overworked fridges and coffee machines. You wandered in for a tea packet and found him there—quietly nursing black coffee, leaning against the counter like he was trying to stay grounded.

He barely looked at you the first time.

Second time, he nodded.

By the fourth, he spoke.

“You always come here this late?”

You shrugged, fingertips brushing the countertop. “I like the silence. And the view’s better from the helipad, but pantry’s warmer.”

He chuckled. Low, quiet, barely there—but it was real.

The next night, he joined you on the helipad.

You told him you liked the way the sky looked from up there. “Makes me feel like I belong,” you’d said, without realizing how honest it sounded.

He didn’t mock you. Didn’t press.

He just sat beside you, thigh brushing yours, both of you watching the stars in silence like the war down below didn’t exist for a few stolen minutes.

After that, he started showing up more.

Lingered in rooms after everyone left. Walked beside you in hallways. Ate slower when you were around. Sat closer during meetings. Spoke softer when he addressed you, voice low enough to catch but not loud enough for anyone else.

And you—without realizing—became his shadow.

You started knowing where he was without needing to ask. If he wasn’t in the debriefing room, you didn’t look lost—you just turned and started walking, already knowing he’d be in the armory, reassembling his sidearm with his brows drawn.

You knew how he took his lunch. How he drank his coffee. You handed him his usual before he even asked. He didn’t comment. Just gave you that look again—a quiet, unreadable one, like he was trying to figure you out but wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

You even started completing his sentences.

Not on purpose. It just happened.

One day in the war room, he said, “We’ll need someone to cover the west corridor if—”

“If Ava’s phasing eats her charge, yeah,” you murmured.

He looked at you. Slightly stunned. The room went quiet.

Alexei, across the table, barked out a laugh. “Is she your translator now, Bucky? Or did you finally clone yourself, huh?”

John snorted. “She’s even got his grunt down.”

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve shrugged and played it cool.

But Bucky just stared at you—something unreadable flickering in those tired steel-blue eyes. Not cold. Not suspicious.

Just… aware.

And maybe a little afraid.

Of you.

Or of himself.

—

The mission wasn’t supposed to go south.

Just a recon—clear terrain, tag enemy movement, and get out before anyone noticed you were there. You weren’t expecting the sniper.

No one was.

You’d felt it before you heard it—a shift in air, a crack that split the sky—and then pain. White-hot, slicing past your cheek like fire.

You staggered back, dizzy from the force. Would’ve fallen, exposed, right in the shooter’s path if a wall of metal hadn’t slammed in front of you.

Bucky.

His vibranium arm took the full hit.

You heard him grunt. A second shot followed—this one slicing across his side—but he didn’t move. He stayed in front of you. Stayed.

Return fire crackled across the trees. John and Ava covered the ridge. Alexei roared something in Russian and hurled a metal crate for cover.

But you were still there, pressed to the dirt, cheek wet with blood, staring up at the man who shielded you like you were something precious.

He looked back, breathing hard. “You good?”

You nodded before your voice caught up. “Y-Yeah. I’m—”

You weren’t. Not at all.

—

The extraction was messy. You were all bleeding, but no one died.

Back at the Watchtower, medbay lights hummed above your head as you stood next to Bucky’s cot — your fingers ghosting over gauze, trembling only when he wasn’t looking.

You insisted on treating his side. Brushed off the team medic. You didn’t even realize you were snapping at people until Alexei raised his brows and said, “She’s got it. Let the girl fuss.”

Bucky sat still, legs spread, shirt off. Blood dried across his ribs. His body bore too many scars to count. Some clean. Some jagged. Some that looked like they still whispered at night.

You dabbed the wound in silence, watching how his chest rose with every careful breath. Your fingers pressed gentler than needed, like any extra pressure would break him.

“You always this soft when patching people up?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because your chest had started to tighten.

Your hands shook as you wrapped the bandage, and when your palm brushed his skin… something squirmed in your stomach. Not pain. Not adrenaline. Something worse.

Guilt.

You were trained to kill. Not to mourn. Not to care.

But here he was. Bleeding because of you. Standing in front of a bullet that should’ve ended you. Still speaking to you like nothing had changed.

You didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, glancing down, his hand catching your wrist mid-wrap. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He held your stare. Not hard. Not scolding. Just steady. Warm.

“Don’t blame yourself. I’d take that shot again if it meant you walked away. That’s what we do.”

He paused. Let his words settle.

“You and me—we’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team punched straight through your ribcage.

You dropped your eyes, breath catching in your throat. The back of your throat burned. The sting climbed behind your eyes.

A team.

That felt… warm.

Too warm.

You bit your tongue. Nodded. Tried to keep your face blank.

But the corners of your eyes stung anyway, and Bucky saw it. You knew he did. He didn’t say a word about it. Just let go of your wrist slowly, like he was giving you space to choose what came next.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Because for the first time, you understood what that twisting in your chest was.

Guilt.

Real, human, gut-wrenching guilt.

You weren’t supposed to feel it. You were rewired not to. But he—without even meaning to—was fixing you.

Bit by bit. Wound by wound.

And that terrified you more than any bullet ever could.

You left the medbay long after he’d fallen asleep. The sterile scent clung to your hands. The bandage wrap still burned in your memory.

You needed air. Or silence. Or something to stop the noise in your chest.

—

The Watchtower was dead quiet after midnight.

Most of the others had turned in. Ava left her boots by the door again, probably already passed out in the medbay lounge. John grumbled something about ice packs and disappeared. Alexei had made a dramatic exit, demanding “at least ten hours of heroic sleep.”

You stayed behind.

The pantry lights were dim—yellowed, humming, casting long shadows across the metal counters. You sat at the small table by the window, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The steam was gone. Your thoughts weren’t.

They were loud tonight.

Bucky had taken a bullet for you.

Not just a graze, not an accident. He saw it coming and threw himself in the way. His blood was still under your nails. His voice still echoed in your head:

“We’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team kept curling up behind your ribs like a hot, painful knot.

You shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

You should’ve been writing reports. Reassessing targets. Preparing for termination. Instead, you were watching the stars reflect off the window and wondering how long it’d take his wound to close.

Your handlers never gave you a deadline for Sunset Ops. The mission was simple: Terminate all Thunderbolts. Clean. Swift. When ready.

No dates.

Just pressure.

But as far as you could tell, the whole thing had gone off course.

Or maybe it went east.

Because Bucky was sitting on your east side now. He sat close, shoulder angled slightly toward you, his left side—the wounded one—facing you. A quiet show of trust.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the edge of the bandage peeking beneath his shirt—left side, under the ribs. Healing fast, but it still made you wince.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t grunt or ask what you were doing.

He just sat beside you, like he always did lately. Like here was the only place he wanted to be.

You didn’t look at him right away.

You were too afraid the tears still burning behind your eyes would show. So you just stared at your cup, letting the silence stretch.

And he let it.

Like he knew.

Eventually, your gaze shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to study him from the corner of your eye. His side—where you’d dressed the wound—was bare beneath his black tee, the bandages no longer needed. The skin had already begun healing. Faint scar tissue. Bruising. But no open wound.

Super soldier perks.

You exhaled, slow and quiet.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You wanted to be relieved. But all it did was make your chest ache.

He turned his head toward you then, as if sensing you needed it. His eyes were tired, but soft. Kind.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Instead, he said, “You ever get so many thoughts running at once, they just… start screaming over each other?”

You blinked, startled by how close he came to naming it.

He kept going. “Like… nothing’s clear. Everything’s loud. And no matter how long you sit with it, the decision just… won’t come. ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like any of the choices are good ones.”

Your throat went tight.

He glanced down, mouth twitching at one corner. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

The silence that followed felt warmer than it should’ve. He didn’t press. Didn’t look at you like you were a ticking bomb.

Just… let you exist beside him.

Then, gently, almost like an afterthought, he added, “You’re a good person.”

You finally turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t look away.

“A damn good teammate,” he continued. “Reliable. Smart. And you don’t leave anyone behind.” He paused. “I’m… glad you’re with us.”

You swallowed. Your mouth was too dry. Your eyes burned.

“And whatever it is… whatever’s going on in your head,” he said softly, “I know you’ll do what’s right. Not just for you. But for everyone.”

His hand came to your shoulder. Light. Steady. A squeeze that was too short, too innocent, too much.

Then he stood.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “You think better after sleep.”

And he left.

Just like that.

Left you in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea and a heart that was beating too hard, too fast.

You stared at the door after him, numb and shaking.

And that was when you knew.

You fucking loved him.

Not just wanted. Not just admired.

You loved him.

And there was no mission in the world that could bury that now.

—

Everything changed after that night.

Not in some dramatic, cinematic way.

But in the small ways that mattered.

Your body started betraying you.

The first time Bucky brushed past you in the hallway, your pulse spiked so hard your knees went weak. You recovered instantly—assassin reflexes—but the warmth lingered too long on your skin. A ghost of pressure where his shoulder had bumped yours.

Your hands, steady through sniper fire and open blade fights, now trembled when he entered a room. And you hated it. Hated how your heart wouldn’t obey. How no amount of mental commands could slow its rhythm when he sat too close.

You started avoiding him.

Subtly, at first. Ducking out of briefings early. Choosing the opposite training mat. Sitting two chairs over at meal times. But Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t push. Just watched you more.

And the others noticed too.

Yelena had that way of looking at people like she was five steps ahead in the conversation. Bob tilted his head a little too long during recon drills when you answered Bucky’s questions too fast. Ava kept giving you looks like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right shape for it.

Even Alexei, with all his chaotic noise, leaned over one day in the gym and grumbled, “The sexual tension is making my joints stiff. Resolve it before I die of awkward.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because nothing about this was resolvable.

Until Yelena forced your hand.

—

It was a fake debrief. You realized it too late.

Yelena set the time. “Just you and Bucky,” she said. “Team’s scattered. Intel recon. Blah blah. Just go.” She winked as she walked off. ‘Fix your sexual tension, or I’ll do it for you.’ Classic Yelena.

You didn’t think much of it. Your brain had been foggy for days, caught between the magnetic pull and the dagger in your chest. You walked into the room like you always did—rigid, unreadable. But then you saw the setup.

One table. Two chairs.

No files. No mission board. Just… space.

Bucky was already sitting, one hand loosely curled around a pen. He glanced up at you like he’d been expecting this. Like he knew.

You sat.

Silence hung between you, thick and humming. You couldn’t look at him too long without your chest tightening.

Finally, Bucky spoke. Low. Cautious. “Everyone thinks we fought.”

You gave a quiet, humorless huff. “Let them.”

“Yelena doesn’t believe in letting.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The silence returned for a beat, before you broke it. Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I’ve never felt this before.”

Bucky frowned. “What?”

You lifted your eyes, met his. “Anything. Beyond adrenaline, I mean. I don’t know guilt. I don’t know joy. I didn’t know what warmth felt like until… until I met you. All of you.”

You swallowed. Your throat ached.

“My emotions weren’t brainwashed out of me. I was just… rewired. Hydra called it streamlining. Cut out what made me hesitate. Joy, guilt, love—just noise to them. I was left with precision, and silence. Kept the things that made me efficient. But lately…”

You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t put words to the way your stomach curled when Bucky leaned too close, or how your chest hurt when he took a bullet for you.

Instead, you said, “It’s like my circuits are shorting.”

His eyes softened.

“I used to think it was just me,” he said, voice low, gravel warm. “The way I feel things. Too slow. Too much. Too wrong. But you…”

He leaned back slightly, studying you like you were a mystery he’d started to understand without needing all the clues.

“You feel like… familiarity.”

You looked up, startled.

“I didn’t get it at first. Why I felt calm when you were around. Why I stopped checking exits when you were on mission with me.” He paused. “But now it makes sense.”

His voice dipped.

“You’re like me.”

That hit deeper than you expected. Your heart clenched so hard you thought it might bruise.

“You put your back to the wall when you sit down. You remember who limps and who flinches. You memorize everyone else’s scars, but forget to name your own.”

You stayed quiet, afraid your voice would break.

“I don’t know what this is between us,” Bucky said softly. “But it doesn’t scare me.”

You turned your head away. Your chest felt too full, too raw.

Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours on the table. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

“You don’t have to fix anything tonight,” he said. “But I hope you stop running. ‘Cause I’m not chasing you. I’m just… here.”

Your fingers curled slightly beneath his. Just enough.

You still couldn’t say the words. Not yet.

But part of you cracked open.

And part of him healed.

—

It started like a blackout.

You were all in the lounge—sore, half-bored, scattered across couches and chairs. Alexei was snoring with his feet on the coffee table, Yelena had commandeered the remote, John was bickering with Bob over something dumb like fuel ratios, and Bucky was sitting near you, shoulders barely brushing, warm and solid.

And then the lights snapped off.

Not flickered. Not dimmed.

Snapped.

The hum of the Watchtower died. Silence folded in on itself. Thick. Too thick.

Everyone stilled.

“Okay,” Alexei muttered, sitting up. “Not funny. Who touch fuse?”

“No one moved,” Ava whispered, already pulling a blade from her boot.

Your stomach dropped.

The silence wasn’t just silence.

It was controlled. Medicated.

You felt it in your teeth. That hum just under hearing. Synthetic.

Then—

thfft.

A whisper.

A bullet.

Glass shattered above Yelena’s head.

Another shot.

John tackled Bob behind the couch. Ava rolled forward into a low crouch. Alexei stood tall, eyes flaring wild.

Chaos.

Gunfire—soft, silenced, precise—sang through the darkness. Not random. Coordinated. Like they knew every hallway. Every blind spot. Every weak point.

And they did.

Your blood went cold.

“No—no, no, no—” you breathed, heart pounding as the pieces snapped together too fast.

You knew this pattern. This kill sequence. This method of entry.

These weren’t just attackers.

They were operatives.

Yours.

“Everyone GET DOWN!” you shouted, drawing your sidearm. “They’re enhanced!”

Bucky pulled you behind the reinforced wall near the stairwell, instinct taking over. “Enhanced? How the hell do you—”

“They’re on serum,” you gasped. “Not ours. Not the government’s. It’s… it’s Barnes-adjacent. It’s your blood.”

Everything froze around you for a second.

Even the storm of bullets.

Bucky’s eyes locked with yours. “What?”

You didn’t get to answer.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?” Yelena barked across the hall, ducking behind cover. Her voice was razor-sharp. Furious. “How the hell do you know that?!”

You looked at her. Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You couldn’t say it. Not here. Not with blood in the air and Bucky breathing like a loaded weapon beside you.

All you could whisper was:

“I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t meant for it to unravel like this.

You wanted to explain. To beg. To scream that you weren’t who you were anymore.

But the way Yelena looked at you?

Like you were a ghost wearing someone they trusted.

That hurt worse than any bullet.

Ava swore under her breath. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep—quiet fury wrapped in restraint. She didn’t yell. Ava never did. But her silence hurt more. John looked like he was ready to knock your teeth out.

But you couldn’t afford guilt right now.

Because they were coming in fast.

Bucky grabbed your arm. “Talk later. Move now.”

You nodded. Shoved everything down.

But he didn’t let go of your wrist.

Even as you ducked bullets, even as Sentry finally emerged—Bucky stayed on you.

You knew what he was doing.

He was protecting you.

Still.

Even now.

He didn’t know.

Didn’t know you brought this death to their doorstep. That you’d once been meant to end them. That those enhanced soldiers out there moved like you, because you trained with them.

They were your people.

And now they were going to kill your team.

Unless you killed them first.

—

The base was a war zone now.

Shots echoed off the walls in too-close succession. Bob had gone full Sentry—gold and energy and rage splitting the darkness like lightning. Ava was phasing in and out of walls, striking when she could. John and Alexei moved with brutal force, backs to each other like mismatched chess pieces. Yelena was leading the counter, deadly efficient—graceful and unforgiving.

And you were barely breathing.

Bucky had pulled you into a weapons cache room on the eastern side of the Watchtower. Emergency lighting flickered overhead, casting him in strips of red and shadow. He looked like a man caught between two mirrors—one past, one future.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just looked at you with those piercing, tired eyes and said:

“It’s them, isn’t it?”

You froze. Couldn’t lie.

He already knew.

You nodded once.

Bucky exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that sounded like it came from years ago.

You both moved in sync—sweeping shelves for guns, blades, anything with weight and range. It was instinctive. Familiar. Like you’d trained together for years.

Because in some ways… you had.

Not literally.

But emotionally.

Same pain. Same silence. Same shadows.

“I didn’t want this,” you whispered, voice thin.

“I know,” he said. Soft. Certain.

You turned toward him. “How can you say that?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Because I see it in your eyes. The same thing I used to see in mine when I started remembering who I was.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re not like them anymore,” he continued. “You were. But you’re not now.”

You looked down at your shaking hands. “I was supposed to kill you.”

“I figured,” he said, picking up a loaded rifle without pause.

“I studied you. Every breath. Every weakness. I memorized your scars.”

He stepped closer.

“And then you stopped.”

You froze.

“You stopped seeing me as a target. I felt it.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to.

“I trusted the wrong people for a long time,” he said. “But this time? I think I got it right.”

Your eyes burned. “Bucky…”

He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “You’re not broken. Just bruised.”

Something inside you cracked.

But before you could speak again—an explosion rocked the east wing.

They were getting closer.

You both turned toward the hallway. The reinforced door rattled under pressure. Gunfire grew louder. Footsteps closing in. The serum-enhanced agents were breaching fast.

Bucky checked the last clip on his belt. “We won’t hold them all.”

You were already thinking three steps ahead.

No escape routes.

Too many incoming.

And they wouldn’t stop until every Thunderbolt was dead.

Unless someone stopped them first.

You looked down at your belt.

Saw the grenade.

Felt the pin.

And something inside you just… clicked.

You turned to him.

“Bucky.”

He turned too—eyes narrowing at the change in your voice.

You stepped forward. Closer than you’d ever dared.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His brow furrowed. “You already said that.”

“No.” You shook your head. “I mean it now. For everything. For hurting you. For being what I was. For not telling you sooner. For not choosing you faster.”

His eyes flickered—realization starting to settle.

“I never knew what love was,” you said, chest aching with every word. “But I think I’ve been falling into it… every second you looked at me like I was worth saving.”

You reached up—fingers trembling—and touched his cheek. Just once.

He closed his eyes at the contact. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back.

He looked down.

Saw the pin in your fingers.

His breath caught.

“No—wait—”

But it was too late.

You were already walking toward the door. The lock was off. The hallway was crawling with enhanced assassins, heads turning the moment they saw you.

You didn’t raise your gun.

You raised your voice.

“HEY!”

They turned.

Then—

Click.

The pin dropped.

You smiled through the tears.

And you whispered, one last time, only loud enough for Bucky to hear:

“I love you.”

Then light.

And sound.

And silence.

—

You were gone before he could say it back.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was final.

And then…

[BUCKY POV]

The explosion didn’t sound like the others.

It was too close.

Too sharp.

Too personal.

Bucky’s ears rang as he hit the floor from the shockwave, arm curled over his head, the force punching the air from his lungs.

Smoke. Heat. Screams in the hallway.

And the smell.

Blood.

He didn’t get up right away.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

His heart already knew before his mind caught up.

When he finally staggered upright, debris crunched under his boots. The hallway outside the weapons room was scorched. Burnt. Red-lit. Torn apart.

So were the bodies.

The enhanced assassins were in pieces.

And so were you.

Bits of tactical fabric. A smear of blood that didn’t match theirs. A melted commlink. One boot. Nothing whole.

Nothing human left to hold.

Bucky didn’t breathe for several seconds.

He just stood there, staring, like the floor had been yanked out from under time itself.

You were gone.

And all you’d left behind was—

“I love you.”

He heard it in his head again. Not a memory. A scar.

Not just in his ears.

In his chest.

The others came running.

Ava first, phasing through the wall with wide eyes.

Then John, Yelena, Alexei. Sentry stumbling down the hall, Bob’s gold aura flickering wildly as he saw the mess.

No one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

Bucky stood in the middle of it, barely blinking. Smoke curling around his shoulders. Blood drying on his neck. His vibranium arm still clenched, shaking slightly.

“She was one of them,” Yelena said first, breathless. “Wasn’t she?”

A pause.

Bucky didn’t look up.

“She was.”

No one moved.

“She was,” Bucky said again, softer now. “But she chose us.”

Alexei rubbed a hand over his face. “She blew herself up, Bucky.”

“She saved us,” Bucky snapped—his voice like breaking glass. “You all saw those bastards. They wouldn’t have stopped. She ended it.”

Silence.

“She ended herself,” John muttered, not cruel—just stunned. “For us.”

No one could speak after that.

Bucky crouched slowly. Picked up the pin from the grenade. Closed his metal fist around it.

He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

He just stood again—taller this time. Cold. Steady. Determined.

“I’m going to finish it,” he said, eyes locked on the smoldering hallway. “Every one of those fuckers that sent her here? That trained her? That broke her?”

His voice dropped.

“I’ll put them all in the ground.”

He started walking.

“Bucky—where are you going?” Ava called.

He didn’t stop.

“To let her free.”

[END OF POV]

—

The funeral was held three days after the raid.

By then, the Thunderbolts had burned the organization to the ground.

Valentina turned a blind eye when Bucky led the charge—files torn apart, facilities reduced to rubble, scientists and operatives arrested or buried beneath collapsed concrete. She didn’t protest. Just signed the paperwork and moved pieces on her board like it was always part of the plan. The team freed over seventy civilians—stolen from their lives, used for testing, stripped of their names.

They had faces. Families. Futures again.

But none of it made him feel any less hollow.

Because you were still gone.

The grave was symbolic.

There wasn’t much to bury.

A few fragments of armor. A nameplate. A pin.

The others stood in silence as the dirt fell—John with his jaw clenched, Ava still and guarded, Alexei weeping more openly than anyone expected. Bob, back in control of his form, said a few soft words. Yelena whispered a goodbye in Russian, kneeling once before stepping back.

Bucky didn’t move.

He stood at the foot of the grave, fists buried in the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on the carved letters of your name.

His throat felt too tight to speak.

He hadn’t said anything.

Not during the ceremony. Not after the debrief. Not since you—

God.

He hadn’t even told you.

He hadn’t told you he loved you back.

Hadn’t told you how many times he looked for your face in a crowded room, just to ground himself. How you’d become his anchor without him realizing it.

The world around him kept moving. Soil crunching. People whispering. Wind brushing over forgotten flowers.

But he stayed still. Like grief had nailed his boots to the earth.

Until a quiet step pulled him back.

“Bucky.”

Ava’s voice broke through gently.

He turned his head. She approached with quiet steps, something small in her gloved hand.

“I found this,” she said softly. “Yelena and I were clearing her room. Val sent a few people to box her things, but… we stopped them when we found it.”

She handed him an envelope.

Your handwriting. Sharp. Small. Tilted slightly to the right.

His name.

Just his.

He stared at it for a long time before opening it.

And then, with frozen fingers and a heart breaking open, he read.

—

Bucky,

If you’re reading this… It means I didn’t make it.

And no, I didn’t write that to be dramatic. I wrote it because I knew I was playing with borrowed time.

I was going to tell you everything. I was going to stand in front of all of you, explain who I was—who I used to be—and pray you’d all listen before judging. Before hating me.

I was scared.

Not of dying.

Not even of the mission.

I was scared of what it meant to feel.

Because I never really did before.

But then you came in with your tired eyes and your quiet voice and your kindness that didn’t ask for anything in return… and suddenly I couldn’t stop feeling.

I noticed you first.

Noticed how you always stood with your back to a wall, but left your side open when I entered the room. Like you trusted me.

Noticed how your voice got softer when you talked to me. How you lingered in rooms we shared. How you remembered my schedule better than I did. How you watched the stars when you thought no one was looking.

I watched you, too.

More than I was supposed to.

More than I meant to.

And somewhere between the long nights and the briefings and the bruises and the silences… I fell in love with you.

I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I even knew what it was.

I knew they were growing suspicious. I should’ve said something sooner. But I didn’t—I was selfish. I wanted more time. Time with you, with the Thunderbolts. And I’m sorry. I really am.

And if I was lucky enough to survive long enough to confess, I was going to ask the team to let me do one thing first—I was going to destroy my handlers.

I was going to take everything I knew and burn them from the inside out.

Then come back. Then tell you. All of you.

But mostly you.

Because you deserved the truth.

And you deserved someone who chose you.

So here’s my truth.

I loved you, Bucky Barnes.

Not because you saved me. But because you saw me. And I hope, wherever I am now… I’ll keep watching over you.

Like I always did.

Love,

—Yours

P.S. If I ever get another chance—in this life or the next—please let it be with you.

—

By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, his hand was shaking.

His mouth parted. His chest ached like something had caved in.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years…

He let himself cry.

Not in rage.

Not in shame.

But in grief.

And love.

[formiito]

let the light in ; chuuya nakahara

chuuya x gn! reader

author's note: i got a hang of tumblr formatting??? kinda??? i will make a master list soon. i hope this isn't too ooc. read on ao3 here!!

warnings: none, just fluff and mild angst at some points! i'msonormalaboutchuuyaiswear

“Come on, let me in.”

The soft voice at his door catches the young executive’s attention. Before Chuuya gets up from the couch and puts down his glass of vintage red on the coffee table, he’s already braced himself for hearing whatever inane reason you'd be at his door this late. He’s managed to successfully ignore all your calls and texts like he usually does, but it certainly doesn't fool you. Because you can’t sleep and neither can he. Once again, he realizes the futility of his efforts to keep you away.

Truth be told, you weren't a bad person. You didn't invoke his temper as easily or as often as other people did, and you were capable when you worked alongside him. There was an ease of being about you; something that he could eventually catch himself falling into time to time. You wear at him like a harsh current does to a rock by the side of a river. The veneer of nonchalance chips away more and more the longer he allows himself this companionship. And he's aware of this weakness; it feels so out of place when he is usually so assured. But no gravity manipulation can make this heart lighter.

Not when your face reminds Chuuya of a life he's already left behind. You were there when he spilled his first blood, you are here now, and he cannot find it in himself to push you out completely. As much as he likes to think he's above these sentimentalities, nostalgia still finds a victim in him; wrapping itself around his mind in his unsuspecting moments till he could no longer discern between himself of the past and him now. You make the poor guy feel the burden of his past failures too often.

Feel too much, too, for that matter.

You try with such enthusiasm, too. Despite the fact that over the six…or was it seven years, his life and yours have been turned upside down and inside out. There are some people who feel like they have been frozen in time somehow. With you, he feels like he can stave off the rot of his current life just for a little bit. A dangerous thought. He wants to stick a knife in your neck sometimes. Would that make him stop thinking so much? Or would his past still trail him around in the form of your memory?

It's a quarter to one now.

The door unlocks.

“What is it now?” This annoyed tone sounds forced out of his mouth. Strange, he never had any issues with it until you come into the room.

“I couldn't sleep!”

“Clearly.”

“You know what? We should go out for a drive, Chuuya, it's the perfect time!”

“Like, right now?”

“Yeah.”

“…You're serious?”

“Are you coming or not? Quick, I don't have the time!”

It's a good thing that he isn't completely buzzed from the wine he was drinking yet, because your request leaves no room for disagreement, even if it’s a question. An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, a muttered curse following soon after. “Fine! But I’m in charge of the music.” It makes no difference, most of the good songs he knows were your favorites at some point of time. You held him down and made him listen, and as much as he acted like he loathed the whole ordeal, the tunes wouldn't leave his thoughts be no mater what. He picks up the car keys off the table, not bothering to pick up anything else save for his hat.

This had become something of a routine. You would always bother him at odd hours, though you were a rare sight at daytime, doing god knows what. The redness in the whites of your eyes, and the way you would rub at them every now and then indicated that you were exhausted, yet you insisted on these outings. It was the typical condition that came with their work; he was no stranger to sleepless nights himself. But with you, he finds himself actually concerned. The exceptions he makes for you feel unreasonable. The effect you had on him was just as confusing. Chuuya wonders if you just do that to him or if everyone is subject to the mental damage you cause him just by being around him.

Consciously, he knew there was no use dwelling on these thoughts. For the better or worse, your lives were fundamentally intertwined. Not by narrative choice, but by sheer persistence. He remembers what you said to him once. When he asked you why you were coming along with him, you only said, “because I’ll go wherever you go, obviously.” You refused to elaborate when he asked you to explain why. You acted as if this was an objective truth, like it was the natural state of things. As if in every scenario possible, you would've done the same thing. He called you an idiot for it, still thinks you are. Because Chuuya cannot understand why you stick by him, or more importantly, why he allows you to.

Even then, he has to reluctantly admit to himself that he’s glad for it. You remind him of his past failures and naïveté, but you also remind him of the concept of home. The last tether to his past is you, and he wouldn't allow anyone to sever that imaginary cord. Despite how much he hates it, you still hold a part of him he would have otherwise lost touch of. The pain felt easier to get through when it was shared. Maybe this was just what friendship was. It was elusive to obtain, but once you have it; whether by accident or on purpose, you have to cope with it for the rest of time.

You walk ahead of him, and he keeps up with your pace. Unlike him, you were aware of how you felt on a level that was nearly painful; instead of fuzzy, bittersweet feelings of nostalgia, you felt the lashes of time and it’s wear with pointed certainty. You were your own witness to the degradation of your morality and soul. You felt it chip away piece by piece, and saw the wear in the mirror. An experience that broke you from inside out, creating a new person out of the debris.

You hold onto the remains of a past you can't remember, and in this folly you have ruined yourself chasing something that had never existed. But perhaps that was the reason why you didn't let go of Chuuya in particular. He was tangible, within your grasp; not necessarily a constant, but by your own design you've made him one. You've made out of him a friend you trusted with your life, and that trust shows in every action, every laughter, everytime you show up at his door at some weird hour of the night. You know it annoys him, but he lets you. In a strange way, you test him again and again just for the sheer satisfaction of being assured that yes, he wouldn't turn you away.

The walk to the car was fairly short. He got in the driver’s seat, waiting for you to follow suit and started up the ignition. The port town was especially beautiful at midnight, the late night lights of the wharf reflecting in the distant ocean. The sky is dark with no sign of light, all veiled by the smoke that lingers in city skies. All the stars that were meant to exist in the sky were here on the ground, in the lights of offices working late or streetlights flickering for the convenience of nightwalkers.

“Are you really gonna play that? Eh…”

“Hey! It's a good song, okay?!?”

“Debatable.”

“You’re literally the one who made me listen to it!”

“Did I really, though?”

“You-”

“Shut up! I think I just saw an ice cream place a little further up.”

After an excruciatingly long wait of watching you pick an ice cream out of the array of colors, you both were finally out in the open air again. The cold air pricks like needles. It wasn't even the weather for ice cream, but your habits were incorrigible as always. When you inevitably start sniffling, he could only manage a pointed comment about how you never learn. He would've given his hat to you if you asked. It's frustrating that you never do. Things never go the way they play in his head, and it infuriates him. The ride to home feels infinitely long. Taking the highway was an unnecessarily long route, and yet it was the one he took everytime whenever he was driving with you.

When you both get back home, he's hit by that strange spell again. A lack of thoughts and a tongue restless for words, checked by his dry throat. For whenever the air isn't filled with senseless chatter, gunshots or music, that is when he feels truly weak in front of you. The comfort of being around you shifts to something uncertain and bitter in the early morning hours. When you ask to stay the night like the usual, he can no longer find the strength to refuse. It was clear that no matter what the both of you did, at the end of the day, what waits for him is a helplessness so foreign to him even with his frequent encounters with it.

The weariness is built into their bones, and by the end of the day when they both are tired of this endless charade, you both end up in the same place as always, hopelessly entangled in each other’s lives. Perhaps on another night when you cannot sleep and come to seek him, he will let himself get willingly caught and put an end to this chase. Pushing away the curtain, letting the light in, and look to find you there where he left you.

[areyouwell]

Athazagoraphobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of forgetting. Children or adults with this condition tend to experience nausea, raised heart rate or panic attacks when attempting to remember someone they don't.

Ch.5

Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <--

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: MDNI, sexual content, talks of suicide, suicide attempt, descriptions of extreme bodily harm, needles, this chapter gets dark, reader discretion is advised

Word Count: 13.7k

A/N: i have been looking forward to this chapter for so long oh my GOD i am vibrating. this is the shit i love, although the absolute BATTLE i just fought to get this post off the ground was long and arduous so rip my formatting tumblr didn't like it :( god gives his hardest battles to his silliest soldiers. also kurt and hank are here because i felt bad leaving them out timeline WHAT TIMELINE?

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside

To say Logan hadn’t gotten much sleep was an understatement. Sure, he’d dozed off here and there, but he would jolt awake every time you held so much as a sleepy breath. He couldn’t shake the image from his mind. Seven of them. The way their heads cocked at an unnatural angle. The way they silently stared, faceless, voiceless, seemingly just watching. Waiting. The way they sank back into the shadows the moment you stirred. They must have been from you, some subconscious product of your mutation. Still, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t creep him out a little. 

Though, he didn’t know what else he expected. You could manipulate and walk through shadows. You were bound to have some creepy quirks, as well as constantly looking tired, apparently. 

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, dust mites floating in the golden beams filtering through the leaves of the various plants near your window. You’d told him a while ago you’d named them all, something about giving them a voice making them grow faster, or something else equally as ridiculous. He still didn’t quite know which one was Molly and which one was Dalia, but he could tell his Herberts from his Judases, which was a start, he supposed. 

Fucking hell he was down so bad.

You still slept soundly against his chest, occasionally a soft snore would melt his heart, or a discontented pinch of your brow only to smooth out when you nestled closer. Part of him wished neither of you ever had to move. Actually, scrap that, he wished you didn’t have to move with his whole being. He silently thanked whoever came up with the idea of Saturdays and the knowledge that the two of you could spend a lazy morning in bed without the approaching threat of teaching a class. 

Maybe he would take you out today, steal Scott’s bike and escape for one peaceful moment. There were a few lakes nearby he wouldn’t mind visiting with you, end the day at a bar or something. The image of you perched behind him on the bike, your arms wrapped around his middle, cheek resting against his back made up his mind. He was definitely going to take you out today. Get away from everything for a while. Away from teaching, training, the possibility that if you didn’t get your mutation under control you could be lost to the shadows for good…

That kind of thing. 

He gazed down at you, your mussed hair and twitching features. He loved you. Logan knew that. Two months and he was already certain. It was just saying it, he struggled with. Admitting it out loud. That’s where the problems started. It was like he was cursed, the moment he uttered those three words, some kind of catastrophe would strike and he’d lose everything for good. 

He hoped you knew. Fuck, he hoped you knew. Hoped you knew that with every waking moment, he burned to be near you, seared with the need to touch you. Even innocently. A hand on your knee, an arm around your shoulder, anything. Sure, he’d happily spend the rest of his life with his face between your thighs or his cock submerged in your cunt, but that didn’t seem realistic. And, if nothing else, Logan was a man of realism. 

A sigh escaped your slightly parted lips, eyes fluttering slightly as you started to wake. He brushed the stray hairs from your face, your features scrunching, blinking awake. 

“Good mornin’,” he smiled, and you groaned in response, closing your eyes again and hiding your face in his chest.

“No.” your response was muffled but audible, and he cocked a brow.

“Bad mornin’?”

You shook your head slightly. “No morning. Wake me when it’s midday.”

If there was one thing Logan had learnt about you, it was that you were not a morning person. ‘Too much light’ was your typical excuse, and he couldn’t say he blamed you. He used to drag himself out of bed with the promise of a strong cup of coffee before he became a teacher. He didn’t know why he was shocked to learn you were a night owl, it made a shit ton of sense considering your mutation. Though he chalked it down to the fact that your smile shone like the sun itself.

“Coffee?” He asked, and that silenced your protests. Your clock was still discarded on the floor, but flicking his wrist up in front of his face, he grinned seeing the time. 8 am. Oh, you were going to be furious. Especially since it was a Saturday. 

“What time is it?” you asked, raising your head from his chest and turning your head to your window as if the sun had personally offended you. You had half the mind to storm over to the curtains and snap them closed. If only you hadn’t been so comfortable, you’d really show the sun what for.

“A little after eight…” he said tentatively, and your head whipped back to look at him, face a picture of utter disbelief. 

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Nope, sorry sweetheart, the clock doesn’t lie.” he showed you his wrist with the time, and you groaned in frustration, your forehead hitting his chest in defeat.

“It’s a goddamn Saturday, not even Jubilee is up this early on a Saturday.” You lamented, pulling the covers up and over your head. Logan chuckled slightly, finding your detest for mornings amusing as you hid from the sun. “Fucking curtains not being closed for the fucking light to get in fucking god fucking damnit.”

“Yeah, you tell ‘em.” His hand rested on your covered head in faux protection, feeling you shift beneath the duvet, your angry huff fanning his chest. 

“I will.” He could almost hear your pout, shuffling forward to poke your head from the covers like the world’s most gorgeous groundhog, the duvet wrapped tightly around your head so he could see only your face. “Did you say coffee?” You asked, and even if you didn’t have the hope of a child being offered a lollypop dancing in your eyes, he still would have nodded. Though with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. 

Couldn’t appear too keen to bend to your every request.

“What’ll you give me for it?” He smirked, knowing full well there were very few lengths you’d go through to acquire a fresh pot of caffeine in the morning. And your narrowed eyes confirmed that knowledge. 

“I’ll suck you so hard you’ll see fucking stars.”

Logan choked on his own saliva. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t that. “Fuckin’ freak…” he muttered, failing miserably at hiding his smile. You flashed him a toothy grin, knowing you had him in a box. Honestly, you’d do it anyway just for fun and maybe to tease him a little. 

Logan threw back the covers on his side of the bed, waiting for you to move so he could sit up and start his coffee-making mission. Only, you didn’t move, just blinked at him expectantly. “You gotta move, hun.” 

“Why can’t you be telekinetic, so inconvenient.” You grumbled, reluctantly releasing him from your arms and rolling onto your other side, only to huff once again as sunlight invaded your eyes. “Fucking sun!”

Logan watched with no small degree of admiration as you angrily threw one of your pillows and the window, eyes tracking the trajectory as it hit the curtain with a slight thump before falling to the floor. “You showed him.” He quipped, receiving a small kick to his side. 

You looked over your shoulder as he stood, watching his naked body shamelessly. Shit, he was so fucking hot. Your mouth almost watered as he stretched his arms above his head, his back flexing, muscles tensing. You sat up a little against the headboard, sandwiching your thumb between your teeth as he flexed his back again, and this time you knew it was on purpose.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he didn’t even need to look to know your eyes were on him. He could feel them, for fuck’s sake. And your maniacal little laugh confirmed it all.

“You’re nice to look at, excuse me for finding you attractive.” There wasn’t even a hint of guilt in your voice. You really were a freak weren’t you? 

Logan slowly turned to face you, watching as your eyes dragged up and down his body, your mischievous smile only widening. He cast his gaze skyward, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Ya done?”

You clicked your tongue. “Not even close. But, I really want a coffee, so I guess I am for now.” You shrugged as if you hadn’t just been fucking the shit out of him with your eyes. Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head in fond disbelief. As if you couldn’t be any more endearing. Yes, you were a grumpy little shit in the mornings, but you were his grumpy little shit. And he had a sneaking suspicion you might feel exactly the same about him. 

You rolled your eyes as he shrugged on his singlet, pulling up his briefs and jeans before looking around the room, unable to locate his belt. He spun in a slow circle, eyes scanning the floor. He swore it had fallen with his jeans. “Have you seen my–”

Hearing the telltale clink of metal, Logan looked back at you holding up the leather by his buckle. That was not where he thought he’d left it. He raised a brow of questioning, and you shrugged again. “I had it on hand. In case…” you trailed off and his eyes widened in scandal, brow furrowed.

“In case of what?!” 

“Just, in case.” You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide your filthy grin and failed spectacularly. Logan barked a laugh of disbelief, skirting around the bed and snatching the belt from your hands, tossing it on the covers as he trapped you in his arms.

“You,” he started, before pressing his lips to yours. “Are such,” he kissed you again. “A freak.” He finished, moulding his mouth against your own in a lingering, lingering dance. You giggled into his lips, your hands finding the soft strands of his hair. “Only two months in and you already want me to tie you up?” He drew back with a smirk, just far enough to see the perversity in your eyes.

“Who said anything about tying me up…?”

He blinked. How many fucking surprises were you going to spring on him this morning? “Hate to break it to ya darlin’, but if that’s your intention then a thin strip of leather ain’t gonna cut it.” 

Your irises sparkled with the realisation that he wasn’t saying no. “Well, in that case, I’ll just have to get something stronger.” You murmured, closing the gap between the two of you once again before breaking it almost immediately. “Maybe some of those metal zip ties… or just a really thick wire. I dunno, how strong are you?”

“Real fuckin’ strong.”

Your brows furrowed in thought, and he ruffled the top of your head. “Don’t strain yourself.”

You gaped in mock offence. “So rude. Go get coffee, I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

“Weren’t sayin’ that earlier, were ya?”

“Yeah, but now your shirt’s on.” 

“Face not good enough for ya?”

“Not when it’s insulting me, no.”

“And when it’s doing this?” Logan leaned into your neck, his tongue darting out to lick along the side of your throat, teeth gently nipping at your soft, bruised skin from last night. You gasped a strangled moan, still sensitive from where he’d left his marks on you. 

“That’s more forgivable.” You breathed as he drew back, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “Go, before I drag you back into bed and have my freaky little way with you, belt and all.” You wiggled your brows and he chuckled darkly, as if anything you said could be seen as a threat. But he acquiesced nonetheless, feeding his belt through the loopholes of his jeans, securing the clasp. 

“I’ll be back in a few.” He placed a kiss to your forehead and you hummed a soft, contented smile before he turned away and headed out down the hallway. You were right, it was far too early for anyone to be awake on a Saturday. As far as he could hear, nobody was up yet, which just meant he got a good few more hours to spend with you before the rest of the mansion started to think you were either dead or missing. You weren’t a morning person, but that didn’t mean you weren’t up most mornings, just with a face like thunder. 

He loosened a contented sigh, cracking open the door to the kitchen before crossing to the kettle and flicking the switch, listening to the low hiss of the water heating up before he pulled open the overhead cupboards to retrieve two mugs, a glass one for him and your favourite one for you. Logan realised with no small degree of shame that he didn’t actually know your birthday, and come to think of it, nobody else had mentioned it either. He hoped it hadn’t already been and gone, seeing your small collection of mugs had given him the perfect idea. 

He rifled around for a bit, before locating the larger, cáfetier. It was easily big enough for two cups and then some. Popping open the steel lid to the coffee grounds, he spooned four heaps into the glass, guestimating the correct amount. Two heaps each seemed about right…

It had been too long since his biggest worry was something as domestic as how many heaps of coffee should he put in a cáfetier for two. It gave him a sense of peace, despite the events of three days ago. And with nobody else up and about yet, it really did feel like the two of you were alone in the world. 

And honestly, he’d be fine with that.

At least, it did feel like, before the fantasy was shattered by approaching footsteps. Logan groaned internally, knowing that gait and heft anywhere. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Scott. Why, of all people, did it have to be fucking Scott.

“Logan… I didn’t know you’d be in here so early.” His tone was curt, stunted almost as if he was allergic to being nice. Logan simply grunted, pouring the freshly boiled water into the cáfetier and placing the lid on. 

“I was just leavin’.” He responded gruffly, hooking his fingers around the two mug handles and carefully lifting the coffee pot, making for a quick escape before Scott cleared his throat. 

“I uh… Look man, I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Logan paused, giving Scott a sidelong glance, a silent suggestion for him to continue. “About what happened the other day. The Professor was right, it wasn’t the time for us to fight.”

Logan grit his teeth. “That’s what you’re apologising for? Not for suggesting we should just get rid of her?” he snarled, his fingers tightening on the mug handles. Scott sighed, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“It’s not– It’s not that simple, Logan. She’s done this before, and last time it resulted in the death of one of our teammates. Jade was so kind. And she–”

“Loved her, yeah I know.” Logan finished, and Scott started in surprise.

“She told you that?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.

“I’m startin’ to think you’ve never actually had a conversation with her.” He bit, keeping his self-control intact. Though he didn’t know how annoyed you’d be if he told you he’d smashed your favourite mug over Scott’s head. 

“She was my teammate before you were, Logan. I– It’s not easy to be the one to make these decisions, or even suggest them. But sometimes we need to do things to protect other people. You know that.”

Logan nodded in confirmation. He did know that. He knew that better than anyone. “And you should know that there is nothing I won’t do to protect her. So you come at her again, spoutin’ bullshit about neutralising a threat, and there’ll be no Professor to stop me from tearin’ you apart. Got it?” He snarled, subconsciously baring his teeth. Scott sighed again. It wasn’t uncommon for Logan to threaten his life, when they first met it was almost on a daily basis. 

“I don’t want to neutralise her. I just want her under control,” he explained wearily. “Sure, the first time this happened and she killed Jade, I’d been the one to suggest that. But we were scared. We were damn terrified of her. It was only thanks to Jean that she came back.”

Logan paused for a moment. He knew Jean was keeping something under wraps. “How? What exactly did she say?”

Scott shrugged, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “No clue. She wouldn’t tell me. She told me to ask the Professor, but we were all a little caught up in grief to ask questions at that point, and by the time we’d all managed to move on, it didn’t seem to matter anymore,” Scott paused, evidently debating his next words. “But she responded to you. We all saw that. So, what I’m trying to say, is keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. None of us want her gone, Logan. We couldn’t help her, but maybe you can.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment Logan had ever received from the man, and he honestly didn’t know what to do with it. So he nodded in silent acknowledgement. It wasn’t exactly an olive branch, but something had definitely shifted in their dynamic. But before he could contemplate it further, Scott piped up again. “I’m happy for you two, by the way. You really complement each other. Or maybe I’m just happy you haven’t been making eyes at Jean for the last two months.”

Nevermind. He hated the prick. “Go fuck yourself, Scott,” he uttered with disinterest, and if he had either of his hands free, he would have flipped him off as he left. Heading back up the stairs, Logan wondered when it would ever just stop. When everything would finally come to a halt and he could have just one day for the two of you and not think about anything catastrophic happening. Yet here he was, climbing the flight of stairs up to the third floor, contemplating your mortality. He fucking hated it. 

And he was having such a nice morning, too. 

Shouldering open the door to your room, he was greeted by an empty space and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, steam rolling out of the small gap where you’d left the door open a crack. Maybe he could still salvage this morning after all. 

Settling down the coffee and mugs on your nightstand, he left the grounds to soak in the water before briskly stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a collected pile at the foot of your bed and slowly opening the bathroom door a little wider. It was like a sauna in there, steam fogging up the mirror, the walls sweating. You hummed a soft tune, one he recognised after a beat.

It was the same song he’d asked you to dance to. 

His heart inflated as he opened the steamed-up door to step in behind you, wasting no time in wrapping his arms around your waist to your small jump and gasp of surprise.

“‘S’just me, don’t worry,” he soothed, burying his face in the crook of your slick neck. Your hair hung limp, freshly washed as you leaned back into him, holding his arms against you.

“Mmm, was just thinking about you.” You hummed, and if Logan wasn’t already half hard at the sight of your dripping naked body, that low, sultry tone of your voice would have been enough. 

“Yeah?” he loosened his grip so you could turn around to face him, your arms slinking up his body and around his neck. “What about me?” he asked, biting back his groan as you swapped places with him, warm water cascading down his back. 

“‘Bout last night… all the things I didn’t get to do…” You teased his lips with whispers of kisses, barely making contact as you held his gaze hostage, your eyes darkening with each passing moment. He felt lightheaded already when you bypassed his mouth altogether, your teeth instantly biting down against his collarbone. 

“Like what?” he strained, his hands skirting up and down your waist, your lips trailing up the hollow of his throat, over to the side of his neck where you sucked a harsh bruise that, to your irritation, faded instantly. You knew doing it again was a losing battle, but that didn’t stop you from sinking your teeth into his flesh, feeling his rising groan on your tongue as you smoothed over the unmarked skin. Your hands braced against his chest as you rose up on your tip toes to breath into his ear.

“I wasn’t joking earlier.” Was all you muttered, nibbling at his earlobe and leaving the side of his head tingling before you travelled lower down the curve of his fuzzy jaw, back down the path you’d carved for yourself, pressing kisses down his chest, your nails lightly scratching down either side of his ribs, following the curve of his hip bone and to his hard cock. 

Logan inhaled as you took him in your wet palms, squeezing around his shaft, delivering pinches with your teeth around one of his nipples, clamping down around when you teased his already leaking tip.

“Shit…” he gasped as you sucked against his shockingly sensitive bud, the scent of your own arousal heightened in the steamy heat, driving him mad with need. Releasing him from your mouth, you giggled softly as he thrust into your grip, his hands sliding from your waist to your hair as you sank to your knees before him, making sure you kept eye contact. 

  Sticking out your tongue, you waited for what felt like an eternity to him, before you delivered a small kitten lick to the underside of his cock. His jaw fell open as he watched you, all your attention now stuck on teasing the fuck out of him, not going any further than small, short swipes. He didn’t want to push you but holy shit were you testing his self-control. 

“Fuckin’ tease.” He huffed, gritting his teeth when your malleable tongue traced one of the thick, pulsing veins down the side of his shaft. His fingers tightened in your hair, though not to move you, rather just to feel you beneath his fingertips. 

Logan’s head fell back as your lips enveloped his sensitive tip, and he realised he would happily drown in this shower if it meant you didn’t stop, water washing away the sweat from his brow, bouncing off his closed eyes. A gravelly moan bubbled from his chest, echoing slightly off the walls. “Jus’ like that, baby,” he whispered almost to himself as you took him further, your pointed tongue dragging down the underside of his cock, one of your hands pumping what you couldn’t fit, the other braced against his hip to hold him still. 

You bobbed your head slowly, tasting the distinct musk and salt of his ecstasy as you flattened your tongue, hollowing your cheeks and humming lowly. The bathroom became an orchestra of gravelly groans and airy gasps, all drowned out from the outside world by the running water. Sinking into a comfortable rhythm, you looked up at his head thrown back, one of his hands had moved from your hair to the wall as he all but leaned against it.

Opening your throat, you slipped him further in your mouth until your nose was nestled comfortably against the coarse hairs at his naval. There you held him for a moment, swallowing around his cock and he fucking whimpered at the feeling of your throat squeezing him. You gagged slightly, and Logan looked down, his jaw slack as he took in possibly one of the hottest things he’d ever seen in his over a century of being alive. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, and he made to pull away to give you a moment to breathe. But the moment he shifted, your nails dug sharply into either side of his hips, holding him against you. 

He stuttered moaning of your name and you knew he was close, so you hummed around him again, the vibrations of your voice travelling his throbbing length. The hand in your hair tightened as he slowly thrust his hips into your wanting mouth, gently fucking your face. 

“Jesus Christ you feel good…” he uttered breathlessly, tensing his jaw as he approached his peak. You smiled wickedly around his cock, dragging your slick tongue down that same vein you were paying attention to earlier as he moved back, your teeth ever so slightly scraping atop his length, and it was his undoing. 

Pleasure flooded his senses, fire coursing through his blood as he went to pull from your mouth, only to have you angrily shove your head forward, swallowing again around his member as he threw his head back to embrace the stream of the shower. “Fuck, fuck!” He stuttered a long, drawn-out groan as he spilled into your mouth, painting your throat white as his hips bucked uncontrollably, the tips of his claws poking through his knuckles as he fought to keep control, stars dancing behind his eyes.

The waves of ecstasy receded with each pulse, leaving him dizzy and gasping, his head falling forward to catch his breath and steady himself. Looking up from your knees, you drew back, leaving a lingering kiss on the head of his cock, your hands gently squeezing his thighs. 

“You okay?” You asked, rising to your feet, palm softly cupping the underside of his jaw and moving his face to look at you. He was stunned, dazed almost, as he wordlessly searched your eyes for an answer to a silent question. You laughed a little, and he drew you in with a thumb and forefinger pinching your chin, claiming your mouth with his lips in a delicately passionate kiss. The way he tasted himself on your tongue almost had him hardening again. 

“You almost suffocated yourself and you’re asking if I’m okay?” he asked with subdued disbelief, and you grinned wildly. 

“You seemed out of it for a moment, wanted to make sure I didn’t kill you.” You responded with airy innocence, and Logan huffed a laugh.

“Murder attempt number two. Not a great track record, huh?” He teased lightly, and you narrowed your eyes at him. But before you could come up with some witty retort, he sank to his knees before you, throwing a leg over his shoulder so bruskly you had to steady yourself against the wall. “Fuck you’re so hard to ignore when you smell this fuckin’ sweet, darlin’.” He murmured, before wasting no time in devouring your cunt until you were whimpering his name and gushing all over his tongue. 

Consider the morning salvaged.

“This is going to be insanely strong coffee.” You called from the bedroom as Logan dried his hair with a spare towel, draping it across his shoulders before padding out the join you. “Someone didn’t want to leave the shower.” You shot pointedly with a small grin. He simply shrugged in response, trying not to be too disappointed that you’d thrown on a baggy t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. 

“Not sure how I’m to blame for that.” He crossed the room to stand behind you, towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips and circled his arms around your waist, setting his chin atop your head. “You started it.” 

You leaned back into his chest, basking in the warmth of his embrace. It was these little moments of soft domesticity that you craved with him. Yeah, the sex was great. Mind-blowing, in fact, and teaching and training with him was a fantastic excuse for the two of you to spend time with each other, but it was these moments you valued. Swaying in the kitchen to whatever song blared from the radio, your head resting on his lap as you dozed off to some shitty reality tv-show, or vice versa. These were the moments you’d remember when you were old and grey and he was–

Still looking gorgeous and young. Fuck, you hadn’t thought about that. How had that only just occurred to you? You pushed the thought into the furthest corners of your mind. Now was not the time to be entertaining such things. 

“Why did you take so long, by the way? I was halfway through the intended length of my shower by the time you got back.” You asked, mourning the loss of his contact as you went to pour the coffee into the two mugs, your heart expanding when you saw he’d picked your favourite one. The one Kitty gifted you. 

“Ran into Scott in the kitchen…” You snorted at the irritation in his tone, clearly not a fond memory. 

“What’d he have to say for himself?” A hand extended behind you, clasping the top of the glass mug between your fingertips as you handed it to him, pouring yourself a mug of your own before you turned to sit on the bed.

“Thanks. He was just runnin’ his mouth, to be honest with ya. Though he did apologise, which felt weird.” Logan returned to his side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard and raising his arm as a silent request for you to join him. You shuffled closer, ducking beneath his arm and cosying into his side, making sure to hold your full mug of coffee steady. 

“He did? What for?” 

“We argued the whole training thing. He was apologising for the timing of it.” 

You snorted a laugh into your mug. “Trust Scott to apologise for the thing that mattered least. But it’s a start, I guess. He say anything else?”

“Not really. Said he was happy for us and that we complemented each other, which also felt weird.” He didn’t think you’d be thrilled about the Jean comment, so he left that in the past like he had his feelings for her. 

“Huh. Strangely nice of him.”

“‘S what I thought.” 

You sipped on your drink, pleasantly surprised it was still warm, savouring the bitter-roasted flavour. “Yeah, a little too long, think the beans are a bit burnt, but it’s still good.”

“How’dya know the beans are burnt?” 

“You can taste it. Or I can. I was a barista for a while, dontcha know?”

He raised a brow. No, he didn’t know that. “How many jobs have you had?” He asked, impressed that you had such a wide range of skills. You thought for a moment, it was actually a pretty good question. 

“Ya know what? I have no idea. What’s funny is that I never remember quitting them either. I’d just wake up one day and bam! New job. I guess I liked to bounce around a lot. Still do.” You elbowed him, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively and he groaned in exhaustion. 

“Terrible.”

“You liked it.” You stuck out your tongue and he huffed in amusement. Yeah, he did. And he wasn’t about to deny it.

Logan paused for a moment, knowing the next topic he wanted to talk to you about was likely going to be a sensitive one. You hadn’t told him for a reason, and if you didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t push you, but he wanted to let you know that he knew. “Can I see your wrist…?”

Predictably, you shot from his side, muttering a curse as your coffee sloshed from your mug and onto your hand. It wasn’t like you’d made an effort to hide your scars, it was more that you banked on the fact that people, generally, were too afraid to ask. But you should have guessed Logan of all people wouldn’t shy away from something like that. Not where you were concerned anyway. 

Tentatively, you set your mug down on the nightstand, turning back to him and offering one of your wrists. He did the same, shifting to set his own mug down before slowly taking your outstretched hand in his own, inspecting the deep, faded scar with the pad of his thumb. “When?” He asked gently.

“Years ago. It’s all kind of a blur really, and I don’t remember much of it. I just– I was terrified of being a mutant and couldn’t see a way out. I think my brother found me, and took me to a hospital. I don’t know why they’re still there, honestly. I’ve used my mutation countless times since, but I guess scars are as part of the mind as they are the body. Or something like that.” It was the only explanation you had for the marks littering your body, not just the ones on your wrists, but your chest, thighs, and neck. You were a scrappy kid, always picking fights with the wrong people. 

Logan brought your wrist up to his lips, ghosting featherlight kisses down the raised line. “I’m so sorry.” He murmured, and your heart bled. He had nothing to apologise for, you hoped he knew that. 

“‘S’okay. I… learned to accept what I am. Rowan helped me with that. That’s his name, don’t know if I ever told you. After he was done being mad at me, that is. Not that I blame him. I don’t know what I would have done had the roles been reversed.” 

“You got on well, didn’t ya?”

You sighed. “Yes and no. We did when we were kids, but as we got older we started to drift apart. I think the grief over our parents changed him, and he got more cautious, whereas I got more reckless. We would fight a lot, but that didn’t mean I loved him any less. I just wish I could remember what our last argument was about. We were so fucking mad at each other, I left and deleted his fucking number.” You huffed a sigh of past frustration, turning to retrieve your mug of coffee. 

That was news to him. He didn’t know your parents had died. He knew they weren’t around during your teen years, but he didn’t know they’d died. But the way you just casually mentioned it told him it was a topic that didn’t need discussing right now. 

You settled back against him, his arm draping over your shoulders, your head dropping to the dip in between his collarbone and neck as silence settled back over you. You appreciated the way he didn’t press you for more. You doubted you’d be satisfied with such a brazen explanation, and you knew he most likely had more questions for you, so when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you smiled against his skin. 

“‘M gonna take you out today.”

“Like on a date or with a gun?”

You felt his snort of laughter against your cheek. “Have you always been this dark?”

“I’m a shadow weaver, comes with the territory.” You responded nonchalantly. 

“‘S that was you’re calling yourself now?”

“Nah. I still kinda like Phantom. But who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind someday.” You raised your head to take another sip of your coffee, grimacing as the liquid had gone from piping hot to lukewarm.

“On a date, dumbass. Thought we could get away for a while.” He brushed a strand of your hair back from your face, smoothing over your eyebrow with his thumb. 

“What’d ya have in mind?” You asked, leaning into his touch a fraction. 

“Take a drive, head to one of the lakes in the area, grab a drink after. Things normal couples do.”

You huffed in amusement. “We’re not a normal couple, Lo’.”

He smirked slightly. “Yeah, I know. You’re a freak.”

“And you’re not? Mister ‘I can smell your arousal and it gets me going’.” You poked the centre of his chest and he flicked your forehead in retaliation. 

“You up for it?” 

“I get to spend the day away from the kids and visit a super scenic lake with my second favourite mutant in the mansion? Followed by an evening of drinking in a bar? You might as well have asked me to marry you here and now.” 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, we’re n– wait second favourite?”

You nodded, looking at him like the answer was obvious. “Well yeah, Kitty bought me my favourite mug so she reserves favourite person rights.” 

“S’that how it works?”

“Bit slow on the uptake aren’t ya?” Logan pushed you off him, careful not to shove you too hard so you spilt any more coffee on yourself.

“I take it back. We’re gonna spend the day here.” You gasped dramatically, setting your drained mug to the side before trying to cosy back up to him, only for his arm to hold you at bay.

“I lied, I lied! You’re incredibly smart and quick and my favourite person I’ve ever met ever!” You exclaimed through fits of laughter as you tried to fight through the wall of sinewy muscle. 

“Didn’t hear ya. Come again?” He held you off with one hand, the other effortlessly raising his mug of coffee to his lips. It was a testament to his strength how he could keep you back with just one arm.

Maybe metal cable ties weren’t strong enough after all…

You conceded, flopping down onto the pillows next to you, bubbles of laughter still popping from your chest. “When do you wanna leave? What time is it actually?” you asked, taking him by the wrist only to see he wasn’t wearing his watch. Must have taken it off to shower.

“Lemme check, hold on.” Logan leaned down off the bed where the poor alarm clock still lay completely abandoned, retrieving your lamp at the same time and setting them both on the nightstand. “Just gone nine. Leave in an hour? I think it’s roughly three hours by car, but Scott’s bike shaves off at least half an hour so…” He shrugged with a cheeky grin, and you laughed at the mischief in his eyes.

“Gives us around six hours to ourselves, minus the journey. Sounds perfect to me.” Being unable to withstand a lack of physical contact with you for any longer than three minutes, Logan lifted his arm for you again, and you returned to the home you’d built next to his heart.

“We should get out more…” he lamented softly, his hand holding your shoulder, thumb stroking your soft skin beneath the short sleeve of your t-shirt. 

“If we had the time, that would be great.” You sighed, feeling his slight despondency. If only your circumstances had been different, and you were just a normal couple that could do normal couples things. But now, you had to teach younger mutants how not to accidentally kill the wrong people, and how to effectively kill the right people. Not only that, but you had to train to ensure you didn’t accidentally kill yourself in the process.

Fuck’s sake.

A fist knocked at the door three times, and you braced for Kitty to simply let herself in. But the longer the silence after lingered, the surer you became that, whoever was on the other side of the door, wasn’t Kitty.

“Come in!” You called, not making any efforts to obscure either yourself of Logan. The whole mansion knew by now, it wasn’t like you were trying to keep it a secret. The door opened to reveal Ororo, her white hair neatly tied back from her face. 

“Morning! Just wanted to– oh. Hey Logan…” she eyed the two of you suspiciously and you shared a glance with him. The fact he was only dressed in a towel and you in a loose tee and boxer briefs didn’t exactly help your case of innocence. “Right… anyway, I guess this saves me two trips. Xavier has a conference in Connecticut, Jean’s going with him. They’re giving a talk on starting up a new school for both mutants and humans to start coexisting, so you’re both on babysitting duty.”

Your heart sank. “What the hell are you and Scott doing?!” You asked accusingly, sitting up from Logan’s chest. Storm’s brows pinched like she seemed genuinely remorseful this was how things had to be.

“Tying up some loose ends for Kurt and Hank before picking them up. They’ve been away for a while now, but they’re back today. That and Scott has some errands to run, so we’ll be back late.” She explained sheepishly, and you groaned in frustration. The one day off you thought you could have and you’ve been stuck with babysitting.

The gods really like shitting in your dinner, don’t they?

“Alright… but you owe us.” Logan piped up, and you whipped your head to him in exasperation. He read your face instantly. ‘Are we really going to do this?’

‘Like we have a choice.’ he silently communicated back, and he knew you’d understood what he’d said when you sighed heavily, dragging a hand down the side of your face.

“Fucking fine, but Logan’s right, you owe us. And I was wondering where those two had got to, how long’ve they been away?”

Ororo loosened a breath of relief. “Thank you. And next Saturday? All your’s, I promise. As for Kurt and Hank, around a year or so? Xavier sent him off on a private mission not even we knew about until a couple months ago, just before you came back. We’re going to pick them up just to make sure they get here safely.” She didn’t seem too confident about wherever Nightcrawler and Beast had been.

“That dangerous, huh?” As if the mere mention of a dangerous mission set him on edge, Logan’s arm wrapped back around your shoulders protectively. Neither of you had been required for one since your return, and he was honestly dreading the day. 

“Kurt’ll explain more when he gets back I’m sure, but yeah, that dangerous. Hank doesn’t like to go on missions like these, but apparently, Charles needed his diplomatic expertise and Kurt’s quick getaways, so who knows?” Ororo shrugged, before looking pointedly at Logan’s bare chest and then your bare legs. “Do I even wanna know what you guys were up to before I knocked…?”

You laughed, waving off her concerns. “Having a coffee and chatting about the day we did have planned before being landed with babysitting duty, nothing exciting don’t you worry.”

“Unless you wanna talk about the shower…” You shot Logan a scandalised look, mouth and eyes wide in utter shock.

“Ew, no, I’m good, see you later.” Ororo shielded her eyes as she left as if she could unsee the mental image Logan had just planted there. As soon as the door shut you smacked his arm with the back of your hand.

“What was that for?”

“Did it look like she was gonna leave anytime soon to you?” You took a moment to think about it, and Logan’s expression shifted to self-satisfaction. “Exactly.”

Well, you couldn’t argue with that. You offered him a little, defeated smile. “Guess our day off will have to wait.”

He leaned forward, tucking you into his side before relaxing back against the headboard. “I’ll take you out soon, ‘kay? Promise.”

“Like, on a date or w–” You couldn’t even finish the sentence before he clapped his hand over your mouth, stopping you midway through.

“Enough. It wasn’t funny the first time, why did you think it would be funny again?” 

You stuck your tongue out to lick his palm, a foolproof method of removing someone’s hand from your mouth. Or, at least it had been foolproof in the past. But you raised your eyes to his face, and he looked at you with disinterest. “Not gonna work, firefly.” 

You adored that nickname. He never explained where it came from or why he started it, but it didn’t matter to you. As long as he never stopped. 

Thick black boots pounded the floorboards as you raced through the hallways of the mansion, vibrations humming up your legs with every step, your breath like fire in your lungs. Shouts and screams echoed in every corner, flashes of torchlight illuminating cones of white against the walls like searchlights. The Professor was away. Why was the Professor always fucking away?

Sliding to a halt as you heard footsteps around the corner, you quickly slipped into the shadows, hushed voices muffled as if underwater as you jumped to the ceiling. Light separated the shadows, and four silhouetted figures walked cautiously beneath you. You could make out the outlines of their guns as the torch shifted before the hallway was again drenched in darkness as they continued their search.

Morphing to the floor, you reformed from the black, stealing a quick glance behind you to where they’d disappeared. There were no students that way, Logan and Scott had made sure of that. The moment Logan had sensed something was off, the evacuation had begun, escorting the students silently from their beds and through the hidden channel behind the panel wall. You knew there were stragglers, but you focused on the knowledge Ororo and Kurt were with them.

How had things gotten so out of hand so goddamn fast? You’d woken up on Logan’s chest this morning feeling like a whole new mutant, comfort wrapped around your heart like an embrace. Now, the opposite couldn’t be more true. You cursed the fact that Jean followed Xavier around like a lost soul. You could really use her help right about now. 

A piercing, shooting pain rushed through your head as you clamped your hands down over your ears, crouching to the floor. Your eardrums throbbed as you recognised that ability, gut knotting at the realisation that Theresa was still inside somewhere, her sonic scream sending waves of agony through your mind before it stopped abruptly. Fuck.

With a new sense of urgency, you sprinted through the entrance hall, taking the stairs two at a time. If you’d been a little more focused on your surroundings and less hellbent on saving the girl, perhaps you would have noticed the line of guns pointed in your direction. One moment you were racing full speed down the first-floor hallway, the next you’d frozen solid as torches flared simultaneously, erasing any easily accessible shadow. You braced, knowing after they “killed” you, they’d turn away and leave you to sink into the darkness and reform. 

But they held fire, your strained pants the only sound in the eerie silence of the bedroom corridor. 

“They were right…” you whipped your head back to the voice behind you, knees bent in anticipation as two figures stepped from the room you knew to be Jubilee’s, and you prayed to whatever sick, twisted gods above that Logan or Scott had got to her first. The torches behind you revealed a man you thought to be in his thirties, a pair of thick, round glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose. He was taller than whoever was next to him and unnaturally thin. “We missed you dearly.”

You cocked your head to the side. “Come again?” You spat, eyes darting between the two.

The man just laughed heartily, opening his arms as if offering you a hug. “Of course, how could I be so rude? I’ve read the reports… Subject Five, if you could be so kind.”

Panic surged through your body as Subject Five stepped forward, a golden glow emanating from beneath its clothes. Your eyes closed instinctively as the hallway lit up as though the sun had risen, your hands flying to shield your face. 

“That’s a bit better. You look good, Eight, but you always were the resilient one.” You were barely listening, still caught up in the dawning revelation that you knew that mutation. You’d know that mutation anywhere. “We’re here to take you home. Subject One isn’t here, sadly, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to take my word for it, but we really have missed you.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” you managed to grit, your eyes adjusting to the light as you cracked them open a little.

“I have to say, when I received word you were a teacher now, it almost made me laugh. You hated kids! Why on earth would you surround yourself with them? But then it dawned on me. A mutant school. If only my great-grandfather had thought of that at the start.” He continued as if you were engaging in nothing but a pleasant conversation in the park.

“Ya know, for someone who talks so much, you really are saying very little.” you quipped, finding a nugget of solace in the fact that this man didn’t want you dead, at least as far as you could tell. “Let’s start with introductions, yeah?”

He chuckled again. “You’re absolutely right. My name is Doctor Kreva. This man here, why you should already know him, even without Subject One to help out.” he was almost condescending in his tone, and you hated the fact he was right. You did know the mutant. And your heart bled for him. What the fuck was he doing here? Why was he raiding the school with this chucklefuck?

“Means nothing to me. The fuck do you want?” you snarled, to his further amusement.

“Were you not listening, darling? We want to take you home. My father was so stupid for letting you go,” it was the first emotion you’d seen on his face beyond sadistic joy. His eyes filled with frustrated hatred. “He never had the stomach for science. And after Seven somehow managed to kill my mother, a problem you so kindly took care of, he started to pity you all.” He spat like the word was venomous before he took a breath of collection. “Seven years it’s taken to track you all down and rebuild what he destroyed. Seven long years. But we’re nearly there. All we’re waiting for is you.”

Your breath got stuck in your throat. Seven years ago, you and Jade were picked up by Jean and Ororo on the side of that highway. How could he possibly know any of this? “You got the wrong gal, sorry bub.” Oh, you’d been spending way too much time with Logan. Dr. Kreva sighed, holding out his hand expectantly. Like a king’s attendance, one of the guards stepped up from behind you, making sure to keep his shadow far from your reach, before he slung a heavy pack from his shoulder, dropping it into Kreva’s waiting hand. 

The doctor took a knee, removing one of the thickest folder’s you think you’d ever seen, and holding it up. It was old. Incredibly old. Whatever colour it had been originally had faded to a pale grey, the edges frayed and splitting. He placed it on the floor face up, and your eyes caught sight of a label, though it was too far away for you to read accurately. 

“Everything you think you know is a lie, Phantom. Didn’t you think it strange your memories are jumbled? Important moments of your life scrambled or forgotten. Loose ends never tied, arguments never resolved? But this, this holds everything. Your entire life, in one folder. All eighty-two years you were with us.”

You scrunched your face, slightly offended. “I’m thirty-two, asshole.” You spat back, your skin starting to burn under such intense lighting, those threads in your body begging to be released into the shadows to escape. 

“So that’s the age he decided before releasing you. Interesting. Well, I’ll have Subject One rectify that when you’re back with us. Tranq her. Now. Subject Three, begin evacuation.” Before you could even turn around to defend yourself, a sharp pain spiked the side of your neck. You froze, blood draining from your face as you realised you’d been pierced with a needle. Heartbeat rising, you fought the urge to throw up. You didn’t know where your fear stemmed from, but you assumed it was when you were taken for blood tests as a child.

If… if that even happened. Because if you were to believe anything this dickwad said, maybe you didn’t even have a childhood. 

Your vision started to swim, and you angrily blinked the grogginess away. “Rowan… wh– what’re y– what’re you doing…?” You could barely finish the sentence as the tranquiliser entered your bloodstream, taking quick effect on your mind as you struggled to stay upright, your knees buckling as you threw your arms out to catch yourself. Shadows. You needed a shadow. But there was nothing to morph into. Nothing you could reach to rid yourself of this feeling. Everything became muffled, as if you were underwater, only barely able to hear a gut-wrenching roar before your vision went dark, and you were out cold. 

Logan raced up the stairs, fury pumping through his blood. He’d been looking everywhere for you, crashing through doorways and slicing through skin and muscle to find you. Hank had mentioned he’d seen you sprinting toward Theresa’s room after she’d screamed, and he didn’t wait to hear the rest of what he’d said before he took off at a run. He crested the first flight just in time to see three figures halfway down the lit hallway, obscuring your unconscious body. He didn’t even take a minute to acknowledge the light was emanating from the figure on the right, rather than the lights themselves. The man in the centre turned just as Logan bellowed a cry of pure, unadulterated rage, offering him a curious tilt of his head before the one one the left took hold of each other their shoulders, and they disappeared before his eyes.

He didn’t care. They were gone and you remained. That was all that mattered. Racing to your side, he saw the cause of your condition, pulling the tranquiliser out from your neck and cautiously lifting you into his lap, checking your pulse just to be sure. 

You were alive. Your heart was still beating. He almost shook with relief. 

“It’s okay, I got you firefly, I got you.” He soothed, brushing your hair back and cradling you against his chest. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

“Logan?” He turned his head back down the hallway, heightened sight able to make out Kurt and Scott by the stairs, Kurt wringing his hands with worry. “Is she–”

“She’s fine, just out cold. Theresa’s still in her room if you wanna make sure she’d okay.” He gestured to the room a few doors down, and Kurt jogged passed him, pausing as he saw the file on the ground. 

His eyes widened slightly, gaze flickering from the file name to your unconscious form, then back again, before looking at Logan. Crouching down, he flipped the folder so it was facing him, before continuing to Theresa’s room.

Logan froze as he read the scrawled, ink-smudged handwriting on the front of the file, his blood turning to ice in his veins. 

NLMO. Subject Eight. “Phantom”.

Logan paced as he waited outside the med-bay, chewing at the cuticles of his thumb. Scott, Jean and Charles were having a heated debate in the room to his right, he could hear raised voices even with the doors closed. Ororo and Kurt had chosen to wait with him, Kurt crouched against the wall opposite and Ororo fixed her hair every two minutes. A nervous twitch, he noticed.

Since Jean was currently held up in the furious discussion, Hank had offered to perform the routine checkups on all the mutants they’d managed to tranquilise, yourself included. It had been four hours since the attack, and he still hadn’t shown his blue furry face. Then again, there were quite a few students who’d been targeted, not just you. 

The meeting to his right went quiet before the doors slid open and Scott stormed out, a face like thunder. Logan couldn’t blame him, he had his own anger on a tight leash, simmering just below the surface. What the fuck was going on? Who the hell were you? Did Charles know about this? Did Jean? Was that why she’d been so strange lately after the training incident? The idea of the two of them knowing and not telling anyone made him want to tear apart the whole fucking mansion, and it seemed Scott was on the same wavelength as him for once. 

“Scott wait!” Jean called after him, running after the furious man, but not before casting Logan a cautious glance. He just glared at her in response, before she hurried to catch up with Scott.

“You should have told me, Jean. I’m supposed to lead this goddamn team, how can I do that without knowing who I’m dealing with. No wonder she can’t control her fucking mutation, and I’ve been made to look like a monster for wanting the situation sorted when you knew about this the whole time!” He heard Scott rage, and it was the first time he’d actually heard him raise his voice to her. It would have almost been refreshing if he hadn’t just answered one of Logan’s most burning questions. 

She did know about it. Oh, he was going to have a little chat with her later about that. 

There was a beat before Charles wheeled from the room, his face a grim picture. He loosened a breath upon seeing the three of them still waiting, his eyes lingering on Logan, the file held in his lap. Logan grit his teeth.

“Did you know?” Was all he asked, and Charles said nothing, moving his gaze to the med-bay doors. That just pissed him off further. “Did. You. Know?” he spat every word like venom, balling his fists in an attempt to keep his anger in check. 

“Yes,” Charles replied softly, as if speaking any louder would set him off. But Logan didn’t need him to raise his voice. That was all he needed to hear for his trust in the Professor to shatter completely. “Some memories are better off forgotten, Logan. You of all people know that.”

“Not her entire life!” He clamoured, causing both Ororo and Kurt to jump a little in surprise. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t their fault. They were as in the dark as the rest of the team. Except, it seemed, team telekinesis. “What’s in that folder, Charles? And tell me honestly. No more bullshit.” He seethed, though, to his subconscious surprise, Xavier held the file out to him. 

“That’s for you to find out. If you wish. But I’ll warn you, Logan. Nothing in that file is good. Nothing is happy. Everything that’s happened to her in the last eighty years or so.” He explained sombrely, and Logan didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. Eighty years? How was that possible? You were thirty-two. You’d said so yourself. None of this made any goddamn sense. How could you just forget the fact you’d lived at least eighty years of your life? As if Charles had read his mind, which he most likely had, he spoke up again. “A powerful mutant with a focus on memory altering known as Subject One, or Obscurity. From what I could gather, he could alter and re-alter memories, planting ones that never existed and pushing those that deep to the farthest reaches of their minds. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they had at the time.”

The best they had? The best they had? Logan wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably someone bald and in a wheelchair. But he refrained himself when the doors behind him whooshed open, and Hank stepped through. 

“All stable. Took a little longer than I thought it would. I think Jones will be out for another few hours, maybe a day or so. The poor little guy barely sleeps as it is, so a tranq knocked him for six.” Hank explained before sensing the tension in the room. Logan said nothing, almost knocking Beast to the ground as he breezed past him, uncaring as he was once again greeted by yet another sight of you lying unconscious on a metal table.

This was becoming a bad habit of yours.

“She should wake within the hour. The tranqs weren’t too strong, only designed for short knockouts rather than extended periods of unconscious.” Logan was barely listening, his heart clenching as you slept peacefully, hooked up to another fucking machine. How many of these have you been hooked up to in your life? How many other machines have you been monitored on? Was that how you received the scars? Or had that part of your story been true? Did you know anything about this? Or had you been lying to him the whole fucking time?

He had too many questions for you, but he knew how he could answer them. He extended a hand behind him. “Hand me the file.”

“Logan, you should–”

“Hand me the fucking file.” His arm shook impatiently, and there was a beat before Ororo took the folder from Charles and placed it in his waiting hand. Christ, it was hefty. Though, he supposed there was eighty years worth of information within its pages. Storm hovered next to him, sparing him a worried glance as he opened the first page. 

Well, any hope that it was another Phantom was quickly dashed as the faded type described you perfectly. From the texture of your hair and the colour of your eyes to the size of your feet and the length of your legs. His heart caught in his throat as he flipped a few pages, hearing Ororo’s gasp of horror next to him.

4th September. 1932 Ex.3 – 12 pm - 9 am. Deprivation / Indulgence Subject 8. “Phantom” / Subject 5. “Solaris” Observer: Doctor R. Kreva.

Removed all objects from Sub.8’s and Sub.5’s observation chambers, and installed flood lighting on all surfaces. Sustain peak lighting in both chambers for 24 hours and record findings. Since 8 and 5 have similar DNA, they have both been selected for this experiment. Their mutations, whilst similar, are opposites. Two sides of the same coin. Will repeat experiment with darkness at a later date. 

Hour 1 – No change in any subjects. Sub.5 seems extremely content with the change of atmosphere, it’s skin emits some kind of glow similar in colour and frequency to the light around. 

Hour 2 – Still no notable changes. Sub.8 raised its head to look around the chamber, perhaps seeking refuge from the light. Only movement in the last two hours.

Hour 5 – Sub.8’s behaviour has become noticeably erratic, its eyes flickering all around the room, has yet to make a move. Sub.5 has remarkably begun creating its own lights, I have included a sketch of my findings below.

Hour 8 – Due to the lack of shadows, Sub.8’s movements have become peculiar. At times, fast and frantic, searching the room for refuge, whereas other times it would be slow and sluggish, barely able to lifts its head to look around. 

Hour 10 – Much the same as Sub.8 in the dark, Sub.5 had disappeared completely. We can only assume, due to the similarity in their DNA, that Sub.5’s body has disintegrated into the light. Sub.8’s vitals are spiking and dipping seemingly randomly. Its body lags when it moves, almost glitching into shadow with every movement. Is this the molecules trying to release?

Hour 17 – Sub.5 has returned, its hair is now elevated above its head and its eyes no longer resemble that of a human’s. Where there should be an iris and pupil, there is now nothing but smouldering light. Sub.8 has begun writhing, parts of its body disintegrating and reforming where it lies. Is it in pain? 

Hour 19 – Sub.8 has started to scream. It’s interesting. With every breath, its entire body shudders as if trying to phase through the fabric of light itself, like Sub.5 can do. Its fingers bleed from frantically clawing at the ground and blood is leaking from its nose. Will need a cleaning crew in hereafter. In contrast, Sub.5 Is now levitating approx. 5 inches from the ground. 

Hour 20 – Sub.8’s condition has rapidly declined in the last hour, its skin seems to have veins of black spiderwebbing across its face, hands and feet. Must make notes to strip both subjects next experiment, but for now I must assume this continues across its body. 

Hour 21 – Sub.8 has ceased all activity and now lies motionless. Vitals have dropped well below human sustainability, heart rate of 20 BPM, and blood pressure of 90/60 mmHg. How is it still alive? Sub.5 has begun wielding the light from its body. It seems as surprised by this as I am. It has been able to form duplicates of itself, objects, and what could be interpreted as a pair of wings. Could Sub.8 be capable of such things?

End of Hour 21 – Leaving the lights on for 24 hours would most likely be the death of Sub.8. With the slow decrease of light intensity, Sub.5 settled back to the floor, its eyes dimming before returning to what we shall now call the default state. Sub.8 remained motionless for another 2 minutes and 42 seconds before their body disintegrated. Interestingly, it couldn’t disappear before the lights were off completely. Saved footage of Sub.8’s disappearance, the infra-red camera pinpointing the moment its body broke apart. Fascinating. Placed them both back into the observation house, and monitored them for the next few days. Sub.5 is already up and around, behaving regularly. Sub.8 still rests in bed. How will this affect its interactions with other subjects?

Ex. Duration: 21 HOURS Ex. Outcome: Success Findings: See above. Memory erased: Last 21 hours Replacement memory: Cooking lesson, NLMO bonding Comments: Must remember to use the same memory for Subjects 2,3,4,6 and 7

Logan felt sick, bile rising in his throat as he blew out a shaky breath, checking the date three times to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Ororo whimpered a small sob next to him, her eyes scanning the page, her hand covering her mouth in utter devastation. Kurt looked between the two of them, not knowing if he wanted to be involved in whatever horrors lay within that folder. 

He couldn’t stop reading, some pages had notes about the life they made you believe you were living, a simulation world with the other seven, not dissimilar to the danger room. Only, every time you ‘went out on an errand’, or ‘went to work’, it was just a replacement memory for when they pulled you out for experimentations. Those were the pages that had shattered his very soul. What they did to you… How could they have been getting away with this for so long?

He continued flicking through, thumbing stacks of pages at a time before he settled on a less faded sheet, dated much more recently. He only read the first line before Ororo looked away, her head in her hands, Kurt bamfing next to her to hold her as she sobbed.

22nd September. 2008 Ex.1,243 6 pm-6:50 pm Pain Tolerance / Resilience Subject 8. “Phantom” Observer: Dr. J. Kreva

It has been noted that Sub.8’s tolerance for pain is exceptionally high. It can easily disappear with surface-level wounds and reappear as good as new. I want to test its durability to its limits and discover how deep we can wound it before we start leaving scars. In order to accomplish this without endangering Sub.8’s life, it will be stripped of clothing and strapped to the operating table and I have given us ten-minute windows. Using the same light-flooded room as Ex.3, a team will be entering the room with various appliances, following the strict instructions of careful harming, before leaving for the lights to be shut off. Sub.8 has been known to fight back, unlike its counterpart Sub.5, and we have lost good people to its unpredictability. So we will be using Sub.5 as a bargaining chip. It has been noted these two have some kind of relationship similar to that we would typically see in siblings. If Sub.8 refuses to cooperate, the team has permission to harm Sub.5 to whatever they deem necessary.

Each ten-minute window will be referred to as a cycle, due to the nature of the lighting we are implementing here. 

Under no circumstances should either Subject be killed.

Cycle 1 – Team TS8 managed to coerce Sub.8 onto the table, strapping it down with efficiency. It has yet to fight back, but it has noticed Sub.5 in the corner. It likely knows the terms already. A small cut has been made on its left arm, with no visible response from Sub.8, however, Sub.5 flinched. Interesting. Team TS8 left the room, lights still on. Nothing to note, Sub.8 disappeared and reappeared with the lightning, with no sign of the small cut. Though it is no longer strapped to the table. I am glad we brought along Sub.5. After seeing its capabilities in the mirrored experiment of Ex.3 (please see Ex.4), Sub.5 will be an excellent bargaining chip to ensure those abilities are not put to use.

Cycle 2 – Team TS8 has already threatened to harm Sub.5 to get Sub.8 to cooperate. Nothing physical yet, only threats. It understood and climbed onto the table itself, allowing itself to be strapped down again. It has said nothing in these moments, simply stared. Due to our already collected knowledge and the two-hour time limit on this experiment, I have had to jump a few levels of pain. I have provided Team TS8 with a conical flask of concentrated hydrochloric acid. It seems the jump was necessary, Sub.8 reacted with subdued screams and desperate tugging on restraints. With the skin tissue of its right calf burned away, I can see its muscular system is almost identical to our own, tendons working in the same way. Though this is no groundbreaking discovery, it is still important to note. Team TS8 left the room along with Sub.5, who seemed reluctant. Sub.8’s breathing is erratic, and it claws at the table in a similar way it did during Ex.3. Does this have any practical benefit or is this simply to ease the pain? It disappears once again along with the lights, a burn scar remains on its leg when it returns.

Cycle 3 – Sub.5 had to be harmed. I didn’t want it to come to this, but Sub.8 wasn’t cooperating as well as I hoped it would. We removed Sub.8 and Team TS8 from the room and turned out the lights. Sub.8 thrashed against restraints as it watched Sub.5 be beaten from behind the door. It agreed to continue swiftly after. Sub.5’s wounds healed as the lights returned. Their bond is a fascinating one, and one I would like to explore further. Sub.8’s Trypanophobia has been noted in its records, having an extreme reaction to the sight of needles. I have provided Team TS8 with various sizes of serrated needles with a diagram of its body. The idea was to see whether Sub.8’s mutation could remove things from its body by disappearing and reforming, or whether obstructions could prevent this. Sub.8 seems panicked by the sight of needles, surely triggering its trypanophobia. Once again it thrashes on the table with each insertion, though it only cried out when pierced in the side of its neck and its inner thigh. Perhaps these are somewhat erogenous zones? Or particularly sensitive places? I will have to make comparisons to Sub.5. Team TS8 left along with Sub.5, who seems to be doing very little to stop the process, though is exhibiting signs of great discomfort. Once again, Sub.8 disappears along with the lights, and interestingly, the needles are left behind on the bed, along with copious amounts of its blood. Not sure the cleanup crew could get those stains out. 

A sob wracked from Storm behind him, though Logan couldn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away. They exploited your fears and used you to record responses for their sick, twisted gain. He grit his teeth, his jaw threatening to crack as his eyes continue to scan the page. 

Cycle 4 – We have recorded Sub.8’s behaviour on the brink of death in Ex.3, however it was due to lack of shadow. There were no threats necessary to encourage Sub.8 back onto the bed, the needles having been carefully removed. The next stage is incredibly simple. Team TS8 sliced through each radial artery on either side of Sub.8’s wrists. I am not a man easily haunted by much, however I do believe Sub.5’s scream will live in my memory for quite some time. I have made sure to set the cutting of the lights long before Sub.8 has time to bleed out. Sub.5 had to be dragged from the room, however, I can observe Sub.8’s body performing the same motions as it was in Ex.3 around hour 19, however, there is a complete lack of vocal response. Its body keeps attempting to disappear, though it has nothing to dissolve into. It’s fascinating to watch, parts of its limbs shimmering jet black before settling again. It’s like the molecules want to disperse. The lights have dimmed far quicker than the last three times. Sub.8 has not moved from the table. It has not disappeared at all, but it is simply lying in wait. Does it wait to die? Perhaps we underestimated its resolve. I have sent Team TS8 back into the dark room, a knife held against Sub.5’s throat. If it doesn’t dissolve, I have instructed them to make a small incision against Sub.5’s neck. It didn’t need to get that far, Sub.8 saw the consequences and immediately dissolved, though it took far longer for it to return. Perhaps the more severe the wound, the longer it takes to reknit the body back together. Will have to perform further experimentation on this. Two more scars have reformed on either wrist. Interesting. Will need to inspect needle incisions later.

Cycle 5 – It’s dead. I’m certain. Due to the ignorance and fear of man, I have lost one of my most valuable subjects. A terrified guard shot it in the chest several times and burst into the experiment. He didn’t exactly aim for it, but rather for Sub.5. It seems the bond between 5 and 8 ran deeper than even I could comprehend, 8 didn’t think twice about putting itself between the guard, taking several bullets to the chest. Four, to be exact, before he was apprehended. I couldn’t get the lights off fast enough, having to override the system I’d set specifically for this experiment. I wasn’t fast enough, and 8 suffered for it. It’s been here for the last 80 years, and one man ruined everything. Its body is still in the room. I haven’t found the heart to move it yet. Sub.5’s memory of the incident has been erased by Sub.1 once again, and replaced with a severe argument between it and 8, resulting in 8 leaving. I will most likely be dead before I find a subject as valuable for mutant research as Phantom. 

Ex. Duration: 50 MINUTES Ex. Outcome: Failure (subject fatality) Findings: I fear Mutants and Humans can never coexist Memory Erased: Experiment above, Sub.8’s death (for Sub.5 only) Memory Replacement: Severe argument. Comments: A devastating turn of events

Logan swallowed as he reached the bottom of the page. Was that how you escaped? Was that how you got out? They thought you were dead only for you to be able to heal from bullet wounds? Did you slip through the shadows? It took him a moment to think it over. No, that wasn't possible. The dates didn't add up. He turned the page over, seeing further notes scrawled on the back in pen rather than type.

22nd September, Ex.1,243 – Continuation. 1932, 11:42 pm.

The body has disappeared. I have kept the lights off since the incident at 6:50 and made the mistake of closing my eyes for a few minutes. When I opened them again, Sub.8 had disappeared. I sealed the doors immediately, hoping this meant it had somehow found the strength to dissolve back into shadow. Looking into the infrared camera, I have noticed the projectiles of bullets scattered where Sub.8 had fallen. Does this mean it’s recovering? Is it possible for it to recover from four bullet wounds to the centre of its chest? 

12:08 am

Sub.8 has returned. Remarkable. Though there are clear scars on its chest and wrists, it seems to have almost completely healed from the incident. This is a staggering discovery. Will need to alter Sub.5’s memory once again.

Logan dropped the file, pages still spread apart as he took a step back. This couldn’t be real. None of this could be real. What you’d endured, what you’d suffered. The scars that remained. You were right, what you’d said this morning. Mental scars leave the same marks as physical ones. Your body had altered to the memories they’d forced into your mind. They couldn’t remove the scars, so they made you think you’d attempted to take your own life. Made you think you remembered getting into fights as a kid. He knew what mutant experimentation was like. He’d had a firsthand experience. But this was on a whole other level. What the fuck was this all for? 

Now Charles’ words made sense. Some memories were left forgotten. He glanced back to the Professor, who nodded grimly as if to confirm all he’d seen. “My first act as headmaster of this school is to tap into the minds and memories of its students and teachers. Logan, trust me when I say, some things are better left in the past.”

He didn’t know what was right or wrong. Keeping this from you felt wrong but at the same time, you were happy with what you had. Was it already too late? Was that glasses-wearing motherfucker Dr. J. Kreva? How much had he told you? How much did you know?

“They were looking for her, weren’t they?” It was the first phrase he’d spoken since reading the file, pieces of your puzzle clicking into place. Charles simply nodded again. 

“It’s not safe for her to be here anymore. For the students and her. They know where to find her now.”

“Then what to we do?” Ororo asked through heavy sniffles, teary eyes looking between you and the Professor. 

“We take her off grid,” Hank said, setting down his glasses. He’d picked them up to read whatever was in that folder but quickly decided against it after seeing Storm’s reaction.

“But we can’t do that without good reason?” Kurt chimed in, casting worried glances around the room.

“Two years ago, I received signals from an environmental research facility we all believed to have been destroyed in a freak accident seven years prior. I sent Jean and Storm to assess the situation after the explosion, and that’s–”

“That’s where we found her and Jade… Oh my God, that was the site?” Ororo finished, her voice dripping with dread. “But… how did they escape? What happened?”

Charles sighed with resignation. “We don’t know. It would take searching her locked memories and risk pulling them to the surface to answer that question, and that wasn’t a gamble I was going to bet on, not after what I’d glimpsed in the past.”

Logan could barely hear any of this. His ears were ringing, white noise clouding his senses as he just stared at you. Your whole life had been a lie. A jumble of nonsense knitted into your memories by another mutant, reality locked away within the darkest depths of your head. He didn’t know what to do. His urge to protect you from this new threat fought with the urge to protect you from your own past. 

“The decision should be hers.” He interrupted the ongoing conversation, moving to take your hand and press a kiss to the scar on your wrist. “Whether she remembers or not. Explain to her what you said to me, and let her decide.” It was the only course of action he could see. The room fell into silence, all contemplating the suggestion before Charles moved forward to the file on the ground, picking it up and closing it. 

“Wherever you take her, wherever you hide her, take this with you. You can’t tell me where you’re going, and I won’t search for you. The less people who know, the better.” He instructed, and Logan nodded, setting the folder to the side. “When she wakes up, we’ll–”

“When she wakes up, you’ll what?” 

The room had been too caught up in their conversations to notice you stirring from your tranquiliser-induced nap. “You know, I seem to spend a concerning amount of my time unconscious these days.” You sat up slowly, the heel of your palm braced against your forehead as if to help the slight pounding at your temples. 

Logan was at your side in a single stride, his hands cupping the sides of your face delicately, as if holding you any tighter would cause you to break. Your relieved smile when you saw him broke his heart. “Hey Lo’.” 

Though that smile faded as he didn’t return it, his eyes brimming with an emotion your groggy head couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He responded, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, and it was as if that was all you needed for your headache to fade. You held one of his palms against your cheek, leaning into his touch.

“How long was I out?”

“Around four hours or so. You feelin’ okay?” Concern. That was the emotion you couldn’t pinpoint a moment ago. Concern and… heartbreak?

“Yeah… ‘m fine. Who died?” You asked, trepidation lacing your tone as you stole glances at the others in the room. Ororo had tears in her eyes, Kurt’s arm still wrapped around her shoulders in comfort. Hank looked more bleak than you’d ever seen him, his hands clasped together as if in mourning. You continued scanning the room, Charles offering you a look of sympathy before your eyes landed on the folder Logan had set down. It was like a trigger had been fired in your brain, hazy memories of before you fell unconscious rushing back to you in one big hurricane.

“Oh.” Was all you could say, and Logan wrapped his arms around your head in response, smoothing gently touches against your hair as you basked in the comfort of his embrace.

“How much do you know?”

[fadingclub]

Can normal beings like a Thrait interact with the lifemeat/eggs of the earth? Do regular beings even know they exist?

The conditions in the core of the planet would most likely kill a creature like that. If they were to reach the lifemeat, they would be able to touch it, but they would not be able to manipulate it. Eggs of the Earth and their counterparts respond only to the being that created them in the first place. Eggs of the Earth are full of energy and power, and are being used partially to empower the facilities and creatures they are found in.

The lifemeat is not truly organic meat at all, but a living core of endless inorganic living material, a part of the planet itself, able to be formed into any potential formation, even simple living beings and golems.

[truelotus]

Could you please do a sfw one featuring the Captains (whichever you want) meeting a lieutenant reader with origami based abilities (like konan from naruto)?

Please 🙏

a/n: absolutely adored this, I love konan from naruto so much <3 thank you for this request anon! I couldn’t tell if you wanted a oneshot or hc’s but I did this a oneshot😢if you wanted hc’s lmk! and i’ll do it :P

Characters featuring : Jushiro Ukitake, Shunsui Kyoraku, Byakuya Kuchiki and Unohana Retsu.

Format : One-shot

Context: You become the lieutenant of the 13th division, but in order for you to become a lieutenant you to become a lieutenant, Jushiro needed to see your skills. After seeing them he was amazed and decided to show the other captains.

After Kaien Shibas death, Jushiro was ordered by central 46 to pick a lieutenant. You knew Kaien very well, just like everyone. He was a great man and a wonderful lieutenant. He was a man who you could not replace.

So it was understandable that Jushiro refused to pick another person to become his lieutenant, but central 46 was not going to have it and made him pick a seated officers, to see if they were capable of holding the lieutenant’s rank.

So that is when you came in, you held the 4th seat of the division. Jushiro was fully aware of your abilities, he has always been curious on how they worked since he himself has not seen it—because he is locked up in his own room, due to his sickness— so this was a opportunity to see it finally.

“Please send in the 4th seat officer, Y/N L/N.” Jushiro politely ordered that you come to the room now, you were nervous.

You knew that you could never be as good of a lieutenant like Kaien Shiba—if you picked to be the lieutenant— But you would for sure do your best, for yourself, your captain and your squad.

“Good morning, Captain Ukitake!” As soon as you stepped into the room, you bowed your head to your captain. He lightly smiled at you, nodding his head.

“Good morning, I’m very excited to see your abilities. Kaien would often talk about your abilities, so please show me everything you’ve got!” Jushiro could tell you were nervous, he could only hope that his words brought at least some comfort to you.

“Of course!”

You took a deep breath in, then one out before calling the incantation of your zanpakuto.

Suddenly, the blade of your zanpakuto was no more. The blade turned into a collection of razor sharp paper sheets.

His breath was taken away when seeing you control the paper sheets with just your hand, you continued to show your skills with the dummy that was laid out there for you.

You were truly an angel, you manipulated the paper sheets to become wings, beautiful paper made angel wings.

After a while, you thought you showed everything that was needed to show. You were truly magnificent, your performance was just perfect.

You manipulated the paper sheets once more, swiftly and elegantly you made a swan, you did it so effortlessly. You blew the paper swan to Jushiros direction, he carefully caught it, making sure that the swan was still in its perfect condition.

“I must say, your abilities are truly remarkable! The way you can manipulate paper with such grace, it is a work of art. You possess a rare strength, one that is not only powerful but also beautifully refined.”

Your cheeks flushed by such compliment, and because it was your captain giving you the compliment.

“Thank you captain Ukitake!” You bowed your head once more, you assumed that you weren’t going to be given the lieutenants rank because he has not said anything. You thought he was just giving you a compliment and waiting for you to leave now.

“I’ve watched your performance very closely, I can see you have both the strength and heart of a true warrior.”

You picked your head up, eyes glistening with hope.

“The position of lieutenant requires more than just skill; it requires someone who can guide, protect, and inspire those around them. I believe you have the potential to do just that.”

Your lips parted slightly, was he really going to trust you with the title of lieutenant? Yes, yes he was. Your abilities captivated him, he simply couldn’t resist you.

“If you accept, I would be honored to have you as my lieutenant. I truly believe that you are ready for this kind of opportunity.”

“Yes!”

Jushiro laughed lightly by your response, it was clear that there was no hesitation behind your answer. He felt some pride in himself for having you as a lieutenant, he can’t wait to show you off to the other captains.

“Thank you for coming today, I apologize for the inconvenience. But I just had to show you my new lieutenants abilities! I believe each one of you will be impressed.”

You panted softly after finishing your little performance for the captains—the ones that came— You didn’t expect to use this much energy for something like this.

Shunsui hummed, rubbing his chin as he inspected you. “I have to say, there’s something captivating about the way you command those papers. It’s like each piece dance at only your will, I’m sure the other captains would agree.”

“But.. if you ever get tired of the responsibility of entertaining others, you can always come and only entertain me.” Shunsui chuckled softly, winking at you.

“Yes I agree with captain Kyoraku, If you ever care to share more about your techniques.. perhaps you could with me over a cup of tea. There’s much I could learn about you and from you.. I would also enjoy the company.” Unohana said with a soft and gentle tone. Her smile seemed to be genuine—and it was—

“What about you captain Kuchiki? What did you think of her performance?” Unohana turned to Byakuya who seemed to be in a daze, he quickly snapped back, clearing his throat.

“If you ever require assistance with your techniques or any other matter, I will be available to support you, you may come to my estate whenever. It is a matter of honor.”

The other captains were rather surprised by his response, it seems like you really are special if Byakuya Kuchiki took a liking to you, to the point he invites you over to his estate whenever you’d like.

“Thank you so much! I’m truly honored for these opportunities you have all given me!”

After that little performance of yours, you became closer to the captains that were there for you the first time.

Shunsui would often come by to see you and Jushiro, he would ask you to teach him how to do certain origami things, such as a flower, a heart and swans—to impress the ladies—

But there would be times where he suddenly brings you a paper rose, on his own. He’d do it to impress you and see that little excitement in your eyes.

Unohana will always invite you over for tea or prepare you two a meal to share. You’d usually be the one doing all the talking, but neither of you had a problem with it, she was more than happy to hear you yap about your abilities, the new objects you could create.

She ended up taking a liking to origami just because of you, you would never know but she would often practice during her free time. She created a flower for you once, placing it into your hair.

And now that flower stays in your office, grateful that Unohana made it just for you.

Byakuya, would help you with your training. Since your zanpakuto is almost the same as his—both controlling something— he would demonstrate his own techniques, you would notice that he was trying to show off..

After training, he’d invite you to chat a bit before going back to your captain. He found comfort by your presence, he loved watching you shape your paper into something beautiful.

You would offer him to try, and he’d try but would fail miserably. Which kind of irked him.. you made it look so easy, so why couldn’t he do it just as effortlessly as you? But he wouldn’t mind in the end, that just means he could watch you swiftly do it.

As for your captain, Jushiro Ukitake. You’d be by his side most of the time while he rested. The two of you would talk about the different art could be put.

But his favorite type of art, would have to be yours, the art of your origami skills, the art of your zanpakuto, the art of your beauty, everything.

He appreciated you in every way, complimenting you and thanking you for everything. He loved having you as his lieutenant.

If he wasn’t in bed resting, you two would be out in the garden, talking about the recent events, art, and maybe even the recent gossip in the seireitei..

Of course you two wouldn’t badmouth about anyone, but you would talk about the juicy little drama going on and he’d listen carefully, and he’d stop you time to time to make sure he was understanding everything.

[youryurigoddess]

The summer that was never supposed to end

You’ve probably noticed how in Good Omens 2 Crowley’s eyes are brighter, more saturated, as if glistening with liquid gold. We’ve already covered his hair. And it’s not only the visual aspect of him — even in objectively stressful conditions, Crowley appears mature and put together, way cooler and more protective than before. Even his faults are heavily romanticized in the past and present scenes, reminding of the S1 body swap, when Aziraphale projected his love to him on the way he played the demon in Hell.

It’s not just the demon. The whole season is more vibrant, bolder, filled with sunshine. Just like a summer that was never supposed to end. Like a memory of a loved one seen through the eyes of someone who thinks of them every day until the end of the world.

S2 seems ridiculously saturated, whimsical, and full of red and gold, just like a certain demon. Aziraphale not only painted his bookshop in his image, but literally colored the whole world in Crowley’s colors. It was such lush and saturated and blooming with warmth and hazy light.

It’s either that all the newest events are just another memory seen through a certain angel’s eyes, or said angel actively made it appear this way — as in, his feelings grew so strong that they’ve started to warp the reality around him. And it’s a well-known fact that Aziraphale has a tendency to affect his surroundings, either unconsciously, when his presence in the bookshop literally lightens up the sky seen through its windows, or very much consciously, when he takes over the position of a master puppeteer and manipulates people with or without the help of his miracles.

S1 was more dramatic and apocalyptic, but not particularly gray — at least not as much as the color grading typically used in portrayal of similar apocalyptic narratives. S2, at least as seen through Aziraphale’s own La Vie En Rose lens, is vibrant and saturated. And those colors drastically fade in the heavenly light of the elevator during the credits, suggesting that they won’t be as visible in the course of S3.

But I don’t want to ramble about the apocalypse sandwich and the three-act structure here, so let’s circle back to S2.

Good Omens 2 was really set in a summer that was never supposed to end. But it did, autumn crept in, and there was no chance of hearing the nightingales sing. They all had left by the time an angel and a demon finally kissed.

In the most literal sense: the very last nightingales usually migrate from the UK to their wintering grounds in Sub-Saharan Africa in the first days of September.

Aziraphale was right that nothing lasts forever — and the passage of time on Earth is marked by subtle details invisible to the immortal eyes.

The main thing about autumn migration is how sudden and hard to predict it is. The birds start disappearing gradually, often without notice, until at some point they are no longer here. Much like the angel leaves the bookshop — their shared nest — to spread his wings and fight.

And it was basically announced on the poster.

Can you see the migratory formation of birds up in the sky? It looks like Aziraphale is the last one to get off the ground and fly.

[amythestalithia]

Perselena Post Rome

The gods left the Western Roman Empire in 380 AD, long before the fall, due to the conversion to Christianity under Theodosius 1. However, the 13th legion remained in service to the empire and kept to paganism in secret.

The gods returned to Greece and lived there, with fewer followers but a happier daily life.

Ares and Perselena got into the habit of pretending to be young children and joining children in their patron cities to play games.

They spent the 5th to 10th century in Greece, living in the same conditions as their first stay in Greece, and were not inconvenienced by the Dark Ages.

Meanwhile, the legion moved around Italy, maintaining their traditions and staying separate from the more settled Camp of the Hero Blooded. The 13th legion named themselves for Jupiter for luck.

Olympus Anchor Points Timeline:

Regenburg, Holy Roman Empire- St. Paul's Cathedral

Florence, Italy - Brunelleschi’s Dome (Florence Cathedral)

Granada, Spain-The Alhambra

Nuremberg, Geremany- Lorenzkirche

Paris, France - Notre-Dame

London, British Empire- The Tower of London

New York, USA- Empire State Building (600th floor)

Transitions:

800–1350: Regensburg (Imperial Europe)

1350–1500s: Florence (Renaissance)

1500s–1700s: Granada (spiritual shift & retreat)

1700s–1800: Nuremberg (Enlightenment)

1800–1900: Paris (revolution, romance, power)

1900–1945: London (final Old World empire)

1945–Present: New York (modern Olympus)

Locations for CHB:

800–1350: Alsace-Lorraine, eastern france, forrested wildlands, easy to hide a city in.

1350–1500s: Ligurian Hills, western Tuscany, anchor point for Iroikos.

1500s–1700s: Extremadura region, Portugal

1700s–1800: West Rhine Valley, CHB is now closer to Olympus than ever

1800–1900: Normandy forsests, good training spots here.

1900–1945: Dartmoor, Wales.

1945–Present: Long Island, older demigods thought she would like it but she ended up fading. Iroikos was never rebuilt since it got destroyed in the civil war.

Locations for CJ:

800–1350: Moravia,Czech Republic

1350–1500s: Rimini, Adriatic Coast

1500s–1700s: Aragon, Spain

1700s–1800: Vienna, Germany

1800–1900: Alsace

1900–1945: Belgium

1945–Present: San Francisco

The general influence of Gods:

Byzantium / Greece (476–800 AD)

Event: Defense of Constantinople (against invasions)

Ares, Athena, Perselena and other war gods participate; Hestia keeps the hearth of the city burning.

Apollo may help with plagues or oracles during sieges.

Event: Preservation of Greek texts

Hermes inspired scholars to smuggle scrolls to monasteries or libraries. Perselena hogged copies for Iroikos, Ares influenced warriors to leave texts alone or take them as spoils, and so on.

Athena directly influences scribes or translators.

Regensburg / Holy Roman Empire (800–1350 AD) Event: Coronation of Charlemagne (800)

Zeus may bless the moment as a return to divine kingship.

Hera ensures royal legitimacy.

Event: Formation of knightly orders

Ares and Athena take interest in chivalry’s evolution.

Demigods secretly train as knights.

Event: Rise of medieval universities

Athena, Apollo, Hermes, Dionysus and Perselena spark the scholarly flame.

Florence / Renaissance (1350–1500 AD) Event: Florence as cradle of the Renaissance

Apollo, Athena, and Hephaestus inspire artists and architects.

Perselena had quite a few painters use her for inspiration.

Aphrodite influences Botticelli and Michelangelo’s view of beauty.

Event: Political turmoil (Medici rule)

Gods might play sides in hidden divine court. Lots of troy like but more subtle manipulations of court.

Meanwhile the war gods want a clean nice war.

Granada / Post-Renaissance Spain (1500–1700 AD) Event: End of Reconquista (1492)

Demigods may have fought or protected refugees on either side.

Ares and Perse had battlefield dates.

They did this

Event: Spanish Inquisition & religious extremism

Hades and Persephone judge the Christians of the inquistion as part of a deal with Lucifer, here more of the Lucifer TV guy who is king of hell and judge of corrupt souls. He thought that proof of paganism would be torture for them.

Perselena and some other gods help demigods escape persecution.

Event: Age of Exploration

Poseidon and his entire family are part of the first voyages to other countries with Columbus and others.

Hermes helps chart maps or hide routes from monsters, for demigods part of the migration.

Nuremberg / Enlightenment (1700–1800 AD) Event: Rise of science, Enlightenment thinkers

Athena inspires rational philosophers.

Hephaestus nudges inventors, building hidden god-tech into early prototypes.

Apollo guides and learns from knowledge seekers.

Event: Rise of secret societies (Freemasons, Rosicrucians)

These are be fronts for old demigod orders or faded cults of Apollo, Hermes, or Dionysus.

Paris / Revolutionary & Romantic Era (1800–1900 AD) Event: French Revolution

Hera mourns the loss of royal lineages. Not of these royals had a drop of godly blood.

Hermes aids demigods fleeing the Reign of Terror.

Event: Napoleon’s empire

Olympus is split— ambition and war are to be commended but the tryanny is a bit much.

Event: Romantic movement

Apollo, Aphrodite, and Artemis are everywhere in art, poetry, and music.

London / Empire & Industrial Age (1900–1945) Event: British Empire expansion

Gods are weary. Hera warns of imperial pride. Dionysus watches it all with disdain.

Demigods may have joined or sabotaged expeditions that awakened ancient monsters in India, Egypt, or Africa.

Event: World War I

Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter work together as soliders- the first real reconnection.

New York / Modern Era (1945–Present) Event: WWII (late-stage)

The gods finalize their move to America.

Athena,Apollo, Ares and Perselena influence Allied strategy subtly.

Lupa reestablishes Camp Jupiter in California; Chiron begins building the modern Camp Half-Blood.

Perselena fades on 17th August 1950. She started fading in 1945 becauwe without a qar going on, her other domains are in shambles.

Event: Cold War, Civil Rights, 9/11

Demigods serve hidden missions—protecting Manhattan, diffusing divine panic, battling titanic forces awoken by human conflict. Lots of rescue missions.

Perselena only ever sleeps with a few mortals, years after she's no longer worshipped:

Because loyalty has standards .

Catalina de Erauso

Gender-bending rebel, living between lines of identity, power, and defiance.

Perselena’s love for her isn't immediate—it grows in the mud of shared battle, as she watches Catalina refuse the world’s definitions.

It’s not cheating on Ares—she tells she wants this girl and takes a break from their relationship.

Her fake name is María de Sangremar ("Mary of the Blood-Sea"). Which combines her being Mary's inspiration in renaissance art and gives her a sea connected surname.

She participates the spanish colonial wars as Domingo Narin, bastard nobleman.

Toussaint Louverture

A man who does not fight for glory, but for liberation.

Perselena appears during the Haitian Revolution to observe, but is so moved by Toussaint’s faith, discipline, and fire that she slowly finds herself drawn to him.

He doesn’t seduce her—he inspires her. Ares laughs when she finally breaks and takes the man to bed.

Élise Marée — "Elise of the Tide". A French name that suits the era and subtly references her sea-born heritage. She joins the war as a fighter. Ares is not on the other side though so she ends up getting close to Toussaint.

Called Ti Dlo Wouj — "Little Red Water". A poetic folk name given by Haitian fighters, linking her to blood and water.

Vlad the Impaler (Dracula)

Ruthless and strategic. Loved his people, but terrorized enemies. Perselena admired his unyielding loyalty to his homeland. This was mostly a fling

Ares was so smug about this, like this dude is so me-coded, you are so in love with me my personality is mirrored in your mortal lovers.

Demigods then freaked out. Post re-ascension most of her friends had a break down over her having a thing with Dracula.

Queen Elizabeth I

Elizabeth was warlike, commanding, and ruled without needing a husband.

Ares would have liked a threesome.

Demigods freak out central. Seducing the virgin queen is a brag for Percy and she lauds it over Annabeth.

Famous Demigods:

Holy Roman Empire:

Charlemagne (742–814) – Emperor of the West

Father: Jupiter (Roman Zeus)

Why: Jupiter could father a "chosen king" and claim legitimacy through divine right. His mortal mother, Bertrada, was of noble Frankish blood—perfect cover.

Result: His charisma, imperial ambition, and desire to unite the West echo Jupiter's order.

Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) – Mystic and composer

Mother: Mnemosyne (Titaness of memory and inspiration)

Why: A nun born to a noble family, Hildegard claimed divine visions and channeled mystical knowledge. Her unknown mystical nature fits a Titaness mother.

Result: Prophetess, musician, and scholar—an oracle in all but name.

Peter Abelard (1079–1142) – Theologian and logician

Father: Hermes

Why: Razor-sharp wit, controversial thinker, master of rhetoric—Hermes' intellectual and provocative nature fits perfectly.

Result: His doomed love with Heloise could parallel Hermes’ own tendency to love but never stay.

Frederick II Hohenstaufen (1194–1250) – “The Wonder of the World”

Father: Apollo

Why: Spoke nine languages, obsessed with knowledge and science, ruled with solar-like radiance and occasional detachment.

Result: His reign was both enlightened and controversial—very much like Apollo’s duality.

Walther von der Vogelweide (~1170–1230) – Poet-minstrel

Father: Eros

Why: Traveling romantic poet singing of love and courtly affection fits a minor love god’s child.

Result: Moves hearts, inspires nobility, but remains rootless—classic demigod wanderer.

William Marshal (1147–1219) – English knight, “the greatest knight who ever lived”

Father: Mars

Mother: A minor noblewoman with mysterious lineage who had blonde hair and green eyes.

Why : William fought over 500 tournaments and served four kings. His strength, honor, and love of single combat are classic Roman war traits.

Personality: Loyal, brave, a rare demigod who lived long and died peacefully—uncommon and revered among demigods.

Jeanne de Clisson (1300–1359) – Pirate of Vengeance

Father: Mars

Why : After her husband was executed for treason, she sold her estates, bought a fleet, and waged naval war on France.

Role: Daughter of Mars Ultor—Mars the Avenger. trained by Fides herself.

Fighting Style: Sea-ambushes, ruthless strikes, wore black armor. Demigods still whisper about her.

Florence:

Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) – Polymath, inventor, artist

Father: Hephaestus

Why: Born illegitimately to a notary and peasant woman—perfect opening for divine influence. His endless inventions, mechanical sketches, and anatomical studies scream Hephaestus.

Result: A demigod with a mind like a forge—always building, always imagining. Possibly aided by minor automaton spirits.

Lorenzo de’ Medici (1449–1492) – Statesman, patron of the arts

Father: Pluto ( as god of wealth)

Why: Legitimate son of a powerful Florentine banker—he can’t have an unknown mother. But his charm, wealth, and influence fit Plutus, whose wealth is spiritual and cultural as well as monetary. Also ties in with Hitler as a son of Hades to show that artistic children of the underworld can be good.

Result: Funds Olympus-friendly artists. Possibly keeps satyrs in disguise as musicians and tutors.

Sandro Botticelli (1445–1510) – Painter of The Birth of Venus

Mother: Charis (Aglaea) – One of the Three Graces

Why: His portrayals of divine beauty, especially Venus and grace, suggest a maternal source. As a relatively private man with no children or known affairs, a divine mother is plausible. Also leaves Aphrodite able to have an affair with him.

Result: Half-divine eye for elegance, caught between the mortal and divine worlds.

Girolamo Savonarola (1452–1498) – Fiery preacher, moral reformer

Father: Dolos (spirit of trickery, moral paradox)

Why: Public preacher and Dominican friar—he had to be born legitimately. His divine parent must explain his spiritual magnetism, manipulation, and contradictions.

Result: A demigod caught between truth and delusion. May have been manipulated by darker divine forces. Was unclaimed most of life.

Catherine of Bologna (1413–1463) – Mystic, saint, artist

Mother: Melinoë (daughter of Hades and Persephone, goddess of ghosts and visions)

Why: Became a Poor Clare nun; claimed visions, painted religious works, lived quietly. Unknown divine mother works in her cloistered life.

Result: Dream-walker. Could paint what she saw in visions, sometimes glimpses of the Underworld or prophecies from Olympus.

Cesare Borgia (1475–1507) – Condottiere and political terror

Father: Ares

Mother: Vanozza Cattanei (mistress of Pope Alexander VI — historical). Blonde and dark eyed.

Why : Cesare was violent, feared, charismatic, and commanded ruthless armies. Machiavelli based The Prince partly on him.

Personality: Ares’ darker side—brilliant, brutal, ambitious. Possibly driven by divine rage from birth.

Giovanna degli Albizzi Tornabuoni (1468–1488) – Noblewoman & protector

Father: Ares

Why : Married into the Medici family. Rumored to have carried a blade under her silk. Protected artists and healers during the Pazzi Conspiracy.

Role: Ares' daughter with political cunning—more bodyguard than berserker.

Fighting Style: Concealed knives, combat fan, poisoned rings.

Spain:

Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616) – Author of Don Quixote

Father: Momus (spirit of satire and mockery)

Why: Born to a surgeon, with a troubled, wandering life. Momus fits his genius for poking holes in hypocrisy. His work redefined literature and mirrors divine absurdity.

Result: Wields a pen sharper than a sword. Possibly inspired by a satyr companion disguised as Sancho Panza?

Saint Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582) – Mystic, writer, reformer

Mother: Mneme (Titaness of memory and mystic insight)

Why: Noble family, cloistered life—divine mother fits. Her mystical ecstasies, visions, and powerful writings reflect memory as revelation.

Result: Channels the divine through memory and spiritual flame. Possibly an oracle hidden within the Church.

El Greco (1541–1614) – Painter of otherworldly visions

Father: Phantasos (Oneiroi spirit of surreal dream images)

Why: Born in Crete, settled in Spain. His art is distorted, spiritual, and dreamlike—perfect reflection of Phantasos.

Result: Paints what mortals cannot normally see—possibly glimpses of Olympus or the Mist.

Philip II of Spain (1527–1598) – Empire-builder, religious hardliner

Father: Kratos (spirit of authority and control)

Why: As a powerful king, he must have a mortal mother (Anna of Austria). But his obsession with control, formality, and divine monarchy makes Kratos—a force rather than a god—an apt father.

Result: Rules like a divine law incarnate. Cursed by the gods for taking his "divine right" too literally.

Lope de Vega (1562–1635) – Prolific playwright and poet

Father: Apollo (Roman)

Why: Known as the "Phoenix of Wits", Lope wrote thousands of plays and poems. Born of modest means—room for a god. Apollo fits for his golden, artistic energy and charm.

Result: Apollo's influence fuels his boundless creativity— trained briefly at Camp Jupiter.

Álvaro de Bazán (1526–1588) – Spanish admiral who never lost a battle

Father: Mars

Mother: Noblewoman, full-blooded Roman-Spanish descent

Why: A perfect example of calculated conquest and eternal martial discipline. He died before commanding the Armada—perhaps Mars pulled him back.

Personality: Cold steel. He treated war as art. A demigod trained at Camp Jupiter, who was devoted to Fides and thus become her champion. First case of stepson as Champion in Camp history, Juno takes note.

Catalina de Erauso (1592–1650) – “The Lieutenant Nun”

Father: Ares

Why: Born to a Basque noble family, fled a convent, lived as a man, and became a ruthless soldier in the New World.

Role: Ares' rebellious daughter, navigating both gender and battlefield fluidly.

Fighting Style: Sword duels, pistols, hand-to-hand. banished a empousa infestation.

Germany:

Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) – Philosopher of reason and ethics

Father: Coeus (Titan of intellect and rational inquiry)

Why: Son of a craftsman—no noble status, divine paternity is plausible. His obsessive devotion to pure reason and abstract truth reflects Coeus, and a brief reappearance in the world ties in with the second titanomachy, since Kornos didn't have to go looking for him. He pulled a loki with Samirah's mother, centuries early.

Result: Cannot perceive the Mist—he sees the world too clearly.

Maria Theresa of Austria (1717–1780) – Empress, reformer, mother of 16

Father: Terminus (god of boundaries and law)

Why: She was publicly legitimate (born of Charles VI), so must have a mortal mother. Terminus fits as the god of governance, limits, and imperial order—an ideal match for her rigid but reformist reign. Her mother was a clear sighted mortal.

Result: Protects Roman legacies, including ancient treaties with Olympus. Secretly supports demigod rights within her empire.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) – Poet, thinker, mystic

Father: Apollo (Greek)

Why: Born into a respected family, but not nobility—leaves room for divine fatherhood. His blend of poetry, science, and mysticism (e.g. Faust) channels Apollo’s golden curiosity.

Result: Known among demigods as “the mortal who almost saw Olympus clearly.” Possibly trained briefly under Chiron in disguise.

Frederick the Great (1712–1786) – Philosopher-king and military genius

Father: Virtus (Roman personification of military virtue)

Why: Publicly legitimate royal son, so divine father preferred. His obsession with discipline, justice, and brilliance suits Virtus.

Result: A demigod king who tamed chaos with law, though his divine blood was a lonely burden.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) – Philosopher of nature and society

Mother: Naiad (unnamed river spirit or minor nature deity)

Why: Born in Geneva, abandoned by noble circles early on—mystical mother possible. His belief in nature’s purity and the corruption of civilization matches naiad origins.

Result: Feels cities as cages. May have seen nymphs and dryads in childhood and never forgot.

Prussian Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher (1742–1819) – Hero of Waterloo

Father: Ares

Mother: Rural Saxon woman; his paternity was always questioned

Why : Blücher was fire and fury—nicknamed “Marshal Forwards.” His hatred for Napoleon bordered on divine vengeance.

Personality: Reckless, storm-like, pure Ares energy wrapped in Prussian uniform.

Charlotte Corday (1768–1793) – Assassin of Marat

Father: Mars

Why : Though noble-born, she acted alone to kill a revolutionary leader she saw as dangerous. Claimed to act for peace.

Fighting Style: Knives, stealth, precision. A demigod sacrifice—knew she’d die.

France:

Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821) – Emperor, general, symbol of glory and downfall

Father: Zelus (spirit of ambition and rivalry)

Why: Born of minor Corsican nobility (mortal mother required). Zelus, brother of Nike, Kratos, and Bia, explains Napoleon’s insatiable drive, military genius, and fall from Olympus-like heights.

Result: A demigod who tried to claim more than his birthright—ultimately undone by divine law.

Victor Hugo (1802–1885) – Poet, novelist, revolutionary

Father: Apollo (Roman)

Why: Son of a general and deeply spiritual—Apollo fits for his lyricism, moral light, and immense creative power. He blends music, prophecy, and justice.

Result: May have received visions during exile. Possibly protected Camp Half-Blood sympathizers during the revolutions.

Marie Curie (1867–1934) – Scientist of radiation and atomic energy

Father: Hephaestus

Why: Born to a poor but educated family—leaves room for divine father. Her mastery of hidden, dangerous forces echoes Hephaestus’ flame and craft.

Result: Her discoveries resonate through Olympus itself.

Sarah Bernhardt (1844–1923) – Actress and diva, icon of glamour

Mother: Pheme (goddess of fame and reputation)

Why: Born in mysterious circumstances, her rise to superstardom matches the divine whispering of Pheme, who lifts names through rumor and legend.

Result: Her voice and presence have magical allure—could charm crowds or gods. Known among demigods as “the mortal Muse.”

Éliphas Lévi (1810–1875) – Occultist and mystic

Father: Morpheus (god of dreams and illusion)

Why: Born Alphonse Constant, his plunge into mysticism, arcane knowledge, and spiritual paradox suits Morpheus.

Result: Could access dream realms, friends with children of Hecate. Has bound a minor monster into a tarot deck.

Armand-Jacques Leroy (fictional for flavor) – Colonel in the Franco-Prussian War

Father: Ares

Mother: Washerwoman during the Paris Commune

Why : Revolutionary bloodlust and tragic heroism—fought for a doomed republic.

Personality: Angry, idealistic, died young. May have been secretly aided by a child of Athena during the Siege of Paris.

Louise Michel (1830–1905) – Anarchist, revolutionary, teacher

Father: Ares (Greek)

Why: Born out of wedlock, became one of the leaders of the Paris Commune, and fought on the barricades.

Role: Daughter of war and revolution. Defended orphans, founded schools, resisted empire.

Fighting Style: Rifles, slogans, smoke bombs, strategic leadership.

Britain:

Winston Churchill (1874–1965) – War leader, master orator

Father: Zeus

Canonically stated.

Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) – Writer of consciousness and emotion

Mother: Melinoë (goddess of ghosts and madness)

Why: Daughter of a literary family, suffered from visions and deep emotional connection to memory and death. Melinoë fits beautifully, granting her piercing insight into the subconscious.

Result: Could see through the Mist without effort. May have written down demigod experiences as fiction.

Alan Turing (1912–1954) – Mathematician and cryptologist

Father: Hermes (Greek)

Why: Born to civil servants, quiet life. Hermes matches his speed of thought, code-breaking, and boundary-crossing.

Result: One of the few mortals to outpace divine cryptography. Possibly decrypted something Olympus didn’t want decoded.

J.R.R. Tolkien (1892–1973) – Creator of Middle-earth

Father: Apollo

Why: Lost both parents early—room for divine parents. Apollo works for his music, language, and lore.

Result: His writing may have been inspired by divine dreams. Some believe elves in Middle-earth are based on nymphs he saw as a boy

T.E. Lawrence ("of Arabia") (1888–1935) – Spy, soldier, desert hero

Father: Mercury

Why: Illegitimate birth and secretive youth leave plenty of room for divine paternity. His mastery of disguise, travel, and diplomacy make Hermes a perfect match.

Result: Known among demigods as a “Son of Dust and Trickery.” Possibly worked as a mortal agent of Camp Jupiter during WWI.

Deborah Sampson (1760–1827) – (retroactive era) Revolutionary War soldier disguised as a man

Father: Ares

Why Ares?: Lived long before women could fight. Fought in disguise. Received honorable discharge.

Role: Trailblazer. Symbol for future daughters of Ares—bravery in chains.

Fighting Style: Bayonet, cavalry sword, pure grit.

Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery (1887–1976) – British WWII general

Father: Mars

Mother: Publicly recorded; noble-born, but Mars may have assumed a mortal disguise

Why: Rigid, calculating, stubborn, but undeniably effective. Mars may have chosen him to preserve Roman bloodlines through war.

Personality: Cool, commanding, possibly distanced from his divine heritage—felt the weight but rarely claimed it.

The last child he had before WW2:

Audie Murphy (1925–1971) – Most decorated American soldier in WWII

Father: Ares

Mother: Texan sharecropper

Why : Murphy’s valor borders on myth—he held off German troops solo, leapt onto burning tanks, and walked away.

Personality: Humble, haunted.

Ares had zero kids during WW2, and kept himself to Aphrodite and Hephestus afterwards.

It was only after 1980 when most of his demigods died, that he sought out a woman to carry his son.

The number of Ares demigods increased until Canon times when he has like 20 demigods in his cabin between 10 to 20 years of age. Mars has none until Frank, beacause Emily Zhang was a great war partner. And none after as well.

[saythatuwill]

Helllllo! I'm here again! Asking about The Android Playlists!

I wanna know about Abstract (Psychopomp) on the Vessel!android list

(I'm tottaaally not looking for a song for that fic, no that's nots what's happening)

and

Telomeres on the Noah!android list!

<3 @lyricallymelodic

OUGHHHH MY BELOVED FRIEND... i'm always happy to share! if this is a song you're considering for the fic, what a GOOD CHOICE. shall we?

if the format isn't the same as the last analysis please forgive me i'm experimenting. and writing this on my phone because walks help me think.

i have a mouthful to say abt "abstract (psychopomp)" so we'll under the cut it.

update (a WHOLE HOUR LATER): i might actually have to do a SEPARATE POST for android!noah because of how long this explanation is. i locked the fuck in for you my friend.

obligatory delta tag!!! @astronoids

ANDROID!VESSEL — ABSTRACT (PSYCHOPOMP) // HOZIER

this song was one of my more creative choices i'd say. i was hoping someone would ask about it!

Sometimes it returns like rain that you slept through

That washed off the world, the streets looking brand new

I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through

The feeling came late, I'm still glad I met you

so, what is "it"? in the context of android!vessel, it's a particular memory. how that memory can come back, even if current events or Other Memories cast a shadow over it.

in this case? the memory is of sleep, specifically the day you and the force came to rescue him and the other androids. the regrets he has about his time in the cult and way he literally nearly attacked you that day. and how it took him a long time to realize that he could trust you and meant you no harm. that his time with sleep was not positive. but despite the trauma, ultimately it was what led you to him. despite everything, he's still glad he met you.

The memory hurts, but does me no harm

Your hand in my pocket to keep us both warm

The poor thing in the road, its eye still glistening

The cold wet of your nose, the earth from a distance

it's a painful trauma that haunts him, but ultimately those experiences will never happen again. and you're there, with him.

now, here comes vessel's internal conflict. we have to remember how heavily vessel was manipulated during his time with sleep. he KNOWS the memories are not fond or good, but in his mind, it still distorts itself.

so in the second half, the "you" is not you. it's sleep. sleep is the poor thing in the road, he is recounting that very same day he met you. except he's seeing sleep as some "poor creature" that maybe he damaged.

(wait, sherry! isn't that kind of hypocritical of vessel?) sure! but let's not forget what vessel is; a victim. i actually pull his mentality from personal experience. i want to take a second to properly unpack that.

vessel has no recollection of his life as an android before sleep. and sleep essentially gaslit and manipulated him into thinking he was a freaky android deity. any time vessel strayed from that path, sleep would remind him; "hey! behave yourself! no one else is going to love you or want you except for me. and me? i'm so good to you!"

that's conditioning vessel to believe that what sleep did to him was love. so in a sad way, he kind of just began to feel grateful and happy for it. it took him time to realize that was never love, and now he has you (who is a very healthy partner).

but sometimes, in intense or particularly lonely situations, at least in my experience? i find myself trying to convince myself that it wasn't that bad. i'm just dramatic, i should've been more grateful. minor good memories feel like proof that the abuse wasn't that bad. and unfortunately, that can cause doubt, or maybe make you question if YOU were the real problem.

vessel misses sleep, but not sleep themselves. the idea of sleep. does that make sense? whatever he was manipulated into thinking sleep was, he misses that sleep. but in the same breath it's not like he wants to go back.

tl;dr : he kinda gets in his own head. convinces himself at times that maybe sleep was the victim and not him.

Sometimes there's a thought, like you choose what you're doing

But it comes to naught when I look back through it

I remember the view, street lights in the dark blue

The moment I knew I'd no choice but to love you

first two lines; that's actually about you during that same memory. initially he believed that you chose to take time of your day to save him and the others, that you were just sorta doing your job. when he looks through it knowing you now, he knows that really, you're selfless and considerate. even if being that way could've killed you.

second two: i think this could be about sleep or you. if it's sleep, it's literally about how vessel eventually realized he was trapped and LITERALLY HAD NO CHOICE but to love sleep. if it's you, it's a flash forward to the day he realizes he's in love with you. he tried to avoid those feelings for so long, but they won't go away. his mind and his "heart" have already decided.

The speed that you moved, the screech of the cars

The creature still moving, that slowed in your arms

The fear in its eyes gone out in an instant

Your tear caught the light, the earth from a distance

okay so this is also vaguely a double meaning.

meaning one: vessel recounts witnessing you on that day, trying to save... well, here's your first lore piece about you in this au!

sleep had ended up grabbing your partner at the time (both romantic and your partner at work), it was an effort to get you to back off. and in fear for their life, you were ready to back off. you had backup swarming the manor anyway, that sleep didn't even know about. you agreed to back off, and asked them to return your partner to you.

sleep fatally wounds your partner and drops them on the ground before taking off. your partner dies in your arms. fueled by heartbreak and rage, you immediately sent backup in and put everything into rescuing as many androids as you could.

you were selfless and compassionate. but also reckless, fueled by your grief and the shock you were experiencing. vessel saw all of this. from the top of the staircase, he watched it. that was the first seed of doubt about sleep, but he wouldn't process it for a long time.

meaning two: vessel is referring to himself as "the creature". mainly, him when infected by the virus and him just generally not being trusting, as well as afraid of you.

your willingness to protect him from M.I.N.D literally killing him and scrapping him for parts. and the part about him still moving, slow in your arms?

it's a more recent recollection of you literally holding him. he doesn't pull away, he doesn't stiffen the way he usually does. the fear in his eyes going out in an instant is him finally not being afraid of you anymore.

the tear in your eyes isn't one of grief or sadness, that's a tear of joy.

Darling, there's a part of me I'm afraid will always be

Trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life

The weeds up through the concrete, the traffic picking up speed

All my love and terror balanced there between those eyes

he's talking to you. he's admitting the war he wages in his mind between his love and trust in you, and the memories that make him question if sleep was the real victim and missing the idea of sleep.

he's admitting to you that he's afraid that those memories, those feelings, that trauma, will never go away.

"those eyes" are his eyes. his love for you and his fear of the past, even the future at times (of somehow going through the same pain again), it'll always be there.

See how it shines

See how it shines

he wants you to look into his eyes, see it. see him. for who and what he is, for who he was then and who he is now. he wants you to see his hurt, his anger, his sadness and fear, and love him anyway.

( of course you do. )

[wrishwrosh]

re: tags on labor in historical fiction post, would be very interested to hear what the four examples you mentioned are!!

ok u know what that tag WAS bait, thank you for taking it. technically speaking these aren't works dealing strictly with labor in historical fiction, they are my four treasured examples of BUREAUCRAT FICTION (so not NOT about labor in history?) i was gonna try to make this post pithy and short but then i remembered how extremely passionate i am about this microgenre i made up. so sorry.

bureaucrat fiction is not limited by genre or format but criteria for inclusion are as follows: long and detour-filled story about functionary on the outside of society finding unexpected success within a ponderously large and powerful System/exploring themes of class and physicality and work and autonomy and what it means to hold power over others beneath the heartless crushing wheels of empire/sad little man does paperwork. also typically long as hell. should include at least one scene where the protagonist is unironically applauded-perhaps for the first time in their life-for filling out a form really good. without further ado:

soldier's heart by alex51324. the bureaucracy: british army medical corps during wwi. the bureacrat: mean gay footman/new ramc recruit thomas barrow. YEAH it's a downton abbey fic YEAH it's a masterpiece. i've talked about it before at length, my love has not faded. the crowning moment of bureaucracy is a long interlude where thomas optimizes the hospital laundry (this actually happens twice or maybe three times)

hands of the emperor by victoria goddard. the bureaucracy: crumbling fantasy empire some time after magical apocalypse. the bureacrat: passionate late-career clerk from the hinterlands cliopher mdang. i reread this book every winter bc it is as a warm bath for my SAD-addled brain and every time i neglect all my responsibilities to read all nine billion pages in three days. it puts abt 93% of the worldbuilding momentum into elaborating all of the ministries and secretaries and audits necessary to run a global government and like 7% into the magic and stuff. there are also several charming companion novellas and an equally long sequel that dives more into the central relationship between cliopher and the emperor which i highly recommend if you like gentle old man yaoi and/or magic, but there's more bureaucracy in HOTE.

the cromwell trilogy by hilary mantel. the bureaucracy: court of henry viii. the bureaucrat: thomas cromwell, the real guy. curveball! it's critically acclaimed booker prize winning rpf novel wolf hall! mantel is really interested in particular ways of gaining and maintaining power in delicate and labyrinthine systems like the tudor court, specifically in strongmen who use both physical intimidation and metaphysical manipulation to succeed. under these conditions i do think my best friend long-dead historical personage thomas cromwell counts as Bureaucrat Fiction (as do danton and robespierre in a place of greater safety. bonus rec.)

going postal by terry pratchett. the bureaucracy: fantasy postal service of ankh-morpork. the bureaucrat: conman, scammer, and little freak moist von lipwig. this is definitely shorter and lighter than the other three entries on the list, sort of a screwball take on the bureaucrat. but the mail is such a classic bureaucracy thing? who doesn't love thinking about the mail? also contains a key genre element which is a fraught sexual tension with the person immediately above the protagonist in their hierarchy, who is also their god-king and boyfriend-dad. you can't tell me vetinari isn't torturing moist psychologically AND sexually.

anyway sorry about all this. if you've read any of these come talk to me about them. bureaucrat fiction recs welcomed with the openest possible arms.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Because I had headcanon that Color is Autistic and has developed special interests in things such as photography, travel, maybe even things like social advocacy.

Maybe even philosophy and psychology. For now, in this posts, I’ll focus on the big two: photography and traveling. (I will also touch on how Color’s physical disability, chronic fatigue, his autism, and perhaps his ptsd/ separation anxiety from Killer also effect his ability to engage in his interests in another post.)

I think he’d develop some decent if not above average technical knowledge, such as camera types and functions. Detailed understanding of different types of cameras (DSLR, mirrorless, point-and-shoot, medium format, etc.) and their specific functions.

Knowledge about various lenses (prime, zoom, wide-angle, telephoto, macro) and their applications. Mastery of camera settings like ISO, aperture, shutter speed, and how to manipulate them for different lighting conditions and artistic effects.

In-depth understanding of how aperture, shutter speed, and ISO interact to create a properly exposed photograph. Proficiency in using software like Adobe Lightroom, Photoshop, or other photo editing tools for post-processing and enhancing images.

He’d learn about artistic elements such as composition techniques, lighten and color theory. Develop a familiarity with compositional rules like the rule of thirds, leading lines, framing, symmetry, and how to creatively break these rules.

Knowledge about natural and artificial lighting, how to use light to create mood and depth, and techniques like backlighting, side lighting, and using reflectors. Understanding of how colors interact, complementary colors, and how to use color to convey emotion and direct viewer attention.

Awareness of different photography styles (portrait, landscape, macro, street, documentary, astrophotography, etc.) and genres, and what makes each unique.

Knowledge about influential photographers and their work, such as Ansel Adams, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Annie Leibovitz, and contemporary photographers.

Understanding the evolution of photography, from daguerreotypes to digital photography, and significant milestones in the field. Awareness of current trends in photography, popular styles, and emerging technologies.

And, of course, he’d develop and grow practical experiences and hands on practice. Experience with on-location shoots, managing different weather conditions, and adapting to various shooting environments.

Knowledge about how to properly maintain and clean camera equipment to ensure longevity and optimal performance. Skills in troubleshooting common issues like lens flare, sensor dust, or focus problems.

He’d have a deep enthusiasm for specific techniques or subjects he enjoys photographing, whichever or whatever you all think those could be exactly.

Likely to have personal photography projects, well-organized portfolios, and possibly an online presence showcasing their work. Extensive collection of books, articles, videos, and tutorials related to photography.

A special interest in traveling, in addition to photography, would manifest in the character in several ways, showcasing their passion and extensive knowledge about various aspects of travel. Here are some specific aspects:

For his interest in travel, he’d be very well versed in the planning and research process. Color might create comprehensive travel itineraries, meticulously planning each day's activities, routes, and schedules.

He might gradually develop an extensive knowledge about various travel destinations, including historical sites, natural landmarks, cultural attractions, and lesser-known gems.

He’d display a proficiency in booking flights, accommodations, and transportation, as well as understanding visa requirements, travel insurance, and local regulations.

An expertise in packing efficiently, knowing what to bring for different climates and activities, and how to pack photography gear safely for travel. Color is likely to show a very deep and profound appreciation for different cultures, learning basic phrases or even fluency in multiple languages to better communicate while traveling.

He’d definitely show a deep interest in trying and understanding local cuisines, knowing popular dishes, and even recipes from various regions. He’d have at least some knowledge about local customs, traditions, festivals, and etiquette to respect and immerse themselves in different cultures.

He’d certainly develop some geographical and historical knowledge, with a detailed understanding of world geography, maps, and the ability to navigate using traditional maps as well as digital tools.

Knowledge about the history of the places he visits, including significant events, historical figures, and the cultural evolution of the region.

He might maintain detailed travel logs or journals documenting his experiences, including photos, notes, and personal reflections. He’d definitely collect souvenirs, postcards, or other memorabilia from his travels; often gifting them to beloved friends.

He’d probably engage with travel communities, forums, and social media groups to share experiences and gain insights.

This special interest would possibly lead to him gaining a lot of practical skills, such as in budget management. Expertise in budgeting for travel, finding deals, and managing expenses effectively.

He might display an ability to adapt to different environments, handle unexpected situations, and problem-solve while on the go.

Although it’d probably be harder for him than most, particularly if he has a harder time handling and dealing with change—especially if the change is unexpected and unplanned.

Knowledge about staying healthy while traveling, such as understanding local healthcare options, vaccinations, and travel safety tips.

He’d like combine both interests by using his photography skills to capture stunning images of the places he visits, creating travel blogs or photo albums to document his journeys.

He might create photo essays or visual stories that capture the essence of the cultures and places he explores. Share his travel experiences and recommendations with others, possibly through writing travel guides, blogs, or social media content.

All this is to say that Killer would definitely encourage Color to come with him to explore abandoned places and ghost towns, and Color’s going to be so overjoyed he starts hand flapping. He’s going to take so many pictures, he’s going to remember it forever.

[laniloowho]

So uh my friends hate it when I talk about Yellowjacket’s so I’m gonna rant to yall about it instead. Basically tell you the whole plot of season 1

Yellowjackets is a psychological thriller that weaves together two timelines to tell the haunting story of survival, trauma, and secrecy. In 1996, a high school girls’ soccer team from New Jersey—the Wiskayok High Yellowjackets—earns a spot at the national championship. While flying to the tournament, their private plane crashes deep in the remote Canadian wilderness. With limited resources and no sign of rescue, the teenage girls, along with a few adults, are forced to survive under brutal conditions for 19 months. The series gradually reveals that during this time, the group descended into violence, factionalism, and ultimately cannibalism, with hints of ritualistic and possibly supernatural influences shaping their decisions.

In the wilderness, their fragile unity unravels as food shortages, injury, and extreme weather push them to their limits. Lottie Matthews, a wealthy but mentally ill teammate, begins having vivid visions and prophetic dreams, which others start interpreting as signs or omens. Her growing spiritual influence leads to the formation of a cult-like group within the survivors, believing in a mysterious, possibly supernatural force residing in the forest. Meanwhile, Misty, a socially awkward and manipulative team equipment manager, sabotages a potential rescue by destroying the plane’s black box, desperate to be seen as essential. Shauna, another central survivor, discovers she is pregnant with the child of her best friend Jackie’s boyfriend, adding further tension. Jackie, a natural leader, becomes increasingly isolated before dying early in the group’s exile. Over time, the girls devolve into primal survivalists, performing strange rituals and eventually resorting to cannibalism to stay alive.

In the present-day storyline—set 25 years later—four of the main survivors are still grappling with the consequences of their time in the woods. Shauna now leads a seemingly normal suburban life with a husband and teenage daughter, but she harbors violent tendencies and a web of secrets, including a murder she commits after an affair. Natalie, deeply traumatized and battling addiction, returns to New Jersey after her former lover and fellow survivor, Travis, is found dead under suspicious circumstances. She begins investigating whether his death was really a suicide or if something darker is at play. Taissa has become a successful politician, running for state senate, but she is plagued by dissociative behavior and eerie nighttime episodes that hint at a lingering supernatural presence. Misty, now a cheerful but unsettlingly obsessive nurse, inserts herself into the group’s reassembly under the guise of helping—but her actions are often manipulative and controlling.

As the women are blackmailed by an unknown party who knows what they did in the wilderness, they are forced to reunite and face the long-buried truths they’ve tried to escape. In Season 2, it is revealed that Lottie also survived and now leads a cult-like wellness center, continuing the spiritual ideas she began embracing in the forest. As old memories surface and the boundaries between past and present blur, the survivors are drawn back into the darkness they thought they left behind. The show explores not only what they did to survive but also what it cost them—and what they’re still capable of doing

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Physical violence, Sexual assault reference, Post-assault trauma, Power imbalance, Torture and corporal punishment, Blood and bodily fluids, Psychological distress, Survivor’s guilt and shame, Emotional manipulation, References to war crimes, Death of family members (mentioned), Identity crisis, Oppressive atmosphere, Romantic tension under traumatic conditions, Sensory dissociation, Grief and emotional breakdowns

pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 9.4k

A/N : Guess what? Chapter 5 finally decided to show up! ✨ Sorry again for the delay — the writing gremlins were strong, but we made it. This chapter is a bit of a chunky one, because I tried experimenting with a different writing rhythm and structure. Maybe it’ll feel too long, maybe it’ll feel just right… either way, I’d love to know what you think. Do you prefer this new format or the old one? Feedback = stardust for my brain ✨🧠

Thank you for sticking around — you’re all little constellations in my galaxy 💛

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 5 - Echo

You awaken slowly.

Not from a peaceful sleep, but from a thick, muffled stupor—as if every motion reluctantly draws you back to the surface. Your eyelids are heavy, your throat parched, muscles stiffened, almost refusing to obey.

The first sensation isn't pain. Nor fear.

It's absence.

The emptiness left behind by a vanished warmth. The sensation of his arm no longer wrapped around you, the gentle rhythm of his breathing no longer brushing your neck. Your head still rests on the pillow creased by his presence, where just hours earlier, your face had nestled against his chest. Your body remembers the shadow of a gesture he almost made but didn’t quite complete—yet one he didn’t shy away from either.

You open your eyes.

He’s gone. Your body already knew. Your gaze slowly accepts the inevitable.

Not a sound in the cabin. No hint of presence, only the hollow echo of your own breath. Instinctively, your eyes search the room, desperate for proof, a trace, but everything confirms what your body already knew—he has left.

You didn’t imagine it. He was here last night. You still feel the weight of his breath in your hair, the suspended silence heavy with words he never spoke. Even forgiveness remains unspoken on this ship.

Yet something else strikes you.

The sheets are still warm.

Your skin retains the burning imprint of his touch—the way he carried you, broken and bruised, silently, without averting his gaze. On that freezing night, his arms shielded you from darkness, holding shame and fear at bay.

You still feel the faint brush of his fingers against your lips—a single, unique gesture before darkness took you.

Next to the bed, a cup of water stands. A quiet gesture. He could have slammed the door behind him, abandoned you—but he didn’t. So why does the void of his absence cut deeper than his silences? He stayed up late, too late. Perhaps he watched you sleep. Surely, he did.

And yet—nothing.

No word. No sign. Not even a hastily scribbled note.

Just this cutting silence.

Harsher than absence itself.

Crueler than any threat he ever made.

Your gaze catches the dark leather bracelet left on the desk—his bracelet. Forgotten there, as though he intended to leave a piece of himself behind. Draped over the back of the chair, a piece of his coat hangs heavily, scented with salt and shadow, suggesting either a rushed departure or the promise of return.

You no longer know how to handle his presence. You hate him for sinking your ship, for letting those who trusted you perish. Yet last night, he saved you. His voice became your anchor when you thought you’d vanish. He wants to use you as a bargaining chip, yet his silences echo with regret. Sometimes he sees you as a weapon, other times as a mistake he wishes to erase. You don't understand his intentions, nor why he stays. Nor why he leaves.

Slowly, you sit up. Every movement protests through your body. A dull pain radiates from your shoulder to your lower back. Your wrists, still ringed in angry red marks, burn. Your throat scraped raw, your lip split open—your entire being bears visible scars. You’re a shipwreck, barely able to stand. Every step creaks beneath you like an old pier battered by storms. Your breath is a torn sail, ready to shred apart.

Unbidden, images of violence resurface: the sickening crack against the railing, the metallic taste of blood, raw animal fear. The silent plea—not for your life, but for your mind, your spirit, not to shatter completely.

You place your feet on the cold floor, shivering slightly.

You sway, but refuse to acknowledge it. Today, simply standing upright is enough.

A mirror hangs crookedly, catching your eye.

You approach, immediately regretting it.

Your reflection stares back, marked and weary. Your skin is striped—some traces will fade, others will remain forever. Your eyes—they hold a deep fracture. Something inside has shifted.

Unconsciously, your hand brushes the wound on your collarbone, jerking away quickly, rejecting the memories of that terrible night.

Suddenly, a gentle, unexpected memory washes over you: a large, calloused hand running softly through your hair, tender yet strong. A deep voice murmurs inside you, “You don’t have to prove anything, Love. You’ve got that fire inside you.” This memory jolts you, emerging from a forgotten past. It’s neither your father nor a dream. It’s something else—something lost, stolen. Your breath catches, your stomach knots, troubled by this abrupt return of a deeply true, unknown past.

You breathe slowly, pushing away dizziness. Staying upright.

Your fingers instinctively clutch the brooch hidden against your chest, the cold metal biting into your palm.

You’re alive. Not broken.

But this morning, something within you has changed.

And you know he’ll sense it—even from afar.

The wood groans, deep, like a moan rising from the belly of the Nocturne. Then other sounds—heavier, closer.

Rushed footsteps. Voices cut by the wind, smashed by the rain that drums dully on the deck, just above you. You strain to listen. Orders barked. Muffled scuffles. Something—or someone—is being dragged.

Your heart skips a beat.

Silence returns. But it no longer feels the same. It’s heavy, hanging. As if the ship itself is holding its breath.

A sharp knock hits your door.

You freeze. Your fingers grip the edge of the bed. Your gaze drifts to the handle. The light flickers. A cold draft slips under the threshold.

A second knock.

And a voice, coarse, without warmth:

“The captain awaits you on deck.”

Not a threat. Not a command. Just a summons, steeped in shadow.

Your stomach tightens—a reflex. Survival. Or memory.

You think about fleeing. But there’s nowhere to go. Not outside—the outside doesn’t exist. So you escape, just for a second, into your head. In vain.

You get up. Slowly. A dull ache pulses in your neck, as if your body itself refuses the effort. This isn’t strength. It’s pride. Necessity. They let you live. You fully intend to make them regret it—or understand.

You dress in silence. The shirt Caleb gave you clings to your skin where the blood has dried. The memories, however, don’t peel off. You push them aside with a mental gesture. You tighten a wide belt around pants too big. Before leaving, you unpin your royal brooch. You fix it. A breath of loyalty. Then you place it in a drawer and close it softly. This gesture, you know, is a farewell. Maybe temporary. But final for today.

You count on no one now. Least of all the Navy. Especially not here.

You brush your coat’s fabric. It’s heavy. You wear it without flinching. It weighs on your shoulders like a pact. Its smell fills your lungs: salt, powder, burnt wood. You inhale. And against your will, part of you settles. Just for a moment. You hate that part.

The latch turns. It’s your hand. But you don’t remember telling it to.

The pirates around you step aside. Not out of respect. Out of fear. You’re no longer what they tried to break. You’re what’s left when the storm has gone quiet.

The wood groans beneath your steps. You climb the stairs one by one. Jaw tight. Neck straight.

You’re trembling, but not from fear.

It’s because of the floor. Red. They scrubbed all night. The water didn’t wash it all away. The blood slipped between the planks. You see their eyes again. Their hands. You shut your lids—too late. The images are still there.

The rain greets you, thin, acrid, soaked in salt and shadow. You squint. The deck emerges in fragments: frozen silhouettes, the clink of chains, the muffled murmur of the crew.

One of them grips a rope. Too tight. Too long. The hemp bit into his skin. He doesn’t look at you. But your wrists haven’t forgotten.

A sound. Behind you. You flinch. Just enough to clench your fist, knuckles pale.

Your feet move without you. Your body pushes against the biting wind. But your mind stays elsewhere. Trapped under a glass dome. You’re here. And not. You move because you never stopped. And it’s that motion, absurd and vital, that keeps you going.

Your fingers rub the rough fabric of your sleeve. You force yourself to stop.

A wet strand sticks to your temple. You brush it away with a sharp, irritated flick. The shiver running through you isn’t from the cold. It’s a memory. Your body hasn’t forgotten either.

The guilty are on their knees, bound, heads lowered, lined up like actors in a brutal play they no longer control.

Aron is at the center. The one who held you down, the one who turned away when you screamed. He doesn’t tremble. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, but he doesn’t really see it. He’s already left his body — or clings to it so faintly that he’s become nearly absent. To his right, the survivor — the one you bit. His mouth is split, swollen and his eyes brush over you but don’t land. He isn’t looking for you. He’s looking for Caleb. Like the others.

And he is there, standing at the bow of his ship, a figure carved from rock, shaped by wind and light. Around him, the rain-slicked deck gleams like a cracked mirror. Ropes hang limp from the mast like sleeping snakes. The sails snap softly in the damp wind, and the air is thick with salt, tar, and rusted metal. Even the planks beneath your feet seem to groan with a memory too fresh. The sun rises behind him, casting his shadow like a blade. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s frozen. Magnificent. Almost unreal. He is no longer the man who held you last night. No longer the one who protected you without a word. That man vanished at dawn—erased by the captain.

The one who commands. The one who decides. The one you no longer want to touch.

You see the tension in his shoulders. His silence isn’t calm. It’s strained, on the verge of breaking. He hates what he has to do — you know it. But he’ll do it anyway, because he isn’t fighting for you. He’s fighting for the ship. For order.

The rain keeps falling—thin, acidic—tracing cold lines down your neck. Your soaked shirt clings to your skin, every fold stiff like a second skin. Your trousers still hang loose around your waist, too big, not yours. You’re wearing someone else’s world. And the water seeps in like a warning: here, justice is handed out without fanfare, without shouting—just the weight of silence.

He hasn’t looked at you. Not once.

He steps down from the quarterdeck. Each step echoes. He stops in front of the mutineers, in front of the gathered crew. His arms hang at his sides. His voice rises, deep, slow — like a blade being sharpened.

“You broke our rules.” 

Silence falls instantly. Heavy. Thick. Even the sea seems to still. Your heart hammers in your chest, erratic, like it’s trying to signal someone. You inhale — but the air sticks halfway.

“You crossed the line.

He takes a step, turns his head slightly. His gaze lands on those who didn’t lay hands on you, but who watched. Those who let it happen. Their faces are drawn. There may be regret. Or maybe resentment.

“We protect what’s ours.”

He pauses and that sentence hits you like a punch to the gut. He’s not just talking about you. He’s talking about his ship. His crew. The Nocturne. And maybe — just barely — something else. Something he won’t let himself name.

“We do not rape. We do not betray.”

The words fall without force. But they strike, sharp and final. No one speaks. The silence pulls tight, ready to snap.

He raises his hand.

And the order is given.

Three men are dragged away. Roughly. Not the ones who struck. The ones who stood still. The ones whose eyes were complicit. The ones who hesitated.

They cry out. Struggle. Beg. But no one answers. The watchmen pull them to the railing. Their protests turn to panic. Then — a sharper scream — and the harsh sound of a body slamming into the sea. Then another. And another. The ocean swallows them without ceremony.

You flinch. Your knees buckle slightly. It isn’t pity that breaks you. It’s a raw truth: here, nothing is forgotten. Least of all weakness.

The second man is forced forward. The one who hurt you.

He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny.

He walks without needing to be pushed. As if he knows. As if he’s already accepted it.

And then the sound comes — sharp. Animal.

The whip cracks through the air.

The first strike is almost clean. The second tears through him. By the third, a low groan escapes his throat, a sound no longer human. He doubles over — but doesn’t fall. His knees shake. His mouth opens without sound. He takes it.

You can’t.

Your eyes close. But you hear everything. The flesh tearing. The sharp, stolen breaths. The horrified whispers weaving through the crew. Boots stepping back — instinct, or shame.

The scent of blood. Again. And that other smell — harsher —salt, wet rope, soaked wood.

Even the sea seems to recoil. To grow opaque. Heavier. As if it were swallowing screams it cannot digest.

You want to scream. Run. Throw up.

But your body stays still. Your fingers tremble. Your jaw clenches so tight your throat burns. You can barely breathe, as if the air itself has thickened.

And in this blur, you lose track of where Caleb stands. You don’t see justice in him. You see law.

His law.

He hasn’t moved through any of it. His face has shown nothing — no pleasure, no rage. 

Just one flicker. His fingers, briefly, twitching.

But his gaze isn’t on the man screaming. It’s fixed on Aron.

That’s when everything shifts.

He speaks. Calm. Clear.

“The brand.”

No more words. No threats. No fury. Just a sentence.

And everything stills.

The word lands like a blade. Even the rigging seems to fall silent. You hear the crew’s breath change. They understand.

And so does Aron.

He stiffens. His eyes flicker — just once — but it’s enough. It’s not fear. Not yet. It’s recognition. That nothing, not even he, will be spared.

His jaw tightens. His hands clutch the wet rope at his wrists. He holds onto the moment. It’s useless.

The brand is brought.

They press it just below his collarbone. And he screams. A torn, primal cry. Not from a sailor. Not from a man.

From a beast being marked.

And in your mind, something shatters. A memory erupts.

His breath on your neck. The weight of his arms. The impossibility of escape. The cold of his cowardice.

You no longer see a man kneeling. You no longer see a sailor, nor a pirate. You see what he was to you: A shadow. A prison.

And now, fire marks him. A burn that won’t fade.

The mark sears his skin. A barred circle. The traitor’s brand.

He screams again. But this time, it’s barely sound, as if he’s snuffing himself out.

Without a word, they drag him away. Now he resists. Too late. His arms thrash. His legs claw at the void. He shouts a name — maybe yours — but you refuse to hear it.

And then — he falls. The sea closes around him.

The silence that follows isn’t silence. It’s a weight. A leaden shroud. Cold. Wet. Unbreakable.

No one speaks. No one moves.

And at last, Caleb lifts his eyes.

He scans the crew. One by one. Slowly. As if committing each face to memory. No one dares meet his gaze for long.

He isn’t looking for fear. He’s looking for the crack.

Then, he turns.

Toward you.

Your heart contracts so violently you feel it echo in your throat. You want to look away but you can’t.

He sees you.

And you know he recognizes you.

Not just your face.

The coat.

His.

The one he gave you, without a word, the night before. A shield between you and the world. And now, he looks at you. Just a second too long.

You don’t know what’s in his eyes. Shame? Anger? A trace of tenderness? You don’t know. You don’t want to.

But that second breaks you. Like an electric shock under your skin, in your chest, in your gut. Your breath catches. Your legs weaken. Your heart beats off-rhythm. You want to step back. Call him. Slap him. Hold him. All at once. Nothing comes out. Your mouth opens, but the silence is stronger than you.

And he says only:

“Order has a price.”

Then he turns away.

And you’re left there.

Standing. Alone. Surrounded by ghosts. Trying to breathe.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The punishment has been dealt. Sharp. Undisputed. And the silence it leaves behind is worse than the screams.

They all watched. All obeyed. Some with fear knotted in their gut, others with a colder fire in their eyes— the kind that sparks in wounds too deep to show, the kind no one ever admits to.

You didn’t look away. You stood still, upright, breath tight, fists clenched in the oversized sleeves of the shirt he gave you. You thought you’d feel something clear. Relief. Some form of justice. But there’s none of that. Just a bitter taste. A brutal, fleeting thought you push away immediately: what if he’s worse than the men he punishes? 

Under your boots, the wood burns your soles, as if the deck itself refuses to forget. An acidic lump rises in your throat, metallic— a mix of fear and iron. You swallow it back, your gut twisting, as if your body is trying to reject what your eyes just consumed. The air is heavy, thick with salt and silence. Too calm. Too dense. As if the Nocturne is slowly digesting what’s just been done.

Around you, silhouettes of the crew emerge through the morning mist—leathered by the wind, covered in rope and salt-soaked grime. And you… you’re still foreign here. Draped in borrowed clothes. Too large. Too clean. Even stained, they betray you. A rope lies at your feet, abandoned, soaked with seawater and blood—an open vein no one dares to see. This is not a victory. Not even revenge. Just necessity. Cold. Mechanical.

Caleb hasn’t said a word. Not once during the ordeal. He stood frozen. Impassive. But for a heartbeat—almost nothing—you felt his eyes find yours. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to check if you were still there. Still standing.

His orders snapped like blades. No hesitation in his voice. No tremor in his hands. He commanded like someone cuts a rope— with the kind of coldness one wears when even a hint of emotion would be too much. But you saw him falter. Not in his body—in his gaze. A crack. Fleeting. Quickly covered. But it was there.

After the final blow, his shoulders sagged. He didn’t speak, but his gaze drifted—past the faces, past the sails. Further. As if searching for a shore he gave up on long ago. He’s still there, in front of you. Upright. Present. But something in him has already slipped away. His anger no longer holds him. It’s draining him. 

He runs a hand across the back of his neck. Quietly. No pain. No fatigue. The gesture feels like an attempt to wipe away a memory. Or a voice. Maybe even a doubt.

And you—your shoulders finally sag. Your knees give, just a little. Not enough to fall. Just enough to know you could. Your body reminds you: you’re not really standing anymore. You keep going out of habit. Out of pride. Out of need. You rub your palms against the shirt, as if you could erase something from the fabric—something you’re still not ready to face.

You want to leave. Not run. Just step out of this moment. This shard of time frozen in steel, in screams, in salt. Your legs pull you away. Toward the shadow of a stairwell. Toward the cabin. Even if it’s not yours. You want to find a place where breathing doesn’t hurt.

You take a step.

And you wait—against your will.

Not for him to speak. Not for him to stop you. Just… for him to hesitate.

But he doesn’t turn around.

But, his voice drops.

“Not yet. Follow me.”

It’s firm. Dry. But there’s something beneath it. A thread. A tone you’ve never heard from him before. Weariness. Maybe even pain.

You stop cold. Your heart slams against your ribs. You don’t answer. You don’t move. He doesn’t give you the chance.

He turns. Walks away. No more words. No glance back. As if the decision had never been yours to make. He walks the length of the ship without slowing.

And you follow.

Not him exactly.

You follow the invisible pull between you—that tight line of silence, of glances, of unfinished gestures. You follow because he called you. Because you don’t know where else to go. Because in his voice, and in that retreating back, something still has its hold on you.

Maybe anger. Maybe fear. Maybe… something else.

You don’t want to think about it.

You walk.

The hold is empty. Or nearly. Just a few hanging lanterns, swaying slowly with the ship’s motion. The wood creaks beneath your steps, soaked with salt, damp, and that particular smell: rusted metal, frayed rope, silence lying in wait. All around, barrels, nailed crates, ropes hastily coiled. And that golden light slicing in sideways through the planks of the upper deck, cutting your shadows like a knife across the floor.

Caleb says nothing. He walks ahead of you, steady, focused, strung tight like a bow. Not a hint of hesitation in his movements. He stops in the center of the space, right between two rope-laced pillars. Then he turns. His gaze locks onto yours. No pity. No anger either. Just… a kind of raw demand. Like a trial already decided.

You open your mouth, ready to ask what you're doing here. But he cuts you off.

An object flies toward you. You catch it on pure reflex. Your fingers close around a wooden handle. Heavy. Unbalanced. An old broomstick, roughly cut. You look at it. Then at him.

He doesn’t smile.

“You don’t know how to fight.” His voice is low, rough. No warmth. Not even provocation. Just a statement. Brutal.

You lift your head, throat tight. The image of Aron—his hands, their laughter, your body pinned to the railing—hits you like a wave. You try to shove it away. But it returns. Clinging. Stuck to your skin like sea salt.

“What are you going to do if it happens again?” You stare at him. You want to slap him. Insult him. Scream that he has no right. But nothing comes out. He doesn’t let up.

“Beg?”

Your jaw tightens. You grip the stick so hard your knuckles pale.

He waits. Still calm. But his eyes—his eyes are at war. With you. With the world. With himself. He wants a reaction. He wants to push you. To force out what you keep swallowing. To drag you out of that diplomat’s shell, out of that illusion of control. You take a step forward.

“And you?” you whisper. “You’d rather strike before you understand?”

He doesn’t move.

“I’d rather you stay alive.”

A silence follows. Sharper than a blade.

You raise the stick. Wrong. Too high. Too stiff. He sees it instantly. Takes one step. Disarms you in a swift motion. The wood hits the floor with a loud crack. You step back half a pace, startled, ashamed of your slowness, your weakness.

But he holds the weapon out to you again.

“Again.”

Not an order. A challenge. You snatch it, breathing hard. Your breath short. Your heart pounding in your chest. A burn rises—not fear this time. Rage. Humiliation.

And in his eyes, a flash. No mockery. No. Pride. He saw you step forward. He saw you grit your teeth. He wants to see how far you’ll go.

You breathe in—hard. You brace yourself. And you strike.

The air is heavy—thick with salt, silence, and something else. A tension, almost electric, suspended between you. Caleb stands in front of you, arms crossed, his silhouette carved in the early light. He doesn’t speak. He watches you, still, like he’s reading through your skin.

Then finally:

“Left foot back. Further.”

His tone is dry. Measured But his gaze cuts right through you.

“Open your chest. Breathe.”

You obey, awkwardly. Every movement is a struggle. Your body protests—taut side, wrist still red, deep bruises blooming like memories beneath your skin. But you hold. You refuse to bend.

He steps closer. One pace. Then another.

Too close.

You hold your breath. He smells like salt and tension. His warmth brushes against you. Then suddenly, without warning, he pushes you. Not hard. Just enough. Your shoulder gives, your feet slip on the damp wood, and you lose your balance. Your arm hits a pillar, softening the fall.

“You’re already falling, he says.”

His voice isn’t mocking. It’s sharp. Not a rebuke—more like a verdict.

“You think the world’s going to reach out a hand, princess?”

You lift your eyes. Your cheek burns—not from pain, but from humiliation. It rises quickly, bitter—but you don’t let it out. You breathe in deep. Stand up straight. Solid.

And he watches you. For a long moment. You catch the faint twitch in his jaw. Frustration? Pride? You’re not sure. But he hasn’t looked away. And neither have you.

You strike.

An instinctive move. Nothing controlled. Just a reaction your body tears from fear. Your hand reaches for his wrist. He dodges—fluid. Circles around you. You go again. And again. He blocks. Redirects. Your breath quickens. Sweat beads on your brow. Your arms tremble—not from fear. From rage. From resolve.

And you touch him.

For a fraction of a second. Your foot anchors. Your elbow catches his arm. And this time—he doesn’t slip away.

He corrects you—instantly. His hand snaps to your wrist, sharp and precise, forcing you to bend, to reset your stance. His body brushes yours. Closer than ever.

“This isn’t dancing, he murmurs at your ear. If you want to survive, you strike to kill.”

His voice chills and ignites you at once. It vibrates against your skin. You close your eyes for one heartbeat too long. Your temples pound. You refuse to step back, to give in. 

You retreat one step. Then return just as fast.

And this time—you break through.

A feint. A better shift. Your weight moves in the right direction. You connect. He falters. Slightly. But it’s real.

His brow lifts. A flicker crosses his gaze. Not mockery or arrogance. Something unsettled. Brief.

You could believe in it.

But he disarms you at once, in a swift, almost gentle motion. The stick slides from your grip. His arm stays extended a moment too long. You’re close. Too close.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

You hear your breaths collide in the thickening silence.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t move.

Because part of you doesn’t want to step back. Because he hasn’t, either.Sa voix, basse, fauche l’air contre ton oreille.

“You want to learn? Start by breathing.”

Just that. A whisper. But it shakes everything.

Your ribs lock up. So do your lungs. As if you’d forgotten even that. As if even your own breath escaped you when he’s near.

You inhale, slowly. A lungful of salty air, thick with tension—and something else. Something warmer. Older. A sensation slipping beneath your skin before you can name it.

He doesn’t back away. He steps closer. Again. And this time, his hands touch you. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to guide. Just enough to unnerve. He traces an invisible arc with your arms, adjusts the curve of your wrist, corrects the angle of your elbow. His palm brushes yours—brief heat. Precise. Deliberate.

He doesn’t speak. He watches.

And you feel it—that gaze that clings to you. Like a thread of fire. He studies you like he’s searching for something he already knows. Something he’s been waiting for too long. You don’t know what he sees—but you know what you feel. That shiver beneath your skin. That tightness in your gut. That warmth rising, uncontrollable.

You fight it. To stand straight. To not give him that.

That shiver. That reaction. You just want to learn.

Just that.

But his breath brushes your neck, and your muscles tighten.

“Let go, he murmurs. Focus on your center of gravity. Not your fear.”

You close your eyes. You obey. You repeat the movement. The weight shift. The imbalance. But your breath speeds up. And it’s no longer fear.

It’s something else.

It’s him.

It’s that closeness, that voice too low, those hands too precise. It’s that heat at the small of your back. That blurred memory of something your body remembers—but your mind can’t name.

And you break.

No pain. No humiliation. Just an overflow—of intensity, of contact, of unsaid words.

You pull away, suddenly. You push his arm back. Take a step back. As if the air around him had become too dense to breathe.

You’re out of breath. Cheeks burning. Throat tight. It’s not shame shaking you this time.

It’s that furious beat in your chest. That nameless dizziness.

He doesn’t move. He watches you. He stays there—still, impassive. But you feel it. Inside, it’s burning. Beneath his skin, something is tensed—a muscle, a jaw, an emotion. A thread ready to snap.

And you understand. Without fully understanding. There’s something in him… waiting. For a long time. Too long.

A silence falls. Dense. Electric.

Then he says, almost voiceless:

“Again.”

One word. Rough. Swallowed. Inevitable. A word that doesn’t command. A word that calls.

And you understand: He isn’t confronting you. He’s waiting for you.

And something in you, deeper than fear, older than anger—Something you haven’t yet named—Is already answering.

You nod.

Without a word.

And take your stance again.

There’s a silence, right after he speaks.

Not an empty silence. But the kind that hangs in the air, like a breath no one dares to release. A full silence. One that tightens your chest. One that touches you.

You stand there, upright, almost stiff, half in shadow. Your breathing slower, but still uneven. The adrenaline fades, but your heart keeps pounding—not from fear this time. From something else. Something you refuse to name.

Caleb has straightened. He’s no longer touching you. But you still feel his warmth. The imprint of his hand on your wrist, the weight of his gaze on your skin. He doesn’t smile. And yet, something has shifted.

He no longer looks at you like a body in recovery. Or a piece to be moved. He looks at you like a possibility. Like a decision.

His eyes meet yours, and this time, you don’t look away. You hold. You hold, even though everything inside you wavers.

He slips a hand to his belt, unfastens something slowly. A gesture without threat. Without pressure. Then he steps forward. Gently.

“Here.”

He holds out a small knife.

Not a symbol. Not a trophy. A tool. Light. Solid. The blade is simple, a little worn, but razor-sharp. You hesitate. You don’t understand right away. 

“To defend yourself, he says plainly.”

He pauses then adds, quieter:

“From others… Or from me.”

He offers it without force. Without commentary. Just that. A blade. A permission. A confession.

You reach out. Your fingers brush his as you take the handle. The contact is brief—but enough to make your heart pound harder. He doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

And that moment—you feel it draw a line inside you, like someone marking a map. He just handed you a weapon. Not to make you fear him. But to give you a choice.

And you take it. Not to use it. But because you understand what the gesture means.

He looks at you for another second. Long. Silent. You feel that strange tension between you—something burning, unspoken. Ancient.

His gaze lingers a moment too long on your lips. As if he might kiss you. But he won’t.

He turns toward the door, no urgency in his movements. His shadow already melting into the doorway. You think he’s going to leave without looking back. Then he stops. His voice—low, almost hoarse:

“Get some rest.”

And he disappears into the dark. Without another glance. But you stay there, knife in hand, heart in pieces, mind in turmoil. And you’re no longer sure if what you’re holding… is a weapon—or proof that he saw you before you saw yourself.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The silence is dense. A silence of still sea, of water without ripples, without breath. No moon tonight. The sky has emptied of all light, keeping only the stars—cold, distant, indifferent. You open your eyes. Darkness wraps around you, damp, almost sticky. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling of the cabin. Maybe an hour. Maybe the entire night.

You can’t sleep.

Your breath is too shallow. Your mind, too full. You turn, again. The sheet scrapes against your skin. A stifling heat clings to your throat. So you sit up. Silently. You push back the covers, set your feet on the floor—cold, rough, alive. You shiver, but not from the cold. It’s that thing inside you that refuses to die out.

You cross the cabin like a ghost, your hand brushing the furniture to guide you. No light. No lantern. Just the stars, behind the door. You open it gently, close it without a sound.

And you step outside.

The deck is empty. Asleep. But not dead. It breathes. Beneath your bare feet, the wood exhales the sea, the salt, the battles, the unspoken screams of the day before. The air is thick, heavy with spray and secrets. You walk slowly, each step a muffled note on an invisible score. You don’t know where you’re going. You follow the stars.

The wind lifts a strand of hair, brushes your cheek like a whisper. The sails flap softly above your head, giving the night its slow, rhythmic breath. And all around, the steady lapping of waves against the hull. Nothing else. No voices. No trace of what you’ve become.

You keep walking, eyes raised toward constellations you don’t know how to name. You wish you could ask them where you are. Who you are. But they don’t answer. They just watch you.

So you sit.

There, against the foremast, in a corner no one monitors. You pull your knees to your chest. Wrap your arms around your legs like holding onto a memory too heavy to let slip away. And you stare at the sky.

The wood is warm against your skin. The wind slips under your shirt, barely lifting the fabric, reminding you that you’re alive—barely. You inhale, deeply. You want this silence to fill you, empty you, soothe you.

But there is no peace tonight.

You’re not trying to escape. Not really. You’re searching for air. For something to prove that the world isn’t only built on lies, betrayal, and chains. You look at the stars and wonder if somewhere, there’s still a place where the water is gentle, where the wind carries only the songs of the living.

You don’t cry. You no longer have the strength.

But you stay. Still. Silent. A fixed point in the shifting night.Tu crois être seule.

A timid rustle pulls you from your thoughts. You turn your head, slowly. He’s there. The deckhand. The one Caleb replaced at the helm the night before.

He’s young. Fifteen, maybe. No more. His features are still soft, not yet shaped by life, as if the sea hasn’t fully decided to carve into him yet. He doesn’t come closer at first. He hesitates, lingers in the background, as if he senses that what you wear around you isn’t armor—but a boundary.

He’s seen you. And he knows who you are.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You don’t invite him in. But you don’t push him away either. So he takes a step. Then another. Until he sits, at a respectful distance. Not out of fear. Out of respect. Or maybe an instinctive caution, born from too many silent encounters on this deck.

“You can’t sleep?”

His voice is soft, steady. Just loud enough to rise above the regular snap of the halyards. It doesn’t intrude—it offers.

You turn your head just slightly toward him. A simple look. Not hostile. Just… attentive.

He adds, almost apologetically, as if speaking is still a right he hasn’t fully claimed:

“It’s often like that the first week. The noise… you get used to it eventually.”

You nod. Not to encourage him, not really to respond either. Just a small gesture that says: I hear you. Continue if you want. And he stays there, sitting upright, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders drawn in, as if trying to take up less space.

He tries a glance at you, then lifts his eyes to the sky. Maybe looking for something to say. Or maybe just hoping for permission to stay.

You let the silence settle. Not heavy. Not awkward. One of those quiets that breathes.

Then softly, you ask:

“You sleep on deck?”

He shrugs, a half-smile flickering and vanishing almost immediately.

“Sometimes. When I’m off watch… and the captain takes the helm.”

He pauses briefly. Then adds, quieter:

“He did that for me, the other night.”

You turn your head toward him. Your gaze catches his.

“Caleb?”

He nods. His eyes shine—but it’s not blind admiration. It’s raw, unpolished respect.

“I’d lost my heading. I was exhausted, not thinking straight. I could’ve messed up. He saw it… and he let me sleep.”

You listen without interrupting. Something tightens in your throat. An emotion you don’t yet recognize. Maybe because it brings you back to Caleb. The way he sees everything without a word. Does without explaining. Understands what you hide—before even you do.

The boy looks at his hands. Young hands, already weathered, marked by rope and saltwater.

“The captain doesn’t say much. But he sees everything.”

And in those few words, something pierces you. An image. A feeling. Caleb’s silhouette in the night, always moving, always watchful, yet carrying that strange, almost tender calm he never shows anyone.

You look away.

“Why are you here?”

The question slips out. Not out of curiosity, but because this boy doesn’t look like a pirate. He’s too young. Too straight-backed. Too… clean, in a world that stains quickly.

He inhales. Not in pain. Not dramatically either. Just long enough to find the words.

“My town was destroyed.”

No pause. No tears. He speaks like someone rereading a memory too many times.

“Royal Navy.”

You freeze.

He goes on, holding your gaze:

“My father refused to bend. He wanted to stay free. No annexation. No imposed flag.”

His fingers clench slightly on his trousers.

“They landed at dawn. Burned the houses. I lost my sister. My parents.”

The air grows denser around you, as if even the wind holds its breath. But he stays calm. As if he’s told this story a thousand times, or doesn’t have the strength to relive it any other way.

“The captain found me on the beach. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes were full of ash. He took me aboard the Nocturne.”

A silence.

“He gave me a compass.”

His gaze drifts for a moment, distant, almost fragile.

“And a heading.”

You don’t answer right away. You look at him. And in the silence that follows, you realize that this boy—despite all he’s seen—still carries hope like a light. A light Caleb rekindled.

And maybe, without meaning to, he’s just sparked something in you too.

You lower your eyes, unable to hold his gaze a second longer. The sea around you—vast, familiar just moments ago—suddenly feels wider, more distant, less beautiful. As if it, too, now knows. As if it carries on its waves the reflection of a truth you didn’t want to see.

You don’t know what to say to what he just told you. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every word you could offer would sound false. You are the envoy of the kingdom that did this. You are the daughter—adopted, trained, shaped—by a man capable of ordering the destruction of a city in the name of order, peace, unity.

And you think of him. Of your father. Of his hard stare, that voice that never left room for doubt. Of his speeches on honor, on the greatness of the realm, on the duty owed to those who looked up to you. You think of your own words, repeated like prayers, like vows. Of those phrases you once spoke with pride, believing they came from you. Of the emblem you wore on your chest like a banner. Like an inheritance.

And now, faced with this boy and his clear gaze, his calm voice, and all that he’s lost—You feel small. Empty. Foolish.

He watches you. Silently. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t trap you in judgment. And somehow, that’s what tightens your throat. That gaze—not condemning, just waiting.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. You close it again. You inhale. And finally, in a breath that sounds like a confession, you whisper:

“I don’t even know where I come from. Not really.”

You slowly lift your eyes—just enough to feel that saying it out loud changes something. That you no longer have the luxury of lying.

“My father… took me in. Raised me. Prepared me.”

You pause. Not for drama. Just because the words get heavier. Harder to shape. You search for something to hold onto—an anchor in the distance, a star, a sail, a memory—But there’s nothing steady enough.

So you go on, quieter, more honestly:

“But every word I say, every choice I think I’m making… he’s the one who wrote them.”

And in that exact moment, you feel something break inside you. Not a clean snap— An old fracture. One you’ve never looked at straight on. And now… You can’t unsee it.

He looks at you. Really looks. Not like someone watching a prisoner, or a fallen figure of authority. He looks at you like a boy who’s just seen someone fall from very high, and who understands—without saying it—that the fall isn’t over yet.

“You sing, don’t you? I heard you the other night.”

His question catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting it. Not now. Not here.

You nod gently. A smile touches your lips—discreet, almost shy—like a memory you're afraid to disturb.

“I have a song… more like a melody. Always have. I don’t know where it comes from. But sometimes, it returns.”

You don’t try to explain further. Because you don’t have the words. Because it’s not something you fully understand yourself. And maybe—because nothing more is needed.

And then, without thinking too much, pulled by a strange, ancient need—you start to sing.

Not loud. Not to impress. Just a few notes, slow, suspended. A melody without name, without age, your voice tracing it faintly above the roll of the ship. The sounds float, drift, dissolve into the salty air.

And for a moment, everything seems to slow down. The sea calms, as if it’s holding its breath too. Even the wind softens. The ropes stop swaying. A shiver runs across the deck, and somewhere far off, the watchmen lift their heads—puzzled by a voice that shouldn’t be there.

The boy watches you without moving, lips parted, eyes wide. And when your voice fades—like a book closed too quickly—he whispers, almost in awe:

“They say… singing at night, on a still sea… calls the sirens.”

You raise an eyebrow, a half-smile on your lips.

“You believe in those stories?”

He lowers his eyes a little, then lifts them again. And in his gaze, there’s a surprising weight. Something older than he is.

“I think there are things… that want to hear what we no longer dare to say. And sometimes, they listen.”

You don’t respond. You have nothing to add. Not because you doubt him. But because his words hit something true. Because, without knowing it, he just placed his hand on something you didn’t realize was still alive.

And somewhere behind you, in the silent shadow of the quarterdeck—Something—or someone—has already heard.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The Nocturne sleeps. Its sails sag into the night, ropes slacken their tension, the wood exhales softly under the stars. But Caleb, he cannot sleep.

The cabin feels narrow, suffocating, unable to contain what stirs inside him. The silence here isn’t soothing. It’s too thick. Too full. He sits at the edge of the bed, torso hunched forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the floor — a point where the world could shrink, disappear. His fingers drum slowly against his thigh, a steady, forced rhythm — the only barrier against the chaos pounding behind his temples.

The images loop. Blood on the deck. Muffled screams. Aron on his knees. And most of all — your face. That frozen mask, silent, more painful than any blow. The bitter taste of betrayal has returned. Again. And this time, he hates himself for letting your silence take root.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you now. He knows that. But it’s stronger than him. Since the mutiny, your absence haunts him like a discordant note in a song he thought he knew. You didn’t speak. You demanded nothing. And yet, everything in you called out — for a response, a gesture, a recognition. He heard you leave. Your footsteps, slow, almost hesitant, passed down the corridor. He could’ve stood up. Stopped you. Spoke to you. He did nothing. He let you go — like one lets go of something precious they no longer know how to hold.

And then, suddenly, a voice. Distant. Fragile. Alive.

A song.

It begins like a breath, slipped between two heartbeats — barely a whisper, a fragile vibration you could almost believe imagined. Then a note takes shape. Another follows. A melodic line, faint but clear, unfolds in the darkness.

He lifts his head in a single movement. Freezes.

Even the ship seems to have heard it. The Nocturne hums faintly beneath his feet, as if each timber held the echo of your voice. The ropes shiver. The air holds still. It’s imperfect, uneven — but unbearably pure. And something in him tightens. Then breaks.

Without a word, he stands. Pulls on his boots in a blur, without thinking. He opens the door to his cabin in a hush — the way one opens the door to a memory too old, too fragile to wake roughly.

The corridors are empty. The floorboards creak beneath his steps, like they protest his passing, like they try to hold him back. He climbs the stairs slowly, but each step pushes him further toward the source of the singing — that invisible thread he follows without thought.

He doesn’t yet know why he’s going. Why this voice pulls him out of himself. But he climbs. Because he cannot stay below. Because he cannot not go.

The air shifts as he nears the deck. It turns wetter, sharper. Cold bites at his wrists, slips under his open shirt. But your voice continues. It slices through the night like a soft blade, sharp and unstoppable. And he knows. He doesn’t need to see you. It’s you.

A breath escapes his lips, quiet, stolen. His heart slams against his chest. It isn’t rational. It isn’t fair. But it’s there. An unstoppable pulse. No use denying it.

He climbs, drawn by the trembling light of the stars.

And you, you sing. Not knowing he’s there. Not knowing that every word, every note, every breath is splitting him open more deeply than the sea ever could.

You sing.

And he listens, torn apart more surely by your voice than by any storm.

The wood of the deck gives a faint, muffled creak beneath footsteps you didn’t hear coming. You don’t move. You don’t have the will, or the strength. You remain there, seated against the foremast, knees drawn up, chin resting lightly on your crossed arms. Your eyes stay fixed on the horizon — or what’s left of it: a black line fading into the infinite of a moonless sky. A sky smooth, deep, emptied of everything except a few distant stars blinking like weary sentinels.

Around you, silence reigns. Only the steady lapping of water against the hull slightly disturbs the fragile balance of the night. The sails occasionally shift in the wind, like a stifled sigh. And you — you barely breathe, as if even the smallest exhale might shatter this improbable bubble of calm.

The young sailor is still there, a few steps away, sitting in his own way — slightly hunched, arms resting on his knees. He hasn’t spoken for several minutes. He said what he had to say. Now, he’s quiet. And that silence — he doesn’t impose it; he shares it. He holds it like a secret too precious to be entrusted to the wind.

And then you feel it.

Even before you see him.

Caleb.

He’s stopped a few paces behind you, just out of your field of view, but his presence alters the air. A new density. A silent tension. Like a shift in gravity. You don’t need to turn your head. You’d recognize him without seeing, in any darkness, from any distance. It’s that particular silence — heavy, taut like a drawn bowstring that refuses to snap. His.

He doesn’t speak right away. He observes.

His gaze lingers on you. You don’t see it, but you feel it — on your curled form, your arms wrapped around your legs, the tense curve of your shoulders. He takes it in, without judgment. But he knows when to look away, when looking too long would cost him too much.

So he looks at the boy.

His hand lands on the boy’s shoulder. The gesture is firm, measured. Neither rough nor gentle. A silent command, needing no explanation.

“You’ve got a watch to stand.”

His voice is deep, low, without reproach. Not a hint of anger. Just that calm, authoritative tone — enough to make it clear it’s time.

The boy stands immediately. He gives you one last look — not worried, not curious, just a little solemn, like a promise that this moment won’t be erased. Then he vanishes into the shadows, light on his feet, almost invisible. Only the echo of his steps lingers briefly on the damp wood before the silence reclaims it.

Caleb doesn’t move.

You know he’s watching you. You feel his gaze on you, tracing your skin like a slow, attentive blade. You refuse to turn your head. Not yet. You’re not ready. You won’t give him that gesture — that crack, that weakness.

He stands there for a while. You hear nothing. No step. No sigh. And yet, you feel his hesitation. His weight. His presence.

Then, slowly, he sits.

Not too close. Not close enough for your shoulders to touch. Not too far either. Right at the edge of your isolation, on the threshold of the void you’ve built around yourself like an invisible barrier.

He says nothing. He doesn’t seek you. He doesn’t force anything.

He’s simply there.

Like silent ink — thick, still — spreading around you without quite touching. A steady presence. Heavy. Warm, without being soft. A promise, without words.

And you breathe a little deeper. Not relief. Not yet. But as if his silence, his alone, offered shelter. A truce.

The silence stretches — dense, almost sacred. Not an empty silence. Not the kind born of ignorance or awkwardness. No — the kind of silence that doesn’t want to be broken. The kind that holds more than words will ever say. You remain there, motionless, eyes lost somewhere between the horizon and memories that won’t come.

The wind lifts your hair gently. It brushes the nape of your neck like an old, soft hand. Around you, the Nocturne breathes slowly. The sails snap in the distance, but without urgency. The sea is smooth. A sheet of oil — dangerously calm. As if it, too, is holding its breath.

Then, finally, his voice. A breath. A thought spoken aloud. As if he’d forgotten you could hear him.

“You sing like you’ve already lost something…”

There’s no joke. No irony. Not tonight. His voice is deep, rougher than usual. Tired. Worn by the sea and everything it takes with it.

You turn your head slightly. Just enough for him to see your profile in the dark. You don’t smile. You don’t look away.

You simply say, as if releasing a truth you’ve held in too long:

“Maybe I lost it without knowing.”

A current passes. Silent. Invisible. But real. It stirs something between you — a memory without an image. A pain without a name. Something you share — without ever having chosen it.

Your eyes finally meet. And he doesn’t look away. Not this time.

He looks at you as if he’s trying to guess what you’ve lost. Or as if he recognizes that emptiness — because he’s known it too.

There’s something torn in his eyes. Not openly. Not like a wound. But like a thread stretched too tight — and about to snap.

You don’t need to ask questions. He doesn’t need to answer them.

In this suspended moment, there’s no war. No roles. No bitterness.

Just the two of you. Two souls worn down by all that’s been taken from them. Two solitudes, finally resonating — without touching.

A fragile peace. Temporary. But real.

The silence is nearly perfect. A silence of world’s end, where the too-clear sky seems frozen in a breath no one dares to break. You’re still there, sitting near the mast, legs drawn up to your chest. The song has been gone from your lips for a while now. And yet, its echo still lingers, suspended in the curve of the sails.

Caleb doesn’t speak. He’s stayed seated near you, arms crossed, the wind barely playing with his hair. His eyes are fixed elsewhere.

A sound. Subtle. Almost drowned by the sway of the sea. But you see him tense. Just a flicker. A ripple on the surface of his tightly held calm. He turns his head slightly. Then rises — in one fluid, controlled movement. You feel the shift instantly. The weight in his stance. The tension in his back.

He doesn’t need to speak. Something has stepped onto the invisible line between calm and chaos.

His gaze hardens. His chin lifts. He listens.

“Caleb?”

Behind you, a breath. A low, rough voice. One of the lookouts, hidden in the shadow of the mainmast.

“Captain… light to starboard. Three points. Lanterns.”

A three-masted ship.

You rise to your feet without realizing it. Caleb doesn’t answer. He walks toward the rail, slowly. No panic. No rush. He climbs in one smooth step up to the gunwale, his fingers gripping the wood as if it were part of him.

You watch him. His eyes narrow. A vein pulses at his temple. You recognize that way he holds his breath — as if he could read a ship’s intent in the vibration of its sails.

He sees them.

You do too, after a moment. Simple golden dots drifting on the black sea. Three. Aligned. Too straight to be fishermen. Too slow to be fleeing. Too precise to be coincidence.

They’re approaching.

And it’s not a friendly visit.

He stands there, still for a beat. You hear his heart pounding. He’s already thinking. Calculating. Assessing.

Then he turns to you. And in his eyes, you read what words won’t say.

Something’s coming. And it’s not kind.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

✧₊⁺˚⋆ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ⋆⁺˚₊✧

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

I'm sorry if this has been asked before, but what is the full extent of a Gallifreyan's psychic abilities? I know they have basic telepathy and telekinesis. Could they have “Jedi-like” powers if they really wanted?

On a side note, do the "Powers of Creation" and the Master's lighting/electricity powers count as psychic abilities? If not, what are they?

What's the full extent of a Gallifreyan's psychic powers?

🧠 Gallifreyan Psychic Abilities

Telepathy: Every Gallifreyan possesses these abilities to some extent, though most are low-level telepaths. They can communicate mind-to-mind, especially with other Gallifreyans.

Telepathic Signature Recognition: Each Gallifreyan has a unique psycho-kinetic signature, enabling them to recognise each other even in different bodies.

Psychic Bridge/Entrelacement Formation: They can establish intense telepathic links, known as Psychic Bridges or entrelacement, with other Gallifreyans, transferring large amounts of information and emotions in a short amount of time.

Hypnotism and Memory Manipulation: They can hypnotise others and block, alter, erase, or implant memories. This is enhanced by intense eye contact. So if a Gallifreyan is closing their eyes while reading your mind, they're respecting your boundaries and signalling they're (probably) not trying to rearrange your mind.

Astral Projection: Advanced Gallifreyans can project their minds through the Astral Vortex over vast distances and through time. This form of psychic ability is particularly strong when contacting different incarnations of themselves.

Soul Catching: A way more esoteric ability is to absorb memories from a dying Gallifreyan, preserving their experiences and knowledge, which is useful for plot, I'm sure.

🚫 Limitations and Extended Abilities

No Telekinesis: Typically, Gallifreyans don't possess strong telekinesis as part of their standard psychic skill set, only minor telekinesis for moving tiny objects, such as pieces in board games. However, specific instances demonstrate that under certain conditions, they can manifest proper telekinetic abilities:

Caleera: Caleera, a Time Lord Academy student, had profound psychic abilities that included telekinesis. Her case was so unique that it was 'controlled' via medical intervention.

The Tenth Doctor: The Tenth Doctor showed some telekinetic ability when he channelled the collective psychic energy of Earth.

Jedi-like Powers: While their psychic abilities are pretty darn impressive, it's a stretch to say they could do Jedi powers on the hoof. Gallifreyan telekinesis isn't about lifting starships or blasting you with the Force into a wall. These abilities, while powerful, are exceptional. They require specific circumstances or an inherent level of talent that's not common among Gallifreyans.

✨Powers of Creation and The Master’s Thor-like Thang

Powers of Creation: This is likely not a psychic ability but an advanced manipulation of physics and cosmic laws. It's more about an in-depth understanding of the universe and an ability to manipulate its fundamental aspects rather than anything psionic.

The Master's Abilities: The lightning/electricity powers of the Master likely resulted from his botched regeneration process, where excess artron energy was harnessed as a weapon. This is different from typical psychic powers and more related to a 'whoopsie' in the regeneration process.

Related:

Gallifreyan Psionics: An Overview: A brief overview of abilities [to be replaced]

Factoid: How do Gallifreyans form intimate telepathic relationships?

Factoid: Does Gallifreyan gender affect telepathic abilities?

Hope that helped! 😃

More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[mrjoshisattvablack]

Autistic Identity and Pure Awareness: Why Autism Disrupts and Redefines the Nature of "Self" 1. Autism = Reduced Social Conditioning Filters Autistic brains filter less social and emotional data automatically.

This creates: More raw, unprocessed perception. Less unconscious acceptance of societal norms and roles.

Result: Autistic individuals operate closer to a state of pure, first-person awareness rather than a "pre-built" social identity.

They experience reality directly, without the heavy subjective overlays most people internalize. 2. Identity Formation Becomes Fluid, Not Fixed Typical identity is built by absorbing cultural scripts.

Autistic individuals: Question, ignore, or fail to internalize those scripts. Are less anchored to artificial social categories (gender norms, career labels, status games).

Result: Identity feels fluid, experimental, or undefined, because the brain isn't clinging to inherited roles. Self becomes a dynamic process rather than a stable social product. 3. Heightened Sensory Processing = Direct Connection to Present Moment Autism often comes with hyper- or hypo-sensitivity.

This: Forces constant grounding in the now (because sensory input is overwhelming or primary). Disrupts the mind's ability to live fully in abstract, future-oriented identities.

Result: The autistic self is tethered more to presence than to narrative self-construction. Existence is experienced as a point of awareness moving through flux, not a solid "character" moving through a script. 4. Reduced Attachment to Ego Constructs Autistic cognition often shows: Less natural drive for status acquisition. Less instinctive manipulation of social perception ("masking" is a learned, exhausting behavior, not an intuitive one).

Result: There is less intrinsic investment in ego structures. The "self" is more often experienced as an observer than as a competitor or self-brand. 5. Metaphysical Implication: Autistic Minds Exist Closer to Fundamental Consciousness In spiritual models (e.g., non-duality, natural law, awareness-first philosophies): The "true self" is pure awareness prior to conditioned identity. Socially constructed identity is seen as an illusionary overlay.

Autistic minds naturally sit closer to that baseline: Awareness → Sensory Existence → Minimal Illusory Anchors.

Thus, autistic individuals embody (sometimes painfully, sometimes powerfully) a glimpse of what metaphysical teachings describe as the "original state" of being.

Summary Autism disrupts typical identity because autistic brains bypass social conditioning filters and operate closer to raw, present-moment awareness.

Identity becomes fluid, sensory, and dynamic — not socially scripted.

In metaphysical terms, autism places the individual nearer to the unconditioned consciousness that spiritual traditions describe as the true self.