#Single Responsibility Principle

[insightfultake]

India’s Plastic Crisis: Can the Nation Clean Up Before It’s Too Late?

India, like the rest of the world, is at a critical juncture in the fight against plastic pollution. As the global consumption of plastic is projected to rise to a staggering 516 million tons by 2025, a jump of 116 million tons in just one year, the need for decisive, scalable action becomes ever more urgent. India, a country with rapid urbanization, a growing middle class, and vast rural expanses, finds itself grappling with the dual challenges of rising plastic consumption and inadequate waste management infrastructure.

[pureomi]

˚୨୧⋆｡🍓˚ she see money all around me, i look like i'm the man

includes: itoshi sae x fem! reader. 0.8k wc. fluff.

a/n: provider sae, we all cheered !! inspired by that one tiktok trend lol

not much grabs itoshi sae's attention, so you have to get creative.

"sae, i can't help pay rent this month." even though he doesn't glance away from the computer screen, the twitch on his face is obvious. the furrowed brows, his fingers coming to a halt on the keyboard, the imaginary question mark brewing over his head—all of it subtle but still priceless.

to be fair, he doesn't even recall being this confused when his parents agreed to send him abroad at the ripe age of thirteen—that too, all by himself!

for someone as strict as itoshi sae, he should receive an award for how quickly he paused his work to simply process whatever the fuck just came out of your mouth. "you can't, what?" he finally says, still keeping his gaze focused on the screen.

this is harder than you thought. not the pranking part; the holding in your laughter part. you somehow manage to keep it in for the sake of the bit.

"yeah, i just don't have the money to help you pay our rent this month," you continue, further emphasizing your dilemma (knowing damn well it doesn’t exist) awaiting his reaction.

but of course, your prank backfires spectacularly. the dramatic reaction you were hoping for? nowhere to be found. instead, he just crosses his arms and finally turns his chair to stare at you like you're the ridiculous one in this scenario. sae leans back in his chair, letting linger another one of those infuriatingly calm looks that make you want to simultaneously throw something at him and admire how annoyingly composed he is. "i know?" he claimed, neutrally, with a quirk of his brow like...duhh?

he continued, not even trying to be offensive, just merely stating the facts he has gathered living with you over the years. "when have you ever paid rent?"

…why would you?

he’s suddenly wondering if, overnight, you forgot you’re itoshi sae’s girl. hell, he doesn’t even let you pay for something as little as webtoon coins—hence why he made sure his card info was saved on your phone. rent was too far of a stretch to claim, even as a joke, and you know this too.

with how adamant sae is, the world could collapse before he let you contribute a single penny.

but damn, did that make it make it hard for you to continue this act.

you open your mouth to say something, anything, to salvage the prank, but your brain is running on a blank slate. "i mean," you clear your throat, trying to recover. "it’s about the…principle? you know, of financial responsibility and, um—" sae tilts his head, looking wholly unimpressed. "do you even know how much rent is?" your mouth opens. closes. he waits. you scramble. "well, yeah, of course, i—" "how much?" he asks, deadpan. your lips part, but the number? nowhere to be found. you had not, at any point in your life, thought to ask. sae quirks a brow, clearly entertained by your pathetic attempt to keep going. he rests his chin in his palm, watching you struggle with the kind of calm that makes it painfully obvious he’s enjoying this. "you were saying?" he prompts, his voice laced with amusement. you huff, cheeks growing warm. "forget it. you ruined it." but before you can even sulk properly, sae reaches forward and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you in with zero effort. a yelp escapes you as he shifts you into his lap, securing you there with both arms now locked around you. your heart does this stupid little thing where it stumbles over itself because you can feel the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and—oh god—the way his lips are ridiculously close to your ear. "did i? or did you just get caught?" he murmurs, voice low and entirely too smug. "you—!" your hands instinctively grab onto his shoulders, trying to put some space between you two, but he doesn't let you. if anything, he picks you up to place you fully against his chest. "go on, finish your little act," he challenges, lips curling into a smirk. you glare at him, ignoring the rapid pounding of your heart. "i hate you." "yeah?" his voice is a quiet hum, teasing, daring you to keep going. "i guess that’s what i get for absolutely spoiling the shit out of my girlfriend." you pout, trying to look annoyed, but your resistance fades as you sink into his arms.

instead of staying smug, sae softens his grip just a little, his tone becoming more serious. "i take care of what’s mine, so don’t bother pulling tricks on me before you empty my bank account."

"do you understand?" he continues, his voice low and steady as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. the softness of the gesture contrasts with the firmness of his words, leaving you to wonder how he always manages to make you this flustered every time. all you can do is just nod, giving in to the fact that your boyfriend is a rich snob who always gets his way—one you’re completely obsessed with, no less. seriously, what are you gonna do with him? 🤍

[theconcealedweapon]

You live with your parents? Then you're a loser. Also, if they abuse you or if you have trauma from them abusing you in the past, you must sit back and take it.

You go above and beyond at work and be the best possible employee? You're rewarded with more work and maybe a tiny raise. You deserve your pitiful wage because you agreed to it.

You go to school to learn more skills so you can get a better job in the future? Then you deserve to suffer under debt for the rest of your life for making such a poor financial decision.

You steal? Then you're a dangerous thug and you always will be.

You sell drugs to make extra income? Then you're the scum of the earth and you're singlehandedly responsible for every single drug-related death that happens.

You become a sex worker? Then you deserve to be raped. Raping you doesn't even count as raping a human because you're not a human.

You try to change the system so poverty stops happening? Then you're a threat to this country's principles of freedom.

You get an abortion because you know that you'd never be able to raise a child? Then you're a cold blooded murderer and should be put to death.

No matter what you do to escape poverty, people will be downright hostile toward you. People will advocate for your suffering and say that you deserve it. Yet somehow they're able to have zero hostility toward those who profit from all of this suffering.

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚...?

𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 2k Content/Warnings: sfw, ex marine!sev, librarian!reader, vi and powder appearances, mentions of ptsd/alcoholism/death, first-gen american pressures/traumas A/N: full preface, this fic and this page are anti-us military industrial complex! If u are not, this isn’t for you (and also… get real.) If it is, then walk with me… this was supposed to be a drabble and here we are 2k words later. i have so many diff headcanons for modern!sev, but this one of them; her unyielding loyalty to silco because she just wants a better zaun, her decision to put her life on the line and to commodify her body to do so... it all led me to this idea. could be controversial but it's better than enforcer!sev LMFAO why are we doing that... anyway! enjoy!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who’s a first-generation American citizen and felt it was her responsibility to repay her parents for uprooting their entire lives just because they believed she’d have more opportunity in the States

୨ৎ She thought about becoming one of the big three- a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer- but the thing is, despite being incredibly smart, Sevika has a hard time applying herself if her heart’s not in it

୨ৎ The one thing she’s always loved, though, is pushing her body to its limits. She shot up like a weed to an awe-striking 6’2” her freshman year of high school, and started spending all of her afternoons in the gym not long after that. She began with strength training, and then she got into Muay Thai, started kicking ass, and thought, ‘damn, wish I could do this for a living…’ ୨ৎ By the time she was a (crazy built) 18-year-old, she was honestly considering it- becoming an instructor or pursuing fighting seriously- but the idea was quickly snuffed out by the voice in her head telling her that her parents didn’t come to America so she could be a Muay Thai fighter…

୨ৎ And that’s when she walks by the military recruitment table on her way to lunch at school one day, and thinks, ‘why not?’

୨ৎ She’s already got what it takes physically, the harsh discipline of basic training can’t be that different than dealing with her father when she gets a “B,” and if she doesn’t want to be in school for another 8 years to get some fancy job and a shiny title, then she can bring honor to her family this way

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who laments every single day that she can’t go back and tell her younger self to do anything but go into the military

୨ৎ No amount of pleasing her parents or bringing honor to her family is worth the dehumanization she faced, the PTSD, the crippling pain of losing your found family, the phantom pains of losing her left arm

୨ৎ She was honorably discharged after it happened, given nothing but a pat on the back, a Purple Heart veteran’s license plate that she doesn’t even use, and three free sessions with a counselor

୨ৎ And when her insurance won’t cover the fourth, she resorted to drinking instead

୨ৎ It’s all she could do to cope with the irony that in her 16 years of serving, she’d grown extremely distant from the parents she enlisted to make proud (it’s the biggest reason she re-enlists after her first 8-year contract; she thought it'd be easier than facing them), and the guilt that comes with knowing there’s innocent blood on her hands

୨ৎ Funily enough, it’s why her values and principles are what they are today; she’s seen just how evil this country is willing to be in the name of “freedom,” knowing damn well what they really had her fighting for was oil

୨ৎ It takes a few years and an insurance plan that does cover therapy for her to recover from her alcholism and finally begin processing just how traumatic her young adult life had been

୨ৎ But what really snaps her out of it is when she’s about to walk into a grocery store one day and sees that familiar table set up outside of its doors, lined with pictures of men in camo and posters with quotes about how there’s no better way to give back than to sell your body to the country

୨ৎ The pink-haired kid giving the table an appraising gaze really catches her eye; probably because she reminds Sevika of herself when she was younger. Built, pierced up, wearing all black, but none of it concealing the heart beating on her sleeve

୨ৎ “You’ve got ‘em all wrong if you think they’re gonna let you waltz in with pink hair.”

୨ৎ The younger of the two turns to find a knowing smirk on Sevika’s face, icy eyes glinting like the sun against her prosthetic 

୨ৎ “I know… that’s like, the only thing stopping me, to be honest,” She quips.

୨ৎ Sevika lets out a low chuckle, shaking her head as she reminisces on being that same young girl; seeing those posters and the men in uniform at the table and thinking to herself, ‘what else could I possibly be good for?’

୨ৎ “Don’t do it, kid,” she gruffs. “Unless you’re accounting for the thousands of dollars you’ll have to spend when your arm gets blown off. It’ll be the hand you write with, too,” she snorts, turning to look at the girl she’d soon come to learn goes by Vi

୨ৎ “Then what the fuck else do I do? Excuse my language…” Vi quickly corrects, cheeks flushing the color of her hair

୨ৎ Sevika chuckles again, dismissing the apology with a wave. 

୨ৎ “Anything else. I’ll even buy you a coffee and help you figure your shit out, if you want. Anything to keep somebody from landing where I landed.” ୨ৎ “Well… you seem to have landed somewhere pretty good.”

୨ৎ The kid’s comment both breaks and mends Sevika’s heart in ways completely unexpected, and as she’s sitting across from her, nursing a black coffee and learning that she’s been taking care of her younger sister by herself since she was in high school, Sevika realizes that if all these vulnerable kids need is for someone to listen, then by god, she can do that

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who’s back at the library to print out flyers for her free class on post-secondary options that don’t include going into the military, because her own god damn printer is broken again

୨ৎ That’s when she overhears you talking to a man at the front desk, who’s inquiring about using one of the library’s classrooms for a “job fair”

୨ৎ “Sure,” you chime, “What kind of job fair?” ୨ৎ “Military recruitment,” he confidently states, and you don’t miss a beat as you respond, still as cheerful as ever,

୨ৎ “Oh! Never mind, then. We don’t allow those here.” ୨ৎ Sevika’s head pops up at the sound of this, her eyes darting back and forth between you and the man, still as she can be, as if no one will notice her clearly eavesdropping if she doesn’t move

୨ৎ “Can I at least speak to a supervisor?” He asks, once he’s finally picked his jaw up from off the floor

୨ৎ “I am the supervisor,” you deadpan, now mindlessly stacking sheets of cardstock, “and my library isn’t a place for teenagers to get preyed on by the military-industrial complex. Have a good one, sir.” ୨ৎ For a moment, he just stands there, shocked and clearly offended

୨ৎ You look up at him, stare him down with narrowed eyes as if to ask why the fuck he’s still in front of you looking stupid, and then, your eyes lock onto hers, and you’re glad someone else is there to bear witness to the hissy fit he’s absolutely about to throw

୨ৎ But, before he can get a word in, Sevika walks up behind him, crossing her hands behind her back to signal that she’s waiting in line

୨ৎ “I can help you over here!” You beam, walking her over to the other side of the receptionist’s desk

୨ৎ When the two of you are face-to-face again, you finally get a good look at her; striking eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw, and a stunning scar complementing the faint wrinkles that have started to appear in the corners of her mouth and eyes

୨ৎ “How can I help you?” You ask, keeping it professional; but damn if she isn’t gorgeous

୨ৎ And she’s thinking the same thing about you

୨ৎ “I, uh… I didn’t actually need anything,” she begins, and her voice is so much softer than you would have guessed after taking a look at this tank of a woman. “Just thought you could use an out.” ୨ৎ You sigh, and a grin stretches across your face

୨ৎ “Thanks,” you chuckle breathily. “It certainly wasn’t necessary… but it’s very appreciated.” ୨ৎ She pauses for a moment before asking,

୨ৎ “You guys have classrooms available?” ୨ৎ “Yeah! We do,” you confirm. “Next availability is…” your eyes flick up to the ceiling as you think, “Next Tuesday. If you’d like to reserve it, I can help you out now,” you nod. ୨ৎ She shrugs; it definitely beats hosting her class in her small-ass living room

୨ৎ “Why not. You’ll be happy to hear that the entire point of the class is making sure kids aren’t preyed on by military recruiters.” ୨ৎ “You’re absolutely right,” you chuckle. “Follow me; I’ve got a form in my office for you to fill out.” ୨ৎ You walk her through several doors- none of which she lets you open- back to your office, which has been thoroughly decorated with all things you, and it makes her feel warm and fuzzy in ways she hasn’t in a long time ୨ৎ “So, tell me about yourself,” you muse, parsing through your file cabinet for the Classroom Reservation Request Form. “It sounds like you’re critical of the military, too. How’d that happen?” ୨ৎ “I was in the Marines,” she reveals, taking a seat in front of your desk. “Didn’t realize what I was getting into, and now I’m down an arm and my peace of mind.” ୨ৎ She notes that you just chuckle; you don’t shy away from the difficult subject, you don’t seem put off by her blunt comment or by her in general; in fact, you lean in, placing your elbow on your desk and your chin the palm of your hand as you hand over the form

୨ৎ She clears her throat and continues. “I met this kid once; she was thinking about enlisting because she just… didn’t know what else to do. That’s exactly how I felt when I was recruited. It got me thinkin' about how many other kids just need someone to tell them that it’s okay not to have things figured out. What’s not okay is that the military tends to prey on folks who don’t.” ୨ৎ You nod, impressed

୨ৎ “You’re doing good work… what was your name?” ୨ৎ “Sevika,” she fills in.

୨ৎ “Sevika…” you repeat, and the sound of her name on your lips makes her feel a bit more than warm and fuzzy… ୨ৎ “It’s nice to meet you, then. I’m Y/n. It’ll be an absolute pleasure to have you come talk to some of the kids.” ୨ৎ And when she does, you’re leaning against the classroom’s open door the whole time, unable to tear your eyes away from just how good she is with them

୨ৎ She finally wraps up the class, bidding a farwell to each and every one of the students as they file out; but one stays behind, a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early 20’s

୨ৎ “You ready to head out, kid?” Sevika asks, pointing at her as she stands from her place perched on the desk in the front of the room

୨ৎ And you’re just about to turn away to leave when a flurry of blue comes bounding toward you

୨ৎ “Hey, Powder!” You greet emphatically; and then, she’s skipping over to Sevika with a stack of books in hand, pleading to check them out

୨ৎ “She’s yours?” You ask, having had no idea

୨ৎ “For all intents and purposes,” Sevika shrugs with a grin

୨ৎ Powder’s still asking if she can check out more books when you chime in;

୨ৎ “Last time I checked, A Wrinkle In Time is a month overdue…”

୨ৎ Sevika looks down at her with a quirked brow and knowing grin, and doesn’t even have to tell Powder to go put everything back before Powder trudges away to do so

୨ৎ “Fine… but Vi, you have to help!”

୨ৎ “What? Why the hell do I have to help?” ୨ৎ “Language,” Sevika bemoans, watching as the two make their way down the hall

୨ৎ When you look back up at her, there’s a coy grin on your face that she doesn’t miss

୨ৎ “The class was really great. You’re a natural with the kids,” you praise

୨ৎ “I do what I can,” she says, waving the compliment away. “I’ll bring A Wrinkle In Time back tomorrow.”

୨ৎ “ No worries,” you assure. “We’ll meet for coffee soon, and you can give it to me then.”

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[ponderingmoonlight]

How to accidentally seduce your mission

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: You’re an underqualified, overworked nobody who got blackmailed into seducing the legendary demon hunter Dante Sparda. Problem is—you forgot what he looks like. Now you’re sitting in a bar, tipsy, accidentally spilling your entire top-secret mission to a mysterious (and annoyingly hot) stranger... who may or may not be the guy you’re supposed to trap. Spoiler: He is. And he’s loving every second of it.

Warnings: reader is super clumsy and absent-minded in this lol, lot of fluff + fun, this is a comfort fic for all the trauma I normally dump on y'all hehe, drunk reader ENJOY

This is absolutely ridiculous and you know it.

You, out of all people, responsible for luring none other than Dante Sparda into a flytrap?

You, a random girl from across the street who simply opened the door at the wrong time. You, who can’t even survive a single second in Call of Duty’s easy mode, who always sucked at doing sports. Oh, you’ll be so dead after this.

But you have no other choice.

“It’s following my instruction or losing your friends and family – you decide.”

You groan out loud, your eyes darting around the worn-down bar without a real aim. To be honest, you have to be the worst candidate for an undercover mission in a world you fail to understand. But apparently, that’s what makes you the perfect fit. Maybe this is what they’re searching for – an innocent girl who is sick of working a full-time job and doesn’t want to lose her relatives yet.

Who is Danta Sparda even? A demon hunter, as it seems – not like you already caught on the principle of “demons” living in this world. A pretty strong man.

And obviously, a wanted man as well.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

A grin spreads across your face almost instantly when the nice lady from behind the bar sets down a glass of something promising in front of your eyes. Oh, you haven’t been out drinking for ages. Just a little sip of alcohol would ease your nerve for sure.

“And don’t you dare to touch a single drop of alcohol.”

If it wasn’t for that shitty man who nuked all the fun out of this forced mission.

“I do, but I still need to pass I guess”, you mumble into your hands.

What a shitty way to end the day. Can this Dante guy finally show up so that you can distract him until the others arrive?

Now that you think of it…do you even know how that man looks?

“Shit shit shit”, you hiss to yourself, frantically pulling out your phone.

Maybe they already showed you but you didn’t care enough to listen. Or maybe they forgot as well…Right?

No, there’s no way in hell they did.

“I’ll just leave this here for you, I think you need it girl.”

Did they send it to you? Show it? Print it out? Your stomach twists uncomfortably while you search through each and every cat pic.

“I don’t even know how he looks…”

You don’t even realize that your mouth starts sipping on what appears like your last straw on its own, taking in the sweet but burning sensation of what tastes like pure heaven at the moment.

It’s not a secret to anyone that your head is lost in the clouds. Fuck, you even told that guy when he started threatening you that he’s the one who makes a big mistake with recruiting you to seduce a random guy at a bar. But your family and friends rely on you. What if they get killed because you didn’t care to listen to what that jerk said to you?

“Get yourself together, (y/n).”

Your thumb fumbles across the screen as you scroll past endless folders named things like “catbuttz2024,” “RENT RECEIPTS??,” and “do not open 3am.”

 Nothing. Absolutely nothing about Dante Sparda. No file. No profile. No creepy black-and-white security footage that the jerk promised would be “burned into your memory.” Ha. What memory?

You squint, tapping your gallery open again, eyes barely holding focus as the images begin to blur slightly. Okay. That might be the drink kicking in. Just one sip. One. Maybe two. And a half. But it was sweet, and you earned it by still being alive.

“Excuse me,” you wave lazily to the bartender, “can I get another one of those soul-healing, throat-burning miracle potions?”

The bartender raises an eyebrow, gives you that “really?” look, but still turns and begins mixing. Probably out of pity or morbid curiosity - you’re not sure anymore.

You sigh, dramatically, slouching against the bar with your phone resting on the counter like it betrayed you. Because it did. Because now there’s no way you’ll know who Dante Sparda is unless he conveniently walks in with a neon sign taped to his back that says “HI, I’M THE GUY YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SEDUCE OR STALL OR SACRIFICE, WHO EVEN KNOWS.”

Your drink arrives with a thud, the kind that feels final. You toast it to no one.

“To being criminally underqualified and too sober for this shit,” you mutter, then sip again.

 It burns less this time - or maybe you just care less.

Your head starts to feel fuzzy around the edges, thoughts floating out of reach like balloons slipping into the sky. You remember vaguely that Dante is supposed to be hot. Or dangerous. Or both. Or maybe just grumpy. Or a silver-haired guy with a blindfold. Is that the right franchise? Did your mind stop working when someone mentioned that he’s hot?

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, staring at a badly lit image that might be a shirtless man with a sword… or a cosplay from your cousin’s Facebook.

“This is useless. I might as well just ask every man in here if he’s secretly the spawn of hell.”

“That’s one way to start a conversation.”

You blink.

That wasn’t your thought. That was out loud. That was a voice. A man’s voice. Low. Smooth. Kinda cocky. You freeze mid-sip, your tongue still somewhere in your drink, and shift your eyes without turning your head.

There’s a man sitting next to you. A real man, apparently.

He wasn’t there a minute ago. Or maybe he was and your drink already declared war on your perception of time and space. Either way, he’s here now, and you can feel the heat of him like he carries his own gravitational pull. Red coat. Glove-stripped fingers wrapped lazily around a glass. That hair – silver, tousled, annoyingly perfect. His legs are spread too comfortably, like he owns not just the bar stool but the air around it. Smirking.

You swallow too loudly. The drink goes down like regret.

“Oh,” you mumble, blinking once. Twice.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies, with just enough amusement to make your stomach do a flip.

“You look a little lost.”

You give him a wobbly smile, the kind of smile people wear when they’re trying very hard to seem like they’ve got their life together and totally didn’t just toast to their own failure.

“I’m not lost. I’m just… situationally misplaced.”

He chuckles. Of course he does. Of course the man with the confident sprawl, good hair, and unfair cheekbones has a laugh like sin on vacation.

You frown. Did he only come here to make fun of you?

"Are you judging me?" you ask, more suspicious than you probably have the right to be, considering you’ve just referred to yourself as ‘situationally misplaced’ like that means something.

“I’m just sitting here. You’re the one muttering about hellspawn and seduction strategies.”

You blink.

You did say that out loud.

Fuck.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, pressing the cold glass to your cheek in full-body regret.

 “This is so not how undercover operations are supposed to go. I think I skipped the lesson on ‘keeping your damn mouth shut.’”

He lifts a brow.

“Undercover?”

You groan, slumping against the bar dramatically, like gravity itself is just done with your existence.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I literally opened the door to borrow eggs or something and now I'm supposed to trap a demon hunter. Like, what does that even mean?”

You glance at him, wide-eyed, glassy, and very much over it.

“Do you know what it means to trap a demon hunter? Because I sure as hell don’t. They gave me no instructions! Just this vague ‘seduce him, stall him, distract him’ crap. I work in customer service. My skill set involves apologizing to Karens and fake smiling until my soul escapes my body.”

His lips twitch.

“Rough gig.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you reply with a defeated laugh, waving a hand as though physically pushing away your life.

“Apparently the guy I’m supposed to trap is named Dante Sparda or something. He’s hot. Or terrifying. Or hot and terrifying. I don’t know. No one sent me his photo. And now I’m sitting here trying to Google his ass while looking like I’m filming a low-budget espionage porno.”

You jab your thumb at your phone like it personally offended you.

“And I keep getting fan art and cosplay! Look at this. Look! This guy could be Dante. Or Gojo. Or someone's edgy OC from Tumblr.”

The man next to you peers at the screen.

“Hmm. Tough call.”

“Right?”

You nod, a little too fast.

“Like, is that a demon hunter or a K-pop idol with a sword fetish?”

You sigh again. Loudly.

“I swear, if I ever meet this Dante guy, I’m gonna tell him straight to his beautiful demonic face that this mission was BULLSHIT. I’ll be like: ‘Sir, I am unqualified. I get anxiety ordering pizza. Please just fake your death and let me go home.’”

He takes a sip of his drink, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.

“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

“NOPE,” you declare, far too proudly.

“Could walk straight past him on the street and not even blink. Unless he sparkled. Does he sparkle? Is that a thing with demon hunters? Ugh, what am I saying? Of course he doesn’t sparkle. He probably broods. That’s like, their thing.”

He hums, as if seriously considering this.

“So if, hypothetically, he were already here… what would you do?”

You laugh - bitter, tipsy, tired of it all.

“Cry, probably.”

You turn to look at him now, fully. He’s watching you with that same smile, like he’s in on a joke you’re too drunk to understand. Like he’s humoring you.

And it suddenly hits you like a piano from a cartoon sky.

“…Wait,” you whisper, sitting up straighter.

“Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Well-“

“I know it”, you interrupt him, pointing your index finger almost through his eye.

“You know that guy, right? You know exactly who I’m talking about.

“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?”

The stranger shrugs oh too smoothly.

“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?” the stranger says with a smirk, and you narrow your eyes because he’s got that smug tone, the one that says I absolutely know and I’m enjoying your idiocy far too much.

“I might be able to show you,” he adds, tilting his head like he’s offering you directions to a taco truck and not your entire mission objective.

You wobble upright on the barstool, heroic in your tipsiness, point a finger at him that drifts a few inches to the left of his actual face.

“You’re shady,” you declare.

“And hot. Shady-hot. Like a morally ambiguous lifeguard.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks, already standing, already knowing your answer, because you’re far too drunk to play hard to get with answers or sobriety.

You nod, nearly falling off the stool in the process, and mumble something about snacks and not wanting to be murdered unless there’s at least a playlist. You make it precisely five steps outside the bar before your knees betray yo, and you half-crumple into him like a fainting goat. Was it a good idea to gulp down two cocktails in like an hour after not drinking for quite some time? Maybe not.

“Okay,” you mutter into his arm, “the sidewalk is aggressively tilting.”

“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“You’re observant,” you reply, clinging to him like he’s your emotional support lamppost.

“New plan: We go to my place. You clearly can’t walk, and I’m not carrying your dramatic ass all over town,” the stranger suggests visibly amused while literally dragging you across the sidewalk.

“Rude,” you mumble, but you lean into him anyway, because he’s warm and smells like leather and trouble and something vaguely like cinnamon toast.

You arrive at his place and immediately in what feels like a heartbeat – or maybe it only does because you make yourself heavier on purpose to that he carries you all the way.

 “Wow, I expected more… blood,” you comment before faceplanting into his bed and yelling into the mattress, “I claim this land in the name of poor life choices.”

He kicks off his boots, chuckling, and when he settles into bed next to you - fully clothed, respectful, infuriatingly smug - you let out a contented sigh like this is somehow a spa.

“You’re suspiciously nice,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.

“What are you, the demon hunter with a heart of gold?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lies there, arm behind his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he’s waiting for a punchline.

You’re lying on your side now, facing him, and something about the way the light hits his face, or the way his hair falls, silver and wild like it just stepped out of an anime, you start to squint. Not because your vision is blurry (though it is) but because your brain is trying to connect dots it forgot were even dots. Somewhere, you’ve seen this face before not long ago.

“Hey…” you mumble.

“Yeah?”

You squint harder. There’s something nagging at the edge of your mind. Like a memory. Or a pizza topping you forgot to finish.

“Have we… met?”

He laughs softly.

“Not exactly.”

“No, no, not like…I’ve seen you somewhere,” you insist, propping yourself up slightly with all the grace of a sleepy gremlin.

“You look like... like someone I was warned about.”

“Oh yeah?” he repeats, still playing along, smiling like a cat watching a turtle slowly realize it's being stalked.

You blink at him. Hard. And then - click.

One, slow, drunken brain cell trips over a wire and launches a dusty memory from the back of your skull: someone shoving a photo in your face during a chaotic mission briefing, mid-pizza bite, yelling something about “That’s Dante! If you see him, don’t piss him off unless you’ve got a death wish! He’s your target. Your mission is to seduce him and we’ll do the rest, got it?”

Your mouth drops open in slow, dawning horror.

“I have seen you before,” you whisper.

“Someone showed me your picture. I was eating pizza and not paying attention but I saw you.”

“Oh?” he coos, smirking.

“I saw your stupid handsome face!” you moan, smacking your own forehead in sheer drunk disbelief.

 “I literally got briefed on you while covered in cheese grease and now I’ve been sitting here like, ‘Who’s this sexy stranger?’ YOU’RE THE MISSION!”

Dante's full-on laughing now, his shoulders shaking, absolutely no shame.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart. But hey, did you call me sexy?”

You groan and collapse back onto the bed, face-down.

“I hate this. I hate my memory. I hate pizza. And I hate you.”

“You don’t hate pizza.”

You lift one finger into the air without looking at him.

“I hate it temporarily. Out of shame.”

You hear him shift closer, feel the bed dip just slightly, and then he’s pulling the blanket over you, absurdly gentle for someone with literal demon blood, for someone who get hunted.

“Still,” he murmurs, voice low and warm in the hush of the room, “you came a long way. You found me. Sort of.”

You peek up at him from the pillow.

“Accidentally. While drunk.”

“A win’s a win.”

You snort, half-laughing, half-exhausted, your head starting to spin in the good way now - the warm way, the safe way. And even though he’s the guy you were supposed to track down like a trained agent, even though this whole night’s been a blur of chaos and embarrassment, somehow you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to yell at you properly. And that I just want to rest here a lil’ longer,” you mumble.

“Lucky me.”

A pause.

Then you add, voice slurring slightly, “...You’re still shady-hot.”

And as your eyes drift closed, you hear him chuckle one last time.

“Sleep, rookie. You’ve earned it.”

Tags: @umbrasworld @moonlighteevee @elrondswifeyyyy @levisbrat25 @dragon-lord-lysander

@punem699

@sunshine7queen @dreamywisterias-blog @mizzowizzo @kawaistrawberry21 @legoyass

[hairmetal666]

The worst thing that ever happened to Eddie Munson is a spinning studio opening in the building next to the neighborhood store he runs with his uncle.

"That's the third one today," Eddie whines as soon as the door snicks shut behind a woman with a glossy high ponytail and electric pink polka dot Lululemon sports bra and bicycle short set.

"You see her ponytail?" Nancy asks. She's flipping through a stack of flashcards. "Never seen a twenty-five year old look fresh off a facelift."

"I hate them so much. What kind of job is 'cycling instructor' anyway?"

"I'm concerned about the amount of makeup they wear to workout. That's gotta be bad for the pores."

"I'm concerned about the collective IQ holding that operation together. Like, do they know how to get out if there's a fire alarm?"

Nancy shoves him, but snickers too. It's not like he really has anything against the instructors. They're fine. Polite and usually harmless. It's the principle of it. It's not fair, that they get to continue into an adulthood that's still all about them being pretty and popular, without any substance.

"You've done college bio," he says. He notices a couple of cereal boxes have fallen over, hops off the counter to push them back in place. "What are the chances their muscles are so big it's cutting off the blood flow to their brains? Is that a thing that can happen?"

There's no response from the front of the store, which isn't unusual. Mostly, she lets him talk and chimes in when the mood strikes. Since she seems uninterested in offering her input, he straightens the cereal and keeps gabbing.

"The other day, one of the guys came in, and his shorts were so tight, I could see his balls. Not just the outline, but the wrinkles. I could almost make out individual pubes. Is that one of those things where they pretend they're limiting drag, or whatever, to improve their speed? Even though it's a stationary bike--"

He turns, the shelves straightened, and literally only three feet from him is one of the aforementioned cycling instructors. Unfortunately, he's the most beautiful man Eddie has ever seen. Even more unfortunately, he definitely heard Eddie making fun of them.

"Uhh," Eddie says.

The guy smiles. "Sorry, my giant muscles make it hard to get around sometimes."

And Eddie just. Like. What the fuck. "That must make it difficult to cycle." God, god but this guy is so fucking, devastatingly hot and all Eddie has done is antagonize him. And not even intentionally!

"I get by," he smiles and Eddie almost swoons. "Hey, when I bend down, can you let me know about the ball sitch? I have a wholesome image to maintain."

Is he flirting? It seems like he's flirting? But that's weird, right? He caught Eddie talking shit, why would he--

"It would be my pleasure to look at your balls," his mouth says before his brain can catch up.

The guy snorts, smile getting bigger. "I don't know, now I might be self-conscious. Might have a wayward pube."

"How will you know if someone doesn't take a look?"

The guy steps closer, cocks his head to the side. He's got this impressive sweep of hair that barely tumbles, his throat dotted with cute little moles and freckles. Eddie's mouth is watering, why is his mouth watering? "I usually get to know someone a little bit better before they get that privilege."

For once, he's speechless and now he's blushing, can feel it up to his ears and down to his nipples.

The guy leans even closer, breath ghosting against Eddie's skin. "Too bad you hate exercise instructors."

This social interaction has already been a disaster, but he makes it even worse by responding with an indignant squeak.

The guy winks, can't hide his genuine amusement at Eddie's expense. "You ever want to make it up to me, you can come to one of my classes."

With that, he walks up to Nancy at the counter, and Eddie gets his first look at the single most glorious ass he's ever seen. His mouth literally drops open as he watches how it jiggles, perfect and round, and he wonders if it would be too much to fall to his knees and worship it right then and there.

Eddie's dumbstruck for a little too long, almost misses as the cycling instructor heads for the door. "How can I take your class if I don't know your name?" He shouts.

The instructor half turns, the sexiest, smuggest smile on his pretty face. "It's Steve!" He yells back.

"I'm Eddie!"

"I know!"

The door closes and he turns to Nancy. "How--how did he know my name?"

Nancy rolls her eyes, goes back to her flashcards. "You're wearing a name tag, you absolute dork."

Eddie knows he's a man of weak will. Is not completely surprised when, after a month of meanly flirtatious interactions, Steve leans across the counter to taunt, "you do one cycling class with me and I'll take you out to dinner."

He's fresh from a workout, hair still damp and messy from the shower. Eddie thinks he's about to lose his mind, desire a clawing beast gnawing on his bones.

"Oh, so I might finally get the opportunity to check out your balls?"

Steve's cheeks go very pink, and something tight and hot tugs in Eddie's abdomen. "If you play your cards right."

[mesetacadre]

I think it's fair to say there is interest in an explanation of trotskyism from a marxist-leninist perspective. Information on what exactly Trotsky did and what trotskyism is nowadays is complicated to come by unless you know a trotskyist willing to be straightforward or someone involved in organizing with these types of communists. So instead of answering these asks without much prior research or preparation, I decided to wait until I was freer, without too many academic and political responsibilities. Full disclosure, the portion of this post on Trotsky himself is essentially (though not completely) a summary of Moissaye J. Olgin's Trotskysim: Counter-revolution in Disguise, which gets into the basics of trotskyism as well as Trotsky's actual position on his contemporary issues, such as the Chinese revolution, or the CPUSA which I don't get into here but I highly recommend reading. The second portion, about modern trotskyism and how it got to be present in the countries that it is, is shorter and more based on my own experiences organizing with trotskyists as well as reading what they have to say, and conversations with much more knowledgeable comrades of mine.

What is trotskyism?

Succinctly, it is the form of left opposition to marxism-leninism that has enjoyed the most spread, spearheaded by Leon Trotsky and his criticisms of the USSR.

Trotsky himself, despite what his self-aggrandizing History of the Russian Revolution leads one to believe, was never a bolshevik, much less a leninist. The second Congress of the Russian Social-Democratic Labor Party¹ (RSDLP) of 1903, which sought to establish the bases of what would become the bolshevik party and the CPSU, saw the start of the menshevik-bolshevik split, on the issue of what the party should become and how it should be organized.

The bolsheviks, already lead by Lenin, defended the principles of organization that were later systematized into democratic-centralism. These principles were the freedom of discussion until the party decided by a majority vote during a Congress, Conference or other organ for discussion, a position on any issue. After this, unity of action should follow, and the comrades who held the minority opinion, even if they still disagree, should submit to the collectively agreed-upon position, and act on that line an all party matters. This is to ensure that the party of the proletariat, representing the interests of one class, is not divided, and is able to express that single will. Otherwise, its action is crippled by unending debates kept alive by a minority. Consequently, these principles also lead to the intolerance towards fractions within the party.

Trotsky, who aligned himself with the mensheviks, opposed these principles, instead advocating for a complete liberty of individual action of comrades in the party. He called Lenin "the great disorganizer of the party" over this. This is the first great pillar of trotskyism, a rejection of democratic-centralism in favor of the creation of endless cliques and fractions within the party, which he did multiple times within the CPSU until his expulsion.

The second great pillar of the trotskyist opposition that arose before the October Revolution was of defeatism regarding the peasantry. Especially after the defeat of the 1905 revolution, Trotsky was convinced that a successful revolution in a country such as the Russian Empire, where the peasantry was a majority and usually held reactionary positions due to various economic determinations², was impossible because these reactionary elements would inevitably overthrow a worker's dictatorship. While already an excessively defeatist position among other communists, and certainly not a bolshevik position, this belief did not change whether it was 1905, 1915, or 1935. Up to the end, even once the USSR had beaten the armed intervention of 14 armies and had transformed the peasantry by eliminating the class of kulaks and collectivizing agriculture, Trotsky's opposition to socialism in one country relied on the perception of an insurmountable reactionary class constantly on the edge of an overthrow. This is what the "permanent revolution", a term that when used by trotsky has nothing to do with the same term used by Marx and Engels, actually means. A defeatism so deep, that only the practically simultaneous and global victory of the proletariat is possible, all without party unity!

This also negates other leninist positions such as the weakest chain theory, crucial to understanding imperialism, or the necessity of a communist party altogether. Since socialism in one country will inevitably fail, Trotsky told workers that an armed insurrection once the conditions was right was pointless, and that they should instead work for a "worldwide revolution", something that's in practice impossible because it would necessitate a synchronization of the conditions necessary for a revolution in every single imperialist country at once. Unequal development is an unbreakable rule of the imperialist stage of capitalism, and the notion of a worldwide revolution or even a revolution among a significant portion of imperialist countries was already refuted by Lenin in 1915.

So how did Trotsky reconcile his defeatist dogmatism with a living and thriving proof against it in the form of the USSR? As the third great pillar of trotskyism, he insisted by every possible avenue that the USSR wasn't actually socialist, the reasons for which changed constantly. Some issues were already recognized by the CPSU and worked against, and Trotsky exaggerated them. He expressed concern about the Central Committee replacing the party itself, he expressed concern about bureaucratization, the NEP and its lack of collectivization, the excessive speed of collectivization in the 30s, and other criticisms which, when taken together, show only contradiction and a single consistent position: that any attack against the USSR was legitimate.

And it's not like he was being ignored in the USSR, he simply always chose the most incendiary and anti-leninist methods for criticism. In the 13th Congress of the RCP(b) of 1924, among other things, the resolution that was approved recognized many flaws in the party coming out of the NEP, but that these issues weren't actively dangerous and could be solved: bureaucratization in some areas, excessive departmentalization, some influence of bourgeois elements. This resolution was passed unanimously, which included Trotsky. Immediately after the Congress, he published a pamphlet called The New Course, in which he lambasts this Congress and the entire party as having degenerated. In this pamphlet he also places students as the "barometer of the revolution", instead of workers themselves. His only proposal to that Congress was one to allow "freedom of groupings", meaning the freedom to form fractions. Once again he pulled the same stunt in the 15th Congress of 1926; he publicly subscribed to a resolution that explicitly banned such fractions, and directly afterwards published more pamphlets that directly opposed the resolution that he subscribed to! This is not a man who levied fair criticisms and was shut down, he was someone who held minority positions, anti-leninist ones, and refused to admit it, to the point of plotting against the USSR.

But how come Trotsky, during his better known times in exile, claimed he was the true Leninist and that he opposed the Stalinist degeneration? This is the greatest example of a tactic he used constantly. To always seem like the rational critic, and to pass his opposition as one coming from another bolshevik, he always shifted the perspective of his criticisms. In the times of Lenin, Lenin was the "great disorganizer", and the "leader of the reactionary wing of the party"³. But once Lenin died, he became the most loyal foot-soldier of Leninism, crusading against the Stalinist corruption. Then it was Stalin who became Trotsky's devil, effortlessly transposing his criticisms of Lenin to Stalin, and shifting his perspective from that of a menshevik, to that of a true "bolshevik-leninist".

This tactic was used constantly. For instance. when he was still within the ranks of the party, he completely opposed the principles of democratic-centralism, but once he was in exile and had to criticize the Communist International, his issue suddenly became only that the bolshevik form of organization was being hastily applied to different contexts. Then, he really had no issue with democratic-centralism. When he talked of the possibility of a revolution in the US, then all his worries of an insurmountable reaction dissolved, instead becoming an optimist who believed that, actually, there would be no real significant class who would oppose a revolution in the US, and that therefore the USamerican workers should carry out a revolution "without compulsion". The very same person who over the course of decades insisted on the dangers of a counter-revolution apparently believed the workers of the USA had no opposition to fear. This was, rather, simply an opposition to the Communist International's analysis of imperialism, as Trotsky placed the most revolutionary potential in the countries where capitalism was most developed, the imperial core, the very same mistake Marx and Engels committed, except only 70 years prior and with no good framework with which to analyze imperialism. If Trotsky was truly a leninist, then he utterly failed at even beginning to understand anything about the theory regarding imperialism.

I think this is a good enough place to leave Trotsky be, and talk now about trotskyism beyond Trotsky.

Trotskyism, especially in its analysis of imperialism, is very attractive to the imperial core communist. It appeals to multiple sensibilities like individualism, an aversion to revolutionary discipline and work, and impatience. By putting the emphasis away from the party of our class and onto the group of individual ideologues, each with their own cliques and mini-parties, by completely disregarding the possibility of a revolution outside the top of the imperialist pyramid, and by also disregarding the possibility of a revolution until the instance of a total global victory, it is no wonder most trotskyists nowadays are found in the imperial core. This is, with the exception of a portion of Latin-American countries, which I think deserves its own explanation.

Latin America in the 20s and 30s was a continent⁴ of very differing levels of development of capitalism and the proletariat. When many European trotskyists left to Latin America for various reasons, it's no coincidence that they ended up mostly in the urban centers of the most developed countries, such as Argentina and México, where Trotsky himself ended his emigrations after exile. It was exported to places that had a significantly developed proletariat, places which up to that point lacked a culture of multiple communist parties, like Europe had, and places with a strong unionist movement. Other countries like Colombia, Ecuador or Perú, whose worker movements were more significantly indigenist and/or decolonial, along with not meeting the other conditions like Argentina and México, were less ripe for trotskyism.

The condition for a lack of a multi-party environment was important because the trotskyist opposition to the USSR collected all the "orphaned" communists who opposed the sections of the Communist International in each of their countries, especially after the Moscow trials of the late 30s which expanded the opposition to marxism-leninism internationally, as well as with other events like the Hungarian intervention after WW2. But besides this very specific phenomenon, product of a set of very specific conditions which, outside of the imperial core, were only met in these specific countries, the basis of trotskyism as an imperial core opposition to marxism-leninism remains.

So nowadays, trotskyists are mostly located in the imperial core, with those exceptions I've explained. And this leads me to the last part of this post, which is about organizing with trotskyists as a marxist-leninist. In short, it's not impossible but also not an extraordinary situation. Organizing in the imperial core varies from country to country, that much is clear, but the fragmentation into countless groups and sects, as well as the competition with social-democrats, is broadly consistent. These conditions, again generally, mean marxist-leninist parties in the imperial core have to collaborate with a myriad of communist offshoots, anarchists, and ill-defined "leftists" to achieve a broader reach. This includes trotskyists. What makes them in particular uniquely annoying to organize with is that they continue to pretend to be leninists despite all the discrepancies, so they tend to constitute competitors in agitation and rhetoric, while their internal organization usually resembles that of an anarchist group more than anything else. From this, other symptoms like a reliance on assemblyism (especially in the students' movement) and extreme levels of voluntarism naturally follow.

The IMT (International Marxist Tendency), or whichever acronym it is that they're using now, has a relevant presence in just the US and UK with a nominal one in most other imperial core countries. In all cases they're not much more than newspaper vendors who sometimes gives talks at best, and mere reading clubs or financially-extorting sects at worst. There is another international grouping of trotskyist parties that I've come across led by the PTA (Partido del Trabajo Argentino, Argentinian Labor Party), mostly linked via their news broadcast Izquierda Diario, although from what I've heard, the PTA finances their international "children" parties too. Of course, these groups all have different names in each country which in turn tend to change every few years.

Before the split of the Second International during WWI, communists called themselves social-democrats

The mode of production of the peasantry was very individualized, since each peasant or group of peasants lived partly from the fruits of their own labor, they didn't sell it in its entirety. This stands in contrast with the proletariat's completely socialized mode of production; every worker sells the entirety of their labor-power and sustains themself by purchasing commodities with their salary. The pre-existing socialization of production in capitalism was identified by Marx and Engels already in the Manifesto as one of the reasons for the proletariat being the revolutionary class by excellence. The reactionary tendencies of the peasantry wasn't wholly determined by this, it also depended on various historical and contextual reasons, but this should be better expanded on a dedicated post to social alliances.

These are all real insults thrown at Lenin by Trotsky when he disagreed about party discipline. The "true leninist", ladies and gentlemen

Using "continent" in a very loose way here. It's not like the common definitions of continent are very determined either. But you get what I mean

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ When you are his arch-nemesis

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia

(Slight tw: mentions of violence and scheming)

✧ The black rook captures the pawn, putting the white king in check. 

For Pierro, 500 years of strife do not compare to the centuries of toil between you and him. Your dissension against the Fatui has swathed the organization in a bigger tribulation than any Heavenly Principles or centuries-old feud could. Yet to comprehend your tactics, it left The Jester to spend innumerable evenings in his office, hands clasped as his pondering ends to further frustration. 

Two enigmatic masterminds, one of the Fatui Harbingers and the other of the Abyss Order. Like opponents of a cunning chess match, you and Pierro quarreled over each piece and pawn, the cool chessboard transforming into your mutual battlefield.  

The white queen moves closer, allowing for the exchange of queens, and placing the black king in check.

To the inexperienced gaze, your whereabouts are unknown, and your moves even more indecipherable. However, to the Jester, whose sharp eye learned to seek nothing but your trail, he learned to dissect your every move like a jeweler appreciating a rare cut gem. He does not shy away from using his pawns wisely, sending out more powerful Harbingers against your Abyssal Heralds. 

And just like him, your hand doesn’t shy to strike his pawns. If he sent the Doctor, you’d retaliate with Rhinedottir. And if he dared to dispatch The Captain, your next knight piece, Surtalogi, would respond. You were no simple competitor, you were the rightful opponent to the Director’s scheming mind, his own talents put to the test as you used the Sinners of his homeland against him. He may sacrifice all his chess pieces, yet to reach you is a most stifling feat. 

Perhaps the longing for a single glance of you is worth the weight of centuries spent plotting. Whenever Pierro pushes the gnosis piece against the familiar chessboard, he imagines your piercing gaze in the shadows of the Zapolyarny Palace. Is your smile one of derision or provocation? Whatever it is, your hand emerges from the shadows, and the opposing pieces shift. The queenside pawns are traded, a rook stands on a 3 vs. 3 on the kingside, and as ever, the futile waltz of trading and jettisoning pawns continues between you and Pierro.

Yet, for over five centuries, this dance has been his greatest anticipation. Even if he must sacrifice everything to reach you, your elusive nature keeps rendering him motionless in awed admiration.

Draw agreed, neither side can make progress. 

✧ The only mutual language between you and Il Capitano has always been the clangorous clash of swords. The sound of steel against steel would reverberate throughout the plains in a tempest of precision, each strike a measured step in your relentless contest. But while the Captain respected you as a rival whenever a duel is foreseen between you two, you abhorred the Harbinger with simmering disdain.

The Captain wore the weight of people's admiration like a cloak woven from responsibility and honor, each accolade another thread in his solemn mantle. You, however, cradled the world’s fear as one might clutch a bouquet of thorn-laden roses. You were not a warrior basked in glory, but a defier of Teyvat’s natural order, remaining in the periphery of shadows as you carried out your tasks. Until he'd show up. The Fatuus would bow to you, knowing soon you two would duel once more, while you stared at him like he's an irksome inevitability one must deal with in their job. 

“Do you have to be present everywhere I go? Please make yourself scarce.” 

“Then we do not have to clash. Our confrontations can avoid bloodshed.” 

But you never heeded him. You despised his calm attitude, how he was cautious with you, how he sidestepped the storm of your onslaught rather than meeting it head-on. Even if his fighting spirit told him to linger closer, to know what it's like to let you dig your fingernails across his back, it was a silent pull he refused to indulge. Instead, he concealed his ambition, his lingering gaze tracing your form behind that pitch-black helmet. 

When you fought, Capitano knew you’d accomplish everything to overwhelm your opponent. You would sooner shatter your own bones than concede an inch. The force you exhibit in a single strike leaves an inhuman impact that crushes mountains into rubble, yet the agony that ripples through your limbs remains buried beneath practiced silence. Never once did you step back when you felt the strain of your legs when Capitano retaliated against you.

It took the Captain a while to find you after your ‘tactical retreat’. As he suspected, each battle leaves you in lonesome dishevelment, clutching your sprained limbs, barely able to drag yourself from your secluded refuge. 

“Do not lecture me on the fragility of life, Captain. Your words would be hypocrisy against your goal to pursue death from the Shade.”

You hissed, stifling your cry of pain when ice was applied to your sprained ankle. Il Capitano listened gravely to you, his hand gently holding your leg while spreading careful doses of cryo against your skin. His armored fingers gently glided across your skin, careful even when you reluctantly allowed him this close.   

“So you knew of my intentions…” 

He sighed. It seems the 1st Fatui Harbinger wasn’t the only one clawing toward the leylines, seeking passage beyond the veil. Or perhaps you always noticed how he clutched his chest. Either way, whether you despised him as an enemy or not - he hoped he’d never meet you in the Leylines of the Night Kingdom. He hoped that, at the very least, once all was said and done, you would find solace in never having to see him again.

✧ Il Dottore loathed you. Immensely. The moment he unearthed the truth of your rare blood and unnatural constitution, his obsession took root. He pursued you with relentless precision, weaving elaborate schemes to ensnare you within his grasp. In his usually imperious tone, he introduced himself at last as the 2nd Fatui Harbinger, his title laced with the weight of infamy. Your first response?

“...Who? Never heard of ‘em.” 

He gritted his teeth silently. Pursuing knowledge requires finding rare specimens as a test subject, but in his hunt for you, his patience and sanity became the test subjects instead. Due to gratuitously absurd circumstances, The Doctor never managed to capture you. You always slipped past his trail, as if casually waltzing off his snares and several ambushes that revolved around Fatui subordinates capturing you. You don’t even break a sweat, forever conveniently escaping his grasp when the 2nd arrives on site. No fights, no arguments, not even a courtesy of a glance. 

…How he wishes to just grip your wrists and cuff you to an operation table to- 

Yet the battle of wits must be omitted and instead, a more physical approach shall be initiated. If you deem yourself so highly that you won't spare the Harbinger a word, then it is time he calls you on a proper fight. 

“I have waited for far too long. If you continue to be a coward, you'll leave me with no choice but to seize you by force.”

You blinked at him, unfazed by the favorably advanced claymore he materialized within his grasp. Your response?

“...ok?” 

Except when you arrived prepared for the fight, you didn't come unattended. A Khaenri'ahn woman stood beside you, far from pleased to be in this confrontation as suddenly this wasn't a private reckoning between you and Dottore. Rhinedottir — "Gold” was now entangled into this. 

“What? Did you assume you were the only visionary scholar out there, trying to sample me? You mad scientist folk are all too boisterous. Rhinedottir, you can beat this Fatuus to a pulp and I will rightfully give you a drop of my blood as a sample. If the Harbinger wins, he shall receive it instead.” 

Why, you smart little- Dottore felt a vein throb at his temple, your audacity driving him to grit his teeth and lash every curse word in 20 languages available in the Akademiya's archives. You dare all this because you couldn't even bother to fight him head-on, utilizing one of the Five Sinners against him out of malignancy. Yet his time of rebuttals was cut short; the Harbinger found himself now fighting one of the most dangerous inventors of a fallen kingdom. And unfortunately for him, the old hag was as cunning as he is. 

Il Dottore swore an oath to do the unimaginable once he wins this competition and captures you. To yank you by the hair and drag you to the deepest part of his lab. You, however, sat there, leisurely at ease, as if indulging in an afternoon picnic while watching the chaos unfold. Young Blood vs Old Blood. The truth is, you know these two would rather annihilate each other to ashes before either of them concedes. 

How convenient for you – killing two birds with one stone. 

✧ Scaramouche's Inazuman origins are known to many throughout the Fatui Organization. However, few are aware of his keen hatred for the holy Narukami Shrine of Inazuma. Alas, who would be better to oversee the illegal distribution of delusions under the nose of the Shogun than the 6th of the Fatui Harbinger?

Thus, here he was, sent to a formal negotiation to alleviate the tension between the Fatui operating in Yashiori Island and the vigilant Narukami Shrine maids. Formal meetings like these are prevalent in the discourse of politics, and unfortunately, the Harbinger was to represent this operation. Luckily for him (or unluckily), it wasn't Guuji Yae who was dispatched from the Grand Shrine. The Balladeer was met with a different high maiden, sitting elegantly by the tatami mat when he arrived. 

“Hm? Just some lowly shrine maiden to bid the fox’s bidding? Let’s hope we’re not wasting each other’s time.”

“And the Ichimatsu doll has returned to its homeland after wandering the foreign theater. Fret not, Harbinger; this is but a formal meeting.” 

Oh, so that's how you want to play this. Clutching his fists against his lap, the Harbinger continued:

“The Fatui are just conducting international trade business with the Kanjou Commission to ship local resources like Crystal Marrow from Tataratsuna. Surely the people of Narukami can comprehend that? Unless the Sakoku Decree shut off not only borders but people’s minds too?”

You showed no discontent at Scaramouche’s tone. Instead, you delicately reached for a parchment paper and ink brush - “We have a rare saying in the Grand Narukami Shrine that aids in dispelling unpleasantries in the presence of evil,”

“Spare me your blessings and ofuda talismans, I do not wish to hear your prayers to the “almighty” Shogun fo-”

“We say “screw off” and the bane of all evil shuts its mouth,” - you lifted the talisman with your handwriting, presenting it with an austere smile. The ink is still fresh in the words 'screw off' you just scribed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He sees why they sent you specifically.  

This went on for months. Each time the Harbinger oversaw the discreet operations between the islands, you were there - convenient as ever. Wasting the Balladeer’s time about how it was a shrine maiden’s duty to “perform cleansing rituals around the infested land of Yashiori” or “to ensure the well-being of all common folk, even if they were Snezhnayan soldiers”. Scaramouche was not blind. He knew you were handily posted there under the innocent pretense of a meek maiden - in truth, you were gathering intel, prying into every shadow where the Fatui’s misdeeds festered. 

He couldn’t afford the Shogunate to uncover the truth; that the Fatui were siphoning the wrath of old gods to forge delusions. And you concealed what you knew. Thus, forced to play by your game, the two would end up with passive-aggressive “business talks” 

“Surely the Grand Narukami Shrine doesn’t send lonesome shrine maidens so far off? Unless you are as blind as you are horrible with navigation to wind up all the way here.” 

“Ah, your concern flatters me. But do not mind me, maybe I am not the only one lost here. Maybe a wandering puppet is also somewhere he ought not to be.” 

“Hmph. Watch your insolent mouth. Your Archon will not save you once your pretty face gets decimated. 

“Oh? Is that part of your Kabuki theater performance? I do love performances. What’s the name of your role? Is it still the “6th of the Fatui Harbingers” or the previous name?” 

You were truly more insolent than that pink fox. This is why Scaramouche abhorred low-profile missions. The most demanding aspect of running an undercover operation is stopping himself from striking thunder into your whole body and putting you in place. Perhaps then you will no longer smile so slyly at him. Even if it fueled his fixation to bicker more with you behind a polite cup of sencha. 

✧ “Ancient Moon fragment shard, an inestimable gem, setting for 30 million by Lord Harbinger Pantalone. 30 million mora, Do we have a higher bid than 30 million?”

The auctioneer’s voice rang out in a poised yet urgent cadence, addressing a room brimming with influential faces. Amidst them, Pantalone sat with effortless elegance, a composed fixture among the eager bidders, his assistant sitting nearby as they took note of the ongoing bidding progress. The rare silver debris sat in an enclosed glass casing, displayed in all of its glory to future buyers. They say it was unearthed from the outskirts of Nod-krai. However, tense silence soon settled in the auction hall, for it was clear who the highest bidder was.

“Seems this was faster than I anticipated,” – The Regrator smiled, whispering to his assistants “Get ready to send invoices to the auction staff, we will be leaving so-” 

Suddenly, an unwavering voice rang out from the back – “50 million.”

A wave of hushed murmurs rippled through the grand halls, bustle returning to the room. Pantalone didn’t even register the number at first, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion when the auctioneer announced: 

“50 million, a giant sum! Now against you, sir. 50 million. Do we have a higher bid than 50 million?”

Pantalone's composed demeanor shifted into uncertainty. He cleared his throat and raised his number – “51 million”

“51 million, do we have a-”

“60 million.” – that same voice called out. More gasps of disbelief ensued.

“75 million!”

“110 million.” 

An entourage of ridiculous numbers volleyballed back and forth between the Harbinger and an unknown new bidder. The audience of businessmen and former contenders shot their glances from you to the Regrator. What had begun as an easy acquisition had spiraled into a staggering war of hundreds of millions. All for a single fragment of celestial stone. At last, the auctioneer brought the gavel down for the final closing in your favor – 170 million mora for the Ancient Moon fragment shard, and for the first time in ages, someone outbid Pantalone. 

“Find out who this newcomer is,” – Pantalone whispered sternly to his assistant, adjusting his shirt cuffs to conceal his simmering frustration. How does a first-time bidder easily swoop in with hundreds of millions when none have heard of them? When he stood up under the pretense of making light conversation with his “new opponent” he was surprised to see you wasting no time with trivialities with fellow noblefolk. You just came in, received your auctioned item, and left silently just as you came in. 

"You see, ever since that auction, I had difficulties reaching out to you. And I couldn't leave such a rare mystery escape me with no introduction," - he spoke when you two met at last, his smile suave as he handed you a glass of champagne "Pantalone, the Regrator. With pleasure, dear."

You looked unimpressed but obliged - "Perhaps you mean a rare luxury getting bought right under your nose, mister Harbinger? No need for introductions. Everyone knows your name."

It was a rare crack in his impenetrable veneer. One minute he is smiling politely at you, but beneath that polished exterior, his mind reeled. Negotiations with you were a lost cause. You never entertained his offers, never indulged in polite courtesies, never once left room for cooperation. Instead, you outbid him: on assets, on stocks, and, on rare occasions, even in exclusive dealerships.

An endless struggle of one-upping the other, a silent war waged in wealth and influence; especially when he sought your company whenever you were present. Yet what deal cannot be sweetened by Mora? As a sign of peace, he sent out gifts of gold and luxuries to you. You would respond with an appreciative nod, stepping closer until you could whisper alluringly in his ear:

“I have no need for such cheap trinkets. Save your pocket change next time. You might need it once I bankrupt you.” 

✧ In the days of old, when Tartaglia was a mere merry child in kindergarten - you and him were childhood “friends”. Well, friends, according to his parents. In truth, on the first day of kindergarten when little Ajax greeted you with a big toothy grin - you silently blinked at him and threw a ball in his face.

“Hey! What was that for, you big meanie?!”

“You’re too loud. You could’ve caught my ball instead of standing.” 

When Ajax was still a schoolboy, he had the misfortune of being in the same school and class as you. Probably the misfortune of growing up in a small, Snezhnayan town. Now in elementary, recess was a fleeting paradise of snow angels and playful battles, children laughing as they hurled snowballs at one another. Amidst the flurry of winter playtime, he spotted you peacefully building your snowman nearby. So naturally, he scooped up a small lump of snow and threw the ball at your back, a camaraderie way to invite for play.

What you did is run full speed at the boy and tackle him. It was a good thing that the teachers were nearby when they heard Ajax scream as you two almost rolled off a snowy hill.

“They tackled me first!”

“No, he attacked me first.” 

These were the fond memories of the 11th Fatui Harbinger, filled with mischief and boyish adventure. Occasionally, he sighs with nostalgia whenever he sees children playing in the snow. He wondered how life had shaped you, now that time had pulled you both onto separate paths, adulthood sweeping away the reckless days of youth. Perhaps he could say he even misses those childish fights with y-

Nope, never mind, you are standing right in front of him now.

“Huh? What… what are you doing here?” - he pointed at you in utter bafflement, seeing you in a unique Fatui uniform.

“Hm? Haven’t you received the news? I am your supervisor from now on.”

He took his words back, he absolutely didn’t miss you. He didn’t miss how calm and collected you were, from childhood to current adulthood, as if nothing fazed you. Most absurdly, how in Tsaritsa’s name does a Fatui Harbinger get someone like you as a training supervisor? He is the 11th; associates such as yourself work under him, even if Tartaglia would never enforce such principles.

“Hold that thought, is this a crude joke?! Who even assigned you?”

You reached for the clipboard in your hands – “Uh, someone by the name… Punella… Pulcinella? Chicken?”

“You don’t even know the name of the Harbinger that employed you?!!!” 

This was outrageous. A cruel jest of fate. Why would The Fatui even accept someone for the likes of you in their ranks? Judging by the fact you are sent by the Rooster, you weren’t some lackey either, but one who overlooked formal matters and ensured strict adherence to Fatui standards. Noticing his aghast tone of denial, you crossed your arms.

“Watch your tone, young man. From now on, all your progress as the 11th will be delegated to me. You better show some respect.”

“We are literally the same age!”

Perhaps those two little kids had never truly disappeared, only their playground had changed. Where there were once snowy schoolyards, there were now cold, disciplined Fatui training halls. Whenever you and Childe were in each other’s presence, any semblance of civility or maturity was promptly discarded. Bickering comments and familiar acts of physical nagging always remained. Only Pulcinella, the 5th Fatui Harbinger, stood by the hallway from afar, chuckling with parental mirth.

“Ah, childhood sweethearts. How delightful.”

I am back! Requests are back, feel free to chat or just share your headcanons with me. Otherwise, you may check my art or masterlist with the rest of the fanfics. Thank you for reading.

[sharkikive]

match made in heaven (ken sato x fem!reader)

Summary: You were Professor Sato’s research assistant and your apartment just got destroyed by Ultraman.

Somehow, this led to a matchmaking project between you and the infamous baseball player, Ken Sato.

Word count: 6,887

A/N: I yap a lot when it comes to writing. Just writing this because the Ken Sato brainrot is too damn strong. Just a bunch of gibberish. Not my best but currently too hung up on Kenji. Includes mention of Professor Sato, Mina and Emi (definitely having baby fever because of her).

Ken Sato.

His name was a staple in your daily life, yet you had never met the man face to face.

The moment you thought you had escaped from hearing the broken recording of his name, it was brought up once again as the news of him returning to Japan plastered the news.

You rolled your eyes at the screen, but were careful enough not to let the old man hunched over the table, poring over some papers on Kaiju, see you.

Well, you could not exactly tell the father that you were tired of hearing his son’s name everywhere, could you?

“Professor Sato,” you started. “I shall take my leave for today.”

“Ah yes, sure. Please have a safe journey back home. I’m sorry this old man can’t send you back safely,” he replied, to which you quickly dismissed.

“Professor, I’ll be fine.” You chuckled lightly, “In case you have forgotten, I’m already 26. I’m already an adult. No longer the wide-eyed, 17-year-old you first took under your wing.”

He gave out a breathy laugh, sniffling as you knew what’s going to come out of his mouth next. You resisted the urge to stop him, purely out of respect.

“Kenji is the same age as you. I wish you could meet him, but that child is very stubborn. He wouldn’t even answer my calls, let alone meet me.” He paused, as if thinking of the next sentence, but went against it.

You only smiled weakly, the only response you’d always given when he mentioned his son’s name. You took this as a sign to leave before bowing and setting off to your apartment.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were tired of listening to that man’s name every single time. Yes, you knew that it was Professor Sato’s guilt that kept him talking about his son, but the more you heard about him, the more you found him less likeable.

He came back to Japan, yet he did not even contact his father even once? Yet Professor Sato would talk about him every day.

You knew nothing about baseball, and did not care to find out, but the appearance of Ken Sato forced you to learn that he’s apparently about to be the saviour for the Giants.

You sighed, stopping under the night sky as you watched people milling about the streets.

You were an ambitious girl who had a deep interest in Kaiju and without shame, Ultraman. Ultraman was the first hero you knew and grew up with, so imagine the elation you felt when you found out that Professor Sato was affiliated with both. He agreed to take you under his wing with the condition that you finished your degree, so the moment you had gotten your scroll you showed up in front of him, eager to start.

He probably couldn’t turn you away considering how you seemed… pitiful. Yup, that’s probably the word.

You enjoyed working as his research assistant, but found out soon enough that he was a lonely man who missed his wife and son dearly. He was a father figure to you, considering that you were orphaned at a young age.

It was a peaceful night.

Well, if you consider the scene of Neronga choking Ultraman as a peaceful night.

Correction: It was supposed to be a peaceful night.

You stepped back as the gigantic hero got slammed into another building, destroying yet another public property. You winced as it was obvious that the hero was not upholding the principles and seemed more like he was trying to destroy as much as he could.

The thing that irritated you the most? You knew exactly who it was under that suit.

You shook your head, not even bothering to see how the fight would go. You were 100% sure the KDF would be gunning down the Kaiju in no time.

You set off again, mildly hoping that your apartment did not get obliterated in the chaos, or you would definitely hunt that baseball player down.

It was hard to ignore the fight when two giants were stomping around the city, and you dropped dramatically on your knees when you saw Ultraman being launched in the direction of your building.

“No-” you weakly said, knowing that your voice was merely a speck of hopelessness among the gasps of the crowd, Ultraman’s groan and Neronga’s roar. From behind your glasses, a tear rolled down your face as you saw your apartment building crumbling, all thanks to that stupid, cocky, asshole of a baseball player.

Now thanks to Professor Sato’s beloved son, you were homeless.

***

Maybe it was your lack of sleep from worrying about how the progress of rebuilding your house went, because you were dragged by Professor Sato at 2 in the morning to the secret base, facing a scene that you promptly found ridiculous.

Right, seeing the giant hero hunched over in front of you was no surprise because you knew exactly who it was. A little bit weird how he’s here considering his relationship with his father, but that wouldn’t be an issue.

But what was an issue was that the said giant was cradling an equally gigantic pink baby Kaiju and was- you took a step back.

Something must had happened because Ken Sato was crying in front of you. Not the scene you’d expect in the morning while being sleep-deprived.

Your mind was only registering the words ‘injured’, ‘need help’ and the rest was a blur as Professor Sato helped in correcting the fracture in the Kaiju’s arm. The Kaiju was calmed down, brought to sleep and you could not help but smile at the sleeping baby.

Part of the reason you were still there was because you found the baby Kaiju so adorable with her chubby cheeks and twitterings.

Another part was because you were curious to see (discreetly, of course, under the pretext of looking over the Kaiju) the dynamic between Ultradad and well, the son. You were facing the Kaiju but you were straining your ears to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Doing this-“ you picked up a sentence, -“doesn’t suddenly make you Ultradad.”

You felt slightly perturbed. Kenji came in here pleading while crying, Professor Sato helped him without any questions yet the son was barely grateful for it.

But you knew you’re no one to be meddling in their family affairs.

So you kept quiet, straining your ears with Mina - the robot - hovering nearby.

Your mind wandered to whether it would be plausible for you to chip in a request for Ken Sato’s autograph and sell it high to make up for the costs of your destroyed apartment.

That’s the least he could do after reducing your safe space into rubble.

You snapped back to the present as you heard your name being called, and was greeted with the sight of a smiling father and a son looking like he’d love to be anywhere but here.

Ken Sato was not smiling, but he didn’t look like he hated you either.

The next thing you knew was that you were left alone with Ken, and you couldn’t help but think Professor Sato had a hidden agenda because he left with a chuckle. Even Mina was nowhere in sight.

What could I possibly say to this man I’ve never met before?

The young man in front of you looked starkly different from the confident, boastful man you had seen in interviews. Instead, he seemed more like a sad excuse who looked so distraught you swore you could see him shrinking.

“So uh-” he started, scratching his head with an awkward smile. “Y/N… right?”

Your eyebrows lifted at the mention of your name.

“Dad told me about your apartment.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

You clicked your tongue. “Other than the fact that I became homeless, it’s no issue.”

You did not intend it to be a joke, but it seemed that the only immediate response he could give was to laugh awkwardly, before he buried his face in his hands. “God- I’m so- sorry.” He pried his fingers slightly to look at you, before continuing. “I came back to Japan because dad wanted me to continue this- I don’t know what you call this. Legacy?”

Your eyes trailed his movements; you got slightly startled as he suddenly sprang up and you pushed back your glasses.

“High hopes from everyone ever since I started playing for the Giants, dad wanting me to become Ultraman and-“ he sighed exasperatedly, “it was too much.”

You rubbed the tip of your nose before shrugging. “Well, you did seem confident while you were on TV. If you ask me, you gave them that confidence.”

He left his mouth slightly hanging open as he didn’t expect you to give it to him straight.

You continued, “Ultraman is a hero for some, if not all. Some of them may not care. But all,” your eyes collided with his as he plopped back down onto the sofa, “don’t know who is under that suit. All they know is Ultraman is supposed to be the hero protecting the city with-“ you pressed your lips into a thin line, “-minimal damage.”

He blinked. Did he look like he wanted to cry again?

The corner of your lips lifted up slightly, but you quickly switched it off as he looked at you imploringly.

You raised your hands shoulder-level, hiding a yawn before managing. “Don’t expect me to become your counsellor, but what I’m saying is, when you’re Ken Sato, the baseball player, of course they’d expect you to play well. When you’re Ultraman, people expect you to be the hero.” You interlinked your fingers. “They don’t see you becoming both at the same time. And now, you added another point to your resume. You became a single dad.”

He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. He sucked in his lower lip and for the first time ever you thought that maybe Professor Sato’s son wasn’t that bad at all, both personality and lookwise.

“I can’t comment much about what you feel about your father. I won’t deny that my opinion on you was formed only based on what I saw, but I now know that you must have had a reason why you acted that way to your father.” You shrugged. “I saw a lonely father and a distant son. Because I spent almost all of my time with Professor Sato, please trust me, he talks about you every single day.” You spread your arms, “Your father talked about you, the TV was blaring news about you 24/7 and I was exhausted hearing your name all the time.”

He didn’t seem offended, but was merely focusing on the one sentence. “My father talks about me every day?”

”Every day,” you breathed. “You and your mother.” You smiled, “He never stopped thinking about both of you.”

”Huh.” It seemed like he didn’t know how to react.

This time, you couldn’t help but yawn so you got up quickly, intending to leave the base. If the conversation wasn’t finishing, you were sure you were about to finish it. Your eyelids couldn’t hold much longer.

It was nice having a talk with this infamous baseball player and it sure did change your perspective of him.

He looked on, confused, as you gave a slight nod before heading towards the exit.

”Hey-“ he started, doing a slight jog to catch up to you, who was almost asleep standing up. He gently grabbed the strap of your sling bag, and you snapped your eyes open. He retracted his hand, citing, “Sorry. But where do you think you’re going?”

It was your turn to look confused. “Home?” You said it as a question rather than a statement. “Wait,” you tracked back, “not home. My temporary home at the inn down the road because,” you giggled, clearly drunk from the lack of sleep, “Ultraman destroyed my home.”

”And because Ultraman destroyed your home, you’re staying with me,” he said smoothly, slightly nudging your back with his shoulder. Clearly he struggled as you were much shorter than him.

”With you?” You had no idea where the idea was going yet so you shook your head. “Why would I want to stay with you?”

He took a step back and tugged at the strap of your sling back, essentially dragging you with him. “Don’t misunderstand. Dad’s staying with me as well, we have Mina and you’re joining me because we need to train her.”

”Wait, wait, wait.” You slapped a hand on his shoulder, but he was still holding on strong to the strap. “We? Her? What are we even talking about?”

You were clearly guided by him as you found yourself standing underneath his gaze in front of the Kaiju’s enclosure.

”We as in you, me, dad and Mina.” He nodded, looking satisfied. “Her as in this baby.” He did a show of hands towards the sleeping Kaiju.

You grimaced. “Sir, I did say that my perspective on you has changed, but that doesn’t mean you’re dragging me with you.”

”You’re my dad’s research assistant, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Yes…” You didn’t like where this is going.

”You don’t have a house… yet.”

”Yes…”

You took a step back, and what you could describe him now was as a puppy as he imitated your actions. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he leaned down to level his eyes with yours before saying, “Your boss is here, and you currently have no home to go back to. So why not? Take it as me being sorry for destroying your house as well. Deal?” He put out his hand to give you a shake.

You laughed nervously. “And what is it in for me…?”

”You… get to live in the same house as Ken Sato?”

”Nice, yay,” you said flatly. You rolled your eyes. “No.”

“Oh come on,” he groaned. “I feel bad.”

”There’s no need for you to feel bad, okay. I put that behind me, whatever.” You threw your hands in the air. “I’m going, bye.” You turned around, ready to leave.

”I’ll give you my autograph, as many as you’d like,” he quickly chipped in. “Signed possession, whatever you want.” He grinned in satisfaction as he saw you stop in your tracks and you quickly turned around. “It sells. A lot.”

”Hmm…” You seemed to consider it before you shook your head. “Your reputation lately isn’t the best so to sell them might be a bit hard…” You trailed off, clearly more of an effort to swat him away since you did think about it.

You couldn’t deny, it was a nice offer. But you were more worried about how you would cope, considering that you may have found him slightly attractive…

“I’m sure dad would be happy for you to stay here as well?”

You gritted your teeth. First time meeting him in real life and he already knew your weakness. He knew that using his father’s name would cause you to waver.

Still, you held on to your decision.

“No-”

He blinked slowly, and you heard the baby Kaiju stir in her sleep.

You ran your eyes towards the Kaiju before sighing. There was one thing you were interested in.

No, not the man in front of you.

You walked over to the enclosure. “How is she with strangers?”

Kenji popped up beside you before winking. “If I say the stranger is a friend, you’ll be glad to have her around.”

You took a moment to think, weighing the pros and cons. “Full privacy? Separate bathrooms?”

He scratched the nape of his neck. “Well, there is one separate bathroom for the guests but the shower’s faulty.” Something dawned on his face as he just realised this. “The only working shower is in, uh, my room.”

You stared back at him. “So there is a chance I might run into you naked?”

“I’ll preserve my dignity.” He paused. “You know what, take my room. I can use the guest room.”

You chuckled, taking his hand in a forced handshake. “Fine, deal.”

He looked surprised, but trailed after you as both of you took the ride up. “Wait, what was the dealbreaker? Because of the Kaiju? The room? The-” he looked at you almost accusingly. “-chance of seeing the Ken Sato naked-”

“Shh-” you clamped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to silence him just as the entrance pried open, revealing a smiling Professor Sato.

“Dad,” Ken said in a muffled voice, and you pulled back from covering his mouth. “Dad,” he tried again. “She agreed to staying here.”

You looked at the professor from the corner of your eyes. So it was his doing. You wondered what the father had held over his son’s head to make him obey.

“Can I retire for the night?” You did an exaggerated show of stretching. “I’m becoming delirious from the lack of sleep.”

“Room’s to your right,” Ken offered.

“Make sure to lock the door,” Mina reminded you.

“Mina,” Ken groaned. “What are you implying?”

“Just general safety measures. Ken-” she hovered near the baseball player, “-are you okay? Your heartbeat is increasing-”

He groaned. “I’m fine, Mina. I’ll be using the guest room.”

Both of you went separate ways, leaving Professor Sato and Mina in the living room.

Professor Sato whispered, “Mina, status report on the project.”

Mina obediently replied, “Matchmaking project is showing positive progress. We can expect to see rapid progress in the next few weeks.”

***

Training and taking care of the baby Kaiju - which the professor had named Emi - was no easy feat. Contributed by your almost non-existent stamina, you were left cheering from the sides as mostly Ken and Emi did all kinds of simulation to train her. Dealing with a 20-feet monster was not on your bucket list, but you had proudly ticked it off mentally.

You heard whooping from the two and you held onto your bottle as the ground shook when Emi jumped up and down. Subconsciously, you smiled as you saw Ken cheering for the baby, and he almost got crushed when Emi gave his human form a high-five.

You quietly went up the lift as Ken was fussing over Emi to make her go to sleep. You plopped down on the sofa, switched on the TV and to no surprise, his name decorated the evening news.

Ken Sato showing good progress…

Ken Sato showing a more mature side…

Ken Sato helping the Giants to pick themselves back up…

“I definitely look better in person,” Ken’s voice came from behind and you could feel his presence near you. “May I?” He asked for permission to sit beside you but both of you knew the answer as he plopped down right next to you.

You see, these are the small things that could make you wonder whether he’s doing it on purpose or he really had no idea how they affected you.

You gulped when you could feel his knee bumping against yours, or when he casually put his arm on the back of the sofa across your shoulders. There was no contact but there might as well be something because you felt like your heart would jump right out.

Your romantic encounter with a guy was only as far as a guy who called you a creep because you were following him. That day, you were navigating the world half-blind because you broke your glasses and it seemed that he was going to your destination. Sure, you admitted that it was your fault and you apologised profusely, but that made you avoid taking the train for at least two weeks.

You got startled when Ken pressed a cold can on your cheek. The corner of your eyes caught the words ‘COCONUT WATER’. Remembering how Mina had essentially pestered Ken to drink coconut water as a ‘healthy option’, you smiled. Mina had also reminded Ken multiple times that because you didn’t drink, never, ever offer you a can of beer.

”Nah,” you refuted. “You look better on screen.” You imitated taking a camera shot of his face before chiding. “Up near you’re just…” You trailed off.

”Just what?” He asked, prying open his can of coconut water. Without asking, he took yours before helping to open it up for you.

This. These small gestures were what convinced you that you were turning crazy.

”Ugly,” you supplemented.

”Hey, play nice,” he tapped the opened can on your cheek before shoving it into your hand.

You chuckled, taking a gulp of the drink before both of you basked in silence. To him, it was a comfortable silence but to you, you were currently hoping that your heartbeat would just… stop.

You thought that maybe spending time and living together with Ken Sato would further confirm that you hated his guts, but so far, you were only getting the opposite effect. You were sure there was some character development somewhere… from that first moment he destroyed your house to that moment you met him again as he was cradling Emi.

You hated this growing feeling you had towards him and it’s so painfully obvious what Professor Sato (and Mina) were planning on doing to both of you.

The worst part was it seemed like it’s either: 1. Ken was too oblivious, or 2. He knew, but didn’t want to entertain the thought.

Was it a better idea to just leave? They did say your house would be finished being rebuilt in a few days.

”So…” you croaked. “My house will be done in a few days so I think it’s better for me to start packing.” You stole a glance at him. Now… Why am I hoping that he would stop me?

A flicker of disappointment behind his eyes but he was quick to switch it off. “Sure,” he rubbed his nose. “If… that’s what you want.”

You pursed your lips. This stupid erratic heartbeat wouldn’t stop and you hated that you didn’t know what to do with it. “I’ll… start packing then.” You took another peek at him. He wasn’t looking at you.

You stood up, but he stopped you. Your heart was making its way out of your ribcage for beating too loud, but it slowed down when he uttered, “Hey, don’t forget your coconut water."

You looked at him with an ‘Are you serious?’ look before taking it, not once unlocking your stare from his and standing up, finished the drink in one gulp. You crushed the can, and threw it in one shot towards the dustbin.

”Oh, okay.” He looked surprised by your reaction.

You stalked your way to the bedroom and closed the door. Sighing exasperatedly, you pressed your back against the door and slid down. You buried your face in your hands before lightly hitting your head with a fist. You felt bad for reacting that way but you found it harder to deny the feeling when you were so confident that you would manage to resist.

Outside in the living area, Ken looked troubled, his forehead wrinkling when he tried backtracking what he did. He turned to look over his shoulder as the spherical robot hovered near him, and he threw his head back.

”What is it, Mina? Are you here to chide me again?”

”In these kinds of situations, the woman is usually hoping the man would stop her from leaving,” Mina said.

”Mina,” he pleaded.

”I believe a misunderstanding had happened,” she offered again, to which he appeared confused. “Please, do look at the screen.”

Ken’s eyes travelled to the projection Mina made. He looked even more confused as one of his solo interviews was displayed. He looked inquiringly at Mina, before the latter sweeped her robotic hands to ask him to focus on the interview.

It was an interview he did some time last week. His face changed when he started catching on what Mina was trying to show.

“So your name has become the talk of the town again for a good reason now.” The interviewer paused for effect. “This is a question that I’m sure everyone has thought of at least once when we’re talking about Ken Sato.” The interviewer looked at him. “Do you have anyone you’re interested in or at least, someone you have set your eyes on?”

Ken’s response was immediate as he laughed and shook his head. “No, no. Not right now.” He leaned back, a relaxed stance as he waved his hand in front of his face. “Right now I’m only focusing on my baseball career. Still got a long way to go. I don’t want to waste my time on something so unimportant.”

The interviewer turned back to the screen. “You’ve heard it directly from the man, folks. He’s-“

Mina switched off the replay while Ken looked regretful.

Exasperated, he said, “Mina, you know I don’t mean it that way.”

“I believe you should be clarifying that with Y/N herself and not me. She is the subject of your affection.”

“Affection-” he mulled over the word. “Do you really think so, Mina? Is this what this…” He put a hand over his chest. “Foreign feeling is?”

“From my observation,” Mina replied as she stayed close to Ken’s shoulder. “Your expression becomes livelier, your smile becomes wider and your eyes twinkle more whenever she is around. Now,” she paused, “you do have that same reaction whenever you’re with Emi. However, I do sense your heartbeat increasing every time you’re with Y/N. I believe this is what they would call a romantic attraction.”

“So in short,” he sighed, “I like her but I’m saying the opposite thing? But-” he almost grabbed Mina to ask her more, “how would I know if she feels the same way? I- I don’t think I can handle rejection from her. Do you sense anything from her?”

There was a silence as Mina backed up, making way towards her room. “I believe that is not a question for me to answer, Ken. Why don’t you sort it out with her?”

Ken looked at the door of the room you’re in, gathering the courage to make his way. He stopped in front of the door, he shook his hands, breathing in and out as his mind reeled with all sorts of apologies and words to offer to you.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, and at the same time you swung open the door, causing him to knock a fist on your forehead.

So much for Ultraman reflexes.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Ken shouted, automatically cupping your face to see the damage he’d done. “Are you- are you okay?”

You blinked, everything happening at once too much for you. He knocked on your door, you happened to open it at the same time and now he’s-

“I’m… fine. Can you…” you tapped your palm on his hand. “...let go?”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” he let go as he laughed nervously. “Reflexes fail you at times like these, right?” His face fell as he saw you avoiding his gaze. “Hey. Can we talk?”

You looked up, finally looking at him. “Yeah?”

He exhaled. “Like, properly.”

“Have we not been communicating properly?”

Mina suddenly appeared beside both of you. “I apologise for having to interrupt but yes, I do observe some miscommunication going on. So if both of you may sort it out.”

Mina’s hands pushed both of you into the room and shut the door.

There were protests from both but they quickly died down before silence stretched. Both of you exchanged glances but not words, and neither had any idea what the other was thinking of.

All the apologies and words Ken was thinking of offering to you went up in a cloud of smoke. Instead, he asked the one thing he wished he could take back. “So when are you planning to leave?” Dang it, Ken.

Your face contorted, obviously offended. “As soon as I can. Don’t worry,” you walked over to the bed, shoved your clothes into your duffel bag and zipped it up. “I wanted to tell you that I finished packing.”

”You’re leaving tonight?” This time around, he didn’t hide his disappointment. Why, why is it so hard for him to ask you to stay? To tell you what he really feels?

Sure, he couldn’t deny that his attitude came from growing up mostly without his father around. He had grown up with this wall built around him as a defensive mechanism. He found it hard to communicate with others, to explain what he really was feeling.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. He figured it was best to let the feeling die down. You’d be better off with someone else anyway.

”Just tell me when you want to leave,” he finally uttered. “I’ll open the door for you.”

You gritted your teeth and only nodded.

He turned around and shut the door. Mina and his father were outside, the latter having a worried look on his face.

”Kenji,” Professor Sato uttered.

”I want to be alone, dad,” he mentioned. “Mina,” he turned to the supercomputer, “just make sure she gets to where she wants to go safely.”

As Ken shut the door, Professor Sato turned to Mina, to which he uttered, “I trust this is not the time to ask about the progress.”

Mina answered. “Yes, Professor. I believe we may have hit a wall.”

***

You decided to leave early in the morning and with only a note, saying that you’d like to have some time off. Mina was kind enough to open the door for you, but when she asked whether you’d like to have Ken and Professor Sato see you off, you shook your head vigorously.

”Mina, tell them I’m going somewhere nice for a vacation.” You winked, but it was obvious that you were trying to hide something from breaking. “They better not look for me.”

Mina paused, as if she’s using her electronic brain to figure a way to stop you. “Kenji has a reason for acting that way.” A pause. “Though I am merely a robot with little to no experience in romantic relationships.”

You chuckled. “Thank you, Mina. Really, all of you were so kind to me. It’s just that,” you sighed, “I understand why he’d act that way. He has a whole career to look forward to. Adoring fans. He can’t be wasting-“ you gulped, the words bitter on your mouth, “-time on something so insignificant. I shall take my leave.”

”Y/N,” she uttered. “If I may ask one last question before you leave?”

You tilted your head. “Sure, Mina. What is it?”

“Were my calculations wrong about what you’re feeling?”

”And that is?”

”You hated him at first, but that hate has turned into something more… lovely."

You couldn’t help but smile. “It’s so obvious isn’t it?” You crinkled your nose. “I better take my leave before the three of them wake up.”

That was the last you saw all four of them - Professor Sato, Ken, Mina and Emi. That was what… a week ago?

Now you’re sitting, slumped in your bean bag as you groaned, bored out of your mind. Nice vacation, my ass. If that means reading the same books over and over again, surfing the web and watching the same TV shows while being cooped up in your house, you’re definitely having a nice vacation.

Even then, you found it hard to avoid that person. He was literally everywhere.

You switched off the TV, stretched, before something gigantic shook the whole city. Your eyes went wide as you realised that there was a possibility of another attack. Without much thought, you pushed up your glasses and took a glance through your apartment window.

There they are.

You saw both Ultraman and Emi traversing the landscape. You turned around to leave your apartment, but stopped as you heard sharp chirpings.

Emi was hovering near your window and you laughed, amazed at the sight in front of you. “Emi, you grew wings! You can fly now!”

The baby Kaiju smiled at you, seemingly proud that she could finally set off from the ground.

”Emi, come on.” You heard the one voice that could shatter your resolve then and there.

You tried to close the window, had enough, but the hero stopped you from shutting the window.

“Ow,” he complained, flapping his hand. Ken quickly stopped you from leaving as he said, “Look, I’ve been a jerk and-“ a loud boom resonated through the whole city, “-I want to start over.”

You sucked in your lower lip, mulling over his sentence. You lifted up your eyebrows as if to say, ‘Really, right now?’

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I like you, okay? But I didn’t know how to say it. Or maybe I was just afraid of rejection.”

You tried to keep a straight face but failed; you didn’t expect to hear a confession from Ultraman. You cleared your throat as you looked away. “Become a hero, save the day and then say all of that again,” your voice dropped to a whisper, as if anyone could hear you, “as Ken Sato.”

You’re not sure whether it was possible, but his eyes lit up brighter as he nodded. He started a light jog to launch himself before shouting, “Wait for me!” He disappeared in a twinkle in the night sky.

With your best guess, you assumed the fight must be going on between them and the KDF. Knowing that you’d be anxious waiting to see the results of the fight, you grabbed your jacket, set off into the night and tried searching a vantage point where you’d be able to at least get a view of what’s happening.

You found a spot and narrowed your eyes as you tried to get an idea of where the two of them stood. Emi… Ultraman… Is that Gigantron?

You became confused as you remembered clearly Professor Sato claiming that the most magnificent creature on Earth had died. What the hell is going on?

You gripped the railing of the bridge you were on, the fight getting further and further away from you. You watched the fight unfold… breath battered as you were silently cheering them on. You gasped as another figure launched himself into the fight.

”Professor,” you muttered to yourself. “Please, please be safe.”

The fight was a distant chaos, you could barely see what was going on. You gritted your teeth as you waited for the final call, but dropped to your knees as you realised what was going on.

”No, no, no. Ken…"

You saw the shield. Ken underneath the shield, the explosion that should have been loud, but was muffled inside the enclosure Ken had made before blinding light filled the atmosphere.

Tears filled up your vision as you saw the giant hero collapse into the sea.

***

You stared blankly at the unmoving body in front of you, while another person was strategically standing near the exit. You looked over your shoulder as you felt a light, reassuring tap.

Professor Sato wanted to offer some words of reassurance, but you merely shook your head. He let out a heavy breath, saying, “I’ll leave the two of you alone. I'll continue working on restoring Mina.”

”Thanks,” you sniffled. “Professor.”

Apparently on the day the fight happened, Mina was caught in the frenzy and was almost shut down, while the secret base was partially destroyed. Now the Professor was working on recovering Mina, while Ken…

You sighed, looking at the patient in front of you.

Nothing to worry about, actually. Despite the quick thinking of Ultraman in front of you throwing himself over the bomb, he actually managed to escape with just a broken arm. He’s not dead, Ken Sato was still here, recovering.

But what annoyed you was that it seemed every time you came to visit, he would pretend to be asleep. Not even stirring, obviously faking sleep to avoid talking to you.

So what, all that confession was for naught? Just an adrenaline rush from becoming the hero?

This time around though, it did seem like he was fast asleep. His chest was rising and falling steadily. His hair was messy, and you resisted the urge to tidy it up.

”You jerk,” you grumbled. “I was so worried for you, but… you’re really planning on leaving me hanging like this?”

”Y/N…”

You stopped grumbling to yourself as you heard the man in front of you mumbling your name. You leaned forward, curious to hear what he got to say.

”You look so…” he continued, eyes still shut.

You strained your ears to catch more.

”I like you…”

You pressed your lips together before punching his unhurt shoulder, almost too hard.

He gasped, sat up straighter, taking in big gulps of air as his irises move frantically to search for the source of the punch.

”Who-“ he blinked. “Y/N?”

”In the flesh,” you deadpanned.

”What are you-“

”I told you,” you interjected. “Tell it to my face as Ken Sato.”

He looked guilty for a moment, and you leaned back in your chair.

”You’re going to say it was a mistake, aren’t you?” You asked, clearly exasperated.

”No, it wasn’t a mistake!” He quickly said, searching for your eyes. “After the fight that day I felt like being a hero means that there was a possibility I would just-” he imitated an explosion, “disappear.”

You grabbed his collar. “If you know that even any single day you have a possibility of disappearing, that your life is short, then-” the grip around his collar became tighter, “-it means that you have to grab every opportunity as soon as you can. That includes confessing to someone you like.” You threw your hands up in frustration and stood up, pacing back and forth. “God! Why are relationships so complicated? And why am I so, so, so stupid?”

You buried your face in your hands.

“I don’t know,” you said, tears pooling in your eyes. “When you said you didn’t have any interest in anyone, and that you didn’t want to waste your time on something so insignificant. Hearing that, I just-” you sighed. “-thought that the answer was so obvious. You have your priorities straight.”

“Y/N-” he stopped you by touching your arm lightly, pulling you over to sit beside him. “That was-” He winced as he felt pain shooting up his arm. He tried again, “That was what I’d usually say in interviews before this, because baseball was the only thing that put a smile on my face. But now…” He took your hand, caressing it. “You came and it was just one, big confusion for me. You are the only person who has managed to,” he chuckled, “cause the Ken Sato to waver. It was a foreign feeling for me."

“Idiot…” you mumbled.

He pulled you closer with his good arm, and obviously inexperienced, you shut your eyes tight as you felt him softly breathing against your cheek. Of course, you thought he’d go for a kiss on your lips, but you heard him chuckle before he pressed a light one on your cheek. You opened your eyes and he was grinning.

He thought you looked adorable.

“What was that?” you asked flatly.

“A kiss?” he said, unsure of what exactly you were implying.

“Uh-uh.”

You grabbed his face, and he looked surprised as you leaned in to kiss him on the lips. Your glasses were in the way so you took them off, and you felt his arm snaking around your waist to hold you firmly in place.

In the heat of the moment and flurry of emotions, you found yourself pinned under him, his good arm caging you. He kissed you again, but this time around you felt your heart beating so loud you had to place your palms against his chest to slightly push him away.

“Ken,” you warned him. “We’re in the hospital.”

He blinked, feigning innocence. “Really? I had no idea.” He traced a finger on your cheek, wiping away the traces of your tears. He pinched your cheek as he said, “The doctor told me that I’m good to be discharged tomorrow.”

Suddenly conscious of how you’re pinned under him, you looked away. “That’s good. You can go back home in no time.”

He tapped a finger on your chin, causing you to look back at him. “My house is still under repair, remember? I’m essentially homeless.”

“You can live with your dad-“

“Take the hint, sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead before collapsing beside you, both of you cramped on the small hospital bed.

You thought about how you had never, ever brought a guy home. And now Ken wanted to…?

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

He smiled, squeezing your shoulders as you buried your face in his chest. “Can I ask just one… question?”

“Sure, shoot.”

“What was the dealbreaker, really? The one that made you agree to stay at the secret base?”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

This time, you didn’t even hesitate. “The chance to see the Ken Sato naked of course.”

“Damn it. I knew that was the reason.”

[queer-scots-geordie-dyke]

This has been said ad nauseum, I know, but the thing I just *cannot* get over is how very quickly and easily the left as a movement abandoned its most basic principles:

“Rape is an abhorrent, violating crime and we must believe and uplift survivors” - until it is done to Jewish women and girls in the name of ‘resistance’ then it’s just fine and dandy, or we might not even believe you at all.

“An armed force invading and mass murdering civilians is a war crime” - until the victims are Jews and you’ve decided it’s ‘resistance’ and ‘you don’t get to criticise how they fight back.’ No, mate, the word you’re looking for is ‘pogrom.’

“Slavery is bad” - until it is Jews being held hostage in Palestinian homes and forced to work then it’s ‘they were treated well and fed, what more do you want?’

“Indigenous peoples regaining their ancestral homelands is a key part of decolonisation and is a worthy endeavour” - until it is Jews regaining the land of Israel after centuries of disenfranchisement then it’s ‘white supremacy’ and ‘colonialism’ and the most evil thing in the world.

“Collective punishment is bad, citizens aren’t responsible for the actions of their government” - until we can treat every single Israeli like evil incarnate and deserving of the worst abuse and treatment simply for existing.

“Oppressed people know their own oppression better than you do. Listen to them and don’t presume to know better about the issues they face” - until it’s Jews talking about antisemitism and then it’s ignoring them, talking over them and accusing them of weaponising their oppression to silence criticism.

“Abuse and violence against an oppressed group must be condemned wholeheartedly and we must stand with the persecuted” - until it is Jews facing a 400% increase in antisemitism - being spat at, beaten, raped, ostracised from public spaces, having their schools and synagogues targeted, and then it’s shut our eyes and ears and pretend none of it is happening.

“Queer rights for all” - until Israel dares to be a beacon of queer rights in the Middle East and then it’s ‘pinkwashing.’

Do you even hear yourselves? Do you even care that you are being breathtaking hypocrites? How do you expect anyone to ever take you seriously ever again?

[black-cat-luck]

Jason groans as a gun points between his eyes, he’s a civilian right now, standing beside Bruce as the mugger yells unnecessarily at them. What Jason should’ve done, is pull his wallet out of his back pocket and hand it over. It’s been ingrained in all of them to just give them whatever they’re asking for. A wallet is meaningless, don’t act stupid over something as small as money. But Jason is angry. He and Bruce are trying to mend their relationship, and they were having a really good night, Jason was actually happy to be with Bruce tonight, and this asshole just had to ruin it all.

“Y’know what asshole? I would’ve just handed it over no problem but you’re being a real prick and I should just beat the hell outta you for it.” Jason sneers, he takes a step forward and Bruce suddenly yanks him back, it’s a surprising force, and Jason’s view is suddenly blocked, he feels his wallet get yanked out of his pocket, and he can only see the back of Bruce’s head, hearing the sound of the wallets being shoved into the muggers hand. Bruce hasn’t said a word, and the mugger runs off without one as well. Jason is angry now, because yeah wallets are meaningless, and they all carry two so they can hand off one without anything but some cash and an expired gift card, but it’s the principle. Red Hood just got mugged?? Batman handed over their wallets without just disarming the man?

Jason Todd has disarmed men in seconds before, has turned their own guns on them before they can blink, one little gun means nothing in his face, and he learned it from Bruce, he learned it from the man who can break a wrist and pour out the bullets before the assailant can even get a single threat out, so why is Jason now standing here mugged?

“What the hell was that about Bruce? We easily could’ve just-“ Jason stops mid sentence, he’d been angry, his words had a bite to them, and he was ready to just go off, but as he walks around Bruce, he sees him standing completely still, staring where the mugger had been, hands clenched in fists in front of him. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even react to Jason’s voice.

“Oh.” Jason whispers, looking around to see they’re in an alley now, having been shoved into it with a gun in their face, threatened by a strange man to give him what they had of value. Jason looks back to Bruce and sees that the man’s face is paler than he’s ever seen it. “Okay, okay B I’ve got you, we’re okay.” He says gently, he wraps his arms around Bruce, and feels the man violently flinch at the touch. “We’re okay, it’s over, we’re safe. Let’s go home yeah?” Jason’s voice is soft as he gets Bruce to start moving, feet dragging against the floor as Jason keeps his arms wrapped around him, they make it to where their car was, just barely a block away, and Jason helps him in, sighing as he starts driving.

Alfred is already ready for them when they get back to the manor. Jason helps Bruce up to his bedroom, and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. “Hey old man we’re safe and home okay? See-“ Jason steps back and waves his hands over himself. “I’m good, you’re good.” He pats Bruce down, trying to get it across in whatever way he can. “We’re okay.” He promises, Bruce still has a distant look in his eyes, fingers clutching tightly at the blanket over him. “Get some rest, I’ll be here.” Jason promises, turning and walking out of the room as Alfred brings Bruce tea.

He’s angry at a lot of things, and he’s angry that Bruce was sent into this trauma response, he’s angry that they were mugged. He wants to go put a bullet between the muggers eyes, but he promised Bruce he would be here, and if Bruce calls for Jason and he’s not here, if Bruce somehow finds out where Jason is, that might send him spiraling further. So Jason sits down, trying to squash his anger away as he flips dramatically through a magazine sitting on the coffee table.

“Little wing!” Dick says excitedly as he comes inside, and Jason sighs, annoyed, but thankful for a new distraction as he skims through some celebrity story. “Dickhead.” Jason responds, not even looking up as Dick plops himself onto the couch across from him. “Thought tonight was yours and Bruce’s daddy son date?” Dick teases as Jason rolls his eyes. “Got mugged.” He says, not missing the way the silence hits them thickly. “What?” Dick ask, worry clear in his voice, Jason’s sighs and sets the magazine down. “We were down by crime alley too, I wanted to fight the asshole but Bruce like…Shut down. He threw our stuff at him and couldn’t even move. He’s been catatonic for a while now, Alf is upstairs with him.” He says, rubbing his temple as Dick’s expression stays full of worry, but also very sad. “That must’ve been so scary.” Dick says softly, and Jason huffs. “The guy was an amateur! I could’ve easily disarmed him and just-“ “for Bruce.” Dick says, and Jason sighs. “Yeah, I’m sure it was, but I was there, I wouldn’t haveve let anything happen to him.” Jason reminds Dick, who sighs in exasperation. “Jay he was scared for you. We all know Bruce has little to no care for his own life, but think about how traumatic it must feel for him to be in that situation again, with you.” Dick explains, and Jason grinds his teeth, not looking at him.

“He’s not always Batman, and you’re not always Red Hood. He was Bruce, and you were Jason, and he was terrified he was going to lose you like he lost them.” Dick’s voice is so gentle it makes Jason angry. “I can protect myself.” He feels like he has to prove himself. “We both know that, but trauma doesn’t care for logic. Bruce probably felt defenseless and scared, and he had you with him, he was scared he wouldn’t be able to save you.” Jason sighs, having no argument. “I know you feel like you have to prove yourself, but you don’t always have to be son of Batman, you can be the son of Bruce.” Dick reminds him, getting up and walking away when Jason doesn’t respond. Dick goes to Bruce’s room, and Jason sits and stares at the bedroom door, and he now has to face his anger as it really is, not how he hides behind it. He’s angry because Bruce was hurt, and he didn’t get to make the bastard sorry for doing this to his dad.

Bruce is okay after a couple hours. Jason is hanging off the edge of the couch, watching upside down as Dick and Bruce descend the stairs, both even laughing and joking about something Jason didn’t hear. Jason gets dizzy as he rights himself, and barely has enough time to blink out the duplicates of Bruce as the man hugs him. He sits on the couch beside him as Jason grumbles, but hugs him back. “Welcome back old man.” He mumbles, unconsciously burying his face in Bruce’s shoulder as the elder man laughs softly. “Sorry Jay, you alright?” He asks, he pulls away from the hug, but stays close enough to still have one arm wrapped around him, the other busy carding his fingers through his son’s hair. “Just fine.” Jason responds, and Bruce sits back, knowing his time of accepted physical touch was up.

“I’m glad you’re okay, I was just waiting here until you were, I’m gonna go find that bastard and shove that gun up his-“ “already done.” Both Jason and Bruce blink at Dick, who’s smiling slyly. “What.” Jason says, eyes narrowing. “Oh he was from metropolis, ran back there right after, I might have let a small not well known forum in on the fact that someone had the nerve to rob Bruce Wayne and put a gun to his sons head, so he was handled before Superman had the time to find him hanging from a light pole by his underwear.” Dick rocks on his feet as both Bruce and Jason stare at him. “Gotham thugs are pretty protective over pretty boy here, some work in Metropolis and had some time on their hands waiting for the train home.” Dick is too casual about it, and it’s also kind of frightening that he can just…Send a hit on a random person; and thugs from Gotham will just, do it?

Neither Bruce nor Jason say anything, and Dick smiles wider. “Didn’t want to worry about you going after him little wing! I’m gonna make hot chocolate.” He says, turning and walking away, leaving the room in the confused and part worried silence Jason and Bruce stare at each other with. “Well, saves me time.” Jason finally settles on, sitting back and kicking his feet up in Bruce’s lap. Bruce is torn between being grateful his son isn’t out there putting himself in danger over this, but also worried that it’s only been four hours, and Dick already has it all handled. “Alright I’m too tired to think this hard.” Bruce decides, sitting back and turning the tv on, his free hand rests on Jason’s legs, thumb rubbing shapes into the boys ankle, and they’re both comforted having one another like this, and even more so when Dick joins them, kicking his feet on top of Jason’s, and Bruce has his eldest two sitting beside him, comfortable and safe.

[sttm99]

Bakugo understands that he spends a lot of money on you for just being his personal assistant. But he can't help it.

You honestly deserve it. You're smart, responsible, diligent. You're a hard worker with principles, and your work ethic is something he respects.

It didn't matter how many people were against him promoting you from secretary to PA so soon in your career. Your work was top notch, and you kept him organised.

Sure, you were pretty as well, a sight for sore eyes, really. But that wasn't his fault, was it? It wasn't your fault either.

It's not like you came into work every day with full glam, diamond earrings, or elaborate hairstyles.

It had pissed him off at first, when people demeaned you or underestimated your work because of your looks, especially when he knew you worked so hard so you wouldn't be considered some dumb corporate bimbo.

But now? Now he loved it. He loved when he had clients over, and they'd do a double take when he sent for you to take notes or deliver documents to his table.

He'd noticed the modesty with which you'd dressed when you first started working for him, how you tried to dim yourself with drab colours that obviously washed you out, or plain hairstyles.

Not like it stopped anybody from being able to tell how pretty you were.

But after, when you'd started garnering his attention and racking up more bonuses from your diligence, he began noticing you wearing nicer things.

Of course, you had to up your wardrobe once you were promoted to the role of Personal Assistant to one of the biggest heroes in Japan. But that wasn't it.

Bakugo loved seeing you walk in with a new shirt or new shoes or new earrings after he'd rewarded you a bonus or a pay increase. There was a sort of high he got, knowing that you took care of yourself with the money he gave you.

Oh, he spoilt you rotten.

Month end rewards became the norm for you. He just closed a hefty advertising deal? Best believe you were getting a cut out of that. He was given a bottle of champagne as a gift? You're drinking it with him in his office.

Sure, it may have seemed a bit inappropriate to some people; him locking the doors and closing the windows, and having you sit on his lap prettily whilst he poured it out into a flute for you.

Sure, it was inappropriate for him to have his hands up your skirt as you recounted the month end figures for him, but you were comfortable that way. He was, too. Oh, so comfortable with your hands inside his trousers and his teasing at the lining of your panties.

He was just taking care of his best employee.

And maybe he did spend a lot of money on you, but you had to keep up appearances. He needed you looking your best when you were next to him.

It wasn't his fault you were so beautiful that brands reached out to him to get you to model for then after seeing you appear in some pictures by his side.

It wasn't his fault that he couldn't get anyone else to come with him to the Hero Gala. Besides, you're meant to be with him during these things to take notes for him. So having you as his date was basically killing two birds with one stone.

"Your assistant's fucking sexy," Kaminari whispered into Bakugo's ear, both of them watching you go to order a drink for your boss.

Bakugo smirked to himself, his eyes raking over your body, clad in the tight fitting dress he'd bought for you to wear. He'd also bought the earrings you had on, and the shoes and the necklace. Sure, it cost him quite a lot, but he just couldn't help it when you looked so good.

"She's single, isn't she?"

Now, that had him snapping his head in Kaminari's direction. "Don't even fucking think about."

Kaminari whined, "But why? She's your assistant, not your sister or your girlfriend."

"She's my assistant," Bakugo seethed, standing up from his seat. "She's my employee, and I won't have you lowering her efficiency." He murmured as he made his way to where you were.

You smiled brightly as you turned around to see him, handing him the second glass of champagne in your hands. "You look like you'd rather be somewhere else." You laughed softly.

He grinned down at you before downing the drink quickly. "I would," he said before dropping his glass back on the bar. "Come on."

He spoilt you rotten, but he couldn't help it. You looked so beautiful in your tight dress and pretty hair and beautiful face.

Sure, being seated on the sink and having your legs spread before his lips in the bathroom at the Hero Gala may have been a tad inappropriate, but how could he stop himself?

You were quivering for him, thighs pressing down and shaking on either side of his head, and your fingers gripping harshly at his hair, pulling him even closer as you rutted your heat against his lips.

He let out a desperate groan, burying his face deeper into your cunt, eating you out shamelessly, hungrily.

"Fuuck..." He growled into you.

You'd been so shy the first time he had his way with you, refusing to touch him, grind on him, behaving so meek and cute.

Now look at you, so selfish and desperate, almost suffocating him as he feasted. He spoilt you rotten, sure, but you deserved every morsel of it.

"Katsuki..." You whined desperately, your back arching off the mirror, the hand not pulling at his hair tightly gripping the edge of the counter. "Katsuki, I'm so close... I'm so fucking close, baby-"

His hands dug into the flesh of your ass, pulling your harsher into him, your clit pressing against his nose as his tongue made a meal of you. He was always so desperate for it, digging the wet muscle so far into your pussy you saw stars.

And he was messy too, his saliva and your arousal staying your thighs, dripping from the marble counter unto the ground as he ate from you.

Anyone who came in after would probably be able to tell from the smell of the bathroom alone. The cum leaking unto the floor would only solidify it.

But the thought of someone finding out that your boss had his face buried deep in your pussy wasn't exactly what you were thinking about when you came for him, hard and rough, your hips shaking and raising off the counter as you rode out your high.

"We shouldn't be doing such during events, sir." You whispered to him as you both walked down the corridors back into the hall where the gala was being held.

He had his large palm over your ass, groping you just in the dark of the hallway, letting go just as you stepped into the crowded hall.

"Just be a good girl and wait for me to fuck you on the way home, hm?" He smirked at you, a small sheen still visible on his lips.

He never cleaned his mouth properly after eating you out during such events. It was inappropriate, sure, but he just couldn't help himself.

[whoreforsexymen]

We need a part 2 for the jayce and viktor cuck fic😫

And now.... The fic you've all been waiting for.

Jayce Asking You To Cuck Him w/ Viktor | PT. 2

(Please feel free to read Part One if you haven't already <3)

Pairings: Jayce x Reader x Viktor

Pronouns: None used, can be read w/ whatever pronouns you prefer <3

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI!! I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: Cucking, M/M/F, Slightly OOC Jayce + Viktor (if you squint?)

Summary: Jayce asks Viktor a burning question.

Notes: I'm so sorry this took me so long. I had no idea how to go about it. I know exactly how I wanna do the smut portion, but this conversation had me drawing blanks. There's no denying that Jayce and Viktor are gay as PHUCK for each other, and I was trying to figure out how to subtly include that in here. I hope I did it some justice.

STAY TUNED FOR PT. 3 WHICH WILL BE THE LONG-AWAITED SMUT <3

“Is it just because you want to see me naked?” Viktor teases, his voice a smooth blend of mirth and mischief, the words laced with just enough edge to leave Jayce floundering.

Jayce freezes, caught entirely off guard. 

“No!” he blurts out, his voice too loud, echoing off the walls with an almost comical desperation.

Viktor raises a brow, faintly offended in a way that feels deliberate, a glimmer of amusement playing beneath his cool façade.

“I mean—no, it’s not that,” Jayce stammers, his hands flying up in a flurry of aborted gestures. “It’s just… the principle.” He coughs, awkwardly pinching the bridge of his nose as though the motion might magically summon coherence from the chaos of his thoughts.

From his perch, Viktor observes him, leaning casually on his cane with a posture that seems both effortless and deliberate. The faintest curve of a smirk graces his lips—a secret smile, as though he’s already won a game Jayce doesn’t realize they’re playing.

“Should I assume that ___ is privy to this… fantasy of yours?” Viktor inquires, his tone so smooth it could pass for idle curiosity, though his sharp gaze betrays the humor he’s enjoying at Jayce’s expense.

Jayce’s head snaps up, his expression a poster-child of shock and indignation.

“No!” he protests, his voice breaking free in a frantic echo of his earlier outburst. “I mean… No… ____ doesn’t know.. Yet.” 

Viktor hums, the sound low and thoughtful, his golden eyes glinting like sunlight through smoked glass. 

“I must admit, Jayce, this is an… unusual request. I don’t often receive proposals like this—or, well, any of this nature, to be honest.” 

His voice is calm, his words so precisely measured they feel surgical, and yet they land like pinpricks of amusement on Jayce’s fraying composure.

“You can say no,” Jayce rushes out, his voice earnest, tumbling over itself in its haste.

“It doesn’t have to happen. I just—”

He falters as Viktor silences him with a single glance, a gaze weighted with unspoken possibilities.

“I am a man of reason, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs, his words deliberate, teasing out the tension like an artisan pulling silk from thread. 

“And it’s quite clear this is something you deeply desire. Besides…” He pauses, letting the moment stretch before delivering his conclusion with a faint, wicked curl of his lips.

“I never said no.”

Jayce’s face lights up with the unrestrained joy of a puppy hearing the word “treat.”

“Really? You mean it?” he exclaims, stumbling over his own excitement, his eyes alight with gratitude. “Viktor—that’s—I—”

Viktor interrupts with a wave of his hand, calm as ever despite the blush that blooms faintly at his cheeks—a rare and fleeting crack in his composure.

“I will… indulge your request,” he says, his voice steady, though tinged with something softer. “But only on one condition. ___ must be fully accepting of this arrangement as well. Since you have yet to mention it to (insert pronoun(s) here), I suggest you do so first. I may be a willing participant, but I am not the only one in this equation.”

Jayce nods fervently, stepping closer with an eagerness that borders on reverence.

“Of course—thank you, Viktor,” Jayce says, his voice warm with sincerity, the words spilling from him with such honesty that Viktor’s lips twitch, betraying a rare flicker of fondness beneath his usual aloofness.

“I’m not in need of thanks…” Viktor murmurs, his grip tightening around his cane as he uses it to push himself up from the chair with careful precision.

For a moment, he struggles, and when Jayce reaches out to help, Viktor waves him off with a gesture that mixes pride and playfulness.

“I’ve got it—thank you,” Viktor adds, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sass, a subtle challenge lingering in the air.

Jayce offers a quiet nod, watching with an understanding that speaks volumes, his gaze unwavering as Viktor stands tall and adjusts his clothes with an almost theatrical grace.

The two are now standing face-to-face, the height difference as pronounced as ever, Jayce’s gaze naturally falling downward as Viktor straightens himself, a silent tension building between them.

“Viktor, I—I feel like I need to thank you mo—”

“Please, don’t.” Viktor’s interruption is smooth, deliberate, and almost too quick. “After all, we’re partners.” His tone softens just slightly, but his eyes remain sharp, taking in the faintest shifts of Jayce’s expression, carefully examining the unspoken truths there.

Truthfully, Viktor hadn’t stood merely for the sake of formality. No, he had risen to peer into Jayce’s eyes, trying to read the true intentions behind such a request, to unravel the subtle mystery that now hung between them.

Jayce offers up yet another nod, a silent acceptance of Viktor’s independence. 

"Tell me, Jayce… What led you to choose me? Was it simply because we’re partners?" he asks, his gaze locking with the taller man’s once again, searching intently for any secrets concealed within those eyes.

Jayce swallowed hard, as he often did whenever Viktor looked at him like this—peering straight into his soul with unnerving clarity. By now, it had become almost routine. Every deep conversation seemed to culminate in moments like these.

"Well, yeah. But not just that—" Jayce pauses for a moment, his voice faltering slightly as his hand rose to rest on Viktor's shoulder.

"There’s no one I trust more than you," he finished, his gaze locking with Viktor’s, sincerity shining through the bond they had carefully cultivated over the years.

The silence between them stretched, heavy yet unspoken, as Jayce’s hand lingered on Viktor’s shoulder. Their eyes remained locked, a connection so intense it felt immovable—unbreakable, even if a stampede were to crash through the lab doors.

Viktor felt a tightness coiling in his gut, unfamiliar and unsettling. He struggled to keep his composure, almost appalled by how much effort it took to suppress the warmth threatening to bloom on his cheeks. 

Viktor had debated saying more, asking more, but he held his tongue. This moment was already overwhelming enough, and pushing further would only complicate it. He knew, deep down, that if he truly cared for Jayce—and he did—he would honor what his friend was asking of him. There was no room for hesitation in that resolve.

All Viktor could muster was a single nod, mirroring the ones Jayce had given him before.

"Much appreciated, Jayce," Viktor murmured, his partner’s name slipping from his lips like honey—thick and sweet, seeping into the air between them.

Before Jayce could respond, Viktor interjected for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon.

“Please—say no more. You need to go to ____,” he urged, his tone soft yet insistent.

Jayce hesitated, giving Viktor a puzzled glance that lingered just a second too long. For a fleeting moment, Viktor thought he saw something beneath the other man’s gaze, something he couldn’t quite place. But it vanished before he could decipher it, leaving behind only the tightening knot in his stomach. That flicker of hope had come and gone, like a wave retreating back into the sea, leaving him stranded on the shore.

Without another word, Jayce turned to leave, his fingers brushing against Viktor’s shoulder as if reluctant to part. The touch lingered until he pivoted fully, his back now to Viktor.

And then, just as quickly as he’d arrived, Jayce was gone—vanishing beyond the doorway, leaving Viktor alone once more.

PT. 3 COMING SOOOOOOOOOON. <3

[thydungeongal]

That encounter joke Anon is wrong. Every 5e GM I've ever met went the route of "one fight per day oh my boss is already dead accutally he has 50 more hitpoints and now here's 2 more minions now the fight is properly exciting and dramatic" and the lack of a poker face meant we all knew.

How do you feel about that kind of rewriting, anyway?

For context, none of the GMs ever admitted to this on the LFG posts, or the pitches, etc.

I'm not opposed to it on principle. Ultimately I do think it's a bit like "oh so you're shifting the goalposts when it seems like the party is winning the encounter more easily than you think they should have," but ultimately that's just a maladaptive response to a different issue. Which is, once again, people trying to run D&D as a game it very much is not.

D&D isn't a game of epic bossfights where characters snatch victory from the jaws of defeat after an extended combat encounter. It can produce such encounters but they will usually emerge incidentally, not naturally. D&D is ultimately a game of attrition, of managing character resources through the course of an extended period, and even though D&D 5e's actual expectations of what an adventuring day is supposed to look like are whack D&D 5e does support a type of gameplay that relies on managing resources over an adventuring day much better than it does "a single epic setpiece encounter per day."

Because ultimately D&D is at its best when it's about weaponized player agency and system mastery, and in modern D&D this sometimes manifests as "the party knew they were going up against a lich so utilizing everything they know about liches they kicked that guy's ass in two turns." Now that would be really anticlimactic if the GM had set that encounter up as narrative culmination of a campaign that had been leading up to this moment for two years. But if you take it as "just one more encounter in the story of a bunch of assholes trying to grow stronger and more epic" then it's just a moment of those characters getting to flex for a moment.

Now of course adjusting the stats of a monster on the fly is sort of a problem in that it goes against the game and thus undermines player expression within the game. When the group pulls off a cool trick that immediately deals a million points of damage to the dragon's dick and you say "oh actually the dragon had two million hit points" then you're ultimately undermining player expression. I don't think this makes someone a bad GM because the motivation behind it is usually to provide a more entertaining experience for the group, but it is a sign of a GM fighting against the system and not knowing what it does, and they and their group would probably be better served by another game. And given that players won't necessarily know that happened it maintains the illusion that the game does produce that type of encounter.

My advice? As a GM, be honest: "hey, I didn't think you all would one-shot that boss. Are you okay if we add a bit more HP to that thang?" And if this is a consistent issue of the game not producing the type of experience the group wants they should ultimately look for a different game.

[menelausblues]

after midnight.

꒰ you like to wander around in the middle of the night and make your husband xavier worry. ꒱

𖥔 ݁ 3.5k. no evol, marriage au. astronomer reader/mc x corporate husband xavier. domestic fluff.

mdni.

you’ll be the death of him; he’s absolutely certain of it. xavier had immediate reservations about you going out for a ‘night on the town’ because you insist on grouping up with your mindless coworkers, but this entire ordeal solidifies for him that he doesn’t like the friends you’ve found at your interim job. they’re not good friends. significantly younger than you and much less responsible, he’s happy you’re making friends, but he wishes it wasn’t with them. it shows very clearly in their behavior, their interests, and their complete disregard for the safety of both themselves and you. and xavier understands; of course, he understands. you want friends and he wants you to have them as well, but not with those people, no.

not friends that allow you to drunkenly wander off and have the audacity to let the words ‘i don’t know’ slip so casually from their lips when your husband calls frantically asking where you are and why you won’t pick up your phone.

the two of you are new to this area and for some reason, xavier can tell this move in particular weighs more heavily on you than all the others. it’s one of many but perhaps one of too many. you sacrifice everything you know just to be with him and make your marriage function well without unbearable distance at play. you never ask for anything more than his devotion, which has always been yours to claim. although his work is successful, it does mean a lot of traveling for you both. a lot of traveling seems to always result in a lot of abrupt relocation. he’s already riddled with a pang of awful, unshakeable guilt as you both have, for the fourth time now, moved away in compliance with his job, forced to start all over again. but now, he worries that this time, you’re not adjusting as well as you did previously. because xavier seems to only get better with his work and he continues to receive promotion after promotion, rising through the ranks of the company he’s been with for years now with relative ease. it doesn’t come without its consequence, though. success isn’t earned without sacrifice. it means he spends a grand amount of time submerged in his work and distant. it means you’re always making new connections so you don’t have to be so alone, always carving out spaces for yourself to belong in the center of neverending newness only to abandon those efforts and move away with him again just as you settle in. he can easily reason why you aren’t as picky about your friendship decisions as he’d like you to be. he tries to keep it all in mind. but these people you call yourself connecting with, they’re young, senseless, and they prioritize their pleasure over principles. he knows this because he’s currently calling you for the twentieth time seething. it’s now going on half past midnight, but you’ve yet to stumble through the door or send any informative message regarding your whereabouts. to make matters worse, you’re only now answering his repeated calls and attempts to contact you. “oh gods, finally.” he gripes when you answer. frustration fills every layer of his voice. “angel, it’s after midnight. where are you right now?” on the other side of the call, he’s greeted by your amused giggle. “hello to you, too, baby.” “angel,” he snaps in frustration. “it’s not funny. where are you? i talked to your so-called ‘friends’ and they don’t have a single clue where you are. did you know that? and know what else? your location is nowhere near where they said they are.” you sigh your shameless admission in his ear. “m’just looking at stars, wandering around this very lavish neighborhood.” and he knows you are. he already knows before you tell him. he already knows before he calls exactly what you’re doing. you and this god-awful habit of picking up your feet and letting them guide you wherever your curiosity is piqued is your personal brand. “we should’ve moved here.” you mumble. this is what you do so frequently, but it doesn’t stop the stress or the worry that always instantly bubbles up within him when it comes out of your mouth. “you’re wandering around the streets alone at midnight?!” his voice raises, incredulous. he’s in complete disbelief. “what happened to our mutual curfew? i’d like to remind you that this is exactly why we have this curfew, angel.”

yes, you both agreed to keep the aimless explorations to a minimum. you both agreed to be home together by a certain time each day. he agrees not to work past midnight. you agree not to walk around in the middle of nowhere past midnight. for some reason, only one of you is keeping their end of the arrangement and it certainly isn’t you. he hears you grumbling on the other line, static clinging to his ears as you shuffle your phone around. the noise is discomforting, but there’s nothing that’ll make him hang up this call. it’s quite evident he’s responsible for getting you home safely even though those awful friends were supposed to do so. even though you know you should’ve done so. they abandon the task without even making you aware; you never consider it a task. they forget about you and you forget about your husband; everyone enjoys your night out except xavier. and he has to thread together every speckle of restraint he can find not to lose his mind, but it’s too maddening not to know if you’re okay. no one seems to fathom what a danger you are to yourself but him. that’s why he stayed up, why he waited. and you? god, you’re so full of all this love you endlessly funnel into stars and novelty and the hearts of others. all your eternally blooming tenderness. your softness is his favorite aspect of you, but you’re so damn forgiving — too forgiving — too good-natured to the point of naivety. you believe in so much wonder. it’s hard for you not to look at others with the same fond and curious eyes. you’re warm-hearted, but you sometimes accept even the most unacceptable characteristics. xavier’s worries never end. your heart is made of honey and it shows in how willing you are to embrace even the worst in others. you always want and choose to see their greatest attributes, highlighting and clinging to them even to your detriment. it terrifies him, of course.

he knows he can’t trust anyone with you; he knows he can’t trust you with yourself. not you. his precious, aimless angel. the only star in his sky he cares to observe.

he fears if he doesn’t keep a tight grasp on you, you’re liable to wander straight into the core of something he can’t save you from, quite happily and ignorantly at that. it’s the avid explorer in you, searching for acolytes in the form of astral advancement. everything is always discovery and possibility with you, never caution and peril. but it’s also why he’s come to love you more than anything else that dares to exist.

he’s spent so long keeping his eyes on you, watching your back, gripping your shoulders to catch your clumsy steps, taking care of you. xavier has spent an immeasurable amount of time being your safety net because he finds that you’re the most precious thing he can ever be tasked with protecting. all these years with you solely to keep you standing steadily by his side. xavier will never willingly allow any harm to come to you — not then, not now, and not ever. he watches you roam freely, but he always follows shortly behind because you’ll go as far as your legs will allow if no one stops you. it’s been like this since high school, for as long as he’s known you, being adored by his humble shadow closing in on your every move. “oh,” he hears your murmur into the phone. “it is after midnight.” “yes,” xavier emphasizes. “it’s after midnight, angel. you’re not here. you’re not with those girls. i’ve been terrified. your location is fifteen minutes from them. how did that happen, baby? how?” “i…don’t know.” your voice is sheepish and surprised as if it’s only just dawning on you what you’re doing. “i was looking for constellations. but it’s so bright out here. and then i was just walking. i thought maybe i could catch a glimpse of venus in the sky from a darker area. it’s supposed to be visible tonight.”

despite all his anger and concern, your revelation makes him melt inside. you really are his supernova girl. always staring at the sky and labeling star patterns with relentless intrigue, always pointing to the plethora of twinkles and detailing all the marvels he’s missing in all his ignorance of their miracle. that’s why he works as hard as he does. astronomy, star exploration, and planetary admiration — that’s all you care about at your core aside from loving him.

it’s the totality of your passion and you need big telescopes for that kind of hobby with all kinds of unique attachments. he knows if you could, you’d stay curled up on the balcony with one of your many costly telescopes, asking if he sees what you see for the rest of time. he’d stay there with you — very happily, very willingly — with nothing else but his love, attention, and proximity to offer. he never does see things like you, no. they’re all merely bright little blips to him, but he sees the way they shine a loving light over your wonders. he loves the way they intrigue you. he witnesses your brilliance in them. he can never make out anything to distinguish them from one another, the intricacies forever lost on him, yet he always says yes and exaggerates how beautiful he believes all your findings to be. it’s because he loves the sight of you adoring. it’s all because your excitement shimmers in your eyes and you stare at the sky so fondly, your voice breathy with love as you explain how awestruck you feel about all that you’re able to observe in that infinite abysm above you. he isn’t surprised in the slightest that you manage to drunkenly wander away, entranced and guided by a path of hot-blooded clusters of light. the frequency with which you leave him deeply concerned for your well-being is what keeps xavier lingering in the depths of frustration. “did you see it?” he asks, voice softening and affection taking the place of his previous harshness. he hurriedly scurries out the door, ready now. his keys are clutched in a frightened fist while his phone is still glued to his ear. he’ll keep you here until he has you in his arms. if the call disconnects or drops or fails, xavier is most assuredly going to have a conniption. “i did not.” you sadly inform him. “i forgot how much i dislike the city. so many artificial lights. they drown out all my favorite stars and planets.” the corner of his lips quirk. 

ever the countryside cutie.  

his work carries you to suburbs and the center of capital cities, but periodically, you like to remind him that he can take you out of the country but he can’t take it out of you both. he knows you’ll follow him anywhere, though, so when you complain about missing the quiet, eternal sleepiness of your hometown, all he can do is smile.

꒰ you miss it for the view, but you practically begged him to take you with him out of that empty, nearly lifeless place. ꒱ it was drowning you in all its stillness, because you think you’re a planet, too, and you feel so smothered when unable to spin on your own axis or follow your own orbit. and he loves you so much he’ll take you anywhere as long as you want to go. he loves you so much he needs you to have all the room you require to aimlessly drift around in your little trichiliocosm for as long as you feel like. content and weightless. “being in the city is more exciting, yeah?” xavier asks as he slides into his car. “you say you don’t like it, but you’re always dragging me to things on my time off.” an insulted scoff. “i didn’t say the city was without its own excitements. just that i, personally, dislike how bright it is because it blocks my preferred view. i think that’s how i made it to this neighborhood, though. no lights here, really. the view is much better. seriously, why didn’t we look into moving here?”

oh god. his heart races in his chest. no lights? anyone can take you and he’ll be none the wiser. he keeps the call connected to this car so he can hear your voice while he drives and continuously verify that you’re safe until he makes it to you. he follows the gps directions of your pinned coordinates, praying that time will show him mercy and leave you untouched. he can’t believe you’re casually stumbling around in the near-dead of night — drunk — utterly vulnerable, and alone. not a care in your world, only celestial spheres and globular clusters on your mind.

so typical of you; so terrifying for him. “are you unhappy where we are, baby?” he asks, trying to swallow down his expanding fears. he continues to prompt you with questions simply for the response, simply to know that you’re still on the other side of the line, but still, it is a genuine inquiry. he wants to know if this move in particular is harder than all the others. is the instability of it all getting to you? “i’ll never be unhappy if we’re together.” your voice is a delicate declaration coated in finality and genuine sentiment. it makes his stomach flutter wildly. it’s alarming how you still do this to him after all this time. he can’t deny the relief he feels to hear you say it, to hear you confirm you don’t regret choosing a life of following by his side. “we’ll always be together.” he promises. “the severity of which you’re stuck with me might seem like imprisonment to anyone else.” this makes you laugh, the dulcet sound he regards as a blessing. it’s one of his favorite things he’ll ever hear, your amusement. your giggle. your projections of pleasure in any fraction. it’s undeniably true that you’re, by far, his favorite thing to love. you offer a soft confession. “i don’t mind being stuck with you.” “i wish you didn’t mind coming home on time.” he counters in an equally softened grumble. “no more going out with those people. they don’t even know where you are right now and they’re not looking for you, baby. just so you’re well aware of why i’ve been panic-calling you for the last forty minutes.” you whine. “they’re my only friends here so far.” “and they’re content with allowing any old thing to happen to you. that’s not going to work for me, as your husband and the man with strong stock invested in your existence. you being left to recklessly run along on your own like this directly conflicts with my desire for your safety to be maintained at all times. you know i adore you, angel, but you also know you’re a flight risk, yeah? you need safer people in your circle, not enablers.” he turns into the neighborhood you’re said to be walking around in, clenched muscles finally releasing. xavier feels himself start to relax knowing he’s close to you and soon he’ll have you engulfed in his arms as you should already be. he regrets watching you go without more of a protest. he should have just come, too. “honey, that’s mean.” you groan. “i am safe. you don’t trust me to take care of myself?” he laughs at the sheer absurdity of your question. “not even a little bit, angel. it’s almost one am and i’m picking you up from an area you probably can’t even tell me the name of.” “well, what does that even matter? you have my location, so i’m fine!”

he snorts. “angel, that’s not how safety works.” he sees you then, stomping your foot on the corner of a cobblestone sidewalk like the brat you’ve become because he lets you get away with everything. because you have him so tangled and wrapped around your finger. you have him so preoccupied with mapping out a galaxy of constellations in the form of kisses along your body. he has to tighten his grip. he has to stop letting you talk him out of his frustration and into giving you whatever you desire.

꒰ he knows he probably won’t because he loves the way you cling to him when you get your way and he likes having you so close you’re both sharing breaths. so, of course, you’ll more than likely always have your way when he’s involved. ꒱

when he gets close enough, he puts the car in park and unbuckles himself, tumbling out with haste to get to you. there’s no more anger, only gratitude to find you. he feels so goddamn grateful you aren’t hurt. “oh my god, baby.” he breathes, arms wrapping around you tightly when he sees you, an avalanche of relieved kisses falling over the crown of your head falling over you. “i was so worried about you. don’t you ever do this to me again. i mean it. ever.”

he can’t let you go. he squeezes you tightly, holding you to his chest where he knows you’re safest, where he knows you’re loved because it’s the same place his mountain of devotion for you stands tall and unmoved. invincible in its ardor. something inside told him to wait up for you, wait until you come strolling through the door singing to alert him. your arms slide around his torso, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you nuzzle your nose into his chest. xavier clings to you tighter; he needs to feel you more than ever. “you scared me half to death.” his voice overflows with all of his accumulated concern despite being a near-whisper. “i can’t believe you got this far this time.” your voice is bashful and embarrassed as you respond. “m’sorry, xavi. i got a little adventurous tonight, huh? i should’ve called you or answered earlier.” distressed palms cradle your cheeks, fretful cerulean eyes peer into you. “this is why i keep your location on at all times and freak out when it gets turned off. you do nothing but make me worry about you when you start wandering.” you sigh, disappointment evident. “i was just trying to have a good time, baby. i haven’t been out in a while.” he bites his lip nervously. there they are again, the painfully sharp pangs of guilt that materialize whenever he’s reminded he works so hard to give you every single thing you want, but all you ever want is his time and attention, the two things he doesn’t have an abundance of as his career expands. but he can’t be lazy with you. he won’t be. he’s your husband. and love, good love, is willingness; love is labor. he signed up for a lifetime of putting forth his all for you so the life you choose to keep with him is one you enjoy and don’t have doubts about.

xavier takes his role as a husband very seriously. he’s a man who loves the ground you walk on, worships it even. he’s a man that chases your laughter. he’s a man that craves being consumed by the warmth of your heart. “ah, i know. i’m sorry, angel.” a kiss to your forehead. “i know we moved here and i’ve been so busy that i haven’t really taken you out much and i complain when you try to drag me out. i know you’re just trying to get to know the area and make friends. i’ll be better.” you pull back, looking him over. he observes you all the same, capturing the way moonlight reflects in the pool of your eyes within his mind to keep forever because when you’re bathed in moonlight, it seems intentional. like the night is choosing you. as if the ether above gazes at you just as frequently and lovingly as you do it. a tepid hand caresses your cheek, loving you in every way fathomable. even when you make him nearly combust into a supernova of distress. “i’ll do better, baby. i’ll make more time for you. i promise. i love you.” he declares, leaning to place a ginger kiss on your smooth lips. “let’s go home. i don’t care how hot my body gets tonight. you better not even try to get out of my hold.” his remark makes you release an obnoxiously elongated whine that elicits laughter of his own. “you’re a furnace at night. you know you’re only allowed fifteen minutes of pre-sleep snuggles. don’t try to use my mistake as a segue to perpetuate my misery.” he snorts, tugging you closer. “you should’ve thought about your sleep comfort before you gave me a heart attack.” your eyes narrow. “you know. this is exactly why i prefer my telescopes to you.”

[astra-ravana]

Combat Magick: The Art Of Mystical Warfare

Combat magick is the practice of using metaphysical and energetic techniques for defense, offense, and strategic advantage in spiritual or psychic conflicts. It blends elements of protection, attack, and counterattack, often drawing upon personal will, energy manipulation, and ritual magick to influence outcomes in battles—whether physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual.

Principles of Combat Magick

• Energetic Warfare – Combat magick works by manipulating energy to shield, attack, or neutralize threats. Practitioners learn to harness their own energy and direct external forces to achieve victory.

• Intent and Willpower – A strong will is essential in combat magick. The practitioner's intent determines whether their spells are defensive, retaliatory, or aggressive.

• Cleverness and Intellect - When it comes right down to it, your mind is the single best weapon in your arsenal. The practitioner should possess a some level of mental prowess before attempting combat magick.

• Ethical Considerations – While some use combat magick for self-defense, others employ it for baneful purposes. Some witches mayfollow guidelines such as the Threefold Law or personal codes of conduct that forbid the use of such workings.

Forms of Combat Magick

Defensive Magick (Shielding & Warding):

• Shielding: Creating energetic barriers around oneself or others to deflect attacks (psychic, emotional, spiritual).

• Warding: Placing protective symbols, sigils, or enchanted objects around spaces to prevent intrusion.

• Cleansing & Banishing: Removing negative influences through smoke cleansing, salt, sound, or sacred words.

Offensive Magick (Curses & Hexes):

• Curses & Hexes: Directing harmful energy toward an opponent to weaken, confuse, deter, or harm them.

• Energy Manipulation: Sending concentrated bursts of energy to disrupt an enemy’s balance.

• Elemental Combat: Calling upon fire, water, air, or earth to aid in magickal attacks.

Counterattacks & Reversal Magick:

• Mirror Spells (Return to Sender): Reflecting an attack back to it's source.

• Unbinding & Curse Breaking: Severing unwanted energetic ties or removing hostile spells.

• Reversal Magick: Redirecting negativity away from oneself and sending it elsewhere.

Tools & Techniques Used in Combat Magick

• Sigils & Symbols – Used for protection, strength, or attack. Examples include Algiz (protection), Mars glyphs (aggression).

• Herbs & Crystals – Protective plants like blackthorn, vervain, or dragon’s blood; stones like obsidian, hematite, or black tourmaline. Baneful components include herbs like datura, calamus, belladonna or Spanish moss and stones like opal, sardonyx, and garnet.

• Blood & Personal Energy – Some warriors of the craft may infuse spells with personal essence or their own blood to strengthen the magick.

• Chanting & Incantations – Words of power can amplify intent and activate spells more effectively.

• Astral Combat – Fighting in the spiritual realm through visualization, dream work, or projection. This can help you catch your target in a vulnerable position and quickly gain the upper hand.

Who Uses Combat Magick?

• Witches & Sorcerers – Those who practice both light and dark magick for protection or justice.

• Psychic Warriors & Energy Workers – Individuals who engage in spiritual defense against negative entities or forces.

• Shamans & Spirit Walkers – Practitioners who deal with hostile spirits or supernatural threats as well as those performing exorcisms.

• Chaos Magicians – Those who employ sigils, servitors, and energy constructs for their warfare.

Combat magick is not for the faint of heart—it requires discipline, mastery of energy work, and deep self-awareness. While it can be a powerful tool for protection and justice, it should always be wielded with wisdom and responsibility. Whether defending against psychic attacks or engaging in mystical battles, combat magick remains an essential part of the spiritual warrior’s arsenal.