I don't know if you write fanfiction with Alastor Yandere? Can I ask? If not, I understand⊠How about an Alastor Yandere with a newbie reader in hell who doesn't know how they got there? Maybe the reader is a video game demon, and their power is to create current games. Of course, that would catch Vox's attention. (The reader, in life, loved games and always played them in their free time).
This one shot is based on this ask! Which i love! i wish i could tag the asker but i'm sure they'll see it! thank you so much for asking!
Thatâs the first thing that unsettles youâthe absolute void where your last memory should have been. There is no flash of light, no sudden pain, no heart-stopping accident, nothing to mark the end of your mortal life. Just⊠waking up. One moment you were in your bedroom, late at night, the glow of your monitor painting your face as you furiously mashed buttons to beat a final boss; the next you were on cracked, soot-stained pavement under a sky the color of burning iron. The air smells wrongâsharp, metallic, and faintly sweetâbut itâs the sheer wrongness of it all that hits you first. You try to stand, and your legs wobble like untested circuits. Youâre alone, and yet you feel⊠observed.
Your hands tremble as you glance around the city. Neon signs buzz erratically above broken streets, flickering with static and symbols that make no sense. The laughter of demons echoes from alleyways, high-pitched and gleeful, sharp like broken glass. Their eyes glint from the darkness. Teeth, claws, horns, tailsâitâs a riot of chaos youâve never seen before, and somehow, some part of your brain knows you are not supposed to be here. Not yet. Not ever. And yet, here you are. You clutch at the only thing that feels real: the memory of games. The rhythmic click of buttons, the hum of a console, the escape into worlds you could understand and control. Itâs grounding. Itâs comforting. And yet, in this place, itâs a distant echo, fragile and insubstantial.
You discover your power by accident. Youâre cornered by three smaller demons in a shadowed alley. They leer at you, drooling, anticipation dripping from every line of their bodies. One of them, the leader, steps forward, jagged claws catching the neon glow. âFresh meat,â he sneers, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against your chest. Panic lashes through you, every instinct screaming to flee. Your hands rise, trembling, unsure why they obey a command that hasnât yet been spoken aloud.
And then it happens.
The world glitches.
The brick walls shudder as if they were made of pixels. Health bars appear above the demonsâ heads, floating in translucent green and red. An ethereal battle theme erupts from nowhere, the notes perfectly synchronized to your racing heartbeat. You squeeze your hands instinctively, as if holding an invisible controller, and the lead demonâs eyes widen in terror. A massive, glowing hammer materializes above him, oversized and cartoonish. It slams down with a comic-crash impact that nonetheless obliterates him in a burst of spark-like fragments. The other two demons scream and flee, leaving you breathless and shaking. You stare at your hands. âI⊠I did that?â you whisper, barely audible over your pounding pulse.
You realize then what you are capable of. Not illusions. Not tricks. You can create games. Not just systems that look like games, but actual mechanicsâphysics, rules, enemies, itemsâmanifested in reality. You can turn the environment itself into a playable world. You test it nervously, summoning floating menus, crafting a miniature racing track through the alley, watching as your powers obey every whim. Fear melts into awe. Youâve never felt so alive.
But Hell has television. And it has Vox. And nothing in Pentagram City happens without his notice.
You donât see him at first. Youâre too preoccupied with testing your power, summoning a fully functional multiplayer arena in a derelict plaza, tweaking difficulty curves, and laughing at the absurdity of your own creativity. But somewhere, across the city, his blue glow fixes on you. The moment he detects your signal, you are marked. You are a new commodity, a fresh source of content, a mind to exploit.
You meet him a week later. Youâre deep in a dungeon-crawler simulation, summoning waves of pixelated skeletons, when the space around you snaps. Reality freezes. Every enemy locks mid-swing. You spin, disoriented, to see Vox behind you, voice buzzing through your skull like static. âHELLOOOOOO, PLAYER ONE!â he booms, enthusiasm crackling in digital distortions. He grins at you, cyan screen-face glowing unnaturally. âYouâre fascinating. Do you know how valuable you are?â
Panic spikes. You attempt to summon a defensive mechanism, but your powers flicker as his signal overrides your own. The rules of your creation warp under his presence, and you feel, for the first time, helpless. He laughs at your confusion, relishing your vulnerability. He wants to consume your talent, control your content, make you a broadcast. The world tilts, unbalanced, until thereâs a sudden, violent interruption.
A warm, chilling laugh cuts through the tension, old-fashioned and strangely melodic. Red light floods the frozen alley, replacing Voxâs harsh cyan. The dungeon simulation dissolves entirely, leaving you standing in a golden-lit radio studio that wasnât there before. Velvet curtains, vintage microphones, polished woodâeverything impossibly luxurious and terribly out of place.
âWell now, thatâs quite enough of that,â he says lightly, cane tapping against the floor in time with your racing heartbeat. Vox stiffens in the distance, static shrieking in protest. âStay out of this, Radio Freak,â Alastor adds, almost casually. His gaze falls on you briefly, assessing, calculating, amused. You freeze, heart hammering. âYou see,â he continues, voice smooth as silk, âI do adore novelty. And our little friend here is quite the novelty indeed.â
The studio seems to breathe with him. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting around your feet without touch. Voxâs signal distorts violently, then vanishes. Silence returns, but itâs heavier, denser, as though the air itself is warning you.
Alastor circles you slowly, eyes gleaming. âYouâre new. Frightened. Uncertain. And powerful,â he murmurs, tilting his head. âThat makes you⊠vulnerable.â
Your hands twitch instinctively, summoning a minor UI flicker, and he notices. The shadow at your feet stiffens. âAh-ah,â he says softly. âNo need for that. Iâm not here to harm you.â
You want to believe him. You want to relax. But the tension coils in your stomach as he leans closer. His voice lowers, intimate and dangerous. âI am here to ensure no one else does.â
Days pass. Weeks. You avoid moving into the Hazbin Hotel, yet you never truly leave its vicinity. Alastor is always nearby, a constant presence. He smiles at your experiments with game mechanics, delighted when you accidentally summon rhythm-based combat in the courtyard, synchronizing enemies to musical timing. âOh, I do like that one,â he says, clapping slowly as demons are knocked back by beats. âShow me how it works.â
You test boundaries. You attempt a portal-based escape system, a creative experiment to explore the wider city. The moment you activate it, your mechanics subtly warp. Your own parameters bend under an invisible hand, not breaking your power, just constraining it. You turn. Alastor stands behind you, smiling, polite, terrifying. âI simply canât have you wandering into unfriendly hands,â he explains. âThink of it as⊠setting parental controls.â
Your pulse jumps. âIâm not yours.â
His eyes flash red, just for a second, sharp as a blade. âNo,â he agrees softly. âBut you are under my protection.â
The word lodges in your chest like a splinter. Not ownership. Not imprisonment. But alarmingly close.
When Vox attempts contact again, it ends violently. You hear the distant static screams across the skyline, but you do not see Alastor act. Later, he hums cheerfully that evening, a dangerous undertone hiding in his cadence. âYou wonât be bothered again,â he assures, and you wonder if the threat lingers somewhere behind his smile.
Alastorâs fascination grows daily. He observes you with an intensity that is both flattering and suffocating. He doesnât need you. He doesnât want to exploit you for gain, like Vox. He wants you for himself. You are a living game, a world of endless surprises, a program he cannot share, a player he refuses to let leave.
One evening, you sit on the hotel balcony, summoning a soft, pixelated starlit sky over Hellâs red haze. Alastor appears quietly beside you, watching. âYouâre still afraid,â he notes lightly.
âI donât remember my death,â you whisper, voice trembling.
He studies you, his smile widening. âWould you like to?â
ââŠNo,â you murmur.
âExcellent,â he purrs, teeth glinting. The word chills you. He could discover your memories at will, but he chooses not toâfor now.
âYouâre not going to trap me here forever, are you?â you ask.
He laughs, warm and distorted. âMy dear,â he says, resting his chin lightly on his cane, âyou could leave whenever you wish.â The shadows ripple subtly around the balcony. âYouâd just have to survive without me.â
It isnât a threat. Not exactly. But the weight is undeniable. Hell is dangerous. Vox is watching. Others will notice your power. And Alastor? Alastor has already decided.
You are interesting. You are powerful. You are his favorite new program. And he doesnât share his favorites.
You summon a glowing prompt into the air.
SAVE GAME?
Your finger hovers. Alastor watches, silently delighted. âAn excellent idea,â he hums. âWe wouldnât want to lose progress, now would we?â
You press YES.
Somewhere deep in Hellâs code, something locks in. And Alastorâs smile stretches wider than ever.
I loved writing this! let me know if you guys want a part 2! Also let me know if you guys want to be on the hazbin hotel tag list or if you want to be on just the Alastor tag list!
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Would you mind doing a scenario with some members of the Astral Express with a teen!reader whoâs got really powerful abilities, but they use it for the most mundane things?
Like, they can make a void that absorbs just about anything as they please, but they use it exclusively to suck the dirt of dishes/floors or pull things to them when they donât feel like standing up.
Or they can create portals, but they use the rift that they travel through to store whatever random items they take interest in.
Overall, just some fun mundane utility with a hint of chaos because we can never have enough if that :p
âWhy Walk When You Can Warp?â
Summary: Youâre a teen trailblazer on the Astral Express with reality-warping powersâportals, voids, spatial manipulationâyou name it. But instead of saving galaxies or rewriting fate, you use your powers for one thing: laziness. Whether it's vacuuming crumbs into a mini black hole or using pocket portals to hoard plushies and snacks, your casually chaotic antics keep the crew baffled, mildly stressed, and secretly impressed. Who needs god-tier combat when you can clean dishes with interdimensional space?
Tags: Astral Express Crew x Reader, Teen!Reader, Reader with Powers, Overpowered Reader, Comedy/Crack, Fluff, Found Family, Domestic Chaos, Mundane Use of Godlike Abilities, Lazy but Powerful Reader, Slice of Life, Reader is the embodiment of âWhy stand up when I can bend reality?â.
Warnings: Mild language, Slight chaotic behavior (Reader breaks the laws of physics for snacks), Off-screen interdimensional storage of potentially dangerous items, Light comedic destruction implied (but nothing harmful), Dangerously casual handling of cosmic artifacts.
The air on the Astral Express was unusually calm, punctuated only by the quiet clink of dishes and March 7thâs dramatic groan as she slumped over the table.
"I'm telling you, cleaning up after this many people should be illegal," March whined, face smushed into the table.
âThen maybe,â Dan Heng said, pointedly not looking up from his book, âyou should stop using seven different mugs for one cup of tea.â
March lifted a finger in protest, âOkay, rude, but alsoâfair.â
Just then, you waltzed in, munching on a snack you definitely hadnât paid for, wearing your signature smug grin. In one lazy motion, you flicked your hand toward the stack of dirty dishes. A dark, swirling void popped into existence in mid-air and sucked them in with a dramatic slurp.
Everyone stared.
ââŠDid you just banish our dishes to the abyss?â Welt asked slowly, adjusting his glasses.
You shrugged. âNah, just the grease and crumbs. Void only takes what I tell it to. Theyâre clean now.â
A beat of silence.
Then March jumped up. âWait, you can do that?! Iâve been scrubbing pans with my hands like a chump!â
âThey were crusted with egg yolk!â you added cheerfully. âDonât worry, the Void loves protein.â
Dan Heng blinked. ââŠIs that⊠safe?â
âDefine safe,â you said, tossing your now-empty snack wrapper toward the trash binâand completely missing. âUgh, whatever.â You lazily waved your hand again, and another swirling vortex opened, pulling the wrapper in and dropping it cleanly into the bin.
March gasped. âYouâre like... some kind of domestic god.â
You winked. âA god of dish soap and not getting up.â
Later that day, Himeko was doing inventory when she opened the storage room and nearly fainted.
âWhy are there⊠sixteen plush foxes, three watermelons, a tire swing, andâare those live pigeonsâin here?!â
You popped your head in with a grin. âOh, hey, Himeko! Thatâs my portal storage. Itâs not a mess; itâs curated chaos.â
ââŠThereâs a portal in the storage room?â
âYup! Portable rift space. I dump all the neat stuff I find while trailblazing. Look!â You reached into a seemingly empty pocket and pulled out a bright, flashing, definitely-dangerous relic that should be in a containment chamber. âI call this guy Sparky.â
Welt appeared behind her, visibly distressed. âThatâs a Planetary Core Fragmentâwhy do you have it?â
You blinked innocently. âIt was shiny and it matched my coat.â
Dan Heng sighed from down the hallway, still reading. âYouâre going to accidentally destroy a planet because you liked the aesthetic.â
One quiet evening, the crew sat in the observation car, watching the stars. It was almost peaceful⊠until the snack bag March had been reaching for flew across the room into your lap without you moving an inch.
âOkay, thatâs it!â March snapped. âYou literally control the fabric of space! Why are you using it to steal chips?!â
You stared at her, mid-chew. âBecause they were on the other table.â
Himeko, pinching the bridge of her nose: âYou could be a galactic legend, you know.â
Dan Heng: âYou could collapse black holes.â
Welt: âYou could revolutionize interstellar transport.â
You: âYeah, but have you ever used a portal to avoid walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night?â
March: ââŠokay yeah that does sound kind of awesome.â
Closing Note from Pom-Pom (left on your door):
Official Notice from Conductor Pom-Pom
To: [Name]
Please stop vacuuming crumbs into the void near the Astral Engine panel. You nearly erased the throttle control yesterday.
Also, whoever stored a full set of kitchen knives in subspace and labeled it âEmergency Snack Cutleryâ â please reclaim it or face the Nameless detention.
possible spoilers for the comic book, but definitely spoilers for Frieren Episode 8 and Umineko manga (I forgot which chapter.)
trigger warning: mild gore
Scene: Thragg kidnaps veteran VCS!Reader. His daughter decides to take revenge on Mark by killing you and secretly enters your prison cell.Â
You were playing Gin Rummy with the system when it informed you of an unwanted visitor approaching.
It saved the progress of your game and put away the light screen just as the vacuum sealed door in your cell unlocked and slid open.
One leg over the other, you folded your hands neatly on top of your knee. âFrom what I heard, only the Grand Regent is allowed to visit me.â
Her face was stoic as she stood before you. âI am Ursaal, daughter of Thragg.â
âIâmââ
âI know who you are. You are the mate of Mark Grayson.â
You didnât know how to feel about your fame tied to being someone elseâs lover, but oh well.
Her chilly stare never faltered as she spoke, âThat man murdered my kin and attempted to dethrone my father.â
You stared back at her. You doubt that saying âmy condolencesâ would be appropriate.
âFather believes that your life will make for a good bargaining chip, but I disagree. I will kill you right here and now and deliver your corpse to Mark Grayson myself.â
âI see.â You uncrossed your legs. âI should warn you, I'm strong.â
She scoffed. âStronger than me?â
You glanced at your nails. They've gotten too long. âStronger than even Thragg.â
Ursaal was a fast thing, as are all Viltrumites. However, even their kind can't outpace the system.
Time froze just as she crouched to strike.Â
[Ding. Cheat item: Author Authority Lite is on standby.]
A laptop manifested in front of you, staying still in the air as if perched on top of an invisible desk. A word document was open, detailing the events that have led to this very moment.
âI'm not good at writing action scenes, so how about thisâŠâ Only the sound of your typing echoed in the cells.Â
âThis should do the trick.â
You hit ENTER.
[Ding. Script accepted. Authorâs Authority Lite will take effect in 3, 2, 1â]
You were playing Gin Rummy with the system when it informed you of an unwanted visitor approaching.
It saved the progress of your game and put away the light screen just as the vacuum sealed door in your cell unlocked and slid open.
You folded your hands over your knee. âUrsaal, was it? Iâm guessing youâre here to kill me.â
âThat is correct.â
You hummed. âYouâre going to have a hard time, though.â
Blood gushed out of her thighs and arms.Â
You walked over and pushed a finger to her chest, making her fall backwards.Â
The blood then stopped and her wounds closed.Â
âThis is perfect. Iâve been meaning to get my hands on a Viltrumite test subject.â You retrieved the cheat store dissection kit from your inventory.
She gritted her teeth. âMy father will know, he willââ
âShh.â You gagged her mouth with an unbreakable bandage. âYou donât mind, do you? Youâre the one who approached me, so you have no one to blame but yourself.â
Â
Author's Note: To clarify, this is not going to be part of the actual VCS series, this is just a goof that I've had in my mind for a while. I was never going to publish it but dammit @weponxwrites look at what you made me do. đ€
â THE NURSE WHO DRANK FROM A THOUSAND DEMONS â
requested by @notyourmamadaddy
âž»
The day Darcelle arrived at Phantomhive Manor, nothing visibly changed. The sky remained the same dull gray, the gravel crunched the same beneath carriage wheels, and the manor stood as composed and imposing as ever.
And yet, something settled into the air the moment she stepped out.
It was quiet. Heavy. Like the kind of silence that presses against your ears until you realize it was never truly empty to begin with. The servants felt it before they saw her. A discomfort they could not explain, only sense, creeping beneath their skin.
The carriage door opened.
She stepped down without assistance.
For a child, she moved without hesitation. No nervous glances, no curiosity, no pause to take in her surroundings. Darcelle simply stood there for a moment, eyes sweeping over the manor as if she were recognizing something rather than seeing it for the first time.
Behind her, Ciel Phantomhive watched in silence, one gloved hand resting lightly against his cane. His gaze was sharp, deliberate, studying her with a level of interest he rarely afforded anyone.
âShe will be staying here,â he said.
That was all.
No explanation. No justification.
None was needed.
Ciel had not chosen her out of mercy.
The reports he received had been incomplete, fragmented, and soaked in uncertainty. An entire village gone. A cult reduced to nothing. No survivors capable of recounting what had happened, only scattered evidence that something unnatural had taken place.
And at the center of it all, a single constant.
The girl they had worshipped.
The girl who had lived.
It should have repulsed him. A child raised as something divine, only to destroy everything around her without hesitation. But Ciel did not see it that way. He never had.
Where others saw horror, he saw potential.
Darcelle was not something to fear.
She was something to understand.
From the moment Sebastian Michaelis laid eyes on her, he understood one thing immediately.
She did not belong.
He had encountered countless beings in his existence. Humans, demons, reapers, creatures that blurred the lines between all three. There was always a structure, always a logic to what they were and how they functioned.
Darcelle disrupted that entirely.
There was no refinement in her presence. No elegance in the way she carried herself. No carefully controlled hunger masked beneath civility.
She felt excessive.
Like something that had been created without limitation.
Still, Sebastian greeted her as he would anyone else. His smile was flawless, voice smooth, posture perfectly composed as he inclined his head ever so slightly.
âWelcome to the Phantomhive household.â
Darcelle looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Her gaze lingered longer than it should have, unblinking, unfiltered, as if she were peeling something apart layer by layer. Then, slowly, she smiled.
It was not quite right.
Too wide. Too still. Too aware.
For the first time in a long while, Sebastian found himself paying closer attention.
Despite everything, she adapted to her role.
Darcelle became the manorâs nurse.
The title itself felt almost misplaced, but she carried it out with unsettling precision. Her hands were steady, her movements efficient, her understanding of the human body disturbingly exact. Wounds were cleaned quickly, bandages applied without hesitation, pain acknowledged but never indulged.
When the servants cried, she did not comfort them.
She watched.
Not cruelly, but without understanding.
Once, a young servant broke down over a minor injury, tears spilling uncontrollably as panic set in. Darcelle crouched in front of them, silent at first, simply observing until the crying began to falter under the weight of her attention.
âYou are alive,â she said quietly. âSo there is no reason to act like you are not.â
It was not gentle.
But it was not harsh either.
It was simply true.
And somehow, that was enough to calm them.
At night, the manor never fully rested.
Those who stayed awake long enough would hear it. The soft, rhythmic sound of something cutting through the air, over and over again, precise and controlled.
Darcelle did not sleep the way others did.
She practiced.
Knives moved through her hands with impossible ease, glinting faintly in the dim light as they spun and shifted between her fingers. One blade became two, then three, each movement seamless, each transition exact.
There were no mistakes.
No slips.
No hesitation.
She was not learning.
She was remembering.
Sebastian observed her once from the shadows, his presence undetectable as he watched the way she moved. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary effort.
Only intent.
Only familiarity.
It was the kind of skill that could not be taught in a single lifetime.
When the household of Trancy Manor arrived, the atmosphere shifted again.
This time, it was sharper.
More volatile.
Alois Trancy entered like he always did, loud in presence if not in volume, his energy spilling into the room with careless confidence. His attention moved quickly, scanning, assessing, searching for something new to latch onto.
It did not take long for him to find her.
âWell, this is interesting,â he said, circling slightly, eyes bright with curiosity. âCiel, youâve been hiding something.â
Darcelle did not react.
She stood still, gaze fixed on him with the same quiet intensity she gave everything else. There was no discomfort in it. No embarrassment. No irritation.
Only observation.
Alois grinned wider.
âOh, I like this one,â he added. âShe looks like sheâd bite.â
At that, Darcelle tilted her head.
Not playfully.
Not mockingly.
Just enough to suggest she was considering it.
Behind him, Claude Faustus remained still.
He did not speak. He did not move. But when his eyes settled on Darcelle, there was a pause so brief it could have been imagined.
Claude understood hierarchy. He understood structure.
And Darcelle did not fit into either.
She was not bound by contract. Not restrained by the same invisible rules that governed beings like him or Sebastian. She existed outside of it, untouched by the systems that defined their existence.
That alone made her dangerous.
Neither Sebastian nor Claude challenged her.
It was not hesitation born from fear.
It was recognition.
Something instinctive, something deeply ingrained, that warned against testing something that did not follow the same rules as everything else.
Darcelle was not predictable.
She was not controlled.
And most importantly, she was not bound.
Ciel understood this.
That was why he kept her.
He did not command her the way he commanded Sebastian. He did not attempt to shape her into something useful or force her into obedience.
He simply allowed her to stay.
And in doing so, he gained something far more valuable than loyalty.
He gained proximity to something no one else could claim.
Because Darcelle remained.
Not because she had to.
But because she chose to.
Late at night, when the manor fell into its deepest quiet, the truth of her presence became impossible to ignore.
Ciel slept.
Sebastian watched.
And somewhere in the dimly lit halls, Darcelle sat alone, a knife turning slowly between her fingers as if time itself had slowed around her.
Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
Not like a demonâs.
Something heavier.
Something deeper.
When she noticed Sebastian watching from afar, she did not startle.
I was busy writing and I had an idea (I know, dangerous)
What if the reader was like Saitama but in LMK? (without the baldness and lack of emotion)
Like there's just this normal looking person living the most normal mundane life that could absolutely body any deity in existence that puts the fear of God in God themself and no one even knows about it until the reader does something freaky in front of everyone in public like, Idk, one punch a demon into orbit. It's so unreal that people don't believe it the first time of course, but the SECOND time the reader one punches something into not existing is when people kind of start to panic and the reader is now considering on moving yet again.
Cue the main cast considering if reader is now a threat or not along with literally everyone else wondering the same thing.
The reader isn't even power-hungry or crazy, they're just so chill it's making people wonder if they're up to something, but in reality, the poor reader is just trying to live a normal life. Though that doesn't ease anyone's fear because what if the reader gets angry? What happens if the readers' patience finally runs out (don't worry, they have the patience of a monk, but people don't know that đ„Č it tends to lead to isolation/abandonment from people in readers' life due to fear though)
Lmao, what if the reader just grabbed the Mayor's hand and flung him into space right in front of everyone? Like he was being too creepy and cryptic so the reader just decided to eliminate the threat now via a surprise trip to the moon.
To be honest, now that I think about it, that would be kind of scary to have a Saitama-like character that has emotions. One slip-up could be devastating. Reader would have to be an incredibly zen or cheery person. One punch means one punch is all it takes to end things.
Though, on the flip-side of a coin, that would also mean the reader is the safest person to be around. I'd imagine that reader would never let anything bad happen to their friends/family if they can help it. Unless they are capable of being possessed. That would be a problem for everyone.
All of this would definitely draw a lot of attention to them though. Like how TF did someone like that fall under the radar and go completely undetected? Buddha did you do this? Where did this person even come from? đ
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Hi! If I'm not too late, I would like to request your choice of characters with a reader who is like the MC from Obey Me! (Maybe they got isekaied?) You know, stupid powerful, has many of the most powerful people in all three realms wrapped around their finger, chaos gremlin, has to wear the ring of light bc the combo of their ancestry + pacts + deep interpersonal relationships with folks from all three realms nearly pull the fabric of the universe apart at the seams, nearly murdered several times, actually murdered in a betrayal by someone they now care deeply about (they got better it's fine). I just think it would be a fun concept.
Still Breathing, Still Burning
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Overpowered Reader, Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff with Angst, Chaos Gremlin Reader, Found Family Undertones, Multiversal Elements, Mutual Pining, Soft for You Dynamics, Emotionally Repressed, Cosmic Horror (light, implied), Alternate Timeline Elements, Protective Characters, Slow Burn, Bittersweet Undertones, Dramatic Tension, âYou Scare Me But I Love Youâ Dynamic.
Warnings: Mentions of near-death experiences, Alternate timeline death (Lesson 16 reference), Emotional trauma, Betrayal (non-graphic), Magic-induced physical harm (briefly mentioned), Mild body horror (magic backlash implied).
The Ring of Light hummed softly around your finger, tethering a thousand cosmic oaths into something that vaguely resembled sanity. The air aboard the Astral Express shimmered every time you walked by, as if the fabric of the universe had to breathe in and hold its breath for you.
Sunday stood in the observation car, golden halo aglow, wings behind his ears fluttering slightlyânot from wind, but from unease.
You entered like you always did: with a grin that was a little too wide and a presence that screamed both âI am unstoppableâ and âPlease stop me before I destroy something.â
âYouâre early,â Sunday said softly, eyes tracking you like a sun reluctant to set. âTime seems to... distort around you.â
âTime, dreams, the concept of cause and effectâitâs all a bit loose lately,â you replied, collapsing onto the nearby velvet lounge like you owned gravity itself. âWelt said Iâm not allowed to touch the hyperdrive anymore. Something about âfracturing the dimension in three directions at once.ââ You paused, squinting at your hand. âWhich I might have done. But the pigeon started it.â
Sunday smiled, but it was thin, hesitant. âAnd yet, somehow, youâre still breathing. Still laughing. After everything...â
You met his gazeâno teasing, no chaos in your eyes now. Just knowing. âYouâre not the only one whoâs been nearly torn apart.â
He flinched. âWhat happened to youââ
âIt was bad,â you said, voice low. âAn alternate timeline. Someone I trusted... lost control. I wouldâve been gone, if not for someone fixing the timeline. Merging it back. A second chance.â
He turned to you. The Answerer in him wept. The Interrogator screamed. âAnd you donât hate them?â
You walked slowly toward him. âI forgave. Not because it didnât hurtâbut because healing means more than revenge. And because someone like youâsomeone who still dreams of peace, even through painâstill exists.â
He stepped closer. âEven if I remind you of what almost broke you?â
âYou donât. You remind me I can survive it. That I can be more than just the one who got hurt.â
The stars flickered, dimmed, then bloomed brighter than ever.
Sunday kissed you, halo flickering erratically as your chaos brushed against his orderâand didnât destroy it.
It harmonized.
Dan Heng was used to danger. He was not, however, used to you.
You, with your impossible strength and your even more impossible refusal to take anything seriously. You whoâd made a pact with literal seven demons of hell. You who wore the Ring of Light to keep the universe from unraveling whenever you decided to throw a tantrum. You, whoâd been in enough life-threatening situations to count on your fingers and toesâand still came back cracking jokes about afterlife vending machines.
And yet, Dan Heng couldnât stop watching you.
âYou shouldnât have gone off alone,â he said coolly, folding his arms as you returned from Penaconyâs lower city, bloodied but grinning.
âI was fine.â
âYou were nearly erased from existence last week.â
âAnd got better, thanks,â you said, hopping up to sit on his desk. âWhatâs got you so grumpy? I didnât fracture space this time.â
His jaw tensed. âYouâre reckless.â
âYouâre cute when you worry.â
âThatâs notââ he stopped. The words jammed in his throat. He looked away. â...You matter.â
The silence was heavy.
You slid off the desk, softer now. âDan Heng.â
He didnât face you. âYouâre powerful. Beyond reason. But power doesnât make you untouchable.â
You moved to his side, fingers brushing his arm. âIâve been strangled, hunted through voids, nearly consumed by my own magicâand yeah, someone in another timeline lost it and hurt me. But I survived. Every time.â
He turned. Slowly. âWhy keep doing this?â
You smiled. âBecause youâre the one person who looks at me like Iâm more than a walking catastrophe.â
His breath caught.
You whispered, âAnd because you keep me grounded. Youâre my tether, Dan Heng. You remind me Iâm still human.â
His hands, for once, trembled as he took yours. âThen stay. Justâstay close.â
You did. And for once, Dan Heng felt like maybe he could stop running.
âYou cheated.â
âI won,â you corrected, tossing a pair of impossibly rare cards onto the table. âItâs not my fault the house isnât built for transdimensional energy freaks with too many pacts.â
Aventurine blinked once behind his glasses, smile twitching with incredulity. âYou really did just collapse probability again, didnât you?â
âGuilty.â
The roulette wheel behind him sputtered. A neon light fizzled. A reality anchor cracked like glass.
Aventurine sipped his drink without blinking. âIâve conned planet-killers, lied to a galactic tribunal, and escaped slavery with a card trick, but you... youâre terrifying.â
You leaned on the edge of the table, eyes glowing faintly from the Ring of Lightâs hum. âFlatteryâll get you everywhere, Kakavasha.â
That nameâhis real nameâhit harder than expected.
He sat forward, lacing his fingers together. âYou shouldnât know that.â
âI know a lot of things. Like how you always hide your left hand during bets. Like how you flinch when someone touches your neck. Like how you joke about luck, but never let anything fall out of your control.â
The tension in his smile grew tighter. âI see. So Iâm your next... project?â
You stepped into his space, hand on his cheek. âNo. Youâre my favorite gamble.â
His breath caught.
âI know what it means to survive because you're the only one left. To wear a mask so heavy it shapes your bones.â Your smile softened. âI donât want to fix you, Aventurine. I want to bet on you.â
He chuckled, low and real this time. âThatâs the worst decision anyoneâs ever made.â
âAnd the best one Iâve ever committed to.â
He leaned in close. âThen letâs raise the stakes.â
Your kiss was heat, risk, surrenderâand for once, he didnât hide his left hand.