Prologue - Blog Posts

Texts With Katsuki but You're An Exchange Student: Part 1

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Tags: Exchange student!Reader x Katsuki, Female!Reader, Uncle Might, Bestie Izuku, SMAU, Traumatic childhood, University AU, characters are 20/21, war never happened for the sake of our happiness.

The walk to the training facility was quite peaceful. In the short time you'd known him, you'd noticed Midoriya was a talker. He was asking questions about your quirk, how you learned to use it given the circumstances of your childhood, millions of things.

Usually you'd feel inclined to tell someone to fuck all the way off upon being asked any of these questions. But the space between you and your new friend felt comfortable, which was something you couldn't say you'd experienced in a long time. If anything the tension in your life had been palpable the past few months, even if it was only between you and yourself.

When the two of you finally arrived at the training facility you were happy to find it empty with the exception of All Might. He was perched on the opposite side of the room, on what looked to be a spectators bench. He raised a hand high and waved both of you over.

"Young Midoriya, Young (y/n), lock the door behind you and come on over so I can explain today's exercise." He nodded in the direction of the door and Midoriya turned to lock it. You made for the side of the room All Might was sitting on with Midoriya a few steps behind.

While All Might explained what you'd be doing you took off your overcoat. You hadn't wanted it to be ridiculously obvious where you were going, especially not after blowing off your practical partner. So you'd opted to throw the biggest flannel known to man over your training suit.

The mock up of your current gear held up well enough for it to be a training suit, one comparable to the one you've used in combat. Though the gear itself was a little... ratty. It hadn't been updated in quite some time and would without a doubt benefit from some TLC. You made a mental note to visit the support department before All Might spoke.

"Alright, go ahead and show us what you can do kiddo." He nodded as he motioned for Midoriya to sit next to him.

You tilted your head in confusion.

"Huh? I thought we were supposed to-"

"Nope. If your enemy is to have a fair fight they need to understand the range of your abilities, and yours is quite wide. Regardless of strength, It would be both unfair and reckless to send Midoriya in blind, even in a sparring match."

"Fair point, but then what do you want me to do?"

"Simple, use your quirk in the best way you know how. Show off a little if that's what you want to do," All Might waved his hand flippantly, "I just want to see what you're capable of and where your limits are, so that you can surpass them. The last time I saw you use your quirk was years ago. I would imagine you've improved since then?" He quirked a brow. Midoriya sat beside him with a notebook in his lap, looking between the two of you.

"I have." You nodded curtly, beginning to understand what was being asked of you.

"Then the floor is yours Young (y/n)." All Might gestured to the expansive training room behind you. You turned towards the open space, calmly walked to the center of the room, and thought through your plan. If improvement was what was being asked of you, why not show just how many of your limits you've surpassed?

Overhead you counted six rows of ten high-powered lights, making for sixty total. With those, plus the air conditioning, plus the rest of the technology in here, you figured you should be set. Electrical energy seemed to be the safest route while still being impressive.

Taking a deep inhale you tightened your core, the very inside of your soul to be as hard as rock. "Siphon." You breathed out on the exhale, you made an effort to feel every molecule of electricity within your reach. The current expanse of your quirk was the training room. If necessary, you could triple your reach, but you didn't want to take power from any of the dorm buildings.

Push your energy out, grab more of it, pull, compress.

Push your energy out, grab more of it, pull, compress.

Push your energy out, grab more of it, pull, compress.

You could feel your insides burning, but not in a way that hurt. They burned in the way that let you know you were sucking up every volt of energy available to you. In such a way that you could feel the energy building on itself and multiplying.

You didn't notice the way the lights went out, or the way the AC stopped working, or the electrical lock on the door come undone. You only knew you'd taken all you could when the breaker popped, then exploded with a resounding clap.

The way that you looked during was unbeknownst to you. But if you had to guess by the, "Oh my, oh my, what?" that Midoriya breathed out with wide eyes, you'd say terrifying.

If the way that All Might was looking at you like a proud father was any indication, you'd say you did your job.

Smiling softly you looked down at your, now glowing, skin. Electricity danced across it softly until you allowed it to dissipate. Simply deactivating it and storing it as potential energy.

"When I told you to show me what you got, I didn't mean to cut the power out. Jeez kid, what have they been feeding you over there?" All Might joked with a smile, one you returned to him proudly.

an: if you read all of this thank you??? and let me know what you thought please, it's always appreciated sm, i love feedback. i'm sorry this was so long. the next parts won't be this beefy i swear (unless y'all want them to be, lmk). i just wanted to get a scene of reader's quirk use in even though the description kind of sucked?? any guesses on what our quirk is? also it will be much more katsuki heavy in the future. just needed to get the setup done!

Prologue: Texts With Katsuki but You're An Exchange Student.

NEXT

Tags: Exchange student!Reader x Katsuki, Uncle Might, Bestie Izuku, Traumatic childhood, University AU, characters are 20/21, war never happened for the sake of our happiness, reader is mentioned to be from America but you can ignore that, this is an intro for context (?) i guess, will be an smau.

Life hadn't ever been kind to you, per se. The past decade had been peaceful, and with the childhood that you endured peace was the best it would get. So you appreciated and reveled in it. Living in whichever state your heart pleased and going to University with government funds, all thanks to the hero whom changed the trajectory of your life.

You should've known better than to get comfortable with this feeling, though. It was and always would be short lived. Registering for classes was the only thing on your mind at the moment. You were scrolling through different Practicum of Battle Tactics professors when your phone lit up with a call notification. A bright smile and blonde hair took up the entirety of the screen, courtesy of All Might. You picked up the phone and answered the call, brows furrowed all the while.

"Hey Uncle Toshi, long time no talk, everything alright?"

"Actually Young (y/n), we need to have a conversation, are you sitting down?"

Ah, there goes the aforementioned peace, right out the window. Cue heart attack starting now. If All Might tells you to sit down, chances are things aren't great.

"Yeah, what's up? You have me worried."

"I would tell you to calm yourself, but you reserve every right to worry in this situation. I regret to inform you that your parents are being released from jail in a month."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Fuck a heart attack, your heart stopped.

"I know, this is a lot to take in. I was told that this is the most notice they could get me as far as a release date went. I attempted to get it pushed back, or even reopen the case to see if they could get more time based on evidence found since their arrest." You heard him sigh a heavy, defeated breath through the speaker. "However there was nothing to be done on that front. I do have another option to present if you're interested." He paused, as if waiting for permission to continue before explaining.

"I'm listening." You breathed softly, anxiously.

Over the phone you heard him clearing his throat, followed by the sound of papers rustling. A sound of satisfaction was made as though All Might found whatever he was looking for. Having known the man like family since you were a child you understood first hand how messy his paperwork could get. You could only imagine the state of his desk at the moment, where you knew he was sitting due to the time difference. Part of you felt bad for interrupting his teaching schedule even though he had called you.

"Okay so," He paused as though he was reading something, "We can have you in Japan in three days. I can have the visa and your enrollment at UA University expedited."

You held your breath for a moment. You debated if you really wanted to go overseas for a year, or longer, depending on how your case played out. But the alternative was your family finding you and dragging you back to that godforsaken cult.

They had somehow survived albeit not as strong as they once were. The loss of their leaders, your parents, put a large dent in their "community" but didn't cause them to disperse. You couldn't imagine going back there.

"Alright, I'll start packing." Was the decision you made after a minute of silence. "One thing though,"

"And that is?"

"No one but faculty knows about this. I understand the importance of them knowing, should something happen. But I'm a charity case here. Everyone has read the news story about my family and then sees my quirk and eventually puts two and two together. I want a fresh start." You rambled, ending with an exasperated sigh.

"I can assure you, a fresh start is the least I can do for you. You deserve it." All Might replied sincerely and curtly, still audibly filling out and filing paperwork. You presumed it was for your transfer. "Though it will affect your quirk training, you understand this right? You can't use your quirk at it's highest output and expect people not to figure out who you are. The story was national news Young (y/n)." He sighed heavily.

"Well, yes, but couldn't you and your protégé help me train? He kept your secret for years, don't see why he can't keep mine."

"You raise a fair point. Speaking of Young Midoriya, I have a conference to attend on the day you fly in. He'll be picking you up from the airport. I've sent your flight information over already."

"Thank you Uncle Toshi, I appreciate you more than words can say."

"Don't mention it, kid. Like I said, it's the least I can do. I'll see you soon, have a safe flight!"

"Thank you! Oh-! How do I know who to look for? I have no idea what Midoriya looks like."

"Green. Look for lots of green." He said without any added context before ending the call. The line dropped and you shook your head confused, but got to packing.

~

A few days later when you landed, you understood, and you wondered to yourself how a person could be so green. Little did you know, this little green gremlin was about to be your new sidekick.

an: i'm so excited to actually churn out the texts for this SMAU but readers background/reason for being at UA is a big part of the story. i felt like it deserved its own little background. this isn't crucial to the story but will def help provide context later down the line.

Prologue

“Bastard!” 

“You’ll regret saying that to me, princess.”

“You guys really suck with the nicknames, ya know that right?” (Go figure I say that with an already forming shiner)

‘Man, I really know how to piss people off. Just lovely.’

I s’pose I ought to tell ya exactly who I am ‘long with how I get myself into issues like that.

KFP- Always and Forever Mine (AO3) Sneak Peak!

Long before the great Master Oogway found the Jade Palace, before the Valley of Peace was settled, centuries before the creation of Kung Fu, two dragons protected China from all dangers named Hou Yi, who was as bright and cheerful as the noon-day sun; and Chang'e, who's was a beautiful and aloof as the moon at midnight.

The dragons were well-beloved by the people of China, grateful to their fierce and benevolent guardians, but their adoration paled in comparison to the love the dragons had for each other. The citizens of China would say that Hou Yi and Chang'e were no doubt made for each other. That such a love would never be shaken, not by their enemies, by time, or even the gods themselves.

But one day, one creature decided to bring that love to the test.

Scarlet Sky

[A recollection of the events preceding Spike Spiegel's "death" by Theo V. Morgenstern in the Red Dragon crime syndicate.

Set in pre-canon period where Spike avails himself of some time to spend with a friend away from the crimes of every day in Tharsis, Mars.]

Chapter - 1. One Last Drink

Throughout Tharsis, the one business that profited the most was anything open after 8 in the evening. The Conan was one such business, a rustic bar nestled between other small diners, cafes and homes. It didn't have much of a presence, blending into the street that held it, yet at the same time, it looked significantly different from the rest.

Compared to other, more flashy and bustling dwellings, it looked like a place running for its money but they managed either way because there was no place that served alcohol in this part of Mars that could go out of business, even when it looked like it was snatched right out of a century-old movie.

In spite of its eccentricities, or rather, because of them, Theo found herself sitting at one of the stools with a glass of Pomegranate juice, listening to music on her headset. It had been an hour since she walked in, so she would come to know when she glanced at her watch for the nth time. As if on cue of her adjusting her sleeve over the watch again, the doorbell tingled, bringing a cold breeze in the warm haven.

The familiar tapping of a pair of large boots soon followed. She didn't need to look back to make sure they made their way to her.

"Hey." The usual greeting. He strode around the rounded corner of the counter to the stool adjacent to hers.

"Took you long enough."

He exhaled as he sat down. There were other seats available to her left, it was a tranquil evening after all. But they naturally gravitated to the corner, sitting on the edge of each side of the counter.

"I was busy."

She didn't push it, this was the routine after all. She was always the one to arrive first. Their seating was also a result of her choice to sit at a secluded side instead of the centre of the counter which was more popular. He would always be late enough for someone to come and occupy the seats beside her, leaving only the seats to the side where the bartender's attention only sometimes went. That side was always empty though, leaving the seat to her right always available and even on days like this, where her left was free, he still preferred to sit to her right. She didn't mind it either as it was easier to see each other's faces this way, easier to talk.

"Juice?" he asked, loosening his tie after unbuttoning his jacket. "Don't tell me you're planning to stay sober."

She set the glass down. "No, I ordered it 'cause I didn't know how long you'd be. I am trying to be mindful though. I have a pretty big job tomorrow, can't afford to get plastered."

"Hmm." He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and held it between his lips as he searched for his lighter. She watched it quite mindlessly, attention still half occupied by the song playing in her ears. "Where did I put my lighter…?" he mumbled as he patted all his pockets. 

She clicked her tongue before taking her lighter case out— a small, textured black cuboid that clicked open a push at its opening. Encased in red velvet cushioning was a gold-plated lighter which she lit in front of him.

"You seem out of it. Had a rough job?"

"Cut me some slack, will ya?" he said as he leaned forward, holding the cigarette between two fingers to the flame.

His cheeks hollowed breathing in the smoke, the circular end raging a bright orange. It was a little mesmerising, the fire— or what remained of it on the tip of his cigarette when she turned the lighter off. Shame she missed the reflection of the flame in his part-lidded eyes before he moved away.

"Want one?" He extended the pack of tobacco, to which she merely shook her head and put the lighter back in its case.

"You never smoke but carry a lighter all the time," he huffed, earning a light shrug from her as she stuffed the case in her pocket.

"What would you do if I didn't?"

A dry chuckle left him. "Fair."

He was silent for a moment, eyeing her headset.

"What're you listening to?"

"Hm?" She looked at him. "Just an old song from Earth. Wanna listen?" She took one of the earbuds out and handed it to him.

He had to move closer again, owing to her persistent use of wired headsets instead of wireless ones like most people in this day and age. The song was already past its first chorus and halfway through the second one, slowly ascending to its finale.

Theo guessed it wasn't out of the ordinary that she felt a little more conscious of the song now that there was someone else who was listening to it too. Perhaps because it, in a way, represented her musical tastes to him, for the first time nonetheless. She wasn't one to do that with a lot of people.

Spike stayed mindful of the smoke emanating from his cigarette, making sure he wasn't blowing it right into her face. There was little need for words as the lyrics sufficed to fill the silence for now. He continued smoking and she continued drinking her juice and maybe just a little too early, the song ended. He handed back her earplug, leaning into the backrest of his seat.

"What do you wanna drink?"

The bartender had shifted towards them. She thought for a moment as she put away the headset, leaving her ears open to the ambience of the bar.

"How about a Whisky Mac?"

"Always sticking with the classics. Two Whisky Macs," he ordered.

"Coming right up," the bartender said with a knowing smile on his wrinkled face.

Theo pillared her arms on the counter and rested her chin on intertwined fingers, watching the seasoned hands of the bartender as they prepared two glasses of the cocktail while a plume of smoke hazed her sight.

"So, how's work been going for you?" Spike asked.

She inhaled, feeling a sudden exhaustion weighing down on her at the mention of work.

"Same old, same old. Collecting, coercing…" Her voice trailed, eyes losing their focus. It didn't matter. He wasn't too focused either as he put out his cigarette on the ashtray the bartender habitually put there each time he sensed they would stroll in.

"You said you had a big job tomorrow. What's that about?"

"We're closing a pretty big deal tomorrow. I'm representing our side." She leaned back as the bartender set their drinks in front of them.

He let out an impressed noise.

"Aren't you a whiz?"

Despite the nature of his words and the faint smile on his lips, there was a hint of something else in his demeanour that she couldn't quite ignore. He didn't seem uneasy. Maybe he was just tired. Either way, she brushed it off for now.

She tilted her head, acknowledging the compliment before he raised his glass.

"Toast to what?"

She mused for a moment. They didn't toast normally but sometimes, he just was in the mood for that sort of stuff.

"To whatever significance we think this moment holds three or four years in the future."

She said it quite simply as she raised her glass as well, no deeper meaning embellished into it, on her side at least.

He huffed yet again. "Ain't that poetic?"

With a light push forward, they clinked their glasses before taking their first sips at the same time. The faint thud from the glasses being set on the wood was lost in the beginnings of a song being played on the record player. That was late too. Usually, the music would start around the same time the bar opened but it had been long since then.

Theo jerked her arms in front of her to pull the jacket sleeves up a bit before resting her wrists on the counter, getting more comfortable as she picked up the ice-cold glass again.

"New watch?" His voice cut through the vague ghost of 'silence' they had amid the music-filled air.

He pointed to her wrist with a flick of his chin and she looked down at it.

"Oh, yeah," she lifted her hand and pulled the sleeve away a little more to see the dial fully.

"I got it a couple of weeks ago." She extended it towards him.

He pulled her hand closer to look at the watch better in the dim light. A low hum reverberated through his chest as his thumb brushed over the shiny, sleek glass; fingers feeling the black, full-grain leather strap.

"Neat." He let go and she retracted her hand.

"Cost me a pretty penny."

"M'yeah, looks like it."

They took their sips for a pause before there was more to say.

"So, how about you? I haven't heard from you in a while and you suddenly invite me for a drink."

"Yeah, I've been busy." He pulled out another cigarette. "But you know it has been a while since we met up, so."

He didn't thank her as she lit his cigarette again— he hardly ever did. He hardly ever needed to.

"That's strangely sentimental."

He laughed; a wry, throaty kind of laugh, the kind that suggested that he wasn't expecting to laugh, not now, not for the rest of the evening.

"Is it really that odd?"

She placed the lighter case on the counter and left it there, sure of the probability that he was going to need it again.

"Hm, I don't know, maybe."

There was a pause, Theo leaned all the way back in her seat, stretching her legs, dark eyes carrying thought.

"They say people who know they're about to die soon suddenly start acting all nice," she commented.

He laughed yet again, but nothing like before. He laughed, a genuine, light-hearted, out-loud laugh that left him with a wide, toothy grin plastered on his face.

"You're on a roll today, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "Aren't I always?"

He shook his head, taking a drag and sip.

"Well, spare me for wanting a drink with a friend."

"Alright." She swirled the liquid around before a sip. "I haven't been here since our last time either."

"Your partner doesn't take you out?"

She shook her head. "Roderick is too uptight for drinking." She paused. "Then again, he'd say the same about me."

Spike leaned forward, placing his elbow on the counter and resting his cheek in his hand. "Simply can't enjoy a drink without me, can you?"

Theo rolled her eyes. "You flatter yourself."

"It's a matter of admitting. I admit that a drink just doesn't taste the same without a good pal beside you." He made his appeal by moving his cigarette-holding hand around.

She couldn't help the tiny smile. "Okay. It doesn't taste the same without you. Happy?"

He nodded and leaned away again, giving his back a rest.

Another stretch of wordlessness settled between the two Red Dragon members. The alcohol drowned the light chatter around them, the clink and clatter of glasses and plates an ornament to the subdued jazz.

Theo's eyes watched; the golden reflections of the old-style lamps in the rocks glasses atop polished dark wood, the spherical ice bobbing up and down with each movement of the lemony, gingery cocktail, the long, slender fingers resting their tips on the wide rim, the wisps of smoke oozing out of the rolled paper held between said fingers. Quite commonplace for her. She always was focused on little things, things that most would say didn't matter.

What mattered, truly, was what she never looked at; the solemness in the eyes of her drinking buddy as they were lost somewhere ahead. He put the cigarette out in the ashtray, crushing it in a drawn-out, ruminative manner. His fingers, eager to stay occupied, opted to play with the slice of lemon wedged on the rim of his glass.

"You know, I wanted to get drunk tonight," he said without looking up.

She did raise her gaze to his face this time.

"Be my guest. Someone's gonna have to get you home. I'll do you the favour."

He stayed quiet.

Interrupting the slow symphony that the bar had established, a rumble was heard outside.

She glanced at the door. "Looks like it's going to rain."

"I hope it does."

She frowned ever so slightly before turning to him again. He hadn't looked up for a second, eyes glued to the glass. She would have to be stupid to not notice the dejection in his eyes now that she was seeing them. For a second, she didn't know what to say, however uncharacteristic that was. Although, that seemed to be a running theme whenever it came to Spike. But eventually, the intrinsic nature of analysing and formulating kicked in as was common in her more professional conversations.

"Is there something you want to say?"

Something told her his raising the glass to his mouth was an attempt to bail, even just for a second before putting it back down with a little smack of his lips. He gulped thickly before taking a deep breath and holding it in his chest like the weight he couldn't seem to let go of.

"I'm leaving." For a second, she couldn't tell if she even heard him, his voice nothing more than an exhale.

And for a second, time seemed to halt in its merciless stride, the music and prattle fading to absolute nothingness. Complete, stark, deafening absence of sound. She didn't know how long she sat there, still as a statue, staring at him agape. Despite the vagueness, she knew what he meant.

The slow ascension of the pattering of rain outside was what brought her back to reality. In an unwitting imitation, she inhaled deeply.

"That's what this was about…" she murmured, averting her gaze from him to glance at the ceiling to collect her thoughts.

And yet again, she was left scrambling for something to say. The difference this time was that there was so much to say, so many questions. Yet she couldn't bring herself to ask any of them. It didn't matter, after all— how? why? when?— he wouldn't answer. Even if he was willing to answer, there was no point in knowing. What mattered was that he was leaving the Syndicate.

Regardless, she shuffled in her seat, unsure what was the right thing to reply with. He was quiet too. He probably wasn't expecting anything from her. That was probably why he told her in the first place; because she rarely ever asked questions.

"Well…" she took another deep breath and opened her mouth just a second before speaking, "All the best for that."

Any other time, she would have slapped herself for something so generic but in the moment, there was nothing else she could think of. He nodded rather mindlessly, forcing a tiny whisper of a smile as he raised his eyes to meet her again.

"Another round?" he asked, making her realise both of their glasses were empty now.

She nodded and the bartender was at it again after an intimation. They didn't toast that round. Or any that followed for that matter. Not that things had soured or anything. It just didn't cross their minds. Perhaps it was better that way, sticking to the regular rather than trying to turn it into something special.

The night advanced, full of light discourse that got increasingly muddled with alcohol— more on Spike's side than Theo's. They talked for hours as the bar got emptier over time, the storm on the outside barely anything to consider. It served as another reason for Spike to keep drinking, and that, he did.

Before either of them knew it, it was already well past 3 AM. The closing hour was still a while away but Theo decided they had had enough to drink. She paid for both of them before dragging an absolutely hammered Spike out. She had him draped over her shoulders as they staggered out the doors and waited for a taxi.

He kept mumbling incoherent nothings as she held him up, the chill night air causing her hair to stand on end. Still, it was a scene she would likely never forget; a moment of calm and strange allure. The array of neon signs reflected on the damp concrete, the faint clouds that lingered in front of them with each breath, and the much-needed warmth that came without asking— all forever etched themselves into her memory. Perhaps because this could turn out to be their last drink together for a long, long time until someday, maybe, by chance, they'd stumble upon each other again.

Spike fell asleep in the backseat of the taxi, or so she thought until she instinctively turned to check on him, only to find him fighting his slumber, watching the flurry of lights whizzing past the window. Slumped as he was, he was awake, catching every glimpse of the familiar streets of Tharsis that he could, looking as if they would disappear if he didn't capture them in his eyes.

She was a little disappointed when the car stopped in front of his apartment. Too soon. But she knew no matter how long it took, it would always be too soon. She got him up to his flat where he fumbled for the key, muttering something the whole time.

She pushed past the door and stumbled into his bedroom, with remarkable ease in the dark, no less. She had been there before, though only a few times— times just like this when he'd get drunk to a stupor and she stayed just sober enough to get him home. Yet that was enough for her to know his home space like the back of her hand.

"Thanks a bunch," he slurred, "You're a real one."

He had the mind to shrug off his trench coat and jacket before dropping on the bed with a thud. He kicked his boots off afterwards. She pulled his blanket over him, making him melt into the mattress.

"Mmm… I'll miss you when I'm gone…"

She stilled for a moment, gazing at his drowsy face.

"…I'll miss you too." She paused, partly losing her focus behind the haze of thoughts and alcohol. "How will I ever enjoy a drink again?"

He wasn't listening, of course. The steady rise and fall of his chest and the peace that settled on his features alluded to it. She sighed before standing up straight. Each time she would witness this sight, each time she would be left surprised. Spike was a revered member of the Syndicate, the strongest perhaps but like this, stuffed in his bed with a light flush on his cheeks, sleeping like a baby, he was just another man.

Maybe this was what she had failed to see all along— the man he was deep down, the man Julia saw in him. He was lucky for that. If not her, he at least had Julia to see him for who he truly was, to love him. He deserved that, however hard it was for them to keep loving each other.

She walked across the room, holding the doorknob before she turned to take one last look at his sleeping form.

"Good night, old sport."

She closed the door, unaware of the subsequence that three days from then, she would receive the news of his death.

————————————————————————

Here it is!

Mini-fic or Prologue - who knows?!

Okay, I have drafted a prologue for the Xiyao fic I threatened earlier today. My friend likes it, so I took a second glance at it, smoothed out a few wrinkles, and now I'm throwing it here.

I have no idea if this can function because I have yet to read the books, so I can't tell for certain if I will use it all - and if I do, it might not be the prologue so much as part of a chapter, all of that is written in the stars. But since Ao3 doesn't allow placeholders (nor should it) and I don't know when I get to write the whole thing (although that I will write it certain), I'll at least put this fragment of questionable permanence here for the time being. I will announce when I post the actual fic to Ao3.

No Bonds Can Hold Me

‘Maintain your own discipline. Train your body and your mind. Store your inner wisdom deeply.’

Second nature. All of this was second nature to a man who had lived by these rules his entire life. Now discipline eluded him, his mind refused to focus on what mattered, and his inner wisdom was torn to shreds. There was almost nothing left of the man he had been … before. And if there was nothing left, what was the point of him? ‘Do not act impulsively.’ That rule had saved his life several times over recently. To what end? He had broken so many others: ‘Do not grieve in excess. Do not bully the weak. Do not associate with evil.’

Am I the evil? The voice that existed in his thoughts only perforated his meagre attempt at meditation again, stripping away another layer of his strength.

Seclusion had done nothing to erase the guilt and the pain and the grief, to silence this voice. It lived in his heart as constantly as its beating. It hadn’t helped compose his mind, hadn’t let him accept that what was done was done. Every time he started out asking himself, ‘How could I have acted any differently?’ the question quickly degraded into the much simpler and much more destructive, ‘How could I?!’ The blood on his hands and clothes was long gone, but he could still feel it sticking to his skin any time his eyes closed, could smell its cloying scent, so much, so much of it.

‘Be gentle and content in adversity.’

Slowly, Lan Xichen opened his eyes. It was, indeed, done, and yet he knew there was one path not yet taken. ‘Do not act impulsively. Do not fall to evil.’ But was an act he had chewed over time and time again for more hours than he could count impulsive? Was saving a soul evil?

He hadn’t allowed himself those thoughts at first, but now that he did, he felt calmer. ‘Have a strong will and anything can be achieved.’ His path was laid out before him and he would walk it openly and with determination. He needed help, and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Beg for it, if he had to.

‘Don’t be unreasonable.’ What was one more rule broken anyway?

The voice in his head that kept repeating his name like a broken mantra could only be assuaged by returning it to the real world. It was his fault that it had been silenced, so it had to be him that did all he could to restore it. (‘Uphold the value of justice.’) And if that proved impossible, he should earnestly consider following it into oblivion, the way he had been prepared to.

Lan Xichen stepped out into the darkness. (‘Venturing out at night is prohibited.’) He had tried to silence the call that only he could hear, but now he welcomed it, let it guide his steps and fuel his spirit. Lan Xichen, Lan Xichen … ‘Yes,’ he thought, conscious of the cool air surrounding him and the light breeze rustling his robes, ‘I still hear you. I’m not grieving for you. I’m coming for you.’

0.017

(Simply the start of a story I'm working on)

Prologue: Collected Miscellany

Pre-reading Note: This prologue has been written by C.X.K.

C.X.K's Note: So closes the setting of reality and so does the spider weave its webs of lies. For those who can see, they will know that The Truth is twisted, they will know about the Web of Lies. History be twisted, truth be changed and above all reality is what I manipulate it to be.

Erayith, home to the two major nations, whereover Gods extend their rule over the nations and protect their peoples using the power bestowed upon them. In the perpetual meantime of an eternity under the sheltered world lying under the watchful eyes of the gods, most eagerly live, without dreaming. Ambition is the driving force, but without dreaming nothing is achievable. In the cyclical lives of the mundane, people could afford to live a fruitless life. Chasing nothing but the butterflies of what they call hope and faith.

Co-existing, living together, Erayith was such a place. Special like no other world as it was capable of housing many lifeforms, dimensions could exist unimpeded, hidden amongst the mortals of the waking world. In the world, spectacular phenomena often happen; spellcasting and magic. The ability to create the supernatural and the unreal, the very allowance for these to be able to manifest in the world was all part of gods’ imposed laws. The humans named this mystical working, giving it the name of maegenic.

Those humans, just like all other humans, lived by the settlement they were confined to, chained to the toiling ground that they first set foot on. But not all of them are bound in such a way; there grew those who dare to wander the lands. The Wayfarers who see themselves praised and admired throughout the lands, yet alone without ally as they explore the uncharted lands, alone. Like travellers, the Wayfarers do not live long in one place, instead moving from one place to another. Yet this constant nomadic lifestyle can be appreciated by the crowd but only a minority can transition from typical lifestyles to this. Such is the same with maegenic, the majority of people possess maegenic in some shape or form, but only a select few may learn to wield maegenic.

Even fewer may seek to understand its profound secrets, to dissect and truly unlock the truth of the world Erayith. For it is thought that maegenic holds the key; the ultimatum to unlocking what Erayith hides. But really, who can ascertain for sure what maegenic truly is? When asked, all that The Gods said was: “Defying fate and changing reality, those wishes ascertain an answer: maegenic. That which creates transformation, changes that which is unideal and corrects the erroneous faults of the imperfect.”

Prologue

Yumeno was pushed back into the prison where they were held captive for 3 years. They got up and brushed of the dust on them. Dazai and Chuuya had taken Yumeno from the Guild and brought them back here; back to their prison.

"So, did you find enough info about the outside world?" you asked. "Yeah. I learnt how transports work, a more advanced concept of money and I even learnt how to cook and the laws in Japan." Good. They learnt all this from the outside world. "With this, we might be able to live in the outside world. We'll begin the plan in two years; knowing the guards, they'll lose suspicion of us trying to escape within that time period." Yumeno nods in acknowledgment.

For context, like Yumeno, you were a dangerous child. A child who caused several mafia causalities and were considered "pure evil". You and Yumeno were 10 years old. Small children. Yet no one had an ounce of sympathy for you two. They just saw you two as monsters when they were the ones who tortured both of you for years. Especially Mori. Dazai gave physical beatings to both of you and there was even a time he let a snake bite Yumeno and gave them the antidote when they were about to die. But Mori... He was worse... You remember both of you stayed awake, in fear of when Mori will sneak into the prison room. He hurt both you and Yumeno in unimaginable ways.

Yumeno had it the worst. Mori and Dazai hurt her the most. Mori would sneak in every night. You still remember Mori telling Yumeno to admit what a slut they were and telling them how tight they were. You remember each mental breakdown they had. You remember when Dazai made both of you bath in boiling hot water(with a swimsuit) and then dropped both of you in a freezing cold ice bath. Yumeno always had longer torture sessions, longer beatings and Mori would touch them the most. Your torture was bad, but theirs was worse. This was why Yumeno got so, twisted and damaged.

After three years, both of you made a plan. Yumeno would escape, get info about the outside world, purposely get caught and share whatever they learnt with you. Then when everybody least expects it, you both are gonna escape. Both of you are planning to go somewhere far away and live a peaceful life in the countryside, just the two of you. Get a new life, with meaning, with love---- a life without murder and sadness. It's been two years. You both are now 15. Finally, you use that hairpin you stole from Kouyo as a key. Without hesitation, you both make a run for it. But a guard notices and shoots you in the knee. "AGHHH!" you scream in pain; alerting mafia members.

Taglist

@risuola, @chuluoyi, @nwrsie, @maple-leaf-in-autumn, @starisenby, @blehdsvvds, @xxxsoukokuxxx, @tamanegi-san, @yurislotusgarden, @kyuusacutie, @gaoau, @altkys, @gigglemite, @suguru-getos

We'll beyond destiny. Future heroes 運命を越えていく 僕らは未来のヒーロー

out here writing the prologue for we'll be fine eventually and God damn their shit be hard to write why have I made it hard to write like why did I do this to myself, I just wanna get to writing the diffrent dimension I don't get that till the first ep/chapter I could always write that but no I wanna make it consistent I FUCKING HATE BEING CONSISTENT I do this to myself I've made my grave I have to lie in it now

VENTURE! Prologue

Once, long ago, there was a hero. A hero who protected the innocent and vanquished the wicked. He was recognized by all as a mighty force, admired by those he swore to protect and feared by evil itself. That was, until one day— a day remembered as the moment that changed his life forever...

He fell in love. But not with any of the countless fair maidens from the villages, eager to wed him. No, he fell in love with the very force he had always opposed: Death itself. He, the valiant hero, defender of the innocent, had fallen for the goddess of death.

What a match made in heaven.

Until it wasn't... For it was forbidden for gods to love mortals. And Death had broken that sacred law by loving the hero, defying the order of the heavens. The hero’s love now faced the wrath of the gods, cast down to the darkest depths of existence, his once-noble reputation in ruins. For the first time in his brave, virtuous life, he fled. He ran from everything— his home, his duty, the honor he once held dear— as he sought a new life and a family of his own.

But gods do not forgive so easily. The goddess, enraged by the hero’s abandonment, sought retribution. A sentence was placed upon him— an eternal punishment for his betrayal. No one of his bloodline would live past the age of thirty-five. His new family would bear the weight of this vengeance, bound to suffer for all eternity. As the years turned into decades, decades into centuries, and centuries into a millennium, generation after generation fell victim to the goddess's cruel decree.

Until, at last, one of the hero’s descendants refused to accept it any longer. He would not allow his family to suffer under the weight of this curse. He vowed to break it— to save his bloodline and restore the honor that had been lost.

Prologue part one Sorry still working on the other parts of the prologue.

I hope you all enjoy the story

“Sins of the flesh” Prologue!!

Hello everyone, I’ve been writing a new fic, so I figured I would post the prologue here in case anyone who views my blog would enjoy reading it! I hope you like the prologue, I’ll include the link to the fic here! Ao3 ink: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/97482780 Wattpad link: https://www.wattpad.com/1222916487-sins-of-the-flesh-prologue --Prologue-- John Winchester was a righteous man; he was well-known throughout his community as an excellent priest and had seen most people every Sunday throughout their entire lives. He was known to be a very loving and selfless man, though many knew that dwindled slightly after the death of his wife. This is also the time he began hunting, leaving his young sons alone for days at a time and only returning for Sunday mass; no other adult knew of his hunting. No one knew what exactly had happened to the priest’s wife, the priest did not discuss it, but everyone knew that there must have been a truly horrifying sight involved; see, John kept his eldest son, Dean, blindfolded with a black satin cloth after the death of his mother. The boy never seemed overly bothered by it, although it was a little difficult to navigate through different places and do different tasks blindly at first. Since he was four, no one within the town had seen the boy without the blindfold on, and he was always wearing clothing that covered his entire body; his father did not take his sons out very often, and thus the only time the town people ever even saw them was at church. Most of the time, if you attempted to speak to Dean, he would not speak; his younger brother, Sam, however, would constantly go on delighting rants about whatever he was currently learning in school. What the people did not know is the purpose of the blindfold; unsurprisingly, neither did Dean, but he followed his father’s orders blindly as he was raised to. His father told him to put on the blindfold, he did. His father told him to stay quiet, he did. His father told him to hold out his arms so he could inflict bruises on them whenever he was out of order… he did. He saw his father as a hero, and it seemed no matter what the ma did to him, Dean always trusted his judgement. John knew the reason for the blindfold, though, and why only his oldest son needed it; it was to keep him holy, keep his soul pure, to stop him from falling into the sinful romance and lust with a man. You see after his wife had died, a being came to him and told him that the earth was a cruel and horrid place; it told him that if he was able to keep his oldest son pure, if he was able to keep him from falling in love with a man as he was fated to, then God would use him as vivisection for all his angels see so that they may aid him with creating more righteous beings for the earth. Delighted, John had not questioned the gold-eyed being, for he believed it was an angel, and thus did everything in his power to bend the fates of his son by engraving the belief that death would feel like waking up from a nightmare, that when he passed, Dean would be used as a model for all righteous beings to come if only he could keep away from lustful desires and the sin of a male lover. John Winchester was a fool; you cannot bend the fates, cannot change the course that life has given you to follow. The man who thinks himself God will undoubtedly be struck down, for he is an impersonator attempting to steal the power of another.

A snippet of my book since you guys asked for more info! <3 @ze-melon-lord

For context, the setting is supposed to be similar to the Hellenistic Era of Ancient Greece, in a Caveat-like theatre(If you like my writing, and want to see more, PLS send me asks, the fandoms I write for and Nono's are pinned on my page)

Warnings// Depictions of gore and violence, guns and swords, minor cliffhanger if you squint

DO NOT repost w/out using the button on the post or claim as your own, you will be blocked and reported. All rights ARE reserved

Chapter One; Loyalty is Only Obsession

“Ms. Serafina? Ma’am, are you ready?” A young voice spoke up from the darkness of a corner. A dark, private, cavea-like seating area.

“Indeed, I should like to see the show begin…,” A heavenly deep voice responded, “Maybe this one will be different?”

On the guards’ ends, they passed a small cue down to the stage before replacing themselves behind the Goddess’s chair, “Ladies and gentlemen, let the show… begin!”

A disarming smile displayed on the Woman's lips, Her slender hand leaning softly against Her cheek. As She shifted Her hands, the off-shoulder sleeves on Her velvety black dress— garnished with silk roses—, wrinkled and slid ever so slightly up Her arms.

 A messily beautiful display of tricks and twists went on at the infant stage below. The dear, dejected Serafina just couldn’t be satisfied by pulling rabbits out of hats, anymore. Of course, She couldn’t control that She was like this, She had simply existed for just… so long.

Some sorrowful display cast over Her smile whilst staring upon what the people thought Her upbringing had been, “This is all wrong…!”

“Would you like me to inform them?” A fit, armored, young woman knelt beside Her Grace.

“Absolutely not, Anthea; I would rather they not know than they be aware and revolt… Ignorance is bliss, afterall,” She kept Her stern facade through Her disgust.

“As you wish, My Liege,” The soldier of sorts returned to her post in the corner, armor clanking softly against itself.

The show continued, seemingly harmless. No one in the theatre nearly had the chance to catch the barrel of a gun in an actress’s boot. An evil grin consistently mistaken for one of enjoyment.

“and now…,” The man from earlier announced an hour since the start, “Let the beginning of the end commence!”

“Haah, finally…; this one was starting to bore me more than some of the others have… And I thought it would be different,” Serafina, ever the infamous one for never giving up pride, therefore, even when a show appalled Her, She stayed.

“You know, it would be a shame if-,” The lights went out, accompanied by the ping of a bullet ringing through the air — the result of Her own foolishness. 

A deep chuckle slipped from Her mouth, “Oh, is it going to be interesting, afterall? Save the best for last, I suppose.”

“No, Miss, I-I don’t think that is part of the show,” Ethaan called, across from Anthea.

“Not part of the show? So you believe it may be an attack?”

“It is possible, yes,” He adjusted his glasses as if they had miraculously slid down his nose, which they were too tight to do.

“Then should we not evacuate the Lady?” Anthea protested.

“Err…” A small stutter sounded from the boy.

“If I am not in any immediate danger then what is the point?” Serafina stood up, turning around to face the two guards with a perky chuckle, “If it comes down to, then you shall fight.”

“If it is your order, My Lady,” Ethaan hesitantly obeyed, nodding as he turned and looked to his colleague.

The Woman placed a hand on the chair’s armrest from where she stood beside it. The young soldiers exchanged glances; they had only met fairly recently, though they figured they got along just fine.

“We can make that-” Bullets split the mount of one last burning candle, hurling flames towards the ground.

“Well, this means we fight?” Ethaan adjusted his glasses once more, the nerves shaking his fingertips.

“It does. Lady Serafina, please get back.” Anthea stood her ground, moving slightly in front of her superior.

 With the Goddess safely behind Her guards, they readied themselves. Combat may be approaching.

“Where is it coming from? Do you think it is one person or multiple?” Her trusted guards quickly questioned the Lady.

“The first shot sounded like it came from the stage, when the lights went out. And if the one from just now managed to hit our only light left… then it had to of also come from the stage; so, it is at least one of the actors.” Serafina always had such an unnatural sense of hearing. Quite convenient, yes…

Stampeding footsteps raced up the stairs, just so happening to stop in front of their target —There were two of them.

The five of them only needed the slivers of moonlight, seeping in through scream-soaked curtains, to spot each other’s silhouettes. Second by second, breath by labored breath, the anticipation of who would move first—or even breathe first.

Ethaan and Anthea were too slow, the attackers too fast. The darkness blinded Serafina. How unfortunate, She just can’t see in the dark.

Pew, one bullet shot was all it took. Where was it going? To the Goddess? To the guards? The latter. Who? Anthea; she pushed her partner away, taking the bullet to her own abdomen. Wait…, a second shot? So quickly? Did they both have guns?

Ethaan didn’t risk it, he lunged at the anonymous—too late… He landed his blade in a shoulder, yes, but The Lady had already taken the blow.

Her senses had failed Her. She had only been hit in Her right eye, communication was still possible; unless it had gone too deep?

“Ms. Serafina!” Ethaan called out, watching as his boss dropped to Her knees.

She kept silent, still, and silent.

The only audible thing being the labored breaths of the others.

Panicked, the attackers left. Was that it? They thought the bullet took Serafina’s life; so, that was it? How awfully pathetic.

“They’re gone now; please tell me you’re alive, Milady!”

“Yes, I am fine. I only dropped, so they would leave. Though, My eye is definitely going to be blinded; the shrapnel got in it.” She paused, looking at the frightened boy, “Is Anthea alive?”

A withered, “Yes…” sounded from the ground, Anthea lay there, broken and defeated.

“Come now, we shall get you the medical attention you require; we can’t have My best in centuries dying on Me, now, can we?” Serafina carefully cradled the maimed maiden in Her arms, “You aren't injured, as well, are you Ethaan?”

He shook his head, thankfully in good physical health. Yes, physical, at the very least. Had anyone more been injured She wouldn’t have known what to do with Herself. She already didn’t know what to do with Herself; this whole moment felt oddly evocative, almost as if this had maybe happened to Her before. But it hadn’t, it couldn’t have! Or could it. Had it?

© a-yciecat

Mercury One-shot Prologue

"This...is the man that gave the senator 48 stab wounds, hacked and slashed his body to pieces....and packed it in a travelling bag only to throw into the fields of unknown?" I asked the investigator.

"Yes, Attorney."

I reread the files given to me. Name, Kiefer Strelitz. Age, twenty years old. Gender, male. Background, the youngest son to Strelitz Publishing Corporation. Red tagged for propaganda against the government. I put down the folder and looked upon the face of the criminal. He has been in prison for four years. Downtrodden, beaten up, and malnourished—this is the face of the government rebel and murderer?

"What did the witnesses say?" I tapped my fingers on the table, trying to throw my sympathy away towards this kid.

The investigator answered. "They all had the same statement: A tall, lanky man about six feet in height went with the senator in the same room. Later, they heard a gunshot, and one of the senator's secretaries came in. He said the boy was trembling in fear, holding a knife."

His answer made me raise my eyebrows. "Huh? I thought the senator died from stab wounds and being cut to pieces?"

"He did. Because the senator was still alive from the gunshot. Then, this young man attacked the senator and stabbed him to death..."

"What did the secretary do? Why didn't he help?"

Clearing his throat, the investigator placed his hand on my shoulder, leaned close and whispered to my ear. "Well, he was afraid of a rebel. Of course, why would he try to stop a rebel?"

I felt him squeeze on my shoulder. He looked at the young man in question who couldn't afford to look at his intense condemning eyes. "Okay, then. Thanks for answering. I hope you'll leave your lines open for further questions?"

With a devilish smirk, the investigator replied. "Of course, attorney. Oooh, would you look at the time." He whistled as he took a glance at his cheap metal watch. "I'll have to leave you two first." He gave Kiefer one last look of warning before leaving me and

Kiefer alone in the interrogation room.

A moment of silence. I was staring at a terrified man who hadn't fully realized his adulthood yet. "Kiefer?"

Kiefer, seemingly afraid to even look at me, was trembling. His adam's apple moved as he gulped hard.

"Kiefer...." With a warm smile, I reached out my hand for him as a gentle approach to his elusive nature. "My name is Helen Neumann. I am your attorney. I'm here to defend you."

Look at this guy. He can't even speak or respond to my greetings. He's thinking if he should look at me, hold my hand, or answer me.

"Kiefer—"

BAM!!!

"I DID NOT KILL HIM—I SWEAR TO GOD! I DID NOT KILL HIM!" Kiefer grabbed me by my shoulders and shouted the same words as if he's chanting.

As if lightning, the investigator bust open the door and ran swiftly to intervene. He tased Kiefer who was defenseless from the device.

"Hey! You don't have to do that!" He just tased my client!

"Shut it woman!" The investigator roared. "You, shameless brat!" He dragged Kiefer away by his collar as Kiefer held onto his hand.

"Where are you taking him?"

"To the correction hub." He stopped by the door and glanced at me. "If you want to survive this country, don't get in too deep, young lady," the investigator warned.

Anxious and fearful, I shut my mouth and watched Kiefer be dragged away helplessly.

"I did not kill him—I did not kill him...." He cries while being taken away.

The room fell silent as soon as Kiefer left the room....

----777---

Author's Notes:

Just a draft script for a manga that hopefully would be actualized one day.

Dante and Virgil in Hell, William Adolphe Bouguereau (1850)

Excerpt from prologue :

Death does not knock. She comes unannounced, barging in brutally and leaving behind an inert body. Adanna never expected death to leave behind her father’s corpse, sprawling in the middle of their great chamber, letting his putrid scent spread through their little household. No blood and no disease — just gone. This is what alcohol did to a man — or so the old lady living on the street used to say. How could Adanna have known she was right ? No one ever listens to the blather of the seniles.

A deceased man could not speak anymore, could not lie, nor drink, nor hit. The only thing her father could do was lie there on the ground with vacant eyes, facing the ceiling, his mouth partially open, emanating a breath that held no warmth. The overwhelming smell lingered in every corner, clinging to her hair and the dying plants. There was only one reason why she hadn’t gotten rid of the body sooner : a need, sharp and gnawing, was driving her mad.

Rotting flesh is bitter, Adanna realised— far too late, after a few days.

Kneeling in the mud, retching the sour tang of decay still clinging to her tongue, she cursed the moment her teeth had sunk into cold flesh, driven by an odd curiosity, urging and impossible to justify. Patience always made for finer meat— or so she thought. But, Death was imminent and thus it demanded immediate consumption.

Thought ?

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4454

prologue, part one

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth: make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy. Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning. Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm.

A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked. Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed.

The supervisors were waiting.

No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—someone would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

He’d seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

He watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

He didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

He stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

He didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. “Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ... ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you were in a surprisingly good mood, which should’ve been the first red flag. your coworkers weren’t being annoying, the coffee machine was actually working, and not a single patient had tried to self-diagnose off WebMD yet. the universe clearly saw that and went “hmm, too peaceful.” because hours later, the clinic was rubble, a child was almost lost, and you met invincible for the first time. and of course—you yelled at him.

⛨ contains: sfw. local clinic setting. first meeting with invincible. medical professional!reader. civilian chaos. reader being a bad bitch. immediate tension and banter. subtle foreshadowing of their future dynamic. fire/explosion sequence. hands-on first aid moments. mark being surprised-reader-ain’t-scared. small emotional undercurrent under sarcasm.

⛨ warnings: brief injury description (scrapes, blood). explosion/fire trauma. smoke inhalation. nurse carla. mild trauma response (panic, adrenaline). implied danger to a child (rescued safely). some profanity.

⛨ wc: 1093

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: reader has a license, a savior complex, and zero chill. mark shows up for five minutes and gets emotionally wrecked. enjoy the chaos.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s a quiet Tuesday. The kind of quiet that should’ve tipped you off. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last.

Your shift starts at 8:00 AM sharp, and somehow, you’re early. The sun’s out, the sky’s obnoxiously blue, and someone brought donuts to the clinic—for no reason.

You even got your favorite one—the last one—which felt like a small miracle… until you realized the coffee was good.

Not just drinkable. Good. Fresh. Hot. Non-bitter. Suspicious.

You’d joked with Nurse Carla that the universe was trying to butter you up.

“You just wait,” she said, stirring her tea like some all-knowing, scrub-wearing oracle. “It’s always the good days that get you.”

You’d laughed.

Now you’re pretty sure she hexed you.

The clinic hums with calm, the low rhythm of patients being called back and phones ringing occasionally at the front desk. In room three, you patch up a skateboard accident. Room five brings in an elderly man who insists his blood pressure is fine—even as the cuff nearly bursts. You remain patient, calm, even friendly—somehow.

You’re not usually this chipper.

Maybe it’s the sunlight. Maybe it’s the donut.

Either way, you don’t realize you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—

Until it does.

Loud. Violent. Apocalyptic.

The explosion shakes the floor beneath your feet.

It’s not real at first. Just a sound—an echoing blast that shatters windows and hurls you out of your good mood like a ragdoll. You slam your coffee on the counter (RIP—it was actually decent) and bolt toward the door before anyone can stop you.

Smoke is already curling above the skyline. Across the street, a building is on fire—its middle floors cracked open like a broken jaw. Glass rains down. People scream.

You don’t hesitate. You just move.

“Call 911!” you shout over your shoulder as your feet hit the pavement. Your heart kicks into overdrive. The calm is gone.

The illusion shattered.

“Evacuate the lobby!”

You don’t wait for acknowledgment. Your feet are already pounding pavement, shoes slipping slightly on the sidewalk as your mind flips into crisis mode.

You’re already halfway in before your brain catches up.

A woman collapses near the curb—shock. You steady her, get her seated, check her breathing. Alive.

You keep moving.

A teen stumbles out of the smoke, blood on his jeans. You direct him to sit, tear open your kit.

Tourniquet. Gauze. Stabilize. Move.

You don’t even notice when your stethoscope vanishes off your shoulders—just that your hands are moving and your brain’s already triaging in real time.

And then you see her.

A little girl—no older than nine—trapped beneath a chunk of concrete by the crosswalk. Her arm’s twisted at a bad angle. Blood smears her cheek. She’s trying to cry but doesn’t have the energy for more than a breathy whimper.

Before your brain can even catch up, your legs are already sprinting.

Someone grabs your arm—an older man with watery eyes and a voice wobbling from terror. “Don’t!” he begs. “That’s suicide! You’ll die trying to—”

“Move,” you snap, not bothering to look back. “Or piss yourself somewhere else.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

Your knees hit pavement. You’re beside the girl before the guy can finish a follow-up plea, hands already assessing her pulse, breath, injuries. You try to lift the debris. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Your arms shake, muscles strain, lungs burning from smoke.

You try again.

Still nothing.

Panic rises sharp in your throat. The little girl’s eyes flutter—too pale, too quiet.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Hey. Look at me, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

You lie. But your voice is steady.

For a horrible moment, you actually think this is it. That you’re about to die here, buried with this kid—and no one will know why you didn’t wait for backup.

The wind shifts.

Fast. Sharp. A blur of motion and force that sends your hair whipping around your face.

And then the weight’s gone.

You jerk backward, pull the girl free, and curl around her automatically—heart hammering like a drumline. You blink through the smoke and ash.

That’s when you see him.

Invincible.

In the flesh. Blue and yellow suit smeared with ash and blood, goggles cracked at one side. Kneeling beside you like some kind of comic book punchline—if comic books ever showed their heroes looking that tired.

“She’s okay,” you breathe, adjusting the girl in your arms, “but you’re not.”

He blinks like you just insulted him in four languages. “I’m—”

“Don’t say fine.” You eye him critically. “You’re favoring your left. Blood. Concussion-level pupils. You probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone flying.”

“…Are you a doctor?”

“Closer to nurse practitioner. Also not blind.”

You stand, legs shaky but functional. He watches you like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life.

“You should go,” you add, motioning to the kid in your arms. “She needs a hospital. Fast.”

He hesitates.

You frown. “What?”

“…Nothing. Just—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re calm.”

You actually snort. “You mean I didn’t cry and fangirl? Tragic.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not scared of you,” you say, quieter now. “If anything, you’re just another bleeding idiot who didn’t let someone check him out before playing hero.”

You’ve seen enough broken ribs and bad priorities to know most capes aren’t invincible where it counts.

His mouth opens. Closes. Still stunned.

You sigh and hand him the girl, a little softer now. ”Take her. That’s the only reason I’m not yelling more.”

He nods, carefully taking the child into his arms like she’s glass. Gives you one last look—

And he’s gone.

Wind howls. The air cracks.

And you’re left standing there, covered in soot and adrenaline, alone in the wreckage.

You don’t know he’ll remember your voice. The glare. The cracked joke.

But he will.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Somewhere, sometime after…

Nurse Carla sits in her living room, lit by the flicker of a dusty lamp and the glow of a muted rerun. A cat—large, black, and terrifyingly still—curls in her lap like it’s plotting something.

His name is Lucifer. You know this because she whispers it like a prayer when chattering about him.

She sips her tea. Doesn’t flinch when thunder cracks outside, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.

On the table beside her: a newspaper folded open to an article about the explosion. A blurry shot of Invincible in flight.

Carla hums. Calm. Unbothered. All-knowing.

She sets the teacup down with a soft clink, leans back in her chair, and strokes Lucifer’s head.

“I told her,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the void. “Never trust a Tuesday.”

She smiles.

Lucifer purrs.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: nurse carla is two steps from world domination. the cat knows things. be aware.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st