#on chap 8

[sleepy-nights-sleepy-days]

2.5k, unfinished, hope yall like chess

[reckless-rider]

DANTE!!!!!

[mediumgayitalian]

When Lee and Michael pull him from Chiron's exceptionally dry Ancient Greek lessons, Will is excited. When they drag him down, ducking, behind the stables, as other campers walk by, he is intrigued. When they guide him all the way back to their cabin, sit him on his bed, and then drag two stools to sit across from him, silently, he is still excited.

A little nervous, now.

But excited.

"Will," Michael says, solemn. He presses his fist to his mouth, eyes carefully blank. "Will, you are almost ten years old, now."

Will bounces on his mattress, grinning. "Yeah! I'm nine and fifty-six seventy-thirds." He peers at his brothers hopefully, trying to lessen his fidgeting and appear Regal and Adult. "Am I getting my Dad present early?"

Gods, he hopes so. He has been counting down the days -- every tenth birthday, for every kid, Camp-bound or not, Apollo sends them a gift of gold jewelry, smelted in the heat of the Sun by Holy Hephaestus, jewels handcrafted by the finest artisans on Olympus, blessed by yours truly. Will has been watching in seething jealousy as Michael's signet ring glints every time he pulls back his bow, as Cass' hoops swing when she walks. He hopes the gift is earrings -- he finally convinced Michael to pierce his lobes a couple months ago, and he's tired of the ugly studs. Beckendorf made him promise to let him poke around at whatever Will gets, and Will has been itching to show him.

And to get the jewelry, obviously. That's priority number one.

Lee shakes his head slowly. "No. You will get your milestone when you get it." He exchanges a long, fearful look with Michael. Will picks at last summer's clay bead, with the trident on it. "Speaking of milestones…"

Michael makes a sudden, choked noise, covering his face with his hands and curling forward. Will startles. Lee sighs, looking down for a moment as well. When he looks up again, he meets Will's wide eyes with his teary ones, and places a supportive hand on Michael's back.

"Will…" he looks out to the open window, shaking his head slightly. When he looks back, his face is creased in apology, and his eyes are ringed with pity. Will feels his heart drop. "Have you chosen someone, yet?"

"Chosen?" Will straightens, fists twisting in his shorts. "Chosen someone for what?" Michael makes another strangled wailing noise. Will's breath hitches, and his ears white out. "Lee, tell me! Tell me now!"

"We are a Greek camp," Lee says, finally. "An ancient Greek camp. With ancient Greek customs, kiddo."

He says it softly, apologetically. Like the time a seagull swooped down and stole Will's ice cream, right from his hands, on the beach last week. Will recognizes the hopeless tone of his voice and his heart drops.

"How much did they tell you about…our customs?"

"I didn't listen to the admissions video!" Will confesses, panicked. "I'm sorry! It was so boring! There were a bajillion music numbers and they were all kind of bad no offense and the screen made my eyes hurt and I missed my mom and --"

"Will," Michael says, voice shaking. He meets Will's eyes and Will is horrified to see they are wet.

He has never seen Michael cry before -- not even once.

"It's okay, Will. Some people don't know."

"Tell me," Will begs. "Am I being sacrificed?"

To his great relief, both his brothers laugh, waving dismissive hands as they chuckle. Will sags into his pillows.

"Oh, no, gods no. That would be barbaric." Lee wipes a tear from his eyes. "C'mon, Will, we're a little more civilized than that." He smiles encouragingly. Will smiles, hesitantly, back. "You're getting married."

It takes a long enough moment for the sound to travel and the word to register that Will is sure his hearing aids have gone wonky. He taps them, as though it will do anything, and tilts his head.

"I didn't hear you right. What did you say?"

"Married," Michael repeats. "By age 10, like all people had to do back then." He and Lee exchange another weighted look. "That, or you have to marry Mr. D." He rushes to assure at Will's panicked shriek; "Only if you don't choose someone in time. You have until you turn ten, so don't worry. I'm sure you'll find someone in time. You'll have most of the summer, anyway."

There is a moment where Lee and Michael murmur to each other, nodding. "Yeah," Lee says, mostly to himself. "You'll be fine." To which Michael responds: "Of course, of course. I mean, we did it."

Will sits there, frozen.

"I can't get married!" he cries, coming back to himself. He begins to hyperventilate. "I'm -- nine! I'm a kid!" He looks to his older brothers, blue eyes big and watery. "I don't even know how to file my taxes yet!"

Lee and Michael are sympathetic. They move forward, immediately, one on either side of him; Lee slides a squeezing hand around his shoulders, Michael pats him on the leg.

"It'll be fine, squirt," Lee soothes. He gestures across them. "I mean, me and Michael found somebody. It all worked out."

"You're married?" Will chokes out. His breaths come quick and shallow, despite Lee's comforting hand. "Michael is married?!"

"Watch it, twerp," Michael warns, at the same time as Lee says: "It was a challenge and a half, but yeah, Michael is married."

Will glances quickly down. There is no ring on either of their left hands, but they must notice him looking, because Michael snorts, pinching him on the knee.

"We just told you it's an ancient Greek custom, dumbass. Rings were invented later. We just…" He makes an incomprehensible gesture with his ringless hand. "Followed the book, completed the rite, etc, etc. Boom. Matrimony."

Lee nods. He rubs Will's shoulder a final time, encouragingly, before pulling away enough to give him space to breathe.

"You'll find someone, Will. We just thought we'd warn you because it didn't look like you remembered yourself, and we don't want you to have to…well."

Will shudders. Vaguely, in the back of his blurry, blurry memory, he can recall someone saying something in a video somewhere about partners and their importance in Camp. He had not paid attention, and he curses himself for it, now -- he almost had to marry Mr. D. Mr. D. who is rude, who smells like vinegar, who always has something in his teeth, who sleeps all day and drools more than a waterfall, who scares the satyrs on purpose and never even says sorry. Who is mean and gross and the worst ever.

"Thank you," Will says, tearfully. He grips his brothers' hands in his small fists and shakes from his spot between them, almost-life flashing in front of his eyes. If his brothers hadn't warned him, Mr. D. would have made him rub his stinking feet and feed him grapes for all eternity for sure. There wouldn't even be breaks for episodes of Star Trek. He shudders. "Thank you."

His brothers return the half-hug, although Michal sighs about it. He is too short to see the smirks they flash above his head.

"Anytime, twerp."

-- -- --

next

[batfam-belfry]

Throwback to when Bruce Wayne was a supporter of the death penalty and Chaos Gremlin Dick Grayson actively monitored the death row schedule

[hoshizoralone]

my friend miranda

[eggsoupery]

Anything.

[into-fiction]

I lowkey love the idea of making Galinda actually come from a relatively lower class start and her family/father worked their way up and her mother wanted her to fit in amongst the upper class so she started wearing makeup to cover her country freckles, started straightening her naturally curly hair, started working on smoothing out her accent.

Made sure no one at Shiz (a notoriously rich kid school) would ever guess she wasnt one of them.

[doctorweebmd]

what if I said I just started writing the ‘Atsushi mourns Akutagawa after he died’ fic

what then

[stevie-petey]

ilu old married couple steve n bug

[greenerteacups]

i'm begging everyone everyone please stop what you're doing and go read this fic where draco is a legionnaire and hermione is a domestic in his household. I could talk about this for hours but I cannot possibly sell it better than the tags can:

[quinowskie]

A visit to the 4th division...

I like to think Kikoru will yap about any updates to him the moment she gets the chance

[kyywritess]

CHAPTER 8: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

wc: 2.8k

warning: Violence, mentions of blood, knives/stabbing.

---

Since the night of the hero gala, you and James had thrown yourselves headfirst into the Moretti investigation. The memory of that evening—the balcony, Bakugo’s wounded expression, and his retreating figure—played on an endless loop in your mind, but you shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of work and sleepless nights.

You’d left the gala alone, and since then, Bakugo had been a ghost. He didn’t show up at the gym during your usual hours, and you hadn’t dared to reach out. You figured he needed space, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. If he hated you, you deserved it. After all, you had rejected him in the cruelest way, withholding the truth under the guise of protecting him.

Now, every waking moment was devoted to unearthing the evidence you needed to take Moretti down. You told yourself it was for justice, for closure, but deep down, you knew it was also for Bakugo. You needed to make things right. To come clean, to apologize for the lies, and maybe, just maybe, to give him a reason to forgive you.

One long, grueling night, James managed to secure access to confidential Japanese case files—likely crossing a few legal boundaries in the process, but you didn’t care. Laws and rules seemed inconsequential when the only thing that mattered was unraveling the threads of Moretti’s web.

The files contained a chilling revelation. The man with the tattoo on his wrist—the one burned into your memory—was linked to a series of brutal murders in Musutafu. Innocent women, each life stolen with a message carved into the crime scenes that only you could understand. The weight of it crushed you, the realization that these killings weren’t random. They were warnings. Moretti was taunting you, forcing you to see his reach, his cruelty, and his power.

The guilt was suffocating. Every face in those files felt like another strike against your resolve, but you couldn’t let it break you. You wouldn’t. The pain was a reminder that you were on the right path, that you had a chance to end this. And now, finally, you had something to go on.

The new information gave you a flicker of hope —a trail of locations and timestamps where Moretti’s men had been sighted. It was the first solid lead you’d had in weeks, and it was enough to rekindle the fire inside you.

Your hero costume still fits like a second skin, the all-black material hugging your body with an almost suffocating precision. The suit’s sleek fabric molds to your frame, firm and supportive—like it’s designed just for you, like it was made to measure. You had always admired the way the costume looked, and now, years later, your vision seemed to reflect everything you had become: strong, sleek, and dangerous. The mask that covered your face didn’t leave much for anyone to see, except your eyes—piercing, determined eyes that told anyone in your path exactly who they were dealing with.

It’s been six long years since you last wore it. Six years of training, of staying hidden, of learning to control a power so dangerous you feared it more than anything. But tonight, slipping into the familiar black fabric and feeling it stretch over your body, you couldn’t help but feel that rush of energy surge through your veins. It never got old. The suit felt like home, like a part of you, and the weight of the mask reminded you of everything you had fought to become—and everything you had left behind.

As you pull on the gloves, the cool metal of your utility belt clicks against the fabric. You can’t help but admire the intricate stitching that runs along your waist, the design perfect down to the finest detail. The fabric is laced with minerals, rare and strong, designed to help control your quirk. The quirk that you never fully trusted.

Your quirk, physical manipulation, gives you the power to shift and bend forces of weight, to manipulate objects, energy, people, and even entire structures. It’s the kind of power that could move mountains or level them, depending on your emotions. When you’re calm, you have control—but when you’re upset, when anger and fear take hold, your quirk becomes a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. That’s what happened the night you blacked out and woke up with a bleeding head, unable to recall anything.

Training has made you cautious, teaching you to keep your emotions in check. Years of discipline and self-control have allowed you to control it, but you always feared that if you lost that control, everything would come crashing down. But tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Tonight, you needed to keep your head.

After weeks of silence, you’d received a tip—a whisper on an old, secured landline that one of Moretti’s men would be at a bar tonight. The man was important, connected, and you needed to know where Moretti was. So you and James decided to follow the lead. He had urged you to involve the pros again, but you quickly shut that down. 

The car in the alleyway feels like a cage, your hands gripping the leather seats as you watch the shadows stretch across the pavement. The waiting game never gets easier. It gnaws at you, especially tonight, knowing that the man you’re hunting could be anywhere. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, the thought of confronting a ghost from your past, churning your stomach.

“How long have we been sitting here?” James asks from the passenger seat, his voice low but edged with a hint of impatience. His eyes flicker toward the bar’s entrance.

“Two hours,” you answer, your voice steady but the tension in your muscles betraying you. You’re not letting your nerves show, but inside, you feel like a coil ready to snap. “He won’t leave yet. We haven’t missed him.”

James glances at you, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can go with you.”

“No,” you say sharply, the word final. “I’ve got this.”

You stare at the bar’s entrance, your eyes narrowing. Isaac. The name rolls off your tongue like poison. Isaac, blonde-haired, with the face of a man who has seen too much. He was Moretti’s right hand for years, and you knew him all too well. His cold, calculating eyes never missed a thing, and his loyalty to Moretti was only rivaled by his ruthlessness.

Your instincts tingle. He’s here. You can feel it. A subtle weight in the air, the tension building in your bones. It’s like a sixth sense, honed from years of practice. You don’t know how you know, but you trust it.

Then, like clockwork, he steps out from the bar, his sharp profile cutting through the neon lights. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing around before shouting for a taxi.

Your heart pounds. This is it.

Without a word, you unlock the car door and slide out, ignoring James’s muttered warning. “YN, stop! Stay in the car!” His voice is laced with concern, but you don’t hear him. You’re already striding toward Isaac, your body moving with purpose.

Isaac doesn’t notice you at first, too busy fidgeting with his phone, but as soon as he slides into the cab, you’re there. You don’t hesitate. You pull open the door, stepping into the cab with a practiced fluidity that only someone like you can manage.

“Hey, this is my cab!” Isaac barks, but you don’t flinch.

You glance at the driver, your expression cold and unwavering. “We’re sharing,” you say smoothly, tossing a few bills into the front seat. “Take me up the block. Doesn’t matter where.”

The driver, clearly unbothered by the tense atmosphere, nods and shifts the car into drive. Isaac remains blissfully unaware, but that doesn’t last for long. You slide a knife from your belt, its cold steel glinting under the low lights.

“Say one word, and I’ll put this knife through your crotch,” you murmur, your voice laced with venom as you hold a knife to him. 

Isaac freezes, his gaze finally snapping to you. His eyes widen and the realization slowly dawns on him. Recognition flickers in his pupils, and you see the hate burn brighter.

“I always knew you were a crazy bitch.” Isaac hisses, his voice trembling with anger and fear.

“Yeah?” you reply, “well I’m about to get crazier.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but you’re faster. With a swift movement, you grab his chin and force him to look at you. You see the fire in his eyes, the stubborn defiance, but it won’t save him.

“Tell me where Moretti is,” you demand, your tone chilling. “Or I swear, I’ll cut you open right here.”

Isaac snarls. “Fuck you.”

“Okay” Taking the knife you pull it away and plunge it into his thigh, being careful to cover his mouth. 

“Tell me, Isaac,” you growl, “Or is that man-crush of yours so strong you’re willing to lose your dick over it?”

Isaac’s jaw clenches, his eyes flickering with defiance. “You want to know where Moretti is? Find him yourself. I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Bullshit.” You twist the blade deeper into his leg.

“Now fucking tell me, or I’ll send Moretti a gift next,” you hiss, your voice dripping with venom.

Isaac’s muffled whimpers are all you hear as you give him one last warning.

“Fine!” he gasps, “He’s staying at the Musutafu motel, on the outskirts of the city.”

“If you’re lying to me,” you warn, “I will kill you.”

He’s sweating now, breathing hard, his face pale as a ghost.

The cab pulls to a stop, and you yank the knife out of his leg, leaving a pool of blood behind. The driver, still unaware of the tension in the backseat, waits for your next command.

You exit without another word, tossing a few more bills toward the driver before slamming the door behind you. As the car pulls away, you spot a black SUV pulling up beside you. You don’t need to look twice to know who’s behind the wheel.

“Well?” Tucker asks, his voice steady but with an edge of impatience.

“He’s at the Musutafu motel,” you reply, your voice curt and emotionless. You slide into the car, the bloody knife still clutched in your hand.

Tucker notices the weapon, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Don’t ask,” you mutter, slumping back into the seat. “Just drive.”

---

The crime rates had doubled in the past two weeks, ever since word of a serial killer leaked to the public. The Hero Committee had tried their best to keep the case under wraps, but someone in the department had let the information slip.

With the city spiraling into panic, the pro-heroes were stretched thin. So focused on this case, they’d nearly lost sight of everything else unraveling around them.

“Shoto, any updates on James Tucker?” Deku asked, standing at the head of the conference table. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, the telltale sign of an impending headache.

“Not yet,” Todoroki replied, flipping through a folder of old files. “The only intel I’ve managed to pull are outdated case records and images. If Tucker’s gone into hiding, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Why the hell would he be in hiding?” Bakugo snapped, slamming his hands against the table as he rose from his seat. Weeks of fruitless effort were taking their toll, and the tension in the room was palpable.

Bakugo had been more frustrated than usual lately, and everyone unlucky enough to cross his path could feel the searing heat of his anger. His temper, usually sharp and explosive, seemed to have an added edge now, as though something was festering beneath the surface. The smallest inconveniences sent him into a spiral of irritation—training dummies obliterated into smoldering debris, doors slammed with enough force to rattle the entire building, and curt, venom-laced words that made even his closest friends keep their distance.

At the agency, he barked orders more than usual, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, tried to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but Bakugo’s glare silenced him before the words could fully leave his mouth. Mina would whisper to Sero, “What crawled up his ass and died?” only to quickly clam up when Bakugo’s piercing crimson eyes flicked their way.

It wasn’t just work either—his frustrations followed him home. The gym became a battleground, weights clanging loudly as he threw himself into his workouts with a reckless intensity. The punching bag in the corner stood no chance, shredded after one particularly heated session. Yet no matter how much he pushed his body to its limits, the tension inside him never seemed to dissipate.

The truth was, Bakugo wasn’t just angry. He was hurt. And the wound festered deeper than he was willing to admit.

He hadn’t seen you since that night at the gala. Since you’d looked at him with those beautiful, unreadable eyes and told him—what, exactly? That he didn’t matter? That you didn’t feel the same way? It didn’t make sense. The way you looked at him didn’t match the words you said. The way your voice trembled, the way you avoided his gaze—it was like you were running from something. But what?

The questions plagued him, chasing him into his restless nights. He hated not having answers, hated how powerless he felt, hated how much space you were taking up in his head. Damn you. Damn your stupid, gorgeous face and your laugh and the way you felt so perfect next to him that night.

But more than anything, he hated the gnawing feeling in his chest. The one that whispered he might have lost you for good.

“Actually, Kacchan,” Deku interjected, sliding a photograph across the table toward him. “I might have something.”

Bakugo picked up the image, his crimson eyes narrowing as he examined it. The picture showed a young girl, no older than eight, with wide, curious eyes and a small, cautious smile.

“That’s Anthony Moretti’s daughter,” Deku explained. “We found her in an adoption database. She’s here in Japan.”

Bakugo’s eyes lingered on the photograph, his brow furrowing. There was something about the girl that tugged at his memory.

“I’ve seen her before,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

“What? Where?” Deku asked, leaning forward.

“At the gym,” Bakugo replied, placing the photo back on the table. “Y/N is her boxing coach.”

The revelation sent a ripple of unease through the room.

“Who put her up for adoption?” Todoroki asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s anonymous. Adoption records don’t disclose that information,” Deku replied.

“How old was she when she was adopted?”

“She couldn’t have been older than two,” Deku said, flipping through his notes.

“Six years ago,” Bakugo muttered, piecing things together. “Right after Moretti was arrested.” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “What about her mom?”

“There’s no record of a mother,” Deku answered, his tone heavy.

“Dammit,” Bakugo growled, his frustration mounting. “We need to find Tucker. He’s the key to this.”

Todoroki chimed in, hesitant. “Maybe... maybe Y/N knows something about the girl. She might be able to help.”

“No,” Bakugo barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not dragging her into this, and I sure as hell ain’t questioning a kid.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. Time was running out, and with every passing moment, the lines between their responsibilities and their morals blurred further.

“I’ll find Tucker myself if I have to. Got a photo, Icy Hot?” Bakugo demanded, his tone sharp with determination.

Todoroki flipped through his folder without hesitation, pulling out a slightly worn photograph of James Tucker and handing it to him.

Bakugo’s grip tightened around the photo as he stared at it, his blood running cold. His entire stance stiffened, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

He knew this man.

The realization hit him like a freight train, his mind reeling. He’d seen Tucker before—seen him with you.

Everything started falling into place, the fragmented pieces of the puzzle forming a picture that Bakugo could no longer ignore. The explosion. Moretti’s daughter. Tucker. You.

The timeline fit too perfectly to be a coincidence.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, his crimson eyes narrowing as his thoughts raced. You were connected to Moretti—there was no doubt about that now. But how?

---

TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh @faetoraa @iissza @theasgardianmexican

[sorryimananti-romantic]

You always write the most out of the box plots and plot twists like I think I'm getting somewhere and bam! Something else happens that I would have seen coming if I wasn't so dumb 🤭 Thank you for writing actual stories and actual plots for Ateez! I'm sure you could take any of your fics and publish it as its own book. All of them have the potential.

(If you have been charmed by my flattery, might I get a hint of what's next in store? Simply cannot wait.)

-🦄

omgg ahhaha thank you :')) no you're not dumb dw lol it happens! thank you for the love!

i hope i can keep writing actual stories/plots for ateez dfghjkfhg that's honestly the highest compliment i can receive so thank you sooo much <33 this brain isn't running out of plots for my eight gay pirates anytime soon hehe (there is honestly such a lack of actual stories and plots lately in general)

since i have been charmed, but not enough to spill the whole tea (kidding i just don't want to spoil anything imp):

Light (oneshot) ??seonghwa x ??reader (try guessing the trope you'll fail) also i've just started this (5k done) and i just hope i can finish it smoothly it's a tough one ngl

The Leaders (series) mafia au, very political, very plot heavt, kinda dark, slow burn, 80k words done and we're like only barely 40% into it oops (i think now is the time to reveal that it is indeed ot8? since i'm spoiling might drop some sort of a teaser soon once i cross that 50% threshold)

[fishareglorious]

chapter 8 does the time-honored bluepoch tradition of making a teenager go through the horrors. and also doomed siblings trope

[eggsoupery]

recent omori:otwf ref sheets!

[stump-not-found]

Is there a post schedule for Thesus Guide? Or is it updated just whenever? Asking to see if I should be marking my calendars or not :3

we're on break right now! please expect at min a 2 month delay, since that's about as long as the first half took to write, not counting for the editing, which i had been doing during posting (which was a mistake im doing editing WELL before i start posting again)

truthfully it may be a longer wait as the second half is looking to be longer than the first lol . but i like writing in batches so i can edit things to make sure late plot beats are set up in early chapters

i'll be sure to give plenty of heads up when the story is about to start up again, tho :D