#I will write a scenario that is so out of character

[monicfever]

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[viaviavie]

OPERATION CINDERELLA-SABOTAGE [OCTANIVELLE]

in which he rescues you from your very short-lived wedding.

SUMMARY: due to a massive misunderstanding, a prince from royal sword academy is set to wed you at sunset. thankfully, your un-princely crush is here to save the day and crash this lovely wedding.

PAIRINGS: everyone x fem reader (separately)

WARNINGS: they're being a bit dramatic, characters are 18+, gaslighting (jade), floyd carries you, possessiveness (floyd)

NOTES: this is echoes the ghost bride event, but listening to this prompted me to write out this scenario instead. i made this for shits and giggles, so have fun with this! (gosh i had sm fun writing jade and azul's--- probably the most creative pieces i've had this month!)

HEARTSLABYUL | SAVANACLAW | OCTANIVELLE | SCARABIA | POMEFIORE | IGNIHYDE | DIASOMNIA

There was no way you would be able to say 'no' now, not when there were hundreds of Royal Sword Academy students and even more members of a random royal family whose last names you cannot recall waiting outside that door. Aside from a completely oblivious Neige and Che'nya who was nowhere to be found, there was no one you could really ask for help to get you out of this mess.

You turn to your supposed betrothed with frantic eyes, shaking your head wildly. "I already told you, I'm not the one you danced with at the ball!" Your hisses fell on deaf ears. That damned prince from Royal Sword Academy was too busy making the 'goo-goo' eyes at you to even register what you were saying.

"I just happened to have the same shoe-size!"

Damn it, why did you have to agree to fitting some missing girl's shoe?!

Pierce Charmant, possibly the most delusional guy you have ever met in Twisted Wonderland, clung onto your calf with a stubborn expression. He had no intentions of letting you go, and neither did his five other guards that had blocked your way.

"You have to be her!"

"You don't even know my name!"

You were really counting on Grim to get someone, anyone, to stop this wedding. Yet, as you are walked down the aisle by the fair Neige, you are already planning out a divorce settlement plan. Based on the number of guests here, who had filled this entire venue from top to bottom, you would have guessed that this prince was rather rich. If it was to be an unhappy marriage, at least your wallet would be more than compensated.

You managed to convince this prince to send invitations to Night Raven College, but that didn't matter. He was so excited and in a hurry to marry, that your friends barely had any time to rescue you! There must have been so much traffic with the mirrors that they couldn't even use them! There was just no way that they'd make it in time now.

And so you consign yourself to readying some divorce papers within the next few weeks, and planning out how to avoid any more interactions with this guy while you were married.

You stood at the chapel's base, your expression exasperated than ever as you kept darting your gaze to the door. You've already tripped over the aisle a few times, fumbled the scripted vows, and even called for a bathroom break or two to stall.

And now comes the big moment that you were so desperately trying to avoid.

"Would you, Pierce Charmant, take the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, as your lawfully wedded wife?"

The prince smiles so sickly sweet, and its the look of a man who won't change his mind.

"I do."

You grimace as the officiant faces you, just as blind to your annoyed expression.

"Would you, the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, take Pierce Charmant as you lawfully wedded husband?" They didn't even use your name!

You pause, the image of your crush flashing before your eyes.

You would never see him again if you let yourself get married. Defiance returns to your face as you suck in a deep breath, ready to deal with the consequences of rejecting this delusional prince in front of hundreds of people.

"I—"

"I object!"

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

"Are you really really certain that the Prefect has feelings for me? This is not how I would have liked my confession to be presented, but I am always the opportunist. If the outcome is in my favor, I will uphold my promise to supply you with exemplary tuna for the following two weeks as discussed... Ha, this is quite the laborious tasks. Prefect, you will not be waiting for long."

Don't be so mistaken. Azul did go through the five stages of grief the moment Floyd came in nonchalantly mentioning your rather swift engagement to Prince Charmant. It didn't help that Jade confirmed this by turning on the television, shoving Magicam posts onto Azul's face, and delivering an updated newspaper with news of the upcoming wedding. He swore that you had found the love of your life that morning.

It had to take Grim spilling to him about your feelings to snap the poor octomer out of his spiraling thoughts. It was enough to boost his confidence into making a sound plan on how to retrieve you. After all, if this prince is truly not the one you fancy, then who is Azul to let the wedding happen without interference?

His plan is absolutely fool proof, and with a large audience of witnesses, he is mostly confident that he can secure your safety. Dressed in a fine suit, followed by several touch-ups to his appearance, he hastily makes his way to the cathedral in style.

Though, it would be worth mentioning that he does have a nervous breakdown over whether he made it in time or not.

It wasn't so much that you didn't expect Azul for some form of help, but rather, you anticipated that he would send the Leech twins to do his bidding. To see the tycoon-in-the-making himself, striding in without a hint of weakness, you couldn't help but gape like a fish out of water.

Your surprised expression only served to stroke his ego even more. "I am not the type to make such dramatic entrances, but this would have to do." Azul's signature smirk is plastered on his features as he makes a slight bow to your groom. It is nothing genuine, and you knew that very well.

"Pierce Charmant, prince. I come here to return your lovely bride back to Night Raven College, where she formally belongs." It's that false sense of security, that Azul uses to claim that he is on the prince's side. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but found yourself turning away with a dreadful expression. Azul's haughty exterior never breaks as he continued to sell. "I fear that she is, perhaps, a bit too below your league. You see, you deserve someone of higher caliber." Rather, he thought that devaluing you may perhaps spare you from such a marriage.

"A magicless student without a background! Not to mention connected to several overblots that had occurred since her appearance at the college. On top of that, a long account of accumulated debt and unpaid fees for her tuition at the college. She would not be an asset at all!"

The pitch gets shot down as the prince shakes his head in an outright rejection. "I care not. The Prefect is the perfect candidate to rule alongside me. There is nothing you can sell to me that would make me reconsider my decision. It is final!"

"Not even a—!"

"Final!"

A hum of displeasure leaves Azul's throat as he reels himself back in. You watch him carefully, noting that the octomer hasn't even begun to sweat or spit out any more bargains to the prince. He has lost, but he doesn't seem too worried either.

It was almost as if he expected this outcome after all.

Sighing dramatically, Azul's eyes fluttered shut. "Very well, then." He drawled, a hand slipping into the inner pockets of his blazer. Your eyes catch the sight of an unfamiliar parchment, much unlike the golden standard sheets Azul had used for his contracts.

Azul trains his eyes onto you, promises reflected in that beautiful blue. "If it must be the last time we shall ever speak to each other— Allow me to bargain with you instead, Prefect."

From below, he reaches out towards you, outstretching his hand to offer you the parchment. Before Pierce could really swipe your hand away, you've already taken it upon yourself to read the contract's contents.

A CIVIL MARRIAGE CONTRACT AND REGISTRATION FORM?!

Needless to say, you were torn between being impressed by his wits or horrified by how absurd his proposition was.

"Azul!" You gasp, only to be met by his smug grin. Azul ran a hand through his silver locks, somewhat impressed with himself.

"Rather than marrying this prince, I shall provide you an alternate proposal for a husband." Posturing a hand to his chest, the octomer smiles at you. "Myself."

You clutch the contract close to your chest, looking at him for some sort of confirmation. His smile grows even wider. "I've already filled out your portion of the registration form to the best of my ability. It is sufficient, and all you have to do is sign your name."

"Azul!" You cry out once more in disbelief. Pierce could only scoff after taking a mere glance at the contract's fancy lettering.

"How absurd!"

Ignoring the prince, Azul swallows himself in an attempt to keep up his own farce. "Marrying a prince may seem overwhelming for a lady of your status, utterly magicless and without an experience to rule a country down to the smallest village." He drawled with faux concern, shaking his head in disapproval as the prince fumed at the sides.

"But look at me, prefect. I am an upcoming tycoon. Young, and not a terrible looker either. I am well-versed in the world of business and I certainly do have an endless list of connections. A prince is restrained by royal etiquette and duty, but I? The world is my oyster and you can partake."

Your jaw goes slack as Azul dares to take a step forward, summoning a feathered pen in hand. "Choose me, and you can find relief in knowing that you have a loving and charismatic husband who won't rush you into any tomfoolery of sorts. You will be well taken care of, and I will see to it that you will be satisfied."

He is certain that he is victorious, and you don't doubt that as well. Azul means well, at least, more than what this prince intends to do with you at the moment. Although, that is not to say some deals don't come with strings. The contract is clean, to your knowledge.

The silence had gone on too long for his liking. Biting onto his smile, Azul's eyebrow twitches. "You shall be entitled to 7% of my financial assets and investments as well." He offers through his teeth, hoping you would hurry up with your agreement. The octomer isn't sure for how long he can stay so confident for, in front of this crowd, in front of anyone watching this on live television.

With one more glance at the contract, you dare to carve a little hole in his carefully calculated plan. It isn't every day you get this opportunity to twist his contracts to your favor.

"Make it 20%," Amidst the scandalized gasps of the crowd, you do not miss the way Azul chokes on air. "Prefect, this is non-negotiable." He sputtered, attempting to regather his composure.

You hum in return, shrugging at him slightly with a cheeky grin. "Make it 18%, and I'd like a monthly supply of tuna for Grim."

The audience murmurs with speculation, all while you stare at the way Azul looks at you with such exasperation. He runs a hand through his hair once more, shaking his head to himself. "Greedy little thing, aren't you? This is not exactly the best time to bargain, but I suppose I was the one who taught you that bantering with pressure is a high-risk, high-reward strategy."

Azul sighed heavily, swiping the contract away from your hand to scribble onto it. "Very well, Prefect." He grumbled to himself before returning the paper to you, along with his ink pen.

"Sign it."

Before you could even do so, Pierce had snatched the pen from your fingers with a frightened expression. He knows that a contract would keep you from him, and even as a prince, he can't go against the fine print. "You can't be serious, Prefect! You're actually going to leave me to marry a swindler?!"

Irritation flashes across your expression, in the way you bare your teeth at the prince. It takes Azul by surprise, the way you clenched your free fist in anger.

"You can call Azul a swindler, but he's simply a businessman!" You hissed, easily taking back the pen. Pierce stumbles, even more taken aback by your outburst. "And he knows what my best interests are!"

You couldn't stand being cut off again. In a swift fluid motion, you sign your name onto the blank spaces, earning a bright smile from the contractor.

"You've got a deal!" Azul exclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the cathedral. Clasping onto your hand, the octomer takes the form into his hand and waves it in the air, stirring alarmed noises from the crowd.

He faces you once more, but this time, takes your side and wraps an arm around your middle. He squeezes your hip slightly in assurance just as he turns to Pierce with an obnoxious smirk.

"Splendid, my dear! Now as per the wedding registration states, along with other legislations, the Prefect cannot marry you as she is now married to me." He announces, seemingly unbothered by the way Pierce crumbles apart. The prince had begun to cling onto the altar for some sort of support, all the more crushed by how quickly he had lost you as a bride.

"You can't do that! That's unfair!" Pierce whined out, looking at you with a pained expression. He doesn't earn your sympathy, nor Azul's.

The Octanivelle dorm leader could only shrug, amused by the prince's pathetic display. "Rather unfortunate, isn't it? Not even the poor prince can't bend the law. Perhaps you should have considered the legal aspect of marriage before rushing into grand formalities."

It isn't so often that you hear a sigh of relief from Azul, given that he always seemed to have some certainty when it came to be making deals. "Now, we must best be going. Shall we, my dear?" He cooed in that familiar tone, the kind that he had only ever used with you. Like a gentleman, he offers you his arm to take.

And who are you to refuse? You giggled softly, hooking your arm into his own as he moves to lead you out of the cathedral.

"Of course, Azul."

Based on his personal logistics, Azul was 98% sure that you were going to take his offer. If Azul had faith in how well he knew you, you wouldn't marry a prince in that short lifespan. You would sooner elope with the Prince of the Fae or Kalim if you wanted any sort of prestige that came with significant power. Not to mention, Grim had given him that security that you did have feelings for him instead. That little 2% was any doubt that Grim was lying, or that maybe you would just reject him for some silly reason.

Of course, he hasn't forgotten about you having a crush on him. He doesn't really believe it himself, and he won't bring it up. There is no security in assuming your feelings, and that would be something that needs to leave your own mouth. Azul is content like this, biding his time until you eventually spill your heart out because of his fear of rejection.

Luckily, the Leech twins anticipated this and had already taken care of the issue themselves.

"It was a real marriage contract?!" You exclaimed, eyes scanning the document up and down. Both you and Azul had long since returned to the Mostro Lounge as the dinner shift is beginning to start, hoping to have a quick break when you decided to look at the document once more.

Azul had been pacing back and forth with a nervous expression, hands wrung into his hair with frustration and embarrassment. Whipping his head to the seemingly calmer twin, he fought back a scream.

"Jade, I trusted you to read the fine print! What happened?!"

Maintaining that eerie smile, Jade nodded in compliance. "I did read the fine print, Azul. Down to the last letter," The teal haired mer turned to his brother, a gloved hand covering his smile in an apologetic manner. "I suppose Floyd must have mixed up the forms with the real wedding registration. Isn't that right?"

You paused, raising a brow at the octomer with piqued curiosity. "You had a real marriage registration lying around?"

Before Azul could even recover from this leak of information, Floyd let out a reckless howl of laughter. "Whoops!" The impulsive twin shrugged, grinning wildly at you in the booth.

"Look on the bright side, you're married to Shrimpy like you wanted!"

Now that set Azul off, prompting him to lunge at the twin who simply steps aside. "FLOYD!" He cried out, wanting nothing more than to climb into his little octopot and never face you for the rest of his days. He desperately wanted to retreat, and could only recoil slightly when your hand taps at his heaving shoulders.

He looks at your questioning expression. "Like you wanted?" You echo, and there is not a single indication that you were rejecting him. No, you just needed more answers.

A strangled noise leaves Azul, right before he sighed and sank against the booth's structure. "It doesn't matter. The registration is really invalid unless it was given to the civil office for processing." The octomer croaked, face turned away.

He can never look you in the eye again after this, and he would sooner watch you wed Prince Riel before he can ever recover from this disaster. Azul expected you to laugh at him, to leave him in the dust at this very instant.

Instead, you slink back into your seat and play with the registration form on the table.

"I wouldn't mind if you handed it into the office as is, you know?"

"I beg your pardon?!" Azul choked, looking at you as if you had grown a second head. His jaw goes even more slack as you smile at him, returning those smug smiles he had been flashing you at the wedding. "You heard me. Who ever said that I never had an interest in you beyond the benefits of marriage?"

You glance the clock, gasping with fake urgency. You hop off from your seat, hands dusting at your grand wedding dress as you begin to drag yourself to the employee's lounge.

"Oh well, time to head into my shift for the Mostro Lounge. I'll talk to you later, Azul! Need to change out of this wedding dress!" You sang, pretending to ignore the way your crush scrambles for his bearings.

"Wait, Prefect! Just wait a moment, get back here! This discussion isn't over!"

JADE LEECH

"Fufufu, getting married without so much of a notice? Prefect, you attract the most strangest of things. I wonder if you enjoy danger as much as you surround yourself in it. Maybe I shouldn't be too surprised. After all, you have endured an overblot here and there. Not to mention you have Grim, and you have been living well despite having no magic. Oh, sweet Prefect, you truly are much more entertaining than you bargain for."

No one really knows what Jade plans to do when he gets to the venue. He saw the news, and just told everyone that he would take care of it. Floyd knows nothing of how Jade will deal with the situation, and neither does Azul. In fact, Azul found out rather late that Jade had decided to use up his vacation hours for today's little intervention.

That is not to say that he is heading to you without a plan. Why, Jade is a Leech, after all. Azul did not make him the vice-housewarden for nothing. He may not be as outwardly forceful as Floyd, nor a mountain of resources like Azul, but he is precisely good at one thing!

Gaslighting.

"My deepsea darling, am I late?"

Something is wrong. Well, something is always wrong whenever Jade is in the room. Such is an omen amongst Night Raven College students who would flee and swerve out of the day when this particular Leech twin is in the area. Though you have your own feelings for the eel, you cannot deny that something is awfully wrong when Jade storms in with his own tux with that eerily calm smile on his face.

He strides down the carpet, humming to himself. "I suppose I arrived just in time." Whatever words had begun to formulate in your head, they never really leave when Jade forces his way next to you, subtly making the prince make way for his intimidating frame.

Needless to say, Pierce was unpleased. "And who are you?" The prince questions, attempting to stand up to this stranger, only to fail once the eel looked down at him with an awfully cheery smile.

Oddly enough, it's that same smile he gives to students that are overdue for a favor.

"Why, I am the groom, of course!"

A cold wind bristled through the cathedral. From one row to the next, a chill runs down each of their spines. Still, there is not much of a reaction or rather, everyone was simply too stunned or too afraid to comment on this.

Your eyes are wide, fixated onto Jade's with bewilderment. "You are?" You whispered, almost uncertain yourself. Jade doesn't make much of a reaction, only keeping that calm smile as if this was the most natural occurrence in the world.

"I beg your pardon?" Pierce croaked, just as confused as you.

Clearing his throat, Jade chuckles to himself. He allows a small curt bow, a polite gesture. "Forgive me. My name is Jade Leech, and I am the groom for today's wedding." He tells the other man curtly.

The prince had let out a strangled noise in return, awkwardly trying to push Jade away from the stands. He failed, followed by a stammer. "You must be mistaken. I am the groom hoping to wed the lovely Ramshackle Prefect."

Jade hummed with feigned interest, nodding in acknowledgement. "Really? I suppose it is our lucky day. I, too, am marrying a Ramshackle Prefect. I just so happen to be marrying this one." He sang, turning to you at the right time to take in your stunned expression. Quietly, he eyes you from your head to the end of the dress's train.

"You look quite lovely in this dress, darling. Whoever picked it for you certainly had good taste." It comes so naturally, the way he slips his hand into yours. His thumb rubbed slow circles onto your skin in a soothing manner, but you cannot help and feel as if he was looking down at you like his favorite specimen. Those sharp teeth glint against the light as he grinned slightly.

Your cheeks flushed a warm red as Jade cupped your cheek, looking at you with such infatuation that it almost frightens you. You were almost certain that he wanted to eat you right on the spot. "Do not fret. It must be so nervewracking to be in front of so many strangers. I hoped to invite as many as I could, just so that we could share this lovely day with the world." He cooed so lovingly, and you swore that you were falling for it like the many sailors that died to sirens on the sea.

"Hello!? I'm right here!"

Ignoring the protests from the prince, Jade sighed to himself as he pulled away his palm from your face. "It is such a shame that I would have to skip so many steps. Why, I would have been delighted to take you on so many dates before taking your hand in marriage. You seem like the type to appreciate being courted properly. I hoped to bide my time with you, but humans do love spontaneity." The eel bemoaned, though he did not appear displeased.

Boldly, he closes in on the space between you and him. Pausing at the shell of your ear, sharp teeth gently nip at the skin before a hot breath brushed against you. "Please have me, Prefect." You had never heard him so quiet, almost shy yet the eel was far beyond hesitant.

Judging from your flushed expression, Jade held back a chuckle of his own. He didn't need your answer right now, even when he had shown you his cards. This wouldn't be about any of your feelings. Rather, he intended to do what he enjoyed doing best, whether it be coaxing the truth from another student or squeezing his next prey.

Jade decided to bide his time.

"Shall we repeat our vows? I don't believe I had the chance to express my adoration for you. Let me start from the beginning..."

Poor Pierce. The prince had to take a seat somewhere as Jade went on and on about his feelings for you. It was nothing too revealing or personal for the public view, but who would've known that Jade was completely capable of being obnoxiously in love? You've lost count of the many pet names he used, or the countless mushrooms he had likened you to. He truly had no shame, really.

However Jade managed to gaslight the entire cathedral into thinking that he was the one getting married today, he somehow pulled it off. At least, he did it long enough until Trein and Crewel dragged Crowley in by the ear to call the entire thing off.

Apparently, it is one thing to have the Prefect get married to a delusional prince. It is another to have the Prefect married to Jade Leech at this moment and time. Thankfully, they managed to intervene before the 'I do's' had begun again.

The ride going back to the college was eerily silent. You were extremely grateful that Professor Trein, Professor Crewel, and Headmaster Crowley had come at the right time to drag you out of that cathedral. You were no longer compromised, but was it really necessary to seat Crowley in-between you and Jade?

The eel didn't seem to mind, hands clasped onto his lap as the vehicle gently waved up and down according to the road. "I hope I did not make you uncomfortable, Prefect." He says calmly, glancing at you from the other side of the backseat.

You could only give him a sheepish smile from across, attempting to face the eel without the interference of Crowley's mask. "Everything's okay, Jade. I'm sorry you had to come and help me though."

"The pleasure was all mine. I am happy to have provided my assistance in the matter. Although, I was certain that everything was under control." You don't miss the way that Jade's eyes flicker to the two professors at the front then back to Crowley who flinched under the student's gaze. "But I do hope you realize that my words were genuine. I would have definitely preferred to give you my feelings at a more appropriate time."

"You like me?" You whispered in a weak attempt to find some privacy, but your impatience and curiosity had taken the better of you. Jade's composure never wavers, almost uncaring of a potential rejection. Shame was clearly unknown to him, and the hardened expressions of his professors go ignored.

"I most certainly fancy you. Wasn't it obvious?" He replied in a content tone. "Perhaps, would you like to join me for dinner at the Mostro Lounge tonight? The establishment would be closed, but I suppose Azul would not mind a special last-minute booking."

"I would like that."

"Wonderful," Jade lets out a quiet sigh, posturing himself to face forward. That eerie smile leaves an unsettling shiver through Crowley. "And thank you for coming to the Prefect's aid. I will be sure to remember this when one of you takes her down the aisle for our wedding."

A strong swerve to the left.

Trein's arm extends towards the wheel from the passenger seat, taking control of the vehicle as he attempted to drive the car back into the proper road. "Crewel, eyes on the road!" He exclaimed, far too concentrated on the road to take note of the stress written on Crewel's face. Crowley isn't doing much better, seeming to have passed out in his seat.

"Too soon to think about marriage? My apologies."

FLOYD LEECH

"Aww, Shrimpy! I knew you liked me, but don'tcha think you're playing a bit too hard to get? You're practically begging to be squeezed now! Can't wait to have you in my arms so you can't go anywhere no more." (He says it so lightheartedly, but the way his calmly strides his way towards the cathedral is so uncanny that it's frightening everyone that crosses his path).

A certain eel threw a tantrum when Azul forbade him from coming to your rescue. Such things should be handled by the right people, like any of the professors! Not you, Floyd! Letting Floyd get you is like sending a piranha fish into a tank full of bait. There was no guarantee that the wedding wouldn't end in an international disaster.

"I'll take care of it! What're you so worried about!?" Floyd asks accusingly as he casually cracks his knuckles with loud unsettling 'pops'. Jade's already tried talking him into doing something more levelheaded, but Floyd is having none of it. Shrimpy isn't getting married today, most certainly not to some no-name Prince hung up over shoe sizes.

Floyd is already gone the moment someone's eyes are off him. Not only is staff trying to figure out a plan for you, but now, they're scrambling to keep Floyd from making this messier than they should be. It's not that they distrust Floyd... actually, they do have every reason to distrust a ticking bomb like Floyd. No one can really predict him, nor can they predict what he will do to take you back.

Floyd isn't the type to dance around with formalities. Jade has always been the more diplomatic one, much more crafted around social codes and conducts. Frankly, Floyd couldn't give two shits about being polite and courteous, especially when it came to securing goods.

After all, this wasn't a deal under Azul's name. He didn't have to handle some precious cargo or sweeten up to some bargainer. Everyone is fair game when it comes to you.

"Congratulations, Shrimpy! I didn't know you were getting married to princey-poo over here!" The eel yelled from door, crooked grin and all. Your face lit up with a smile almost immediately as some sort of relief flooded your being.

"Floyd!" You exclaimed as your hands bunched up your dress and your feet climbed down the short stairs. You ignored the way Pierce called out for you, opting to race down the carpet until your head bumped into Floyd's sternum.

It couldn't be helped. If there was someone who was going to rescue you no matter what, you can bet on Floyd who would do it without hesitation, regardless of how messy the work would be... At least, that would only apply when it came to Shrimpy.

Tilting his head to the side with surprise, Floyd's grin widened as he took his hand to caress the top of your head. "Aww, you're squeezing me real tight! It's making me wanna squeeze back, real good." Your heart stopped for a moment, feeling his strong arms snake around your shoulders.

You braced yourself for a tight squeeze, holding your breath before he could crush you.

Oddly enough, it is Pierce that spares you from the blow. The prince cleared his throat, glaring at the eel as he reached for the handle of his sword. "Look, I don't know who you are, but you'd best return the Prefect to me right now."

Unfortunately, Floyd does so little as to bat an eye to the prince with a shrug. "Eh? I don't wanna." He drawled apathetically, too fixated on the pretty patterns of your dress.

"I beg your pardon?" Pierce choked, adamant for a proper explanation. He flinched at the way Floyd's gaze locks into him, frightened by the slightest look of irritation on the eel's face. "You heard me. I don't wanna give up Shrimpy for marriage."

You attempt to look up from Floyd's chest, hoping to placate him but his hand pressures your head to stay pressed to his chest. You wouldn't be able to see that scary look on his face, nor would you see the way that Pierce swallowed to himself in fear.

"I already came a long way to pick up Shrimpy. I don't think she likes you very much. Do you, Shrimpy? You wanna marry him?" You could only muffle your protests through his chest, and it seemed to be enough to snap the eel out his souring mood.

Floyd grinned, pleased with your supressed response. "You don't wanna? You hear that, princey? Shrimpy got no plans to get married today. I'll be taking her home now, okay?"

Finally, you get the chance to breathe once Floyd had released you from his hold. Before you could really regain your bearings, your world is flipped upside down when Floyd tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of rice. You couldn't really stop yourself from banging on his back, flustered by the gesture.

"Floyd, put me down!" You cried out. Your little punches only served to make Floyd laugh. "Don't wanna! You're too slow!" He yelled back with amusement, purposely picking up the pace to annoy you further.

"Wanna see how fast I can get you back to campus, Shrimpy? Hold on tight!"

Thankfully, Floyd gets bored of running before you got truly nauseous. He can't seem to remember how he got here in the first place, so the best thing to do is wait until Azul or Jade come to find you both. Until then, he plans to amuse himself with you for the rest of the day.

Similarly to Jade, Floyd has no shame when it comes to dragging you around in that wedding dress. He's already dragged you into a convenience store, an arcade, and even the basketball court despite your attire. Even as your dress got dirtier and dirtier, nothing really took away from how much he was enjoying himself with you.

He did get slightly annoyed when he noticed how much trouble you've had keeping up with him in those dreadful glass slippers. But he had just the perfect solution for that!

"Shrimpy! The store had it in your size!" Floyd giggled to himself, eagerly slipping off the glass slipper from your sore foot. Nothing could really compare to the relief you felt feeling the soft padding of the shoe instead of that painful arch. Wiggling your toes in the space, you smiled at the eel from your seat on the bench.

He easily performs the same gesture to your other foot, moreover pleased with how the runners looked on your feet. "Hehe, now we match!" Your eyes flicker down to his own shoes; basketball runners specifically tailored for comfort. Of course, Floyd would have invested in something like this. He was merfolk, after all. They would have taken better care of their feet compared to the average human.

"Oh, Floyd! You didn't have to get me these. I would've been just fine with slippers." You tell him with a slight pout. Floyd shrugged in response, rising to his feet. His shadow is cast over you, his body shielding you from the setting sun. "If I didn't get them for you, Shrimpy would've had a tough time playing with me."

Your pout intensified as you got up to your feet, grabbing at the basketball he had bought from the store as well. You bounce the ball off the asphalt, careful to not step on your dress. "At least let me pay you back later." As soon as those words left your lips, you immediately come to regret them.

It was never a good idea to offer compromises with an Octanivelle student.

A wide toothy grin comes across Floyd's face as he swipes the ball from you, taking a hop to the side as he shoots towards the rim. The sport is long forgotten however as he leers towards you, eager to strike at your weak attempts to take back your offer.

"Shrimpy's being generous today! I ain't interested in your thaumarks. Azul gives me plenty of that already," He stalked you down, backing you up against the wire fence. His arms cage you in, leaving you nowhere to run or hide.

"Now that I think of it, you haven't even paid me back for saving you. I'm still mad that you went to go and get hitched without me, y'know? I was really upset. I hate the idea of you getting together with somebody else." Floyd's mismatched eyes glint with need and want, followed by the way he leans in until his warm breath tickles your lips.

"I like chasing you, Shrimpy. But if you keep making me chase you, I'm gonna squeeze you so tight so you stop hiding."

Lips curved upward, Floyd smiles into the kiss he presses against you. There is a certain gentleness you never expected from him, a kind that you reciprocate. Molding your lips against his, the eel pulled away with a satisfied sigh. Still, he doesn't free you from the cage he created.

"You have feelings for me?" You question softly, followed by a giddy giggle of his own. "Took you long enough to notice! But that's alright," Another kiss is stolen from you, leaving you in a daze.

"You're gonna be making it up to me. We can start with a little squeeze!"

[bleedingichorhearts]

Since I have neither the time (nor sanity) to write every Warhammer scenario I'd like to, I would like to make a request.

Could we get something with Maelum Caedo? Perhaps him venting some of that... ahem... "intensity" on a fem reader? (In a loving way where she is totally into it, I might add.)

Thanks!

“Man, I had to go and rely on Tumblr for information on this guy as the Lexi didn’t have anything on him. I’m getting a vibe that he’s just a cute, lil’ rabid guy. Doom Slayer. Loving his job as a daemon killer. Not sure if you meant smut, but I went for the safer option.” - Ichor

Summary - “Malum Caedo vents to you: a random surf about his glory for the Emperor.”

"He maybe off character considering there was nothing of him on the Lexi. I based him off his vibe and only watched a short of him on YouTube." - Disclaimer

TW: None.

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

“No enemy of the Emperor escapes unpunished!”

You listen to the… hyper Ultramarine in front of you. Your form simply sitting on his bed in his rather plain quarters, but that is how most of the Marines quarters looks like. So, the design grew on you within time, but this Marine? He did not. He intrigued you.

Sure, he was telling you of his battles; how he closed the warp by himself with these highly dangerous sounding daemons of Chaos trying to stop him, but by the sounds of it? It seems like they were just easy pickings for him. Something to eat, chew once then spit out like a loose tooth that didn’t cause any bother. It was fascinating, almost thrilling of how he sounds so passionate about it. That's itself was admirable, and so was the loyalty he was speaking of and emitting in the moment.

“I tore through those foul heretics! Forcing the Emperors wrath down their throats!” The man continues to share his experience. His armored frame moving back and fourth in the quarters, moving his arms about. Seemingly getting hyped up by his own speech; still have adrenaline flowing through his warrior veins. “The Emperor himself has blessed me that day… Serf, why have you come?”

The sudden shift in topic throws you a bit off guard as you blink owlishly up at the Marine. Your form giving a shift upon his bed as you suddenly realize how… awkward this was, just sitting in his quarters, listing to his tales. “I-I um… I was listening to you, m-my Lord. Does… does that offend? I… I can leave right now.”

“No.” His words leave through his white, beak-like helmet quickly that it almost surprises him, but it definitely catches you off guard again, and you shrink back a little. There was a low tone to his simple word, and your still wondering if you did something wrong. You did all your duties, didn’t you? Did you not know about anything being added to your to-do list? Perhaps he likes to talk to himself? By himself more better?

“…Are you s-sure? My Lord?” You dare to speak up again after a tense moment of silence, testing. Your eyes looking him up and down in worry. Not for him, more so of yourself because anything you could do could be… wrong.

“I am sure, little serf.” He nods his helmet once, moving to press a few buttons near the door to close his quarters, and your heart beat skyrockets in your chest. Oh, were you really in it now, aren't you? “You are one of many that has attended my speeches of glory.”

You blink, looking away and beginning to play with the helm of your clothing. A stammer escaping you. “Y-yes, my Lord. Your words are… inspiring.”

The Marine: Malum Caedo turns around, facing you once more the second the door closes. His genetics allowing him two, full and swift steps to reach his bed before he sits down right next to you, making the flat platform creak at his weight of his armor and the being inside. Then, he speaks once more. His volume less praising, and his tone less aggressive, but their was still a feel of well… glory or praise inside of it. “Not many, besides my brethren listen to my nobility. Too busy to find a fair in it.”

“Well I…” You pause to swallow, trying to gather yourself for being in the same closed room with a Marine. Still looking away from him. You didn’t really want to admit that you did your duties quickly yet diligently to find time to listen to him. “I find time to listen, my Lord.”

“Hmm…” Malum hums, the volume deep and capable to vibrate through his bed. It doesn’t sound like he believes you, like he may have been watching you go through your set tasks in order to find some time of your day to listen to him. Yet, with you not being a mind reader or anything of the sort. You believe that he was letting you off with a simple warning.

“I should go, my Lord.” You get up from his bed, having to shuffle a bit to the edge to do so. Your head bowing to the Ultramarine in respect. “I still have duties left to d-!”

“I don’t believe that you do, little serf.” The Marine snatches you up quickly, and settles you back on him. On his lap. On. His. Lap. On his bed. “You always like to make time for me. An admirable effort for a little thing such as yourself.”

“M-My Lord?” You hands are upon his armor, his chest piece. Your mind more frazzled that a Marine out of all beings would set you upon their lap rather the fact that you still didn’t want to admit that, yes. You did complete all of your work before seeing and hearing the Marine rant his glory.

“Malum Caedo.” He corrects you, giving you permission to call him by the truth of his name. A single arm wrapping around you to keep you up right in his lap. “Would you want to hear the more unfiltered parts of my siege, little serf?”

“I-” You pause again, thinking. Not wanting to say anything too stupid that would get you kicked out embarrassingly. “What about duties?”

“As far as I’ve gathered.” Malum muses with a rumble. “You, do not have anything more to do, and I? I can endure.”

“My Lord!” You gasp slightly, moving up in his arm. You did not want to be the cause for anything on this Marine. Nor any punishments! “I cannot be-”

“Calm yourself.” The marine mirths’, gently taping his beak-like helmet on the top of your head. “I have done my duties’. Now, care to listen?”

You’re not sure if he was lying or not, but you’re just going to have take this Lord by his word because you were not one to miss on opportunity by listening to the things he hasn’t told anyone just yet. You were like his number one fan; admirer. Again, not that you would admit just yet.

“…I made these heretic’s taste annihilation. Tore them limb from limb!…”

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[fafodill]

Not sure if you know this but your willingness to comment on smut truly is a gift among fandom. Lots of times the comments drop off sharply for smut chapters. It's understandable people are a little embarrassed sometimes but it just means every little comment they do leave means even more.

Smut is an art form!!!

Smut is SO hard to write!!!

Smut deserves the reviews!!!

I love smut. I always have. I'm a slut for smut.

I can totally understand why people may not be comfortable reviewing it - it's a bit self-revealing isn't it? (though I find it much worse when I try to write smut, I feel utterly naked to everyone hahaha like here, have all these specifics scenarios and words that I clearly personally like and find arousing, xoxo) I have a lot of respect for the people who write it, there's something so honest and human in it.

'Here, I really wanted to bang this character so I put them on their knees for my own pleasure. Have it as well.'

'I feel strongly that these two characters need to hate-fuck so hard one will cry in pleasure at the end because they need it so bad.'

'I need these three characters to have a 9 chapter long fuck week where they will rediscover their love for one another and heal their trauma wounds in a healthy way.'

Smut is amazing. Smut is therapy. Smut is self-indulgence. Smut is exploration. Smut is happiness.

All hail the smut.

Comment on the smut. ❤️‍🔥 The authors deserve it. They're putting themselves out here, they're sharing the urge. They put the sexy words together. They're so nice.

All hail smut authors.

We need you.

And I love you.

But to answer your ask more directly, thank you for telling me this. It's very rewarding and I actually wasn't really aware of the difference in reviews in smut work/chapters because to me, this is always the part I'm excited for, so I may project my own enthusiasm on other people.

[gabriel-seths-pr-assistant]

I do see some of the point about the tradewife talk... But I also think that we are kinda forgetting a pretty important part of the situation here: those tradwife fantasy are literally just classic romance novel scenario.

We have to remember that Harlequin romance novel, and similar things, are the vast, VAST majority of things that afab people read. And it has been the case for literally generation. The Astarte being a big scary dude that take care of the woman and impregnate her is really no different than a "viking kidnap you and make you his wife" or a "vampire trick and seduce you". Those fantasy coexist with the fact that noncon is the most common "kink" for afab: it's exploring all the fear and anxiety of rape culture and patriarchie. Some people do so with writing power fantasy, while other write it about them being happy in that systhem, being happy about having the choice of pregnancy and sex being taken away from them. All of that is about control, about being able to stop by simply not reading anymore.

So yeah, while it is not for us (the queer and marginalised, and I AM putting myself into that category, I don't even like reader insert!), I will absolutely defend their right to create that stuff. It literally is just a different kind of enjoying the franchise, no different that when cishet dude write 200k epic bolter porn power fantasy, wich there are a LOT MORE than any queer warhammer fanfic. We cannot gatekeep fandom, we cannot act like we queer have the one and only true way of creating fancontent. I always advocate for understanding and kindness in fandom, and this trend of shitting on other people (and sometime it *is* shitting on them, it's not just polite talk) in the warhammer fandom is very disapointing.

I disagree with your premise that tradwife fantasies are identical to classic romance novel scenarios. If anything, romance and bodice-ripper heroines align more closely with Mary Sues.

Classic romance novels typically center a heroine who starts out powerless or disadvantaged in terms of her class, wealth, or social status. Her narrative arc revolves around gaining personal empowerment through love: finding a partner who recognises her true worth and asserting her own desires. Even when the fantasy involves ravishment or protection (the "strong alpha male" trope), the heroine is often the transformative force in the relationship, reshaping the hero or the dynamics between them. She is a character in motion — physically (being abducted by pirates, moving to a widowed duke's castle to serve as governess, running away from the arranged marriage her father intends for her) and thematically, moving towards agency, voice, and choice, even if her journey is framed within a romantic story. Her victory is the relationship itself, achieved on her terms.

Tradwife fantasies, by contrast, focus on giving up personal agency in exchange for security, love, and approval. As I mentioned in a previous post, tradwife characters often start out powerful (Yvraine being one example) and then choose (or "choose") to settle into a predefined submissive role where domesticity, nurturing, and submission are the ends, not just the means. The tradwife fantasy valorises passivity and dependency as virtues — the tradwife character is admired because she is static: she stays home, serves her husband, raises children, and submits. Unlike romance heroines, who usually end their stories in a better social position or with greater personal empowerment, tradwife characters often end out worse (from a contemporary feminist perspective).

But the most telling difference between romance/bodice-ripper fantasies and tradwife fantasies lies in their detractors.

Romance and bodice-ripper stories have long been dismissed and mocked by cishet men as fantasies written by "unfulfilled women," just like Mary Sues are written by "silly fangirls."

Tradwife archetypes are, to a significant extent, embraced by cishet men. The meme of Yvraine being Guilliman's "Eldar waifu" started in male-dominated fan spaces on platforms like 4chan and Reddit.

It's easy to see the difference. Romance and bodice-ripper heroines typically stand in opposition to patriarchal ideals, disobeying societal and parental restrictions to pursue "forbidden" relationships or giving in to passion, especially at a time when "good girls" were taught to suppress sexual or ambitious desires. Tradwife heroines, on the other hand, uphold patriarchal ideals. These two things are not the same.

A few other points I'd like to address:

Some people [explore "all the fear and anxiety of rape culture and patriarchie"] with writing power fantasy, while other write it about them being happy in that systhem, being happy about having the choice of pregnancy and sex being taken away from them.

No one should EVER have the choice of pregnancy and sex taken away from them for any reason. ANY reason. Even if it "makes them happy" (does it really make them happy or are they just conditioned and expected to believe it does?).

It's entirely possible to write power-exchange/noncon/rape culture fantasies that are not tradwifey, or which examine the tradwife trope in light of the broader political and cultural context.

I will absolutely defend their right to create that stuff.

As I have stated in previous posts, I'm fundamentally opposed to censorship in fandom myself. People are free to create whatever they want.

However, that doesn't mean we can't talk about contemporary fandom trends and how they either support or challenge dominant heteronormative culture.

It literally is just a different kind of enjoying the franchise, no different that when cishet dude write 200k epic bolter porn power fantasy

To quote myself again, the issue is that tradwife content actively alienates (some) marginalised fans. Tradwife narratives can feel like microaggressions — they are conservative heteronormative gender roles in a new hat, presenting female passivity, domesticity, and loss of agency as aspirational.

Once tradwife content gains ground in a fandom space, it crowds out other forms of self-expression. Have you heard the saying, "if you invite both wolves and sheep, you will only get wolves"? I have seen fandom spaces welcome tradwife content in the spirit of being open to all shipping and all voices — and marginalised fans started trickling away. Not dramatically, not slamming the door, just quietly losing interest and eventually disengaging.

Bolter porn has not, in my experience, had the same effect.

We cannot gatekeep fandom

No one is gatekeeping fandom. Gatekeeping is when someone won't let others into the house. Tradwife content creators are already in the house — on AO3, on discord, on tumblr. No gate is being kept from them. On the contrary, other people are leaving the party because they no longer feel comfortable with the vibe.

What's happening right now is that some of us are having conversations about our experiences and examining the tradwife character archetype from feminist and literary analysis perspectives to articulate why the trope rubs us the wrong way.

I understand that this kind of academic discourse can feel like a vivisection to those fans who do find comfort and empowerment in depictions of traditional gender roles.

But this kind of meta-discourse is necessary to keep a fandom healthy and viable — and I welcome tradwife content creators to share why they enjoy this trope as well, to get the full picture. ❤

[cwwv9]

Hello hello are you open for request? I like your writings sm especially the recent one since, hiori's included. So id like to request a oneshot for hiori. Scenario: So first it would take place in the early stage of relationship/dating and stuff, then at one time hiori saw his s/O have a let's say merch of a video game he likes, when hiori asked about it, his s/o starts yapping happily saying she likes the game and she's very into the story line and worldbuilding and and shes also a fan of many video games with some of them hiori likes too, saying that she plays games mainly on her phone (PvP, moba, be, fps, etc. ) also adding that since she can't afford having her own pc and stuff to play games(shawty is broke lol), she only plays on what's available on phone and of course free. Even though she doesn't play the game herself she watches playthroughs even if it takes many hours and staying up late. So, hiori finds it exciting(like points increased) to learn that they share the same interests , and he suggested that they could play together and try the games she wants or watch him play. Here's my idea, if you ever consider this, thanks in advance. ꉂ(ˊᗜˋ*)♡

-craving for fics that include hiori fr fr.

«Our world on the screen»

— Without gender!Reader x Hiori Yo

Genres: romance, fluff, everyday life, first kiss, light sensuality.

Warning: the fanfic contains a soft novel, emotional intimacy, scenes with rain, running in the rain and warm physical contact.

Note: I love to write about the hiori, he’s my favorite boy! I hope you enjoy this drawing!

I want to thank you again for writing such a request! This helps me a lot to know which characters I can confidently include in the request on a permanent basis. because I don’t know who the readers are waiting for ((

mailbox open for queries!!!

You were sitting on the floor of your room, cross-legged, leaning into the phone screen.

The sun was already setting, shining a soft orange light, and you didn’t even notice how fast time flew by. Next to you lay an old pillow, a couple of open packs of snow chips and headphones, one of which had fallen out of your ear several times. You watched the game you loved - the one you once loved and dreamed of playing.

There was a quiet knock outside the door.

- Hi... can I? - said the familiar, warm voice of Hiori.

You immediately pulled out the headphones, smiling.

-Sure! Come on in!

He walked in, a little unsure of the threshold - as if he was afraid to disturb your world. He was wearing a dark blue hoodie, with a little bit of loose hair and an attentive look, which immediately fell on the small shelf at the wall. There was a figure from the same game - one of the iconic characters.

Hiori frowned with a slight surprise, came closer.

- That’s... do you know this game? he asked cautiously, as if he were afraid of being intrusive.

Your eyes are on fire.

– Oh, yes! I love it! - you rose sharply from the floor and close to the bottom, smiling wider than usual. - Plot, characters, world... everything is just crazy cool! I have seen so many walks that I know almost every location by heart!

Hiori blinked without concealing a slight surprise.

When you saw his reaction, you got even more excited, as if someone finally understood the passion that you were hiding in yourself.

– I really don’t have a computer... - you added slightly quieter, almost apologizing. - I play mostly on my phone. Everything you can: PvP, moba, battle-royals, shooters... anything that holds my poor phone.

You chuckled, showing off your battered machine with a cracked back cover.

- But I always keep track of my favorite games! I watch streaks, I spend the nights in a flying show... well, you know.

Hiori was silent for a few seconds. There was a new, strange gleam in his eyes - not cold, not neutral as usual. Something war...

- So... do you like games too? he finally asked a little softer, as if he was afraid the answer would be a dream.

You nodded so forcefully that your hair went up.

– Then... - He squeezed his hands in his pockets, as if he was gathering with spirit. - Do you want to... play together? Or I can show you something. Something you’ve wanted to try for a long time.

Your eyes widened, and a child’s stupid smile flashed across your face.

- Seriously? You really want to?

He nodded slightly, smiling softly, allowing himself for the first time a genuine smile - one you rarely saw

- I would like to. With you.

At which you shouted and began to grunt, squealing joyfully, that knocked Hiori off his feet.

After a couple of days you were sitting in his room.

His laptop was slowly loading the same game, and you, leaning against the screen, waited impatiently. Hyory watched you stealthily, with a slight embarrassment on his cheeks. He had never seen you like this - alive, bright,

You talked nonstop, talking about your favorite characters, about the moments that gave you the creeps and the moments that gave you the tears.

Hiori caught every word you said.

He was unaccustomed... so warm.

He felt that there was an invisible connection between you - not only through the screens and game stories, but through the real feelings.

When you first picked up the mouse, he carefully covered your palm with his, directing movements.

You’ve been a little bumpy, feeling how close he is.

- It’s all right, he whispered, his voice was soft as silk. I’m there.

You turned to meet his gaze. For a moment, time stood still.

And then you both laughed quietly.

Just, like a child. Clean. As if there was nothing more important than this moment.

Since then, the shared evenings have become your little tradition.

Sometimes you played what you loved. Sometimes he showed you his favorite games. And sometimes you just sat around watching long streaks, chuckling with quiet phrases and laughing at funny moments.

And every time Hiori looked at you, excited and happy, he felt like he was doing the right thing.

He chose you.

And I would like to make this choice again and again.

Over time, it became something more than just shared evenings.

Sometimes you went to the city together - without a plan, without clear routes. Just walking around discussing the latest game updates or arguing about which of the characters deserves more recognition.

Today was special.

Hyory first offered to go to a small video game store, which, according to him, «only those who really know the subject» knew about.

You gladly agreed, anticipating how you will rummage together in the shelves and find rare things.

The store was tiny, drowned in an alley among cafes and shops. Inside smelled of old paper, plastic and something... warm, almost homely.

You wandered for a long time between the shelves, picking up posters, discs, figurines. You found things that you once dreamed of seeing live, and Hiori quietly watched your reactions, each time more deeply penetrating some new, unexplored feeling.

In the end, you chose an inexpensive figurine - a character that you both liked. Hjori insisted on buying it at his own expense.

- Consider it... the beginning of our collection, he said, turning away slightly, as if embarrassed.

You only smiled warmly, unable to find the right words.

The evening has fallen quickly.

You walked through dark alleys, illuminated only by dim lanterns.

In the bag you had in your hands quietly ringing figure. In the air smelled of damp, and somewhere far away lazy rain splashed. It hasn’t started yet, but it was hanging in heavy drops above its heads.

- Today was great, said Hiori quietly, breaking her silence.

- Yes... - you said. The voice was softer than you expected. Almost unconsciously, your hand held the bag tighter. - Thank you for calling.

He nodded, and you continued to walk in silence. But between you there was a strange shiver, as if from an electrostatic discharge - something that was stronger than words.

Hiori suddenly slowed down, and then stopped altogether.

You stopped, too, turning to him.

The damp air enveloped the skin. The wind tingled the hair slightly.

Hoori stood in front of me without saying a word. In his eyes, the reflection of the lanterns was glistening - timid, almost unsure, but at the same time so frank that the breath caught me for a moment.

He came half a step closer.

You felt his warmth, heard his breath.

- May?.. he asked a little.

Your heart has missed its beat.

The answer was obvious.

You nodded.

Barely noticeable, almost hesitantly, Hiori approached. His hand gently touched your cheek - a slight, almost weightless touch. He leaned forward, slowly, as if giving you time to change your mind, to distance yourself... but you didn’t make a move.

His lips touched yours - at first awkward, timid.

A short, warm, moist kiss, smelling of rain and late evening.

He’s gone for a split second, and he looks at you again. And then, bolstered by courage, he came back with a deeper kiss - already a little more confident, a little more greedy, as if he understood that there was nothing to lose.

The rain has finally touched the earth with the first rare drops, mixing with the heat of your breath.

And in that sudden, almost unreal moment you realized:

Even if the whole world were to collapse, you have already built yours.

On a blinking screen. In quiet evenings. On soft touches.

Reciprocated.

The drops of rain became thicker, heavier on the skin and clothes.

You only got away from Hiori when the sky suddenly shook, and the first large drop rolled down his cheek.

- We should run, he exhaled, laughing a little.

You nodded.

He grabbed you by the hand - unexpectedly strong for someone who had always seemed so soft - and pulled.

You ran away.

The asphalt quickly became slippery, the air was heavy with moisture. Water poured into the hair, trickled down the cheeks, absorbed in the cloth of clothes.

But neither you nor he cared before.

You heard Hiori laugh. Real, carefree - not quiet, not hiding a smile, but loud, happy

His hand held yours, warm, alive, real

You turned into an alley, hiding under some kind of roof ledge. The rain was rattling on iron over your heads, creating a melody that could not be repeated

You leaned against the wall, breathing heavily from laughter and running. Hjori stopped close by, hair stuck to his forehead, eyelashes wet, shirt stuck to his shoulders.

He looked damn beautiful. Real.

Hoori reached out his hand, put the wet line behind your ear.

Touched my chin with my fingers, sliding them down my cheek, as if I didn’t believe you were really here, close to me in this rain.

- Thank you,' he whispered, leaning back again.

This time the kiss was slow. Warm, despite the wet clothes.

Your hands have wrapped themselves around him, drawing closer, obstinately, demanding.

He answered, clinging to the whole body, giving himself entirely to you - with all that quiet trepidation, slipping away tenderness and desperate courage.

There were drops falling nearby, crashing against the rocks.

There were people walking around laughing under the umbrellas.

The light of the apartment windows warmed behind me.

But your whole world was here now: in his hot fingers on your waist, in his trembling breath, in his kisses, in his quiet whisper that you could hear with difficulty through the rustle of rain:

- I want more nights with you.

You smiled through the kiss and clenched his palm tighter in yours.

- Then we have an eternity ahead of them.

[faceofpoe]

Have you figured out a way to reconcile the “Brasso giving Kellen cover” thing yet? I like the idea of it as a character moment for Brasso, but I can’t seem to make logical sense of it. It’s bothering me!

The way I see it, Brasso has to be taking a (very risky) guess as to what Kellen has said to the Imperials. There are essentially three options there: (1) Kellen has actually ratted them out, (2) Kellen has actively tried to protect them by saying there aren’t any undocumented workers there, or at least any that he knows of, or (3) Kellen has said nothing one way or another.

If #1, Brasso’s outburst I guess helps Kellen by confirming his loyalty to the Empire. Why Brasso would want to help Kellen in that case is another question, but maybe he’s compassionate enough to imagine Kellen not feeling like he had a choice, in order to protect his own family. But also why would the outburst be *necessary* in that scenario?

If #2, Brasso’s outburst would actually out Kellen as having lied to the Imperials. Doesn’t that actually make things worse for Kellen, while also not helping Brasso and his people?

If #3, (which if I were Brasso I would guess was the most likely thing to have happened by that point) then Brasso’s outburst would, at best, indicate that Brasso sees Kellen as loyal to the Empire and likely to have given them up. But it’s still outing Kellen as having known about Brasso & co’s immigration status, and wouldn’t the Imperials then be angry and suspicious about the fact that Kellen hadn’t given them up right away?

Am I missing something here?

Ha okay. *sweats*

So I don't think there's any ambiguity in how we're meant to read the scene. I do think *ducks* it's kind of shit writing tbh.

From the audience perspective, Kellen having sold them out at this moment doesn't really make sense unless it's just sort of... supplementary.

The imperial team came to this (...council?) early because the lieutenant set his attention on Bix. I don't think this is debatable? They come rolling up, he gives instructions to set the team up, and then takes his man to go find her right away. That's why they've changed plans. 'Husband' is off world. It's middle of the work day, he's hoping to catch her alone and off guard.

The troopers only catch Brasso because he's looking for Wilmon who is where he is because he's expecting the later departure. It's just the shit combination of circumstances but I think ultimately can be pinned back on the lieutenant. So what/when is Kellen to have said to sell them out?

From a 'what is Brasso thinking?' standpoint -

I think your option 3 is probably what we're meant to understand but what you're missing is the *nudge wink* aspect of the fact that the councils *can't* get through the harvest without the extra help. So we get this chaotic sort of inventory/inspection where they'll fuck with people who act guilty but largely seem to let the ones who keep their heads down slide. All the emphasis on how running is the big thing that's getting people caught out.

With Brasso's outburst it's important to remember how it starts - one of the imperials going 'hey wait isn't he one of the mechs?' Not 'oh is THAT one of them?' as if they've just been discussing the legality of the labor here but the suspicion is just dawning on this particular dude, I think. They've found someone sneaking around so they're guilty of something and 'hey wait isn't this one one of yours?'

Kellen freezes. Because yeah he's in as much a corner as anyone at this point.

So what Brasso accomplishes is to *distance* them. He so quickly throws the accusation out there and the wording he uses - you use us up and turn us in (something like that) - he is not painting the picture of their relationship we saw, where Brasso & co are part of the big family, sitting down to meals with the whole group and clearly very comfortable and never mind the lengths we've been watching Kellen go to to bring them information and then an out.

What I think in the end his outburst accomplishes is to establish - okay maybe Kellen didn't say anything right now. But he sure is the sort of bastard who *would* he was just waiting to get through the harvest. Gotta have the grain, ya know.

That's the only way I can reconcile it because again - I don't think the progression of events or the moment itself is ambiguous at all. Subtle, but not ambiguous. It's just... kind of a weak script moment.

[angelwishess]

𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝚑𝑒𝑚, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝑡𝚑𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔,

𝑡𝚑𝑒𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 .ᐟ ‎ ‧₊˚ 𓂃౨ৎ˖

╰┈➤ ᨳິ Angel ‎ ‧₊˚ ⟢ She/Her , 15 ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

ᜊ( ᜊ ´ ˘) ੭♡ ‧₊˚.’ I post OC X CANON, art/doodles, major yapping and writing/fics!!

Mainly TWST-centric blog ♡ ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა!!! (Twst Intro)

꒰ঌ DO NOT Repost or use my art for Al !! ໒꒱

DNI Transphobes, Homophobes, Racists, and basic dni criteria.

𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬: 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

‎ ‧₊˚ 𓂃 TWST OCs .ᐟ ౨ৎ˖

‎ ‧₊˚ 𓂃 Floyra Masterlist — Floyd x Kyra ‎౨ৎ˖

【 More Coming Soon… Art Masterlist, Writing, ect. 】

‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ˖ 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 .ᐟ ౨ৎ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ˖

【 ❝ 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐞! ❞ — 100+ followers event! 】

Status: OPEN ♡ˊˎ-

【 ❝ 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐊𝐲𝐫𝐚! 2025 ❞ 】

Status: OPEN ♡ˊˎ-

【 ❝ 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐂 𝐐𝐧𝐀 ❞ 】

Status: OPEN ♡ˊˎ-

【 ❝ 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐂 𝐀𝐬𝐤 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 ❞ 】

Status: OPEN ♡ˊˎ-

‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔

‧₊ ౨ৎ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥.ᐟ

‧₊ ౨ৎ 𓂃 Hi hi !! I'm Angel! (But I also go by Kangel) I'm 15 years old, and i'm Filipino!Though, I'm not that good at Tagalog… I’m Demiromantic and Asexual !! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა ♡ ‧₊˚

My timezone is GMT +4, and I come home late after school a lot, so from monday-thursday, I might be more inactive.

Please don't feel shy to interact! I love LOVE interacting with people, and my inbox is open to anyone !!! So please don't feel intimidated, I'm happy to talk to you about OCs, canon characters, or anything. Just keep in mind— I am very forgetful, and I can lose track of time easily. So I might forget to reply right away. Please know I’m not ignoring you!! I’m probably just doing something else and forgot to ໒꒰ྀིっ⸝⸝⸝ ꒱ྀི১!!

Just so you know, this is an Oc × Canon account! I'll mostly post about my TWST Ocs and their ships, my main one being Floyra (Floyd x Kyra!). So, if you aren't into that, thats completely fine! We all have our own opinions, and I completely understand. But please, stay kind and respectful and don't use it as an excuse to attack me or any of my mutuals!

This isn't a very serious blog, just somewhere I can ramble about my interests, dump art and interact :3

‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔

‧₊ ౨ৎ 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 .ᐟ

General Tags .ᐟ

🎀! reblog — ୨୧ Literally just my reblogs or talking to my mooties, feel free to mute this !

🎀! bookmark — ୨୧ Anything I want to use for future refrence. Mostly only TWST assets (sprites, bgs, templates, ect.)

🎀! doodles — ୨୧ Lazy drawings of silly scenarios that come to mind, not anything serious teehee !

🎀! art — ୨୧ Art that I put a little more effort into, or art I’m more proud of!

🎀! fic — ୨୧ My writing! I only really write about my Oc x Canon ships, and I don't take requests.

🎀! yap — ୨୧ Literally me just yapping ... rambling... lollygagging ... Sometimes not even about TWST, mainly just me getting my thoughts out of my head but it varies on what i talk about lol

OC tags .ᐟ

🎀🕊️! kyra — ୨୧ My main OC based on the Disney Princess Stereotype!

🎀🦈! floyra — ୨୧ Floyd x Kyra, my main ship for this blog!

🎀! fankids — ୨୧ …self explanatory. the fankids of my oc x canon ships…

‧₊ ౨ৎ 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 .ᐟ

— ୨୧ Mairimashita! Iruma Kun!

— ୨୧ Obey me! Shall We Date?

— ୨୧ Pokemon !!!

— ୨୧ Epic: The Musical

— ୨୧ Journey To The West

— ୨୧ Mythology in general

Theres probably more that I don’t remember atm…

‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔

‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔 ˖ ‧₊˚ .𖥔

last updated: April 28, 2025 — ᨳິ Angel

[jaxihammer]

Media literacy and smooshing my little guys together like non-canon compliant barbies should not be mutually exclusive

[psychopomp-namine]

cheng weimin and shao yuanyuan abandoning cheng xiaoshi at the tender age of 8 years old gets even more fucked up when you think about how they know about the photo diving ability and that bahati is a school related to abilities

like okay listen. one of you has the ability to go back in time by clapping your hands while looking at a photo. presumably you know that abilities are passed on to children. they can activate at any time, perhaps during traumatic moments like with the twins. one of you went to teach at a school for superpowered kids so presumably you know how this works.

and you think you can just abandon a kid with unactivated powers?? leave him with trauma ripe for awakening abilities? what if it wasn't the bridon photo that triggered it huh? what if cheng xiaoshi, at the tender age of 8, cried so hard wondering about his parents and then he accidentally claps himself into a random photo (IN A PHOTO STUDIO! A SHOP ABOUT PHOTOS!! WHERE HE LIVES!!!) with no one to guide him? what if he gets stuck there??? as a kid???

like okay yeah lu guang discovered his ability at 7 years old but apparently someone was there to help him. and also his ability doesn't like, harm him physically. he's not possessing someone or anything. so we're all just lucky cheng xiaoshi never discovered his powers until he was an adult because like. if he discovered that as a kid, lonely as he was?? he'd be so fucked. oh my god. just thinking about it gets me heated like what the fuck cheng weimin. shao yuanyuan. what the fuck. what if your 8 year old kid with abandonment issues got stuck possessing some random person and he doesn't know what's happening. he doesn't know anything. his parents left him and he's not even himself anymore and he's not home and how does he fix this, how does he go back. the horror of it all.

[lilacs-stars]

wait okay I haven't seen anyone talk about this yet (and I'm really sorry if this has been brought up before, to my knowledge it hasn't, but obviously I haven't seen every single post ever), during "perfect revenge" when they first go into the dead fish layer thing whatever, and around the time where uliana says "find that perfect, perfect revenge"

HADES LITERALLY GRABS ONTO MORGIE'S SHOULDERS AND DOES A LIL JUMP?? AND HE'S SMILING AND HE SEEMS SO HAPPY HE JUST DOES A JUMP LIKE

it's soo cute 😭 honestly in my opinion it feels super out of character for him, idk why it was even included but like maybe it shows a part of hades that's super bubbly, which he tries to mask with his apathetic, uninterested demeanor?

but the way he jumped on morgie's shoulders in particular, makes me wonder more about their dynamic? like is it because morgie's so bubbly that hades is like that around him too? and the way that morgie was quick to agree to hades's "yeah let's burn her to a crisp" makes me wish we got to see more of them. like imagine hades always acting so tough and unconcerned around maleficent, but finally letting loose and being super excited and happy when he hangs out with morgie.

anyways just a thought, I figured it would be nice to point it out and see what you guys think about it. that's all for now! :))

(also now I can't get the idea out of my head where hades is being all chill to maleficent like "yo imma go hang out with morgie" and she's like "okay whatever" and then cut to hades hanging out with morgie where they're both squealing and jumping up and down like a pair of teenage girls while one of them spills the tea 😭 I'm sorry I can't this is too funny 💀 I actually need a fic about this like this is some top-notch villain behavior fr)

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

[jujuscrolled]

love, actually

☆ in which if you look closely, you’ll find that love actually is all around (ft. toji, choso, yuta)

Toji

Toji had become increasingly worried about his son. Megumi had never been quite the talker - always resorting to a shrug, a nod or a side eye. Toji had become accustomed to their conversation (or lack there of) - so much so that he could read Megumi like a book. Their routine went like such: Megumi would come home, they’d have minimal conversation over how his school day had gone, he’d leave to do his homework and come out by dinner time (he’d complain about the taste or smell or anything else that didn’t meet his expectations), then they’d watch reruns of Crayon Shin-Chan and demolish exactly half of a large bucket of red vines. That was what Toji liked, it was a nice routine, he thought.

Until about a week ago - Megumi had eaten his dinner (without complaints!) and while they still had their nightly father-son bonding over Shin-chan Megumi had only eaten about a third of what he usually ate of red vines, and God forbid he tried asking about school.

Toji was at a bit of a loss considering he wasn’t much of a talk about your feelings kinda guy but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about his son. So, the obvious solution? Talk to the most emotionally available person he knew: you.

You were their neighbor and Toji’s close friend - though, really more of his only friend. You were the only one that would genuinely tolerate and even enjoy both his and his son’s emotional constipation.

“So, you’re worried about him… Because he’s not complaining about your food?” You asked as you sat at one of the barstools that faced his kitchen.

“There’s more to it. ‘Sides, i’m not worried i’m just…” Toji paused, thinking of a word to properly describe what he was feeling but his mind was far too jam packed with thoughts to formulate a proper word.

“It’s called being worried, Toj. And honestly? Considering you’re trying to make dinner with a chicken breast and a single carrot - i’m worried now too.” You mused, standing up and making your way over to him. (He had asked you to help him make dinner earlier but you had refused knowing that you’d end up doing most of the work.)

Toji watched you as you leaned onto the counter, back against the drawers as you looked at him curiously. He felt his hands get sweaty.

“Well, have you asked his teachers if he’s been off in class too?” You asked causing Toji to roll his eyes, “‘m not asking his teacher about my son.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes at him, “don’t be silly. They spend a lot of time with him - it’s not a bad thing to ask about your son as a concerned parent! Besides, you’re asking me about him and I’m just your neighbor.”

Toji scoffed at you, lifting his hand to flick your forehead.

“Don’t be stupid, you’re more than just our neighbor. ‘Sides, the brat likes you.” He looked away from you feeling uncharacteristically bashful as you grinned up at him.

“Awww, you guys like me?” You cooed, poking at his side making him swat your hand away. Toji was surprisingly ticklish for being such a burly man so you always found it funny to poke at the not so metaphorical bear.

“Well alright then, I’ll do what I can. Now please move, I doubt boiled chicken and half a carrot can hardly provide anyone with the necessary nutrients to survive.” You muttered pushing on his beefy shoulder so he could move.

“I put seasonings and shit in here too, don’t piss me off.” He muttered, but moved away from the stove regardless.

Four bowls of chicken noodle soup (Toji had seconds), a few episodes of Shin-Chan and three-fourths of a jar of red vines later Toji found himself in his room, mouth ajar as he stared at his phone.

From: Toji (don’t answer)

no fuckin’ way. he’s 6. u pullin my leg?

To: Y/n

you’ll never find me anywhere near ur nasty ass leg, old man. ur welcome btw !! xoxo

Toji deadpanned at your message before rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t even that much older than you. Shaking his head and focusing on the main topic; he supposed a crush wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

The next day the three of you found yourselves walking down the street, per your suggestion of course. You’d thought the Christmas decorations would help get Megumi to talk about his crush. Some kid in his class that he refused to tell even you more about. Toji couldn’t lie, his interest was piqued. It wasn’t often that the Fushiguros were interested in people so clearly this kid has got to be something special.

“So, school got any fun things going on?” Toji asked awkwardly. Out of his peripheral he saw the way you had face palmed.

“Not really, no.” Megumi said, eyes not rising from where they’d been the entire walk; the floor.

“Right.” He muttered feeling dejected. As if sensing his father’s dissatisfaction, Megumi cleared his throat before shoving his hands in his pockets, “actually, there’s a play coming up. For Christmas and stuff.”

You and Toji looked at each other, eyes wide. “Oh! Are we invited?” You asked, only getting a shrug from Megumi.

“Well I’m in it so I have a few tickets if you want them.” He said nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just dropped the most unexpected bomb on his father. “You’re in the play?” Toji asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible so not to scare off Megumi’s invitation.

“Yeah. A friend of mine convinced me.” Toji glanced over at you, watching as your eyes sparkled.

“Cool, well we can help you practice, if you’d like.” You said, looking over at Toji who cleared his throat, “yeah, and I can help build stuff or whatever.” Toji kept his gaze in front of him, not wanting to scare the young boy off.

He pulled out his phone having felt it buzz and arched a brow at the message.

From: Y/n

wasn’t I the one that helped you build everything in ur house ? :p

Toji reached over, behind Megumi, to shove your shoulder surprisingly gently before texting you back.

From: Toji (don’t answer)

help me get the kid w his crush i’ll take u to dinner. on me

Toji stuffed his phone in his pocket, refusing to turn to look at you since that same damned warmth in his cheeks that you always seemed to cause was back and warmer than ever.

choso

Your fingers clicked against the keys on your keyboard, filing out yet another dreaded email. With the holidays coming up it seemed like less and less people were using their brains.

One of those people being your boss: Satoru Gojo. Who was currently standing beside you, the rolled up sheets of paper that he’d probably had some poor intern print out just to give them something to do, tapping against your head in attempts to get your attention - though really, he just found a wicked sense of pleasure in annoying you.

“Yes, Gojo?” You sighed, clicking send before turning to look at him.

“Come to my office please, I’d like to discuss a very important topic.” He said. Now, if Gojo was normal you’d be very concerned at his words. Thankfully (or not, depends who you ask, really) Gojo was far from normal and if the cheshire grin and the pure evil lurking behind his cerulean eyes were anything to go by; he was just playing on something else that would surely cause you a headache.

Sure enough, the second you were in his office he was grinning even wider at you.

“So. How’s my beloved friend doing today?” He asked, leaning forward onto his elbows, his head supported by his folded hands.

“What do you want from me, Satoru.” You sighed, patience unusually thin due to the long string of his emails that he’d tasked you with replying to claiming that you did all the “proper talk” better than he did.

“Okay fine, i’ll cut to the chase but only because I have last minute party planning to do; when are you gonna do something about your little problem?”

You only stared at him, unable to find it within you to somehow guess what the hell he was talking about this time.

“Pardon?”

“Sheesh, and you say i’m the childish one. Look, because you’re my friend and I love you; we have a bet going on and while I can afford lose a grand; I’m not about to let my best friend be alone on Christmas so if confess by tonight i’ll personally give you the thousand that I have riding on this.”

Satoru was insane, you knew this, but this was just far beyond insanity.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’ll even be your wingman!” You could only gape at his words, the rest of his speech finally processing in your mind and only humiliating you further.

“You said the entire office has a bet on this?!” You whispered shouted, feeling your cheeks heat up as you thought about all the times you’d caught people staring at you whenever you and Choso spoke. It all made sense now, though really, you had hoped you’d just been paranoid. The reality of it all was much more horrifying than your mind.

“Well… Yes… We weren’t aware that you were trying to keep it lowkey, sweets…” You groaned at his words, moving to slam your head onto his desk but his hand reached over blocking you from doing so.

“Does… Does he know?” You asked, unable to look at him in the eyes.

“I think you know the answer to that…”

“I’m putting my two weeks in.”

“Nonsense! Sweets, you have this in the bag alright? And especially if you have me as your wingman! So here’s the plan-“

And so you found yourself standing awkwardly in the corner of the stupid Christmas party Satoru had thrown to “boost morale”. You had to give him credit though, despite your sour mood - the rest of the office seemed to actually be having fun. The dance floor was filled with your coworkers dancing and talking together - Satoru in the middle of it all of course, eyes bright and santa hat tilted atop his head. The man didn’t even have to drink to have that much fun, you couldn’t help but smile at the realization.

“He seems to be enjoying his own party.” Your eyes widened at the all too familiar voice next to you, swallowing your drink harshly as you turned to look at him.

Kamo Choso. Looking devastatingly handsome in a white button up, sleeves rolled up and exposing his forearms. The black slacks he wore always were a joy to witness. And as if you needed any other reason to gawk at the gorgeous man in front of you, he had decided to wear his hair down. Oh, what a treat.

“Huh? Oh! Er.. Uhm, yeah, he’s quite the party enjoyer.” You inwardly cringed at yourself, party enjoyer?! Really?

Choso only laughed, looking back over at your friend who was now doing the sprinkler - Suguru and Shoko throwing confetti at him as if it was money.

“I take it you’re not?” He asked, looking back at you before taking a sip of his own drink. You could only shrug, “I guess I prefer a quiet night in…”

“Me too.” He said, nodding to himself.

“Y/n!” You felt your entire body tense at Satoru’s call, eyes closing in fear of what was to come.

Sure enough, an arm was thrown around your shoulder. “Oh, hello, Cho!”

“It’s Choso.”

“We’re all pals here are we not? Anyway! This is perfect, i’ve been trying to get Y/n on the dance floor all night but since we’re all paired up already, do you mind a few rounds with my good friend here?”

You felt like pinching yourself, wanting so desperately to wake up from this very obvious nightmare you were having.

Unfortunately, the pinch only added to your pain and suffering.

“Uhm…”

“You really don’t have to do that, Choso. Our boss here was unfortunately dropped far too often as a child and it clearly must have caused irreversible damage.” You said, glaring at Satoru who only let out a loud laugh before patting your back far too harshly causing you to stumble forward.

“Have fun! Not too much fun though.” He winked, walking away leaving you to clean up the mess he’d caused.

“I’m… So sorry…” You cringed out. Not having the heart to face the man next to you.

Much to your surprise, he only let out a chuckle.

“Don’t be - I’ve actually been meaning to ask you to dance but couldn’t figure out how to so I guess now I’ll just have to thank him later.. If you’ll have me of course…”

Yuta

“Yuji what the hell are these?” You asked as you stared down at the ridiculously bad pictures Yuji had taken on your phone. You had put your entire trust in him seeing as he had been bending down and allegedly breaking his back to take “the perfect photos” but as you stared at the blurry atrocities on your phone - it was clear that while he meant well, Yuji was far to hyperactive to take steady photos.

“Huh? whats wrong with them?” He asked, leaning over your shoulder to look at them with you.

“What do you mean what’s wrong with them?! Are these even of me? This is a blurry picture of a dog!” You whined, hearting the picture so it’d be put into your favorites folder - it was actually a pretty cute dog, blurry or not.

“Aw man! I must’ve accidentally had the one second delay on them, i’m sorry.” He said, grabbing your phone so he could get a closer look at the photos.

“It’s okay. I don’t even really need them anyway.” You sighed, patting his head. He only pouted, handing you your phone.

“Maybe you show up in Maki’s pictures? Or inumaki’s! He took some too!” Yuji said.

“What about my pictures?” Maki asked before you could say anything. You and Yuji looked over as she walked closer to you and Yuji, Inumaki and Megumi following behind her.

“I took crappy photos of Y/n so I was just talking about your photos and how you might have better pictures of everyone!” Yuji explained, sitting next to you.

“Why’d you take crappy photos?” Maki asked, frowning at Yuji who only let out an offended scoff.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” He replied only causing them both to argue if it had been intentional or not.

“Guys! It’s fine, really, but if I happen to show up in the background of any of your guys’ pictures then send them my way please.” You begged, clicking off your phone before leaning back on the bench you were all squeezed onto.

The campus was abnormally empty, though with the temperature dropping you couldn’t say you were surprised. Sitting outside during the winter was not something any of the other students wanted to do so you guys chose to sit there to avoid the indoor crowds. Nobara, Yuta and Panda refused to go out in the cold if it could be helped so you all usually met in the library once Nobara sent you a text telling you that the crowds had dispersed.

“Oh! Wait, I’m pretty sure I remember Yuta taking photos of everyone.” Maki said causing you to look away from Megumi and Yuji who were debating if your professors Geto and Gojo were dating or not. They just seemed to have too much unspoken energy in the air around them.

“Yeah maybe of you guys.” You sighed. Maki rolled her eyes at you, “i’m serious. He’s the likely candidate for having pictures of you. Good ones too - you’ve seen his portfolio.”

You could only shrug at her words, unlocking your phone again to see if maybe you’d missed any hidden gems.

There was nothing.

“Just ask him, Y/n! Why are you so scared?” Maki sighed, grabbing your phone and forcing you to look at her.

Your only hope was Yuta Okkotsu - the guy who honestly would’ve been your first choice (aside from Megumi who was too busy with finals to join your group) but unfortunately for you, he hated your guts.

“Oh my Gods he does not hate you.” She groaned, as she scrolled through the pictures. You watched as she grimaced at them only furthering your feeling of despair.

“No, it’s fine. I don’t even need the pictures or anything.”

“Need them or not - Yuta will have some. So speak now or forever hold your peace.” Maki said handing you your phone back.

“Well, lucky for me I enjoy my peace quite a bit.”

The week had passed with you refusing to ask Yuta for pictures. Maybe he didn’t actually hate you but you highly doubted he liked you.

Every time you’d try to speak to him, he’d find an excuse to leave the conversation as soon as possible. If it was ever just the two of you waiting for the rest of the group, he’d miraculously always receive a silent phone call that he just had to answer. If you ever asked to hang out (though this had been closer to the beginning of your friendship with the group) he’d find an excuse for that too.

Overall, the guy avoided you like the plague and had never tried to get close to you despite the rest of the group being welcoming. You couldn’t help but let it bother you a little bit since you really didn’t think you’d done anything to start off on the wrong foot with him but at the end of the day - you also didn’t want to force a friendship with him if he wasn’t open to it.

You groaned into your pillow before pulling your phone out, your finger hovering over Yuta’s contact number.

You supposed it couldn’t hurt to just ask… Though as your luck would have it, your finger must’ve been hovering a little too close to the call button and now before you could even process it, the phone had started to dial his number making your eyes widen.

“Hello?” His voice sounded leaving you with your mouth wide open and your heart about to beat out of your chest.

“Uhm… Hello?” He asked again, making you sit up as you put the phone to your ear. “Oh! Uhm, hi, yes sorry! It’s Y/n…” You said, face palming.

“Yeah… I know…”

“R-right… Sorry, uhm, I was just calling because Maki had mentioned something about you taking photos the other day? Or, last week would be more accurate…” You let out an awkward chuckle as you were met with silence.

“Uhm, hello?” You asked after a moment. Had he hung up on you? You checked the screen only to see the call was still ongoing.

“Oh. Uhm. Yeah, I did but i’m not sure if they’re any good.” He muttered into the phone. Despite his tone, you couldn’t help the excitement that bubbled in your chest.

“Wait, really?! Wow! Is it okay if I stop by to see if-“

“Uhm, I don’t think… I mean, they’re not great. Probably too blurry - they won’t be any good.” He explained but you were far too excited.

“Trust me, anything will be better than Yuji’s blurry pictures.” You said, jumping off your bed and slipping on your shoes.

“I can be over in about ten minutes! Thank you so much!” You said, pulling your phone away from you so you could hang up.

You could’ve been at his dorm sooner but you figured you’d get him a coffee or something as both a peace offering and a thank you.

So with a coffee and a slice of pistachio cake you stood outside Yuta and Inumaki’s shared dorm room.

You heard shuffling on the other side of the door before it opened slowly. Yuta stood awkwardly, hands at his sides as he stared at you. You pushed through your discomfort and offered a smile before raising the treats towards him, “a small thank you - for your time and maybe for your photography skills as well.”

He only rubbed the back of his neck, glancing behind him before he cleared his throat, “uhm, look, I really don’t think you show up in any of the pictures or videos… So… Sorry to have wasted your time and stuff.” He muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You felt your eyes sting, hands lowering since he still hadn’t taken the cake or coffee from you. You were feeling rejected and embarrassed.

“Oh… Well, since i’m already here… Do you mind if I still look through? I’m sure they’re lovely regardless…” You asked, trying to keep face as you smiled up at him through teary eyes.

“I-… Uhm…” He sighed before moving sideways allowing you into his room.

You’d been in the dorm before, though it was the first time he had also been in there with you considering every time Inumaki invited you over Yuta was always suspiciously gone.

He was slow to pull out his laptop, clicking through files before he placed it down in front of you.

“These are the only ones that were salvageable.” He muttered, allowing you to click through.

Sure enough, they were gorgeous. Yuta was the only one in your group with a professional grade camera and a certain eye for photography as well so it really was a no-brainer that they’d be perfect. You couldn’t help but smile at the photos of your friends. Small ache in your chest as you realized that he had taken special care in not including you in any of them. He’d even gotten some of Yuji, who had been glued to your side the entire day, and managed to not even have a finger of yours in frame. Truly talented he was.

As you clicked through, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to the recently opened file, your eyes landing on a file with your name on it, excitement filling your chest.

Figuring they’d probably just be the non-cropped versions of what you had already seen, you clicked on the file without really giving it a second thought.

Instead of that though, you were met with an entire portfolio of just you. Pictures of you smiling, closeups of your hands and eyes, videos of you just existing loading onto the screen.

“Oh…” Was the only thing you were able to whisper. “They’re… They’re beautiful, Yuta... But I- I thought you hated me?”

He stayed quiet, not meeting your eyes that had once again filled with tears. Happy ones this time.

“Yeah, well… Hopefully those work for you… I’ll uhm… I have to go but send yourself whichever ones you want.” He said, grabbing his backpack before darting out the door, leaving you with far too much to process.

a/n; tysm for reading <3 comments n reblogs always welcome ! oh and yes ! this is very much based on the movie love actually ! :3

[doverstar]

actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-

[buttdumplin]

John helps you with your pussy nukes.

Part 3 of Gender-affirming Price, Part 1, Part 2

I wrote this after having my own little pity party about my meds but then I was like, you know what? Price would never

cw: Price x transmasc!reader, established relationship, medical aspects of transitioning, reader's genitals referred to as "pussy" and "cock"

word count: 732

You’ve been at it for a while, sweaty and angry from so many failed attempts. You’ve tried squatting, you’ve tried laying on your back, you’ve tried laying on your side, and still you can’t seem to be able to get the right angle. Having to take these vaginal estrogen tablets is already a pain in sticking to the schedule and going out to get them and just knowing that it’s something you’ll have to stick to for the foreseeable future. All the scraping and poking and prodding only makes things worse. You know you need your dose tonight, but at this point your hands are too slippery from sweat to hold onto the tiny applicator. And you’re far too angry to trust the force of your hands. You have to ask John for help. 

John knows about these tablets. You explained early on what they were and what you needed them for. He has, however, never seen the actual application. Including him into your testosterone routine has been a dream. It’s reassured you both about your connection. Your weekly shots have turned into quiet comfort, the intimidating nature of the injections soothed by John’s care. For him, they’ve become moments of worship, where he can demonstrate his love for every part of you, just as you are. It’s really solidified for you how he sees you. You know you shouldn’t worry about the tablet, and you try to hold onto that as you call him to the bedroom. 

He’s at the door in seconds, his face shifting from slight concern to unfiltered delight. Leaning against the doorframe, he takes in the sight of you on the bed, bare from the waist down, legs wide open and a bit out of breath. 

“Is this for me?” his voice a rumble.

You huff and lift the little pink applicator straight into the air so he can see it, “I keep scraping myself and I can’t get deep enough.”

“I’ve never had that issue.”

“Nevermind,” you start to rise, but he’s easing you back with a gentle laugh.

“Give it here.”

You eye him skeptically, “It has to sit to dissolve. No funny business.”

“No funny business,” he swears. 

A moment later, you’re handing him the applicator, opening your legs further. It looks so small in his hand, barely a fraction of the size of his fingers. Damn. John catches your stare and wiggles his fingers, proud of himself. You smile back at him, rolling your eyes, and the world feels right again. He positions himself between your legs, muscle memory guiding him. Still, he can see your hands pushing down against your tummy, a motion he’s seen you make when you’re trying to self-soothe. 

“Countdown or surprise?” he presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, not moving until he feels you relax into the sheets.

“Countdown, please.” 

His hands move quickly and easily, no corrections or suggestions needed. You smile down at him as he removes the applicator, and it helps him breathe again. As skilled as he is, as confident as he is when it comes to knowing your body, there’s still always the chance he might hurt you. John lays his head against your thigh in relief. Your hand through his hair has his eyes fluttering closed, nuzzling further into the softness of your skin.

Before you can inhale to thank him, he surges up and wraps his lips around your tdick in a kiss, giving a pleased hum.

“JONATHAN.”

He lifts his head with a soft pop, eyes wide in mock shock.

“You said no pussy. Fine. Didn’t say anything about this sweet little cock.”

Your legs snap closed, and he crawls on top of you. To think you were concerned about this man. You should have known better. John’s grin is nothing short of devilish as he slowly eases his weight onto you. Using the weighted blanket approach will earn him some points and he knows it. You cradle his head as he buries his face into your neck, gratitude washing over you. The sheer luck of finding the man, of him loving you, will never stop astonishing you. You’re melting into the quiet of the moment when he shifts.

“John. Are you hard right now?”

“How could I not be? With such a gorgeous boy in my arms,” he speaks into skin.

You really should have known better.

AN: Don't let fucking ANYBODY make you feel bad about what you have to do to keep yourself physically and mentally healthy. Everyone's gender journey looks different.

The tablets referred to here are vaginal estrogen tablets. HRT will often cause atrophy in your genitals, so depending on what you want, you might have to take an additional set of hormones for the desired result. Your body and intimacy are yours, and there is no baseline requirement for what transness is. I love yall <3

[hiyogdh]

some svsss oc scribbles to start a new sketchbook