#implied depression

(Credit to Quinchester for the extra Burning Spice sprite.)

Also here’s extra context for Burning Spice’s dilemma.

And Pure Vanilla's.

Here's all the stuff happening to Gingerbave.

You grinned, tugging on his scarf to pull him closer. "Admit it, you love it."

"I love you," he corrected softly. And as the snow fell around you both, he sealed his words with a kiss, his hands cupping your chilled cheeks.

Regulus lay beside you in bed, staring at the ceiling, while your fingers lazily traced patterns along his arm. "If you could be anywhere, doing anything, where would you be?" you asked.

He turned his head to look at you. "Here. With you."

You rolled your eyes. "That’s a cop-out answer."

He smirked. "It’s the truth."

You huffed, but he could see the warmth in your eyes, the way your lips curled slightly at the edges. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You’re such a sap, Regulus Black."

One evening, long after the world had fallen asleep, you had pulled him to his feet in the sitting room. A record played in the background, its melody soft and crackling with age.

"I don’t dance," he had grumbled.

"Then stand there and let me dance with you," you countered, resting your head against his chest as you swayed gently. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved with you, his arms wrapping around your waist. The world outside did not exist in that moment—only the two of you did.

Regulus had never felt fear like this before. Not in battle, not in the presence of the Dark Lord. Nothing compared to the helplessness that gripped him as he knelt beside you, his hands trembling as they brushed against your fevered skin.

"Love, please," he whispered, his voice raw. "Stay with me. Just a little longer."

You offered him a weak smile, your fingers curling around his wrist. "Reg… don’t look at me like that."

"Like what?" he choked out.

"Like you already think I’m gone."

His throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell you that you weren’t allowed to leave him. But even as he held your hand tightly in his own, he could feel you slipping away.

"I don’t know how to live without you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhaled softly, the weight of exhaustion evident in your features. "You don’t have to. Just… just promise me you’ll keep living. Even when it’s hard."

Regulus swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I can’t."

You gave his hand a faint squeeze. "You can. You’re stronger than you think."

But he wasn’t. He was weak without you. And when your eyes finally fluttered shut, and your grip on his hand loosened, something inside him shattered beyond repair.

Days turned to weeks. Regulus stopped attending Death Eater meetings. The Dark Lord sent summons, but he ignored them. Nothing mattered anymore. He barely ate, barely slept. It was as if he had died with you; only his body remained, trapped in this hollow existence.

The Dark Lord’s patience began to wane. He could not tolerate insubordination, not even from the Black heir. At the next gathering, Regulus's absence did not go unnoticed.

"Where is Regulus?" Voldemort’s voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.

Silence.

Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, exchanging a glance with the others. "He has… not been well, my Lord."

Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable. "Not well? Or unwilling?"

A heavy tension filled the chamber, the air thick with unspoken fear. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he turned his gaze to Narcissa Malfoy.

"Go to him," he commanded. "Remind him where his loyalties lie. And if he refuses to remember… persuade him."

Bellatrix Lestrange let out a sharp laugh, the kind that sent a chill down the spine. "Oh, dearest cousin has lost his spirit?" she cooed, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. "Mourning a little lost love? How... pathetic."

Narcissa shot her sister a warning look before bowing her head to the Dark Lord. "I will see to it, my Lord."

Bellatrix sneered. "And if he does not listen?"

"Then we ensure he does," Voldemort replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Narcissa arrived at Grimmauld Place within the hour, her expression composed but laced with concern. She knew grief. She knew how it twisted inside a person, warping their reality, making the rest of the world fade to nothing. But she also knew the cost of disobedience.

She found Regulus where she expected—by your grave. His head was bowed, his fingers tracing the etched letters of your name. He did not look up as she approached, did not acknowledge her presence.

"Regulus," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "You have to come inside. You’ll make yourself ill."

He did not move.

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "She wouldn't want this for you. She loved you, Regulus. You think she would want you wasting away like this?"

His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse from disuse. "Don’t. You don’t understand, Cissy."

"I do understand," she countered, squeezing his arm. "But I also understand that the Dark Lord does not tolerate weakness. He sent me here to remind you of that."

Regulus exhaled sharply, finally lifting his gaze to her. His eyes were hollow, void of the sharp intellect that had once defined him. "Let him kill me, then. It would be easier."

Narcissa’s stomach clenched at his words, but before she could respond, the fireplace in the house roared to life, signaling another arrival.

Bellatrix.

She strode into the clearing like a phantom of death, her wand twirling between her fingers as she observed the pathetic sight before her.

"Look at you," she taunted, tilting her head. "The great Regulus Black, reduced to nothing more than a lovesick fool." She sighed, shaking her head dramatically. "What a waste."

Regulus did not react, not even as she stepped closer. Bellatrix crouched before him, her dark curls falling over her shoulder as she studied him with twisted fascination.

"You think grieving makes you noble?" she whispered mockingly. "It makes you weak. She’s gone. Dead. Nothing you do will bring her back."

Regulus's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "Shut up."

Bellatrix grinned. "There’s fire in you still. Good. You’ll need it when the Dark Lord decides you are no longer worth keeping."

Narcissa rose to her feet, stepping between them. "That’s enough, Bella."

Bellatrix huffed, rolling her eyes. "Enough? Oh, dearest sister, our cousin here needs a lesson in duty."

Regulus finally looked up, his gaze meeting Bellatrix's with something dangerous simmering beneath the emptiness. "My duty?" he echoed. "Tell me, Bella—what would you do if it were Rodolphus? If he was the one buried here?"

For the first time, Bellatrix faltered. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there, a flicker of something human beneath her insanity.

She scoffed, straightening up, mask falling back into place. "That’s the difference between us, dear cousin. I would not be weak enough to let love ruin me."

Regulus gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Then I pity you."

Bellatrix’s eyes darkened, but before she could retort, Narcissa stepped forward, voice firm. "That’s enough. We came here for one reason."

She turned to Regulus, her expression softening. "Come back, Regulus. At least pretend, for your sake. If you keep ignoring the Dark Lord’s summons, it will not be my voice or Bella’s he sends next."

Regulus looked at her for a long moment before exhaling, the weight of his grief pressing down on him. "Fine," he murmured. "I’ll come."

Bellatrix smirked. "Smart boy."

But as Regulus stood, casting one last glance at your grave, he knew the truth.

He would never truly return. Because a part of him had died with you, and no amount of pretending could change that.

A few days later, the night was thick with smoke, the air filled with the distant echoes of screams and the crackling of fire. The raid was nothing new, another display of the Dark Lord’s power, another night of violence. Regulus moved through the wreckage like a specter, his wand gripped tightly in his fingers, his expression empty.

The mission had been simple: take down those who resisted, leave an example behind. It should have been nothing more than another task to complete. And yet, something in Regulus had cracked.

His wand was raised, the curse spilling from his lips before he had even registered the words.

“Crucio.”

The man collapsed instantly, his back arching off the ground as if an invisible force had seized his spine and twisted it. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, his fingers clawing desperately at the dirt, nails breaking as he convulsed. His legs jerked uncontrollably, his body writhing like a trapped insect beneath a magnifying glass, unable to escape the unbearable fire coursing through his veins.

Regulus didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. His arm remained steady, his grip on his wand firm. The screaming filled his ears, louder than the roaring flames consuming the house behind them, louder than the shouted orders of other Death Eaters in the distance. It should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

“Crucio.”

Another wave of agony slammed into the man’s already broken body. He choked on his breath, gasping as though drowning, his limbs seizing up before thrashing violently against the cobbled ground. His skin was slick with sweat, his face contorted into something beyond recognition—beyond human. A broken animal, screaming for mercy that would never come.

Regulus’s heart pounded against his ribs, his fingers twitching as he tightened his hold on his wand. The pain in the man’s eyes—it reflected something back at him. Something raw. Something that made his own grief flare like an open wound. He wanted to stop feeling nothing. He wanted to make the world feel what he did.

“Good,” a voice purred from behind him.

Bellatrix.

Her presence slithered through the smoke like a serpent, her dark eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as she watched him work. She stepped closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Again.”

Regulus hesitated for only a second before his grip tightened once more. The man on the ground barely had the strength to whimper, his body twitching, his consciousness fraying at the edges. His breaths came in wet, strangled gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head. He was close to the edge, teetering between agony and oblivion.

Bellatrix chuckled, her voice dripping with approval. “Yes, dear cousin, let him suffer. Make him beg.”

Regulus’s expression was unreadable, his heart hammering. He lifted his wand once more, ready to cast again, to drag the man deeper into suffering. To let the pain swallow them both whole.

And yet, as he stared down at the broken body beneath him, something twisted in his chest. The man’s face was a mess of blood, sweat, and agony. His fingers twitched, his body barely responding to the torture anymore. He was nothing but a shell now.

Regulus took a slow breath and lowered his wand.

Bellatrix’s smile faltered, her excitement giving way to scrutiny. “Why did you stop?”

Regulus didn’t answer. He turned away from the broken man at his feet and walked past her, his expression void of anything. Bellatrix watched him go, amusement flickering in her gaze.

“Oh, cousin,” she whispered, laughter dancing on her lips. “The Dark Lord will be so pleased.”

Regulus didn’t react. He just kept walking, the man’s screams still ringing in his ears, merging with the ghosts of the past he could never escape.

Another raid. Another night drenched in screams and the scent of burning wood. The world around Regulus was a blur of fire and shadows, but none of it truly touched him. He moved as if in a trance, detached from the chaos that once might have rattled him. Nothing mattered anymore.

The target of their raid had been reduced to a heap of trembling limbs, barely clinging to consciousness. A once-proud wizard, now on his knees in the mud, his body wrecked with exhaustion and pain. Regulus stood over him, wand still raised, breath slow and measured. He didn’t even remember how long he had been casting.

Death Eaters gathered in a loose circle around them, the flickering firelight illuminating their masks, their dark robes shifting like shadows. Some watched in silence, arms crossed, their expressions hidden but their satisfaction clear. Others smirked, whispering amongst themselves, reveling in the spectacle. This was entertainment. A lesson. A show of power.

“Crucio.”

A gurgled scream ripped from the man’s throat, his head snapping back as another wave of unimaginable pain consumed him. He twitched and writhed, his fingers digging into the dirt as if the earth itself could save him. But there was no salvation. No mercy.

Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the ruined village, a sweet and cruel melody that slithered into Regulus’s ears. She stood nearby, watching him with an indulgent sort of pleasure.

“That’s it, darling,” she cooed, stepping closer. “Feel it. Let it consume you.”

Regulus tightened his grip on his wand, watching the way the man’s body spasmed, his eyes rolling back, his screams hoarse and broken. He should have stopped. This should have sickened him. But all he felt was the void.

“Again,” Bellatrix urged, voice thick with delight.

Regulus obeyed. The curse tore from his lips once more, and the man shrieked, though his body was barely responding now. He was slipping, teetering on the edge of death, barely holding onto life by the frayed strings of his shattered nerves.

Bellatrix stepped around Regulus, her movements slow, predatory. She knelt beside the broken man, running a gloved finger through the blood seeping into the mud.

“See how beautiful suffering can be?” she murmured, her gaze flicking up to meet Regulus’s. “You understand it now, don’t you?”

From the corner of his eye, Regulus saw some of the Death Eaters nodding approvingly, their postures relaxed, satisfied. Others murmured to one another, their voices thick with amusement, speaking as if this were nothing more than a game.

Regulus didn’t answer. His wand was still raised, his heart hammering beneath his ribs. He wasn’t sure if it was from exhilaration or sickness. He wasn’t sure if he cared.

Bellatrix smirked, her dark eyes dancing with a manic sort of glee.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” she said, almost sing-song. “You’re finally becoming who you were meant to be.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his fingers tingling from the magic coursing through him. His chest felt hollow, his veins filled with ice. He didn’t look at the man he had broken. He didn’t want to.

Instead, he turned away, stepping over the crumpled body as if it were nothing more than debris in his path.

Bellatrix followed him, still smiling, still watching.

The Death Eaters parted as he passed, some murmuring words of approval, others giving him silent nods of respect. This was his place now. This was who they believed he was becoming.

But Regulus felt nothing. Nothing at all.

The first time Regulus killed someone after your death, it wasn’t intentional. At least, not in the beginning.

The raid had gone as all the others did, rushed movements, shouts, spells flying through the air like lightning, the scent of burning wood and flesh thickening the night. Regulus had been moving on instinct, his mind caught somewhere between the present and the past, the ghosts of his memories keeping him at a cruel distance from reality. He barely registered the man he had cornered, barely recognized the wand shaking in the desperate grip of someone who had already lost.

It should have been over quickly. Stun him. Leave him. Move on. But something snapped.

The man had looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading, and there was something—something in his expression.

It was the way his lips parted, the way his chest heaved, the way his entire body braced for the worst but still hoped, still begged for mercy. It was the same way you had looked at Regulus once. The same way you had reached for him in your final moments, fingers weak, trembling, before they had gone cold against his skin.

His wand moved before he could think.

“Crucio.”

The man screamed.

Regulus had cast the curse before, had heard the sound of agony a hundred times over. But this was different. This wasn’t calculated. This wasn’t controlled. It was raw, vicious, and desperate. He poured everything into it—his grief, his rage, his emptiness. He watched as the man writhed beneath the force of his magic, body twisting unnaturally, breath choking in his throat as his screams turned ragged.

And Regulus didn’t stop.

He barely noticed when the others fell silent around him, when the fight moved on, when the only sound left in the alley was the crackling fire and the wet gasps of a dying man. His hand was shaking, grip tight around his wand as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

The man stopped moving. His chest barely rose. His fingers twitched, his mouth opened, whether to speak or to breathe, Regulus would never know. Because, in that next instant, the last thread of life snapped, and he was gone.

Regulus stared down at him, at the way the light had left his eyes, at the way his body had gone slack in the dirt, at the way his blood soaked into the ground as if the earth itself was eager to erase his existence.

He waited for the guilt. He waited for the satisfaction. He waited for anything at all.

But there was nothing. No regret. No triumph. No relief.

Just emptiness.

A void where something should have been.

And as the night stretched on, as the echoes of death faded into the wind, Regulus realized that maybe, just maybe, there was nothing left of him to save.

Regulus hadn’t looked at himself in weeks. Maybe months. There was no need. He already knew what he would see—someone who wasn’t really alive anymore. A hollowed-out thing, a ghost wrapped in skin.

But tonight, something had drawn his eyes to the mirror.

It was accidental. He had stumbled into the Black family bathroom after another sleepless night, reaching for the basin to splash water on his face. But then his gaze flickered up, and there he was.

He froze.

The man staring back wasn’t him. He looked sickly, his once-pale skin now ashen, stretched thin over his sharp cheekbones. The deep shadows beneath his eyes made them look sunken, like the empty sockets of a corpse. His lips were chapped, bloodied in places where he had bitten them raw without realizing it. His dark curls, once so carefully combed, were a tangled, matted mess.

His mother would have been horrified. His father, disgusted. He might have cared once.

Regulus gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring, unable to look away. A thought flickered through his mind—how much he looked like you in the last days before you died. How the sickness had drained the life from your body, how your eyes had dulled, how you had wasted away until there was nothing left but a fragile shadow of the person you once were.

You were dead.

And he was still here. Why?

Something cracked inside him, something he had been holding together for too long. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and suddenly he was moving, his hand lashing out before he could stop himself.

The mirror shattered.

The pieces clattered to the floor, sharp fragments catching the dim candlelight, scattering across the black-and-white tiles. He stared down at them, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his fingers shaking. Blood dripped from his knuckles where the glass had sliced him, but he barely felt the pain.

It was quiet now.

Too quiet.

His reflection was gone. No more proof that he was still here, that he was still breathing when you weren’t.

He slumped to the floor, his back against the sink, staring blankly at the broken shards surrounding him. It felt fitting. Like his body had finally caught up with the state of his soul.

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever. The thought of moving, of getting up and continuing like nothing had happened, felt impossible. The weight in his chest, the crushing emptiness inside him, was too much.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to fight it.

The thought came slowly, creeping in like a whisper in the back of his mind, curling around him like smoke.

It would be easier. To just… stop.

To close his eyes and never open them again. To let go.

He wasn’t scared. He had nothing left to be afraid of. No one left to disappoint.

You were waiting for him. Somewhere out there, beyond all of this, you were waiting.

Regulus let his head fall back against the cabinet, his bloodied hand going limp at his side. He exhaled slowly, almost peacefully.

Maybe it was time to go home. Go back home to you.

The cave was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the dark lake against the stone. The air was damp, thick with the scent of decay, of something ancient and long-forgotten. Regulus stood at the water’s edge, his wand raised, the golden locket heavy in his trembling hand.

This was it. His final act of defiance.

He had spent so long lost in grief, spiraling deeper into the abyss of the Dark Lord’s service, hollowed out by your absence. He had tried to fill that void with cruelty, with violence, with mindless obedience. But none of it had numbed the agony of losing you. And now, he stood here, at the edge of his own demise, finally understanding what you would have wanted for him.

He wasn’t meant to be this. He wasn’t meant to be a monster.

“Kreacher,” he whispered. The elf trembled beside him, eyes wide with terror. “Take this. Go. Destroy it.” He forced the locket into Kreacher’s small hands, curling the elf’s fingers around it.

“But Master Regulus—” Kreacher’s voice cracked.

“Please,” Regulus breathed, kneeling before the only soul who had remained loyal to him. “You must live. You must finish what I started.”

Tears burned his eyes as he thought of you, of the way you would have scolded him for throwing his life away, for giving up. But this wasn’t giving up, was it? This was finally doing something right.

Kreacher vanished with a crack.

And then, the water stirred.

Cold fingers clawed at the air, skeletal hands breaking through the surface. The Inferi moved unnaturally, jerking toward him with silent, gaping mouths. He lifted his wand, but he already knew—there was no escaping this.

His body screamed to fight, to run, but Regulus let himself sink to his knees. A hand gripped his wrist, another clawed at his shoulder, and suddenly he was being pulled under, the icy water swallowing him whole.

Darkness wrapped around him, numbing his limbs, slowing his heart. He exhaled a shuddering breath, bubbles escaping his lips as the last remnants of air left his lungs. He didn’t fight. He didn’t thrash. He simply closed his eyes and let the memory of you carry him away.

Your laughter. Your warmth. The way you whispered his name like it was something sacred.

He saw you waiting for him in the depths, reaching out, just as you had before you were taken from him. And as the abyss claimed him, for the first time since your death, he felt peace.

Your name was the last thing that left his lips before the darkness took him forever.

When Regulus opened his eyes, he was somewhere else. The cold was gone, the suffocating weight of water no longer pressing against his lungs. Instead, there was light—soft, warm, golden light. The kind he had only seen in dreams.

And then he saw you.

You stood before him, untouched by time, just as he remembered you—beautiful, radiant, alive. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he stumbled forward, almost afraid that if he touched you, you would disappear.

But you didn’t.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, the dam inside him shattered. A sob ripped from his throat, raw and broken, and he clung to you as if he were drowning all over again. His fingers dug into you, desperate, needing to make sure this was real, that you were real.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’m so—so sorry.”

Your hands came up, running through his dark hair, soothing, grounding. “Shh, Regulus,” you murmured. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

But he wasn’t sure he deserved to be. He had done terrible things. He had let grief consume him, let it turn him into something unrecognizable. He had been lost for so long.

Yet, in your arms, he finally felt found.

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. “You did the right thing,” you whispered. “You’re here now. With me.”

Regulus let out another broken sob, pressing his forehead against yours. For the first time in what felt like eternity, the void inside him wasn’t empty anymore. He was home.

I just realized that whenever it's revealed that Neil ended up kicking the bucket you can *see* how everyone else reacts. You can tell how they feel whenever you realize the stuff that went down with everything.

like especially in the scene where they're all singing. (pardon for the shitty quality if it looks bad)

Like... You can tell how they're all feeling in this scene alone.

Charlie isn't even singing. He's not even participating in this. You see Cameron in the back participating but it seems like he's thinking about something and you can tell it's probably not something good. Same thing with how you see how torn Meeks is.

Like of course they all are close in their own ways. Not even a few seconds later you see the light hitting Todd's face just right to show that there's snot on his upper lip (showing that he's still been crying) and how Knox and Pitts are singing with their full lungs and chest.

There's such a vast array of emotions in this it's literally suffocating?? In an odd sense. Like it feels like there's too much and not enough emotion in it at the same time.

Also??? When you see keating??? A few frames later and how sad he is??? Oh my god??? /lh /aaughgh???

You see him looking away. Not even at Mr. Noland like the other teachers and administrators are, but he's actively looking away and almost in a dissociative-like state. Like oh my god??? Holy shit???

Adding onto this, the scene afterward where Charlie chews out Cameron for finking??? I love to imagine that the reason Cameron said "Nuwanda" instead of "Charlie" (like his actual name is) is because of the fact that he's genuinely putting his foot down this time. Like they did when Charlie outed out this DPS to begin with.

You see it in his eyes that he genuinely means what he says here. Like when he says "You just signed your expulsion papers, Nuwanda." you can tell that he's just pissed.

ALSO. A SMALL DETAIL I NOTICED EARLIER. Could be an entire coincidence and I could be so SO wrong, but look at this.

I want you to focus on Pitt's signature for a moment. Stay with me here.

You see that?

Remember what the the DPS "signature" looked like?

If not, here's a reminder:

Now I could be so very wrong. I could be so off. But I do imagine Pitts had more of an attachment to the DPS than we saw because of this. You could at least tell in the signature (in my eyes at least) that he clearly cared a lot about this shit.

A pleased hum vibrated along your lips and rumbled through your throat as a soft breeze kissed your skin. It smelt of sand and sea, beneath that the delectable scent of various dishes cooking in the restaurant kitchen. You took another sip of your drink, the taste of [favorite fruit] wonderfully flooding your taste buds once again. You savored the flavor as your gaze lingered on the view before you, out towards the vast body of saltwater beyond. It was an excellent idea, coming out here; you’d have to thank Divus for the recommendation later. This was exactly what you needed. 

You were tucked into a nice little corner as well. Your table was situated on the lower deck of the restaurant - you thought it too nice an evening to remain inside. The spot wasn’t too far from the kitchens, either, so your food and drink didn’t take long to reach you. There was only one thing missing: company. When you first planned to eat out here, you thought Divus and Trein would come with you. However, as usual, their duties as professors got them into a bit of trouble, and a little injury. Thank goodness it wasn’t too bad of a fall; even so, the men had been in no mood to walk two to three flights of stairs, whether short or long. 

So, here you were, split between happiness for the alone time and disappointed in the lack of friendly conversation. Your eyes made another once over of your surroundings, watching the other patrons chat and laugh amongst themselves. Just as you were about to focus back on the waning sunset, your gaze settled on a familiar figure on the floor above. You could scarcely make out his frame, but you knew that mask from anywhere. What was Crowley doing here? Well, that was a dumb question. When was the headmage not making the most of the trip - either on or off the clock, to you and your coworkers’ misfortune. 

You couldn’t try and scold him, since it was technically both your off times. There was no reason to go and talk to him. Still…you found yourself rising from your seat. You placed a few madol on the table for your waiter; as you passed by the person at the register, you mentioned you were moving up to the top floor. That way they wouldn’t try and chase you, thinking you were trying to skip paying your bill. When the cashier gave you a nod and a smile, you headed up the long flight of stairs. It was a bit of a struggle to not spill your drink in your ascension, but you managed. Within minutes you reached the top - the view was even better from this height. 

Crowley faced away from you, the rim of his glass pressed to his lips as he took a sip of the liquid within. You couldn’t tell if it was alcoholic or not - did he even drink? Guess it was time to find out. “I’m surprised to see you here,” were the words you greeted him with. He turned to you as you rested your glass on the wooden edge of the balcony, wide enough for patrons to settle small plates of food or beverages. 

The headmage greeted you with a smile as he straightened his posture. “I make a point to visit this restaurant whenever I get the chance to travel here.” Crowley leaned against the railing, arm rested atop it, clawed hands almost folded in front of him. He looked more casual than usual - relaxed, even. If he were not a man who constantly plucked at your nerves, you’d think him rather dashing, especially since, this evening, he was not clad in that gaudy tropical shirt and khakis. Aside from his cloak, top hat, and cane, he was dressed in his usual ensemble. “Is this your first time here?” he asked. 

“The restaurant or this beach in general?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “Either.” 

“Yes, to both,” you answered. Your body relaxed as you rested your arms against the wooden railing, glass placed next to you. “This is my first vacation in forever, I think. Usually, when I’m not working, I just hang out at home.” You chuckled, “I wouldn’t exactly call this a vacation, anyway; it’s basically a work trip.” 

“True,” Crowley agreed, “but I have done my best to work some ample time for you and the other staff to enjoy yourselves as well.” You seriously questioned that, with the way the man would sometimes outright abandon you and the students in favor of some other unknown activity. He picked up his small glass with his fingertips, swirling the brown liquid within as his eyes cast back out at the waves beyond. “This is truly a charming place, despite the hustle and bustle of the tourists.” Crowley lifted the glass to take another sip of his beverage. Feeling a bit mischievous, you decided to ask him another question. 

“Is that why Royal Sword and Noble Bell also chose this place to hold their field trips?” You held back a laugh as the headmage nearly choked on the drink. Patiently, you waited for him to regain himself before he answered. 

“Well…I suppose that is the reason.” You could almost picture the sweat that surely beaded under his shirt collar. “As I said, this is a wondrous place! What better destination for students to learn and play?” 

“It is, indeed, a place to do both - for all ages.” A little smirk played on your lips as you pried more. “It’s just strange we arrived right as the other schools did.” You lifted your drink to your lips as you added, “Coincidence, perhaps?” 

The headmage now avoided your gaze - a clear sign he was nervous. “Ah…yes!” Crowley let out a nervous laugh. “Quite so! Us three headmasters must be in sync with one another. As they say, great minds think alike!” 

Or a certain one didn’t want to look bad in front of his peers, you thought to yourself. For now, you decided to keep that thought to yourself. After all, there was no proof to that…yet. Divus said he would keep you posted.

“While it does allow our students to mingle with ones from other schools, it is a little chaotic.” You sighed as you placed your drink back down on the space next to you, the taste of [drink of choice] fresh upon your tongue. “I’m surprised there haven't been that many fights. Aside from Spade’s confrontation with those Royal Sword boys, there hasn’t been much of an incident. It’s either we finally have peace in the valley,” another sigh left your lips, “or all will come crashing down in the final days of the trip.” 

“Come now,” Crowley chuckled. “Do you have such little faith in our flock?” You sent him a look - without words, he seemed to get the point. He nodded his head, “Yes, our students are a rowdy bunch, to be sure. But perhaps this change of scenery will calm those rebellious natures enough for them to put away their fists.” 

“Hopefully,” you wished, with all of your being. You really didn’t get paid enough for the hassle sometimes. 

A silence fell between you two for a few moments, nothing but the sound of distant chatter and ocean waves filling your ears. Crowley was the one to break that hush. “[Y/n]?” You perked up at the sound of your name - your first name. It was odd for him not to address you formerly, even when off duty. With your attention back on him, he continued. “What do you think makes a good person?” 

“I didn’t know you partook in philosophy,” you said, perplexed by the question. Where did this come from?

“I read up on the subject from time to time,” Crowley mentioned. “Will you humor me?” 

Well, you didn’t see why you couldn’t. You did yearn for conversation earlier - now you had it. For a few seconds, you thought his question over, tossed and turned it in your mind. What made a good person? “I guess it depends on the person,” you finally replied. “No one will answer the same; it all weighs on someone’s life experience, I think.” 

“That was not what I asked.” Crowley’s expression was different, you realized. He looked sincere - more serious than you’d ever seen him. Even when a certain group of students overblotted in the past year, he hadn’t appeared this way. “I am asking you what makes a good person. In your eyes, what makes a good person?” 

You rarely ever experienced this man look directly into your eyes. It was almost like he wanted to peer into your very soul to find the answer. The tone of his voice had shifted as well, you noticed. Has Crowley ever been so earnest? You couldn’t answer that. You said you would humor him, so humor him you would. After a bit more contemplation, you explained to him what, to you, made a good person. 

The man listened intently, hung on your every word. He gave a slight nod of his head from time to time, truly taking in your beliefs. You secretly wished he’d take his work as seriously as this opinion of yours. Once you said your piece, he nodded once more, and then another long moment of silence washed over you both. That yellow gaze, obscured behind Crowley’s dark mask, was cast down to the ground. The rest of his expression, along with his body language, was almost…solemn, you thought. Did he find your answer disappointing? 

Before you could ask, he raised his head and smiled at you. Though it looked a little strained, he sounded genuine. “Thank you, [Y/n]. I will keep your words in mind for the future.” You watched as he picked up his glass once more, clasped a little tightly in his palm as he held it up to his lips. He then tilted his head back and drank the entirety of his beverage in a few short gulps. 

Your eyes must have widened at the display, for he let out a small laugh. “What’s that look for?” 

“What was that?” you asked, pointing at his now empty glass. 

“My drink?” Crowley shook the glass and the remaining ice clinked around within. “Scotch.” 

“You chugged it that quickly?!” The audacity of this man. “Will you even be able to walk back to the hotel?” It wasn’t too far away, the restaurant was located just outside the resort, but…

Crowley let out another laugh, much louder than the last. “Aww, you worry for me? I’m flattered!” Who wouldn’t worry? “But I assure you I’m quite alright. It takes a lot more than that to get me tipsy.” 

That was a pretty sizable amount of liquor though. Even Trein, someone who himself partook in scotch from time to time, would get a little blitzed after such a chug. How…how much did it take to get Crowley drunk? How much had he drunk in the past to build that high of a tolerance? Your expression must have revealed your inner thoughts, for Crowley let out another chuckle. 

“It has been my friend on many a late night,” he explained. Crowley eyed the glass in his hand almost as though it were an old friend. He appeared…almost sad, for the way he smiled. “This evening is one of few where it is not required.” 

Your heart sank. Not required? Sure, you knew Crowley was probably the type to drink a good bit, like Divus, but…that sounded rather ominous. Crowley appeared no different than the depressed protagonist in a movie. What exactly did he have to be depressed about? You thought back to the odd question he asked you minutes before. ‘What makes a good person?’ 

You thought about all the times Crowley praised himself. How kind he claimed to be with every little thing he did. Always out of arrogance, narcissism, maybe. Now, in light of the question he gave you, how he reacted and mulled over your answer. It now seemed those praises were affirmations to himself…assurances he was doing good. The confidence he showed when he made such claims always fueled the frustration within you. When put in this light though, it sounded like…like a man desperate to be a good person, when he didn’t know how to be. 

“Dire-” 

Your elbow hit something as you adjusted your position: Your glass. You gasped as it fell over the railing; you were just in time to watch it fall down to the sand three flights of stairs away. Thankfully it didn’t hit anyone on the way. A few guests and servers looked up in confusion - you suddenly felt embarrassed. You nearly jumped out of your skin when Crowley belted out in laughter. “It happens to the best of us!” he reassured. “I can’t count how many times I’ve made such a blunder.” 

With a wave of his hand, he called a waiter over. “Would you get my companion here another -” he glanced over at you “ - what were you having?” 

“[Drink of choice],” you mumbled, still flustered beyond belief. 

“[Drink of choice]!” Crowley repeated to the waiter. He handed them his empty glass as he added, “And another glass of scotch for me, if you wouldn’t mind.” Crowley slipped the waiter a several madol as a tip - or as a way to get your drinks quicker. Either way, the waiter uttered a ‘yes, sir’ before they headed down to the bar. As they went out of sight, Crowley turned back to you. “Where is that smile from before? You’re not the first to knock over a glass, you know.” 

“I know…” You shied away as you rubbed your arm. “I just hate someone has to pick it up.” 

“I’m sure that isn’t the worst thing they’ve ever done.” Crowley sat himself in a cushioned chair at the corner of the floor. You followed suit and took the one across from him. “If it broke, I will pay for that as well.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I have to pay for it?” 

“Usually,” he rested his chin against the back of his hand, “if I were not treating you.” 

Dire Crowley, the stingy headmage of Night Raven College, treating you? You couldn’t hold back the small laugh that escaped your throat. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor,” you quipped. 

He scoffed, taken aback by your statement. “Whatever do you mean? I have a great sense of humor! And that was not a joke: I intend to pay for the drinks you may have in my presence.” 

Who clocked him over the head? “You’re serious?” you questioned with a skeptical raise of your brow. “Not going to take this out of my paycheck or something?”

“You think me that cruel?” He seemed to flinch by the look that crossed your face. “No no, I’m not going to take it out of your check - or any thereafter.” Another smile twitched at his lips. “Consider this my thanks for your company - and for answering my question.”

You wanted to ask more - more than him treating you. Yet something told you to hold back for now. Apparently this man was more cryptic, held more mysteries than you ever thought him to. There likely wouldn’t be anything to garner from his question - tonight, at least. Might as well take your good luck and accept the offer, before he changed his mind. You put your skepticism aside and smiled. “Thank you - I really appreciate it.”

Those masked eyes seemed to brighten a little at your gratitude. His posture straightened a bit more, his characteristic confidence back in full force. “Of course! I cherish the opportunity to reward one of my fellow peers for their hard work. After all,” his smile wavered into what looked like a smirk, “I am ever so kind~” 

Another reassurance…to you, or to himself? You seriously would question that from now on. 

Knowing my luck, the prick’s run off with his shocking wife or something. The thought plagued your mind too often. And it was true: Spiderman disappeared. He no longer served Nueva York and kept it safe, he no longer caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, he no longer gave chase throughout the city before pinning you down on some rooftop and taking his prize by force. And you liked it–no, you loved it. Fucking with the man who’d always get to fuck you back came to be a part of life you relished. 

But now you were alone. Left by yourself to deal with lumbering lizards and giggling goblins while wondering how the fuck you’d ended up as a hero when you were anything but. Even the police couldn’t believe the switch, which caused some problems, and led to less-sexy chases that ended with you getting away no problem. 

I wish I had problems. Just one problem, though: Spiderman. 

You tossed aside your shiny leathers and collapsed into your bed. He’d never been there, no, but you fantasized about it. You thought about his impossibly wide back and the ripple of taut muscle greeting you in the morning, or maybe his built chest and strong neck–or maybe his handsome face–well, you’d never seen his face, but you had your guesses. 

Your chest twinged the slightest bit, somewhere between where your greed and feelings intertwined.

Ugh. You missed him. 

–

“Who's that?” Peter remarked as he walked up on Miguel. The lab was dark and dreary, spilling with shades of orange and amber where the blues couldn't reach. And Miguel, the source of the cold, stood in front of the firelight, gazing upon your image in the newscycle. 

Miguel frowned. “No one.” But he didn't tuck your image nor the article away. 

“Huh, looks like Black Cat. A 2099 Black Cat? Never thought I'd see the day.” Peter hummed and bounced a sleepy Mayday in his arms. “He up to no good?” 

“He's up to good,” Miguel bit out. “That's the problem. He doesn't do good.” 

“He's sort of an anti-hero these days,” Lyla cut in, blinking into existence on Peter's shoulder like the devil she was. “All thanks to Spiderman's influence–” 

“Lyla,” Miguel warned (begged?). 

“--aaand their sweet, cute budding romance,” she finished with a dreamy sigh. “Doesn't it just melt your heart?” 

–

You pinned him against the wall and let your hands trace through the hard lines of his muscles on your way down to your ultimate prize. Spiderman shuddered and stayed still, much to your surprise, letting you feel him, letting you acknowledge the hardness bulging under your criminal touch. Because he dreamt of this too. Dreamt of you touching him, of you falling down to your knees, your eyes never leaving his masked face even when you pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to stretched fabric holding back his filled cock. 

“So strong,” you cooed, “but not strong enough to resist, hm?” You sighed and worked him through the fabric with one hand. “Shouldn’t you be stopping the big bad from manhandling you like this, Spidey?”

“Hardly consider you the big bad,” he scoffed back. Spiderman tilted his head back with a choked groan whent hose diamond-tipped clawed gloves dug into his thighs. “Mierda, you–”

“Oh?” You grinned, so cheshire, so in-theme with your persona. “You can stop me any time, no?” 

He could’ve. But he didn’t. 

–

“A daughter,” you murmured. The flickering images–memories, maybe?–were there, waiting quietly for you, preserved and kept precious in shades of amber. But the scene was so alive; you could feel the stretch of the sun against your gloved touch, you basked in the crisp Spring air of that soccer game, you drowned in the warmth of that father's smile–

Spidey's smile. That was beyond obvious. The mountainous shoulders, the tawny skin, those hands– they belonged to him. Your beast. Your nemesis and lover, the man you hadn’t seen for far too long–

“Because you've been off taking care of a kid?” Your fingers, gentle, feather-light, ghosted across that foreign memory. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Who’s your baby mama?

The lab lights stilted and jittered. You snapped from your trance and made for the window you’d come in through, not bothering to see what was happening with your system jammers–you knew Lyla, she knew you, and that made the whole breaking-into-Spiderman’s-base thing more tricky and risky. Your jammer wasn’t fool-proof. It was quite easy to override, actually, but the interference was the difficult thing to detect in the first place. You only thought you’d need a handful of minutes to see your spider, anyway.

But he wasn’t there. Maybe he was off with his little girl. 

Something cacophonous and nerve-wracking churned to the sound of warping electricity behind you as you dove from the window and slid down the side of the skyscraper, claws shrieking against metal and glass alike until you could launch off and latch onto a passing hover car. The periphery of your mind swore it saw flashes of orange and yellow, more violent and heavy than the screens you stared at in that dower room, and maybe you might have heard a familiar voice too. 

The broad, tiny silhouette standing in that abandoned window gave you much more to think about.  -- Feel free to comment on this post if you want to be tagged for the full version!