#and if i draw a character bare faced i die

[foolsflesh]

giving this 50 something the wrinkles he deserves

[jojolimons]

just finished apollo justice

alas i do not have a favorite part of the game to quote

[s0dium]

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐗

A/n: Almost kinktober guys ;) Synopsis: How many rounds can JJK men go for? Characters: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Geto Suguru, Choso, Sukuna Ryomen Warnings: Doggy, mating press, multiple orgasms, sub space, overstimulation, dub-con, photo taking, cock warming, nipple sucking, finger sucking, breeding, unprotected sex, virgin!Choso, mentions of masturbation, pussy drunk men

☆ Gojo Satoru: 3-4

The longest three rounds of your life

You think he can stop just cumming in you once? Hell no. The best part about sex is when he can see his cum oozing out of you with each push.

Also loves overstimulating himself until he is a groaning mess.

Unfortunately for you, Gojo Satoru is NOT a one-minute man.

"Awe come on don't go zoning out on me now~"

Gojo's voice is teasing, a low, melodic coo that slides into your ears as you struggle to focus. His grin is wide, almost predatory, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he leans in closer. You’re hazy, breathless, your mind clouded with pleasure, barely able to register the words.

"S'cant... feel too...” You mumbled and thrashed against Gojo's hold, forcing him to pin your wrists together above your head while he pistoned into you with brute force. Sure it's only the second round for him but for you, he's brought you over the edge more than your poor poor body can handle.

Your body feels completely spent, trembling with overstimulation as your legs, sore from the constant tightening and untightening, hang limp in Gojo's grip. He’s folded you in half, his hands pressing your legs against your chest, locking you in place with ease. The room feels heavy, a warm haze clouding your thoughts as you realize you’ve been drooling, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure to even care.

“Feel fucking amazing Jesus Christ.” Gojo manages to groan out between pants followed by a string of curses. Every time he leaves the clutch of your cunny, his cock is coated in a thick shiny sheen of creaminess, and when he snaps his hips back in, it settles right at the base of him, painting your puffy pussy lips as well. Gojo effortlessly lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, sinking even deeper into you with each forceful thrust. The new angle, paired with the relentless pace of his hips snapping against yours, sends you spiraling dangerously close to the edge. Your grip on the sheets falters, hands slipping as tears streak down your flushed cheeks. Your mouth hangs open, drool pooling beneath you, completely mind-fucked and overwhelmed by the pleasure that consumes every inch of your body.

Your limbs have no strength left to resist—no, you don’t want to. Every nerve in your body is thrumming, begging for more as you let him take control. His every movement draws out a fresh wave of sensation, each thrust sending you spiraling closer to that next high. You can’t stop it—there’s no chance to. Your body is his to use, to pull pleasure from again and again, and all you can do is surrender to the bliss as it builds, crashing over you uncontrollably.

"Come for me baby," Gojo coos. "I'll cum in you and if it spills we can start all over again."

~

☆ Toji Fushiguro: 6

First three you are riding him and doing all the work.

Then when your legs give out thats even he fucks you silly

He is so big :( Sometimes he has to let you cock warm him for a bit so you can catch your breath

This is it you where going to die.

You were going to be fucked to death.

"Shhh, stop crying would you? Yer' taking it like a champ I promise."

Two big hands come up to your face to wipe the hot tears streaming down your face. Your body is trembling uncontrollably, every muscle quivering as waves of pleasure leave you numb and overwhelmed. It’s like your senses have short-circuited, leaving you shaking, barely able to register anything beyond the intense, lingering sensation pulsing through you.

Even though Toji is unmoving inside you, your pussy cannot stop spasming from the pleasure of his fat tip pressed up against your g-spot. Even if he wanted to pull out right now, Toji doubts that your cunt would give up the vice grip on his cock. Coincidentally that meant that he was keeping you plugged with 3 loads of warm sticky cum in your tight walls.

"Fuck still so tight baby, you want me to fuck you more don't you?" Toji's voice is a low, teasing coo as his focus shifts to your breasts, his tongue flicking over each hardened nipple, tracing slow, lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. One hand squeezes your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other glides over your sides and stomach, his touch warm and deliberate, drawing out every sensation. With all the strength you can muster, you wrap your legs around his waist pulling him closer to you so that you can feel his cock push impossibly farther into you, and he moans into your breast, biting your nipple softly. 

Then, without releasing your nipple from his mouth, he begins the slow roll of his hips into your sloppy cunt. Toji's hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each roll pressing him deeper into you with a tantalizing, unhurried pace. His movements are controlled, almost teasing, as he grinds against you, making you feel every inch, every pulse of his dick as he draws out your pleasure with each smooth thrust.

"Just take it m'kay? You can handle it."

~

☆ Geto Suguru: 4

Geto is a real fiend

The breaks between sex consist of him drinking water and kissing the water into your mouth. After that it's right back to fucking.

Loves taking photos of his cum oozing out of you. Looks at it when he is bored.

“So pretty….”

Drool dripped from your chin onto the pillow below, mixing with the tears streaming from your eyes, which were rolled back in bliss. Your breath hitched the moment Geto's hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to catch his gaze out of the corner of your eye. As your eyes lock, a dark, knowing smirk curves on his lips, sending a shiver down your spine. You were finally getting used to the dizzying, mind-numbing pressure of his tip crashing into your cervix—but the bad news? Your legs were completely numb, trembling and useless beneath you.

 “Did you hear what I said doll?”

 Whatever was left of your mind tried to reign back its focus on the man pistoning into you from behind, but as it turned out, there wasn’t much. The friction of his cock dragging against you was unbearable, even with the syrupy cum soaking the walls of your quivering pussy. All you could do was dizzily nod, earning a chuckle from Geto while he eyes the way your hips instinctively raise so his cock can sink even deeper into you from behind. If you could only know the heaven your cunt you're putting his mind in, he is sure you'd be the one smirking. Geto even has to bite harshly on his lip to stop himself from whimpering every time your sticky pussy spasms from pleasure.

The euphoria came in waves of electric current that pulsed through your sloppy pussy and the only thing keeping you grounded his loads of warm sticky cum dripping down your thigh.  

 “Come on speak to me baby, I've only come two times, we've barely even started.”

 The wet sounds of Geto's dick slipping in and out of you filled the room and your senses. His cock filled you so much better than your hands ever could, hitting that gummy spot inside your walls over and over again perfectly, and you wondered how you were ever satisfied with the way you masturbated before you met him.

 “I’m a lucky man arent I? To have such an obedient baby with such a pretty pussy.” His hand comes to your face to caress your cheek, and you nestle into his touch while his thumb wipes away your tears. Your too busy immersing in the warmth of his palm to notice the flash of light and the sound of a shutter above you. Even when you turn your head back in curiosity, all you see is Geto staring at the screen of his phone with a lazy grin spread on his face.

~

☆ Choso: 2

Give this man a break! He's a half century old curse who has never fucked before!

You should be glad that he didn't cum by just slipping his tip in, because oh god lord he is seeing colors.

Choso swore he wasn't a whimpering man. Nothing that good could ever make him stumble over his words like a schoolboy. But Jesus Christ, he was not expecting you.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” Choso groans hoarsely. You felt good? Try god-like, Choso's mind was in euphoria right now. His hand or a fleshlight could never compare to the way your gummy walls sucked him in and hugged his cock.

"M'feel good Cho~" You whine, head thrown back against the plush pillow. The stretch was delicious. It had you squirming and writhing and you couldn't help but tighten as your body tried to push out the large foreign intrusion. You gasped when you felt his tip smush against your cervix, little bolts of electricity being sent through your stomach as he pressed against you.

Choso was slow at first, wanting to still admire the way your cunt swallows him up, the fat of his head has a hard time popping out with how greedy your cunny is being. He whines at how hot you are on the inside, but he’s quick to change to a faster pace.

Choso’s voice comes out in a deep, breathless groan, his grip tightening as he leans closer, his words heavy with need. "W-wanna do this all the time. Every day, baby," he rasps, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure, completely lost in the sensation. Each thrust seems to pull the words from his lips as if he can’t hold back, his body trembling with how good it feels. The thought of having you like this, over and over, only spurs him on, his pace quickening as he grinds against you, desperate to make this moment last forever.

Unable to handle the sensation, your hands grab his shoulder and grip them for dear life. Choso doesn’t let up his pace, in fact he increases it, pounding your poor little cunt with no remorse. His mind is foggy, everything just feels and looks so so good, he’s not even thinking when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, digits pressing down on your tongue and swirling around in the spit.

“Your gonna let me use you when ever I want right? Gotta lot of time to make up for, you gonna be a good girl and always make me feel good right?”

~

☆ Sukuna Ryomen: Lord have mercy

It depends.

Its either the longest no-break sex marathon of your life or 6 even seven rounds with small breaks in between.

Unfortunately, Sukuna is a sadist, it's a headcanon that he might prioritize his pleasure over yours. Combine that with his godly stamina and you have an insane combo.

Kneeling helplessly, both your wrists pinned behind you by just one of Sukuna’s powerful arms, you can only brace yourself as he thrusts into you from behind, each powerful movement sending shockwaves through your body as he effortlessly controls your every breath, your every tremble.

"C-cant do this!" you cry, your voice breaking as Sukuna's grip tightens around your wrists, holding you firmly in place. Your legs are sore from this kneeling position and the angle that his cock hits you is so euphoric it's almost painful from the sheer collision. Sukuna chuckles darkly, his pace relentless as he leans in closer, his hot breath ghosting over your neck.

"Oh, but you will," he growls, each word dripping with wicked amusement, his hips driving into you harder. "You don’t have a choice."

You can only wail in response, the sound escaping your lips uncontrollably as the overwhelming pleasure consumes you. Every thrust sends a wave of heat surging through your body, your mind going blank as Sukuna fills you completely, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. The pressure builds with each deep, forceful stroke, your body trembling beneath him, and all you can do is surrender to the intense, all-encompassing bliss that threatens to pull you under.

"Such a good girl, you're a natural submissive, aren't you? Or maybe you just loved being fucked like the slut you are."

How much time has passed? You can’t even tell anymore—everything blurs together in a haze of pleasure and heat. The rhythm of Sukuna’s relentless pistoning becomes the only thing grounding you, your mind foggy and lost as your body responds to him instinctively. Each second feels stretched out, an eternity of raw sensation as you teeter on the brink, utterly consumed by the moment.

"Gonna fuck you like this till I’ve had my fill, got that?" Sukuna’s voice is a low, dangerous growl in your ear, the words sending a shiver down your spine as he presses deeper.

[dark-konohagakure2]

Yandere Kakashi impregnating ophaned female student so they drop put of the ninja program and become his cute little house wife

tw: dub/noncon, age difference, manipulation, power imbalance, breeding, impregnation, domestication

All characters depicted are 18+

Kakashi usually doesn't get too invested in his students, seeing it as dangerous to become too close with someone who could die in battle anyday, but when Kakashi gets a student that is not only adorable, but has no parents or family to depend on for guidance, Kakashi becomes very invested in this cute little student of his.

He wants to take advantage of her almost right away, and worming his way into the life of someone as vulnerable as an orphaned young adult isn't very difficult, not to mention he's able to use his position as her teacher to get her alone without drawing much suspicion.

Kakashi will start off slow, taking her to his home under the guise of a private training lesson, eventually sitting her down on his bed and beginning to touch her body over her clothes while complimenting her curves and her cute face.

She's obviously uncomfortable with his advances towards her, but Kakashi is easily able to talk her into things, using the lack of affection she's had throughout her life to manipulate her into allowing what he's doing. But regardless of her answer, he's taking what he wants anyway.

"Don't worry, this is a normal thing for teachers to do... now be a good little student and let me give you a nice, long anatomy lesson..."

Once he eases himself inside of her, he'll start moving, thrusting his cock in and out of her virgin cunt while she squirms and writhes underneath his bigger body, occasionally whispering words of comfort and encouragement when she's struggling too much to take him fully.

He's definitely going to cum inside of her, and multiple times at that. Kakashi wants to make sure that she belongs to him forever, and the best way to ensure that is to fill her up and make her carry his babies.

It'll take him hours before he's finally done with her, tucking her fucked out and barely conscious form into his bed and letting her rest before making the arrangements to have her removed from the Shinobi program, there's no place for a pregnant woman in such a dangerous profession after all.

Once she's broken settled into her new life as his submissive housewife, he'll keep giving her "lessons", since he wants to ensure that she'll stay happy and obedient, and he'll be able to get off whenever he wants by using her as a means to do so.

"Good girl! See? I told you this would be an easy lesson. I'm sure you'll make a good little mommy for our children, won't you..?"

Kakashi enjoys his new life with his adorable little housewife, he finds it troublesome to do cooking and chores after missions, so luckily he can rely on her for all those girly things from now on.

[erosiism]

SACRED | YANDERE PRIEST X M!READER

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

warnings(s): mention of violence, god complex, religious imagery, dub-con, not to be glorified or romanticised

note(s): male reader, second person, past and present tense, not beta read. from twisted faith on my wattpad.

It takes a few moments for you to truly process what just happened. From the coarse sheets underneath your skin that differ greatly from the silken ones you have grown so accustomed to, to the air that smells like blood, you know something is terribly wrong.

Then you see a mural of a priest on the wall, and you remember where you are. A horror game.

Anton. It’s the name of the priest you need to find.

The first time you see the priest is the day after you transmigrate into a horror game. The said game, Spiraling into the Abyss features almost a cult like fanaticism with religion: you learn in the first few seconds of your time in the new world that they worship a priest like a God, and that they sacrifice humans to please the apparent gods of the heavens.

You’re a sacrifice. You know that. You are found to be guilty of some stupid crime you didn’t commit, and as far as you know, you are a worthless extra who will die by burning—you will do everything to prevent that.

To survive, you need to get into his good graces. You see him on the day or worship, when you come early to the Church: and his beauty astounds you. Symmetrical features—and the whole blue eyes and golden hair combination that is seen as rather cliche, in terms of beauty—but Anton doesn’t have a common kind of beauty; he is radiant. Benevolent. Ethereal. You marvel at him. His skin is without a blemish, and is fair, like he hasn’t gone out in the sun for a while...yet it has a healthy glow to it. His expression is serene. Anton's hair frames his face perfectly, and his eyes are expressive and rather captivating, with long, dark lashes that draw attention to it. His cheekbones are well-defined, his nose straight—and those only add to Anton's appeal.

He speaks to you in lilted tones, and immediately, you realize the priest isn’t just evil—he’s downright a menace.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil."  He strides to where you are, and his hands touch the top of your head lightly. His fingers fall to your cheek, and he strokes it gently.

You can only swallow. “Yes, Father Anton.”

There’s one day where you ask him why he burns those bodies. He calls it “cleansing”, apparently.

“They donate to the church out of the kindness of their hearts,” you tell him, swallowing the bile down your throat as you hear more screams. “Is that not…a little extreme?”

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

“That is the cleanest way to proceed. Their ashes tumble away, and it makes it much easier for the people, too. If we were to use magic, or beheading, or even hanging—it would be much messier, no? And I believe fire is such an awfully beautiful thing. It can make death look inviting; and even though the heavens might cast them away…in hell, all they will see is the fiery pits. This is their punishment. To feel sorry for them is strange, Y/n.”

Despite this, for the sake of your survival, you continue to visit him. Now, such visits are rare: Anton barely makes time for anyone. But he does, for you. 

Of course, this partial treatment doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He treats only you like this: it’s concerning, actually. His words are light and gentle, but the weight of it isn’t. In fact, he speaks of cleansing, he speaks of murdering in such a calm manner that you wonder if the devil truly resides in him.

But one thing is clear. 

To survive, you need to get into his good graces.

You feel your sanity slip each minute you spend in the game.

Anton kills. So does the Church. And you still can’t explain the goddamn obsession he has with you. Why has he not killed you yet? Anton is no saint, not at all.

Perhaps Anton was ensnared by the promise of Godhood—ensnared by the tendrils of his own self proclaimed grandiosity. Perhaps he had been idolized so much…worshiped by the devoted believers that he had simply been led to believe in his imagined divinity. Anton was a mortal who had dared to cast a shadow that eclipsed the very stars that he had reached for. Anton was simply adorned in robes of imagined omnipotence, and smelt of the fragrance of narcissus.

Here, he was god, but Anton was completely alienated from empathy. For what was a god in isolation but a sovereign ruler over an empire of one, ruling over a realm devoid of the richness of God’s grace?

You can’t deal with him much longer. He keeps murdering: he murders those who come to you under the guise of the silly notion of cleansing, he finds it amusing to see you sob and cry…and he has no qualms about drugging you. If not for the items you have stored in your inventory, warning you of drugs, you would have succumbed long ago.

Anton is no priest. 

And now he stands before you, his lips curling into a smile when he sees the look of despair on your face. He has just killed a friend,

You have to. You have to fight Anton…you have to…

Anton leans forward. You two are a hair’s breadth away.

God. Is God real? Is the devil real—has he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames have not faltered for long, and have only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything has been destroyed in its wake.

You long to spit curses towards Anton. You long for your limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. You long for your twitching fingers to wrap around the priest’s neck; watch as oxygen slowly slips from his lungs out of your throat. You long to see his body grow limp.

“You are so perfect,” Anton murmurs, “so, so divine. So perfect…”

You don’t get why he says this. He’s been telling you this for ages: it’s the reason why you’ve been treated well. He claims you are some savior from an oracle ready to save him, he claims you saved him.

And now in this scenario, where his fingers are grazing your cheek?

You swallow. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

“I want to kiss you.”

Your heart drops. “…If I say no, you wouldn’t listen.”

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It means simply brushing your lips against Anton’s…yeah, that was possible.

You want to cry. Anton presses his lips on yours—it’s a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravages your lips has some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There is an obscene sheen of saliva coating your lips when you part.

The kiss tastes just like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It is the same way that Eve sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if you had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing your fate in the molten wax of sin, staining the canvas of your soul. Had matted it black. 

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

Once Anton fully lets go, he smiles, and you collapse on the ground, tears running down your face.

He needs you, Anton thinks, he needs you. You are the savior who has brought him from the depths of hell. You are his miracle. You are his little pet; his little divine sacrifice, the white sheep with the white wool. You are the one who will follow him guiltlessly. Untouched, untainted, clean.

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person…

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless. 

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait of his family had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world…

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother’s name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of…remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn’t do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void. 

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh. 

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn’t existed. 

“Horrible! Horrible! You’re fucking horrible!” Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

“Why won’t you even flinch, you monster?”

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day you came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. You were the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

“Dear God,” You had said the first time he saw you. “I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence…”

Anton had seen you before the mural; your head lowered, your words soft and quiet.

Anton had stepped before you, tilting his head to the side as he observed you. In fact, you seemed to be struggling.

“You have to be sincere. You can’t just read off the mural.” Anton sighed.

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

“Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned.” You appeared shocked for the words to even slip past your lips; and oh, you were beautiful. Lovely. Innocent. Anton gazed at you—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently. 

“You don’t seem to be used to this,” Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

“I’m afraid it’s been long since my last confession.”

Anton couldn’t help but smile. You were lying. 

“That’s alright,” He said calmly, “you have come now. Is there something in particular that’s troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?”

“I…”

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers…you were trembling. You were thinking of what other lies you could say.

An adorable fool.

“You…?” He prompted. “You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess.”

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

“What do people come here for, Father Anton?”

Many things.

“The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices.”

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn’t even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. You had much to learn, didn’t you? It was alright. Anton could teach you. Teach you from ground zero, till you would become who you were supposed to be.

“Mostly, it’s their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures.”

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Anton said softly, “you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed.”

Anton would morph you and turn you into something splendid, divine.

remember to reblog and like! comments are always appreciated

[dudethatsmyundeaduncle]

HERE IS WHY VIKTOR WALKED AWAY FROM JAYCE AFTER HE SAVED HIM AND WHY WE DIDN'T GET A DRAWN OUT DIVORCE!

(spoilers. Duh.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

short answer: It's because Viktor's dead.

Long answer:

So Arcane is all about people changing right? The first season was rife with the idea that if you want to become who you're meant to be you have to kill off your old self. (I'm paraphrasing here, and poorly, just REMEBER jinx's arc throughout the first SZN ok, powder had to die for jinx to live.)

In the show so far, we know arcane takes the idea of this change and charcter "death" very seriously. Ergo in that opening scene of s2e1 when Jayce sees Viktor crushed under the rubble and barely breathing Viktor is, for all the show's intents and purposes, dead.

This is where you may be shouting, NO BUT JAYCE RESSURECTED HIM! and listen I agree with you, Jayce physically resurrected Viktor, yes, but what came out of that cocoon is not Viktor. Lemme explain.

Arcane doesn't do ressurection, period, the show is about dying and changing, nobody stays the same, and if you die you come back different, unrecognizable even. (Jinx, Silco, Vander as Warwick) Singed is the only character who tries to keep things the same, preserve them, and those thing he has preserved have either been changed spectacularly anyway (jinx, Warwick/Vander) or they are Inert (Rio).

So when Jayce lays Viktor down on the lab table and he's all rekt, he is dead, like even if he's breathing Viktor is functionally dead, with no magical or medical intervention he will die/has died. (I have a bone to pick here a bit with the fact that Jayce didn't take him to a hospital. Maybe it was because of the glowy appendages but I doubt it. Which leads me to assume that Viktor's injuries were beyond medical treatment meaning, once again, that he's basically dead. )

Ergo when Jayce explicitly goes against Viktor's wishes to destroy the hexcore and instead fuses it into Viktor. What comes out of that cocoon isn't Viktor anymore.

Viktor says it himself when he walks out of the cocoon he asks " what am I?" And he says something like " I died/I should be dead." While it's subtle I think we, the audience, are meant to take this very LITTERALLY.

Even while Jayce is exclaiming that he" is alive" Viktor is very sure that he isn't, that he's dead and changed. (Hella bummed he didn't get a pretty arc for this change but I guess theyre counting S1 as his arc? Anyway)

There is very important moment I want to draw your attention to here, when Jayce embraces Viktor, in joy, and Viktor slowly returns the embrace one armed and leans into Jayce, he doesn't close his eyes. (I know this sounds crazy bare with me) What I'm positing here is that this is the first inkling that Viktor is gone because he doesn't accept what Jayce is telling/giving him.

Essentially in that reunion scene, imma call it a reunion, Jayce is giving Viktor everything he wanted, their dream, their partnership, Jayce's love and attention. (don't argue with me on this Viktor is s1 wanted both even it was unsaid) And Viktor refuses all of it, he doesn't accept Jayce's affection, he doesn't close his eyes when they embrace! closing his eyes, sinking into that hug would have been acceptance, it would have been the moment that Viktor, actual Viktor, had been waiting for. (and boy had he been waiting).

But what walked/crawled/clawed their way out of that cocoon isn't Viktor. Instead it's Viktor's body and whatever impression of Viktor, or maybe parts of his soul, he gave up/lost to the Hexcore.

I think the hexcore has, very litterally, become Viktor, like Jayce basically sacrificed Viktor's body to give the thing life and now it's wearing Viktor's face and has these remnants of his memories. I believe this because it also has Skye's voice!

The hexcore didn't have a voice before, it was like a weird murmuring hum, and Viktor couldn't understand it. But now whatever parts are left of Viktor and Skye have amalgamated into the hexcore and their good intentions/idealism are functioning to guide this newly born hexcore/machine herald. (That would explain why it leaves Jayce, it has the memories of Viktor's love but not the actual emotion, it would explain why it returns to the undercity, because it has memories of that place as "home" from both Vik and Skye, and it would also explain why the MH will eventually wear a mask, because it's not Viktor, it just has his face.)

So it makes sense when the machine herald leaves Jayce after that confession and offer, because it's not Viktor anymore. Viktor is dead and Jayce failed to save him.

Anyway, hope that cleared it up for you, of course THIS IS JUST A THEORY! AN ARCANE THEORY (I couldn't help myself)

A/N, this explanation isnt meant to, like, invalidate any complaints that the Divorce arc was too rushed/fast/thrown aside. Because in a lot of ways I think it was!

This also isn't to say that this explanation I give above is the perferred way to tell Viktor's story! Because I don't think it was! In many ways by killing Viktor and making him like, the human conduit for the hexcore, they have taken away 99% of Viktor's autonomy as a character. His choices are no longer his own, his actions are tainted by this corrupting force, he (if he is even alive) no longer is himself. This victimizes Viktor in a way I don't love but also draws away from his very valid and real pain and anger.

In the machine herald lore in LoL we have these ideas of transhumanism, self reinvention, and at its core, a guy who, pushed to his limits, turned his back on Pilotover and let his own hubris lead him to committing atrocious acts.

In LoL, Viktor becomes a monster, he chooses to be the machine herald, he meticulously replaces/removes parts of himself so he can become closer and closer to what he views as the " perfect machine". His glorious evolution surrounds this idea, that humanity is inherently weak and that the only way to overcome that weakness is to surrender to the machine, to evolve.

Arcane Viktor is not getting this Arc, whatever way they try to twist the magic they gave him he's not going to get this level of revenge or autonomy, he just isn't. His purpose is likely not going to be anywhere near as strong because like I said up top Viktor's a dead man. And he isn't getting to make choices anymore.

I'll end this post here before it gets unbearably long but feel free to pop off in the reblogs, tags, and comments lads!

Love Arcane too bits and can't wait for Act 2! JAYVIK NATION RISE!

[innerfare]

Mihawk Fluff // Angst Compilation 

Summary: A compilation of Mihawk angst and fluff from my multi character posts (You're Wounded, Type of Date, Paradise, Nightmares, I Love You, Kisses, Cuddling, You're Sick).

Genre: Fluff // Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

You’re Wounded: 

Sees to your wound without a word, making sure it’s disinfected and bandaged and receives proper care until its healed. Places a soft, quiet kiss atop your head, doesn’t say a word. Makes a mental plan to avoid similar situations in the future. 

Type of Date: 

He’ll take you on a private tour of a winery. You’ll sample expensive wines together and debate various flavors and aging processes (he’ll definitely judge you by your taste in wine). When you’re not in a heated debate, you’ll share light conversation, and after the sun sets, you’ll walk the fields together. He’ll steal a few kisses off you, too, and kiss your hand at the end of the night.  

Paradise 1: 

Waking up to fresh powder blanketing the ground and jumping out of bed, barely getting your boots and one of his coats on before you’re outside, romping through the snow. Falling into a snow bank with your arms out, giggling as you make a snow angel, grinning even wider when he surprises you by laying down beside you and doing the same, letting his inner child show through for a brief moment. 

Paradise 2: 

Waiting until late evening to meet beneath a peach tree, speaking at first in hushed tones, worrying someone is on to the two of you, eventually forgetting about all of that and settling into easy conversation about nothing and everything simultaneously, him jumping up to pick a peach for you to have as an evening snack, you taking advantage of the last bit of light to carve both of your initials into the tree trunk. 

Nightmares: 

He sent you away for your own good. He had a premonition the Navy would be coming for him, and with them, a slew of bounty hunters that would have no qualms about using you against him. And yet, you remained in his dreams, though the hot and heavy ones he once had were replaced by cold fear. Every time he went to sleep, a different scenario, though the crux of it the same: you were being used as a pawn to get to him, a pawn in a lot of pain. And every time he woke up, the same: your side of the bed was empty, the shape of your body tangled in those satin sheets now but a memory. For your own good, he kept reminding himself, though he believed it less every time.  

I Love You: 

He doesn’t tell you when he feels it, however overwhelming the feeling may be, so you’ll definitely be the one to say it first. This man is the king of unspoken affection. He’d sooner die than draw his sword and cut through all the tension that seems to follow him. That being said, he does say it in other, more subtle ways, primarily referring to you as, “my love,” and leaving it at that. When you finally tell him you love him, he doesn’t even say it back, simply burying his face in your hair and saying, “I’m glad to hear it, my love.” He shocks you by saying it back a few months later, though you don’t say it back, instead pulling him in for a kiss. And it continues like that, only one of you ever saying it, the other responding with affection. 

Kisses: 

So sensual when he kisses you. Mihawk is an incredible kisser, thanks to a lot of practice in his youth, though these days he’s far more picky about who he chooses to kiss. Almost always has his hands on your face when he does it. Often runs his tongue across your lips before pushing it into your mouth. Will talk to you between kisses, telling you how much he missed you and calling you, “my love,” or, “my little bird.” Very into hickies, particularly in private places. Goes a little crazy if you kiss his hands, especially if you play with them first (foreplay is important). 

Cuddling: 

He’s not clingy, but he’s also not one to withhold affection. When he feels like showing it, he does. Sometimes this is putting a hand on your hip and placing a kiss on your cheek while you’re cooking, and other times it’s pulling you into his arms and kissing the top of your head while you’re asleep but he’s still awake contemplating life. Any sort of cuddles are always accompanied by a kiss of some kind. 

You’re Sick: 

It’s easy to think he’s not taking care of you. You don’t see him at your side the entire time you have a fever, but as you fade in and out of consciousness, you’re aware of a presence, and the times you wake, you find a hot meal or some fresh flowers on your bedside table. When you finally have the strength to rise, you’ll find him in his chair reading the newspaper as if nothing happened. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[fischlkin]

✦ as you wish.

your lover will always come back to you.

character -> xiao.

info -> inspired by westley from the princess bride! sfw! established relationships, fem!reader.

w.c. -> ~550.

a/n -> can you guys tell who my favorite genshin boy is

all you have to do to compel xiao to rush to your side is say his name. whether you whisper it softly or shout it in desperation, he exercises the same urgency in reaching you.

you miss your lover so, but he has matters to deal with along the traveler's side. it's been a couple days since you saw him last, longer than he normally spends away from you. you lean against the railing out on the balcony of wangshu inn, scouring the horizon for any sign of your lover coming back to you. the chill of the night breeze draws you back inside, where you sit at the foot of the king-sized bed you and the adeptus share. you sigh, longing to receive the yaksha into your arms again. he did not reveal to you the details of his adventure, to your disappointment. you thought it must have been because the nature of his mission was dangerous.

your lips part to elicit a low mumble. "xiao, please come back and let me know you're alright." it's more of talking to yourself than really trying to communicate with him. after all, you don't want to take him away from something bigger than you.

even so, your heart skips a beat when the adeptus fails to appear in front of you. fear warps your features. slowly you raise your hand up to cover your mouth, tears threatening to spill. could he have- no way. you have to have faith in him. he's an adeptus, he wouldn't die easily.

with your eyes closed, you breathe deeply in and out in attempts to calm yourself down.

there is a strong breeze, reminding you that you left the balcony entrance open. it tickles at your arms, raising your hair on end. with a shiver, you open your eyes.

in a whirl of green and black mist, your lover appears before you, kneeling at your feet on one knee. his face is smeared with blood, dripping from an open wound on his forehead, and his chest heaves up and down with pained breaths.

"as... you wish," he grunts, clutching at his chest.

"oh, xiao!" your voice shakes, seeing him all battered and barely hanging on to consciousness forces sobs from your lips. you throw yourself forward into his arms, burying your face in his neck. xiao places a hand on your back, still fighting to catch his breath. "xiao, what happened?" you pull back to meet his honeyed eyes, reaching up to cup his cheek. he leans into your palm, sighing.

"the ancient god osial returned to destroy liyue. i worked with the traveler and a few members of the qixing to slay him. i'm sorry i didn't tell you about this before, i didn't want you to worry about me."

your eyebrows scrunch, and you wordlessly adjust xiao so he's leaning against the bed.

"i think i was right to worry about you. you're hurt," you argue, standing up. you leave him to go fetch a wet towel, and when you come back he's attempting to get up. your heart sinks at the sight of him struggling to stand, leaning against the bed for support. you stand still as he limps over to you. your lover reaches out to take your chin between his fingers. those golden eyes soften as they meet yours, and a small smile graces his lips.

"nonsense, i'll always come back to you."

[dusterbishop]

have you come here to rescue me (all of this can be broken)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 2.7k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. thank you for all the kind comments and likes! i'm happy i could share this with such a talented fandom.

part one. || part two.

You and Gambit meet before, eh?

Many times

Mais, pleasure’s mine, chér. Gambit’s never forgotten a beautiful woman

You draw your next card at random, and find yourself flat on your back, the back of your head still slick with the blood that pools beneath you. The hit from behind splintered your skull, but this body merely festers with a fading migraine. It is the closest you could get to avoiding death without skipping from this reality entirely. The pain has to keep you anchored, because you can’t count on Gambit to know what to do to keep you here.

Gambit, for his part, stares down at you. He looks like your Remy, which seems like such a strange thought to have. Of course he looks like Remy LeBeau. That is who he is in every lifetime. And yet it makes perfect sense that you halt upon this revelation for the very same reason.

Every Gambit is Remy LeBeau, and yet this one looks like Remy. He has the same strong jawline, the same furrow of his brow, the same black-rimmed red irises. He towers over you, the line of his shoulders set back and perplexed, at least until he crouches down to be closer to your level. Every movement is fluid, graceful. No sign of pain or hesitation. No snarl of distrust or blank expression of disinterest.

Found ya’, chér.

You would laugh if the back of your skull wasn’t just recently smashed in, new body or not. The daze of death’s lingering touch keeps you still as you stare back up at him. He had promised you would meet again, hadn’t he? In another lifetime, at least, he had. You are not the same body that he had been in love with, and yet some part of you can still smell the smoke in the air and feel the buzzing of kinetic lightning across your skin.

He is not your Remy. Not even if he’s looking at you with that same curious intensity. Gamblers could never refuse the call of the cards, and you have a stacked deck.

“Watch it, Cajun,” you tell him. Your voice is scratchy, grating the back of your throat. That explains the weariness in your joints, then. This version of your body is sick in some way. “I know how to wave a stick.”

A knowing laugh escapes him. “Oui, saw ya’ wit’ it. Don’ threaten Gambit wit’ a good time.”

Right, the flirting. Of all the swamp-dwelling boys you could have ended up entangled with, you just had to choose the one with that damned silver tongue. This version of Gambit is no different than the thousands of others you have witnessed in terms of that, at least. Perhaps thousands was even a conservative estimate. How many times have you crossed lives only to find a stranger wearing the face of the man you love?

God, you’re tired of it all. You don’t think you can handle another Gambit right now.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you sigh. “I’m not staying long.”

“S’il vous plait, you should.” He’s smiling, but you know that look in his eyes. Your gaze falls to the inner folds of his coat. You can barely make out the stitched lining where he keeps his cards, but you know that its there. He always had a habit of stitching the pockets in the same spot. Your Remy liked to command full control of the kitchen table to spread out his coat and ensure straight stitching. The cats liked it, too. You would come home to find them all clustered at the table, Remy idly scratching Oliver’s chin while he assessed his work, the other two boys stretched out languidly with them.

Gambit notices your attention, and his smile goes flat. “Where’ve you been my life, eh?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” you shoot back. The fatigue starts to settle deep in your bones. Maybe this body wasn’t sick when you borrowed it. Maybe this is just the effects of your time-skipping leeching over to another form. Your body feels like its burning a low-grade fever. “I don’t want to argue with you, Gambit.”

“Argue?” He looks almost offended at the mention of underlying tension. “Mon chér, you wound me. Dis is a civil conversation, non?”

“Don’t you get tired of talking?” You know he doesn’t. The two of you have spent so many hours sparring both in the danger room and verbally. He likes to make you take the backfoot in both fighting rings. At least, Remy did. This Gambit seems… off.

He almost seems familiar.

“Not when I’m talkin’ to you,” his smile edges with that coy charm. “Why don’ you tell Gambit about your travels?”

It feels like dunking your head beneath tumultuous ocean waves. Your gaze jolts to his eyes. His biggest tell had always been the way his pupils expand, consuming the ringed red of his irises. In some light, at some times, it almost looked as if he didn’t have irises at all. Just an all-consuming gaze of ink-black.

He looks that way, now, staring down at you. Black-eyed and smiling like a rogue, his elbows perched idly on the curve of his crouched knees, hands freely dangling between you. Unarmed, almost, if not for the weight of cards pressed against the cuff of his sleeves. That brand of stitching is new. Your Remy would have been absolutely delighted to see that sort of innovation as much as he would have groaned about not doing it himself.

“Ace up your sleeve,” you say instead. Your head is rattling with a desperate panic. How does he know that you can travel?

Gambit flicks his wrist, the air rushes, and a splayed set of cards stare back at you. Four of a kind. A handful of aces, in fact. Your Remy would be in absolute stitches over it.

“Some, oui,” he says. He looks just as pleased with himself. He always did like to be the smooth-talker. The air whirs with quiet trepidation, charging, turning metallic in the back of your mouth. One of his brows raises the same moment you half-raise your arm, reflecting the same suit of cards back to him. His fingers reluctantly slide closed on empty air.

“So do I,” you tell him. You hold steady when he goes to take them back from you and nearly yank your arm out of reach when his fingers close over your wrist instead. He’s wearing his gloves, but even the slight warmth of his skin pressed against yours makes your mouth go cotton-dry.

“Houdini,” he remarks.

“Not quite,” you whisper.

“Non,” he agrees. He studies your hand for a long moment. The cards are his, of course. You had shifted time just enough to reach across it and claim your prize. Nothing more than a parlor trick in the light of what you have done lately. What is a suit of cards in the face of endless, staggering realities? If you don’t like the way a restaurant cooks a dish, you can cross time until you find the same dish cooked to mind-numbing perfection. If you miss the city bus because it showed up three minutes early, you can change lifetimes to delay the driver by five minutes, the extra two minutes only for good measure.

If you lose one Remy LeBeau, why not venture out to find him again?

And again?

And again.

You know the answer, now. Maybe part of you always did, yes, but the answer is staring you in the face. You cannot ignore him any longer. You cannot skip timelines and pretend that there will never be a Remy like yours again. He was yours because he was not perfectly brought up as a child and ended up with some nine-to-five office job and a three-bedroom home with a white picket fence. That Remy does not have an interest in a strange paradox such as yourself. Neither does the Remy LeBeau that ends up being a schoolteacher, or a stay at home dad, or a volunteer at an animal shelter.

Your Remy was imperfect, and that was why he was the only version of himself that you could love.

This version of Remy LeBeau is still holding onto you. His grip is firm, but not bruising. He’s holding you fast to keep you with him, not to hurt you. You’re too tired to attempt to escape. Every muscle in your body feels leaden and overworked. That’s the other answer demanding your attention, but you let the revelation slip from its leash and ignore it.

“I know what you are, chér .” His grip doesn’t change, but there’s a dangerous riptide swelling in his tone. “What you do.”

“Wayfarer,” you say. It feels flimsy to say it like this, laying flat on your back, Gambit poised gracefully beside you. Remy had been rather nonplussed with the title when you first told him about it. Non, mon coeur, you are Wildcard. Not even Gambit knows your next move.  

“You travel, d’accord?” With the hand still holding you fast, he rubs the calloused pad of his thumb against the rapid flutter of your pulse. It’s nearly enough to make you flicker out of time itself, consequences be damned. His next words are a wistful purr. “You can leave.”

You aren’t sure why the surprise that lances through you hurts so much. Of course, he isn’t your Remy. You know this. He may smile and banter and touch you as kindly as Remy does — as he did, past tense, it’s all beyond your grasp now — but that does not make you something for him to cherish.

It does, however, make you something to use.

“I am always here,” you start, settling into this waltz slowly. This was the other part of your existence that used to confuse Remy. Some part of you hardly understood it, either. You don’t know how every part of a jet plane or automobile works either, though, so it doesn’t phase you much anymore. You had tried to explain it with the T.V. analogy, like your other versions were playing on different screens even if you aren’t tuned in, but that only served to confuse him more. He did enjoy your choice of explanation in some way, at least, by fully indulging in references from his favorite T.V. shows. The conversation had derailed into you hitting him with a pillow, and then you had both unraveled into a different sort of banter.

Not that Remy ever let you get the last word, though. Tuning the channel, he had said seriously, as you had writhed beneath his touch in a breathless rush. Smart-mouthed, smooth-talking swamp boy.

“Some part of me stays here. A variant,” you continue. Gambit waits, those slivered-red irises trained intently on your expressions. How strange to have him staring at you with such suspicion. You could never lie well to Remy LeBeau no matter the version you stumbled across. You could hold back, yes, but he would always know anyway. You have learned to stop hiding from him. It is inevitable that you will admit your life to him in some way, either by choice or by necessity.

“I am here,” you say. “Like I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Paris, reading the morning newspaper, playing the crossword. I can see the empty grid in my head. I know the clues.”

There’s a familiar furrow in Gambit’s brow. You’re suddenly glad he’s holding your hand before you end up surrendering to the urge to reach out and smooth it away. Not your Remy. A touch from you is not the sort he hungers for.

“Paris, eh?” He presses his thumb to your pulse. You wonder if he feels the leap in your heart beat at the touch. “Wha’s got you wandering da Void, then?”

“I didn’t choose to be here,” you admit. “I got… reset, I guess. My mind went to the next version of my body available.”

“Reset sounds awfully dire, I t’ink.” He gives you a pointed look. “Wha’s got you?”

For one long, awful moment, you almost tell him the terrible truth. You almost tell him that you went looking for a version of him that was familiar enough to soothe the gaping hole in your heart. That you found a Gambit that was witty and kind despite his shitty upbringing, one that liked to make you laugh and could keep up with the practice drills you still put yourself through. A Gambit that wasn’t afraid that you would one day vanish and be replaced by some version of yourself that he didn’t love.

You want to tell him that you found a Gambit that you had wanted to keep safe, and he was shot in the back trying to do the same for you. You tore yourself apart to take down the men that did it to him. You died with him and you still woke up within one breath and the next. You had to wake up and hear his voice, except this is not the Gambit that died because of you, this version does not know what he holds onto so tightly.

You want to tell him that three other versions of Remy LeBeau died just as terribly, and you just keep spinning the roulette wheel, and you just keep living.

“That version of me died,” you say. “Shot in the stomach.”

He’s looking at you as if he has never seen such a phenomenon. You suppose, technically, he hasn’t. He used to be one of the lucky ones that didn’t know you even existed. There goes that winner’s streak.

“Do’ya have t'die to… reset?”

You think about lying again. God, you wish you could. “Not always.”

He raises a brow at that, but you don’t offer to elaborate. Instead, you let the cards in your hand release from this reality with a soft whir of energy. Your head feels stuffed with cotton, or perhaps rocks. Maybe this is your mind finally burying itself alive in rebellion of your time-skipping antics.

“Tell ya what, chér.” His fingers loosen their grip on your wrist only to tangle with your own, intertwining your hands. Your breath catches. It’s the only split-second warning you have before he hauls you up to your feet, one hand entangled with yours, the other supporting the small of your back to keep you balanced. You have to shut your eyes against the vertigo that thunders in your head.

“Don’t die,” he continues. “Paris ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, hein? No reason to go dere.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” you grit out. You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Your free hand grips onto the lapel of Gambit’s coat hard enough for your fingers to grow stiff. His hand on your back is a solid, anchoring weight. It supports you more than you would like. Relying on him could be a dangerous game.

Still, your power is a raw, aching nerve burning through your veins. You couldn’t switch without tearing yourself apart, not as exhausted as you are. Considering that this Gambit hasn’t driven a knife into your back, either literal or figurative, it’s easier not to resist when he makes a soft hum and sweeps you into a bridal carry. You keep your eyes closed, and try to ignore the burn at the back of them. A part of you waits for his sound of pain, the impact of bullets thudding into his back. Another part wonders if he will be vaporized from existence by the TVA, just a second before your hands meet.

The third, quieter part of your mind just thinks: Remy.

Gambit, the fourth ace in your suit, doesn’t do any of those things. He adjusts your weight, testing to see if you will squirm out of his grasp, then he begins to walk. He’s strangely quiet. It’s almost a relief in the wake of your draining, familiar conversation. How many times will you have to reintroduce yourself to a Gambit? What could you possibly offer this fate-curious, battle-wary version of the man you love? It’s the sort of question that makes you reconsider your choice to stay.

Stay with a Gambit with ulterior motives, or move on to another life with no guarantee of who will meet you there? Well. When you put it like that, there’s no other option at all.

And, as if he can read your mind, Gambit begins to explain.

[nu1lst4rs]

doodled human designs for nightmares gang!

click for better quality

ggrahhb. i love them. will draw individual refs soon. promise. cross has jumped between nightmares gang and star sanses, and therefore is considered a neutral outcode in our au. so ill draw him later.

horror fws the trans community

Star sanses, neutral aus (p1), neutral aus (p2), extras

some headcanons under cut 3_^

warning there is alot of text

> nightmare (they/it)

DESI NIGHTMARE!!!! (this is blatant self projection.)

short. but they always manipulate their height when they're outside of their gang because they hate being short.

chubby because its ass is not used to actual food, and they have a really slow metabolism when it isnt negativity. and now that horrors "forcing" it to eat, they gain weight. fast.

intersex. not sure why i think this but they don't really have a sex, so. erm.

^ adding onto that their fluid in their expression. sometimes masc, sometimes fem, sometimes andro.

has those stupid ass hair curlers and uses leftovers for their tentacles

MATCHING NECKLACES WITH MY OTP AT THE CURRENT MOMENT. usually errormare or bsp. sometimes fluffynight. killermare if nihira is fronting.

also sugar daddy nightmare. its either rich as fuck or have no money at all. (this is kindve a crack hc)

> Dust (he/they)

leaning korean and thai mix for him. because i need to see more mixed characters.

wears pjs whenever he can. gets the most fucking stupid pj pants too. like hello kitty. comfort > style.

always dusty. mostly because he doesn't shower and smells like ASS, but also because they gotta live up to their name somehow.

TRANS MASC. dont care if you say its wrong. EVERYONE IS TRANS. (excluding horror and blue. allies!)

aroace spec 100%. most sanses are, but him in particular. would rather die than do any of the sappy bs. but wouldd love to have a partner. or maybe 3. wink wink.

"2 shorter than killer but gaslights killer into thinking he's taller

doesn't wear papyrus' scarf, but keeps it in his sleeve.

> Horror (he/him)

wanna hc him as native american. but i haven't exactly thought much about what in particular.

tall and bulky. after a lonnggg famine, horror developed an ED. where they stress eat until he's physically ill, or feeling less stressed.

doesn't need the bandages on his face, bur keeps them there because he hates the scar

little big bottom teeth. its something he developed due to the food conditions in HT snowdin.

as much as it happens, horror HATES having blood on him, so he wears an apron underneath his clothes and does the laundry often.

PROSTHETIC LEG!!!! it got stuck in a bear trap when he was in his old au, and alphys didnt really know what else to do. its not the best thing, but its reliable. killer likes to put stickers on it.

has a cleaver named maxine, and an axe called rex.

ace because i dont really think. yeah. gross. ew. intimacy.

> killer (he/they/it)

arabic. its almost canon at this point.

has a selection of knifes in his thigh thing if his magic backfires on them. favourite is its butterfly knife.

is legally blind. his ass CANNOT see. refuses to admit this.

acespec because like look at me. he can barely feel. i just think he'd love the idea of being in a relationship, and desperately want one. but know he cant be in one.

scars galore holy shit. is always somehow simultaneously sloppy and precise with his knifework. him and nightmare have a small rivalry to see who can get the most.

needs to have textures on his clothes. something to ground themself. like "oh shit we're dissociating." rubs pants aggressively. works for us.

transb... transverse...

also DID but this is hinted at in canon

HUh. okay wow that was alot. cres shut up about utmv for 5 seconds (IMPOSSIBLE) (I DIED AFTER 1 SECOND). anyways THANK YOU!!! i will post and draw stars and neutrals tomorrow maybe. just after some sleep because it is 2am. bye everyone 3.<

[cherrrydragon]

➤ sweet

← back to main masterlist

read it on ao3

SUMMARY ↳ Peter Parker is sweet. The kind of sweet you can't get enough of. It kind of ruins your life. One day, during lunch, it’s the same as any other. You three are sitting together, not really eating your food, too focused on talking. Then, Peter speaks up, and it kind of throws off your whole existence. “Did Liz get a new top?” His face is resting on his hand as he stares at the girl. You’ve always thought Liz was pretty, and what makes that even more unfair is that she’s nice. She helped you find your way to your class on time, and you have a bad habit of being willing to die for people once they show you even the smallest amount of kindness. pairing: tom!peter parker x fem!reader warnings: just reader having to watch the person she loves not love her. so basically all of us with our fav fictional characters tags/notes: MAJOR pining on reader's side, (not actually) unrequited love, 7k of this is just straight yap my bad, happy ending! wc: 8.5k

Peter Parker is a sweet boy.

He always has been. Even when people shunned him for no reason, he never shed that kind demeanor. He has remained unwaveringly gentle and compassionate.

Your first interaction with him is simply asking him for a pencil. You’ve just rushed into class, barely making it before the bell rang. As you fumble through your bag, you realize you forgot to pack a pencil. Hesitantly, you turn to the boy sitting next to you.

"Hey, uh, do you have an extra pencil I could borrow?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

Peter looks up from his notebook, his eyes meeting yours with a friendly, albeit slightly surprised, expression. He quickly reaches into his bag and hands you a pencil.

“Uh, yeah. here,” he smiled unsurely, handing you a pencil.

“Thanks,” you smile. You notice how he keeps his gaze on you for a moment before turning away.

The rest of the class goes by smoothly, thanks to Peter's pencil. As the teacher drones on, you can't help but sneak glances at Peter, noticing his focused expression as he takes notes diligently. There's something about him that draws you in—a quiet determination mixed with a genuine kindness.

When the bell rings, you suck in a breath and turn to him. “Hey,” you start, extending your hand holding his pencil. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Peter takes the pencil, his fingers brushing against yours. “Uh, yeah. Yeah! No problem.” You think the way he stumbles over words is pretty cute.

Time to be bold. Go for it, [Name]! “Can I sit with you at lunch?”

Peter's eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by your request. He hesitates for a moment, then nods with a shy smile. “I just, I don’t really sit with anyone and you seem nice so–”

“Yes,” he blurts out, wide-eyed. “That’s cool.”

You feel a mix of relief and excitement. “Okay, see you then?”

He nods, a little late. You smile and walk off to your next class, feeling buzzy. You really are looking forward to knowing Peter.

You didn’t really notice him before. He was always in the background, never too far but never too close. He was just a boy you didn’t know, but knew of. But you saw, saw how he was always there, saw how he held the door open for others, saw how he kept his head down and never bothered anyone.

As you anticipate lunch, you imagine conversations, shared laughs, and maybe even a little bit of awkwardness, but in the best way possible. The anticipation grew with each passing period.

Woah, maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself. He might think you’re, like, weird. You really hope he doesn’t.

As lunch finally approaches, you gather your things and head to the cafeteria, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. You scan the room, looking for Peter, and spot him sitting not alone at a table near the window. There’s a boy next to him. His friend probably (who else would it be?). Taking a deep breath, you make your way over.

"Hey, Peter," you greet with a smile as you reach his table.

Peter looks up from his tray, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. "Hey," he responds, a bit more confidently than before.

You turn your attention over to his friend, who is looking at Peter, a bit surprised. “Hello.”

“Hey,” he greets you, discreetly elbowing Peter. “I’m Ned.”

“[Name],” you say.

“Why are you sitting here?” he asks bluntly. You blink at the abruptness of it as Peter hisses, “Ned!”

“Uh,” you stutter, suddenly feeling out of place. “I can go if you want–”

“No!” yelps Peter. “He’s just being stupid. What he means is that, well, we don’t really have any friends. But we’d–” he spares a subtle glare at Ned, “–like to be yours. If that’s what you want.” 

His eyes bore into yours earnestly. “Please stay.”

You pause for a moment, processing Peter's earnest plea. Ned looks a bit sheepish now, realizing his bluntness may have come off the wrong way. You glance between them and smile, feeling your nerves ease a bit.

The three of you start chatting, and you quickly find yourself laughing at their silly and nerdy jokes. You learn Peter is really into science and chemistry.

“You know Peter has an internship at Stark Industries?” says Ned, leaning in.

Peter stares at Ned hard. “Oh, really?” you hum.

Peter quickly tries to downplay it, waving his hand dismissively. "It's not a big deal, really. Just a lot of organizing and data entry," he says, clearly trying to stay humble.

You shrug. “I think it’s cool.” You do, you’re impressed.

A hint of a smile crawls on Peter’s face.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, you feel a pang of disappointment. But Peter looks at you with a hopeful expression. "Um, do you want to sit with us again tomorrow?"

You stare at him earnestly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Okay,” he nods, more so to himself. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

From then on, you become a part of their group, officially Peter’s friend. You learn that Peter is not just smart, but also incredibly kind-hearted. He always goes out of his way to help others, even if it means sacrificing his own time. The bond between you strengthens, and soon you're sharing inside jokes and stories about your classes.

You somehow manage to land yourself a spot on the Academic Decathlon (no, not because Peter’s on the team). But, to be honest, you wouldn’t have tried if not for him. You’ve never considered yourself all that smart, you don’t really try that hard in school. Peter says you’re ‘naturally smart.’ You never gave it much thought, but a compliment from him makes you happy.

“You got this,” Peter assures you before every practice.

One day, during lunch, it’s the same as any other. You three are sitting together, not really eating your food, too focused on talking. Then, Peter speaks up, and it kind of throws off your whole existence.

“Did Liz get a new top?” His face is resting on his hand as he stares at the girl. You’ve always thought Liz was pretty, and what makes that even more unfair is that she’s nice. She helped you find your way to your class on time, and you have a bad habit of being willing to die for people once they show you even the smallest amount of kindness.

“No. We’ve seen that before, but never with that skirt,” replies Ned.

Liz waves at a couple of girls that greet her. You think her voice is pretty.

“We should probably stop staring before it gets creepy though,” notes Peter, still looking at her.

“Too late,” comes a voice at the end of the table. A girl, unbothered and doing her own thing. Oh, that’s MJ. “You guys are losers,” she says, unapologetic. “Except for [Name]. Hi, [Name].”

You wave at her. “Hi, MJ.”

Peter raises his hand in confusion, looking at you for answers. You shrug, not having any. That’s just how MJ is.

“Well, then why do you sit with us?” asks Ned.

MJ flicks her hair out of her face. “Because I don’t have any friends.”

And ain’t that the truth.

“Let’s move to the next question,” hums Liz, flicking through index cards. “What is the heaviest naturally-occurring element?”

You’re not really paying much attention to practice, even though you really should be. You’re too busy staring at Peter.

“Peter, it’s nationals,” you hear. “Is there now way you could take one weekend off?”

Wait, Peter’s not going to nationals?

“I can’t go to Washington. If Mr. Stark needs me, I have to make sure I’m here.” Well, you do like a man who has his priorities straight.

“You’ve never even been in the same room as Tony Stark,” says Flash, doing absolutely jack shit across the room. His voice grates your ears.

“Wait, what’s happening?”

“Peter’s not going to Washington.”

“No, no, no, no.” Felt that.

“Really? Right before Nationals?” asks Liz, wincing at him disapprovingly.

“He already quit marching band and robotics lab,” hums MJ, reading her book. Your fellow members turn to look at her. You know that, but why does she? “I’m not obsessed with him. Just very observant.” Well, you are obsessed with him. Just a little. A healthy amount.

Liz says something to Flash, and at the mention of him you automatically zone him out. You spend the time staring at Peter, who briefly glances at you before looking behind him at the ticking clock.

The rest of the day he’s tapping his fingers against the desk and moving his leg up and down. You barely manage to catch him at the door before he runs off. Peter looks at you, momentarily startled as you catch up to him. He gives you a quick smile, though you can tell his mind is elsewhere.

“Peter,” you say, frowning slightly. “Why aren’t you coming?”

He shrugs, trying to appear casual. “You know already, [Name]. The internship is really important. I gotta be ready at any time.”

“Tony Stark can’t spare you one day?” You raise a brow at him. “I think that goes against some kind of labor law.”

Peter furrows his brows, taken aback. “No, it’s not like that,” he defends quickly, shifting uncomfortably. “Mr. Stark… relies on me. I don’t wanna let him down.”

You give him a sympathetic look. “You’re really smart, Peter. There’s no way that’s possible.”

His gaze softens, smiling secretly to himself. You lightly punch his shoulder, and he gives you a mock offended look. “You’re the whole reason I even joined, and now you’re bailing on the most important day? Fake friends, I swear.” You’re mostly joking, it’s not that big of a deal. But you still would’ve liked him to be there with you.

He chuckles softly, rubbing the spots you hit him (dramatic, you barely touched him). “You’re smart, [Name]. You don’t need me.”

Yeah, you don’t need him, but you want him.

He grabs your hand and squeezes it tightly, briefly, before turning and walking away. “I’ll make it up to you, promise!”

Your heart skips a beat, at both his gesture and his words. “Okay,” you say softly, knowing he’s already gone.

“Hi. I’m Captain America. Whether you’re in the classroom or on the battlefield…”

You wonder how they convinced this guy to stand in front of a camera and yap to a bunch of high schoolers who just simply don’t care. Peter and Ned are mumbling about something, too hushed for you to hear.

“Isn’t he like a war criminal, now?” you mutter. Peter leans in to you to hear better.

He chuckles softly, breath tickling your ear. His proximity sends a warm shiver down your spine. “Sucks, he’s kind of cute.”

Peter chokes, looking at you in surprise. “In, like, a celebrity crush kind of way,” you shrug.

Peter’s face flushes a soft pink, and he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Yeah, um, I guess? I didn’t think you’d like older guys…?” He trails off, fumbling with his fingers. His awkwardness only makes him more endearing.

Ned snickers beside him. “You’re not wrong. Captain America’s got that whole classic charm thing going on.”

Peter shoots him a look. “Dude.”

It’s only natural you and MJ pair up for the exercises. Though, to be fair, you’re not really doing much exercising. Instead, you’re too busy ogling Peter.

“You’re down horrendously bad,” says MJ, unapologetic.

You blink, looking down at her. “Huh.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” She looks unimpressed by your attempt to seem unaware.

The way Peter effortlessly does pull-ups is doing something to you, and it’s really embarrassing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do,” she snorts. You watch as Peter flicks his attention over to… Liz. Always Liz. Never you.

“Is he staring at her again?” MJ asks, looking over. Your heart sinks a little.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter. “He’s just my friend.”

MJ raises an eyebrow, studying you for a moment before shrugging. “If you say so.”

“Peter knows Spider-Man!”

The entire gym looks over at Ned and Peter. Um. What was that, Ned? Peter gets up, sputtering and denying Ned’s claim.

“They’re friends,” says Ned.

“Yeah, like Coach Wilson and Captain America are friends.” Your nose scrunches up at Flash’s words. MJ catches it and nods her approval.

Peter glances around nervously, his eyes meeting yours for a split second before darting away. You feel bad for him, even if he doesn’t have need for anyone’s pity. Peter is cool, and really smart. He’s also really cute, and he bites his lip when he’s focused on something. He can’t sit still for very long, and he has a bad habit of running his fingers through his hair when–

Yikes, girl. Focus.

Wait, Liz’s party?

“Yeah, I’m having people over tonight. You’re more than welcome to come,” she nods, demeanor kind of shy.

“Having a party?” Peter’s voice is breathy, and it makes your fingers clench.

The bell rings before Peter can decline (or accept, because why would he ever decline?) and Liz spares him a look as she walks away. Peter looks up at the ceiling in frustration, turning to Ned to snarl something at him.

Probably upset because Flash made fun of him in front of the girl he likes, you think miserably.

You help MJ up off the floor, waving her goodbye as she leaves. Your legs are barely able to talk you towards the door, wanting to go over to Peter. You can’t take your eyes off him, but you know you have to, so you tear them away and walk out.

As you walk away, you can't help but feel a mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Peter's feelings for Liz are clear, but you can't deny your own growing affection for him.

“[Name]!” Peter’s voice is very recognizable (to you at least). You hear his footsteps rush over, coming to a stop by your side. You turn to face him, your heart pounding. "Hey, Peter," you say, trying to sound casual.

He looks at you, his expression a mix of frustration and something else you can't quite place. "Hey, uh, I just wanted to say... about what Ned said earlier. I mean, he's just being, you know, Ned."

You nod. “It’s okay Peter, I think it’s cool you know Spider-Man.” Everything about him is cool.

Peter’s eyes widen slightly at your words. "Really? You do?" He seems both relieved and surprised by your reaction. He crosses his arms, trying to seem casual. “And, uh… what do you think about Spider-Man?”

Peter's question catches you off guard. You stare at him, a bit taken aback by his curiosity. “Well, I think he’s a hero,” you shrug. “Reliable.”

Peter kind of… stares. In awe of you. Then he snaps out of it, cheeks flushing as he looks down.

He clears his throat, changing the subject. “So, uh… you going to Liz’s party?”

You hadn't considered it, but the idea of spending more time with Peter, even if Liz is there, is tempting. Even so…

You purse your lips. “Probably not.”

He furrows his brows. “What? Who am I gonna go with?”

You snort. “Ned? Who else?”

“You.” He says it so absolutely it almost makes you fall to your knees. The idea is both thrilling and a bit nerve-wracking. The last thing you want is to feel out of place at a party, especially with your growing feelings for Peter.

“You want me to go with you?” you ask, trying to sound nonchalant even though your heart is racing.

Peter nods earnestly, his gaze locking onto yours. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re up for it. It’d be… nice.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

Peter’s face brightens up instantly, a mixture of relief and excitement evident. “Ok. Cool! I’ll, um. Hope to see you there.” And then he’s off to do his own thing.

When you arrive at Liz's house, you immediately spot MJ, and it puts your mind at ease. She’s in her own world, happy to snack on the foods there. She looks up as you approach.

“Sup.”

“Hi.”

You stand together awkwardly. Well, you’re awkward, and she’s cool. The party is in full swing, with music playing and people milling about, making the large living room feel even more crowded.

It’s embarrassing how fast you spot Peter. It’s as soon as he arrives. He’s decided to keep it casual, but you think he looks good. Really good. God, MJ was right, you are down bad.

Speaking of which, she nudges you and nods her head in Peter and Ned’s direction. “You should go say hi to him.”

“But…” Liz is there. To be fair, she’s probably only greeting them. Saying ‘thanks for coming’ you know. But even so… you’re not sure you want to watch Peter’s attention stay on Liz when you’re also there.

You take a deep breath and muster up the courage to approach Peter. MJ gives you a supportive nod, and you make your way over to them.

“Hi, Peter,” you greet, trying to sound casual despite the fluttering in your chest.

Peter turns to you, his face lighting up with a genuine smile that makes your stomach flip. “[Name]! You’re here.” His eyes are warm and welcoming, and for a moment, you forget about the rest of the party.

You nod, peering around him to greet Ned. “Hi, Ned.”

He gives you a small wave. “Hey, [Name].”

Peter's smile widens as he steps a little closer to you, clearly excited that you're there. His eyes roam your figure. “You look good.”

Your face warms. “Thanks. You too.”

“Dude. Peter,” says Ned, grabbing Peter’s arm. He begins to pull Peter away. “Sorry, [Name]. Gotta talk to him about something.” Peter looks affronted by Ned’s behavior, sending an apologetic glance your way.

You watch as Peter and Ned head off to the side, leaving you standing by yourself. A little awkwardly, you try to blend in with the crowd, scanning the room.

“Penis Parker, what’s up?”

Ugh, Flash. Who let him on the sound desk? He says a few mocking words, and suddenly Peter’s walking off somewhere.

You jog to catch up to him. “Peter, please don’t listen to Flash. He’s just an asshole.”

Peter stops in his tracks, looking back at you with a mixture of surprise and frustration. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it, clearly struggling to find the right words.

“[Name],” he starts, voice honey sweet, “I’m not worried about Flash, I just…” He looks around for a moment, searching for whatever words he wants to say. “I gotta go do something. I’ll be back.”

You watch as Peter rushes out of the house, deflated. You feel a mixture of concern and confusion. The party goes on as if nothing happened, but your thoughts are entirely focused on him.

In a moment of impulsiveness, you decide to follow him. The cool night air hits you as you step out onto the porch, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Peter. Damn, where did he go? He’s fast. You walk down the front steps, glancing around. “Peter!” you call out, trying to catch his attention.

A movement catches your eye. Around the side of the house, on top of the neighboring ledge, there’s someone there. Your ears can barely pick up the rustling of clothes. Weird place to change clothes. How the hell did that guy even up there?

Wait a damn minute.

That guy is Peter. How the hell did he get up there so damn quick?

You keep yourself pressed against the wall, peeking around the corner. Why the hell is Peter even changing his clothes? He looks fine. Good, even. Wait, he’s changing his clothes. Maybe you shouldn't be spying on him, that’s weird. Oh, wait, he’s wearing something underneath. Something red and black, with web patterns on and a spider symbol on his chest.

…

Oh. Oh!

What the fuck!

As Peter pulls his undershirt off, you get a glimpse of him in his full Spider-Man glory. Holy shit, Peter Parker is Spider-Man. You knew there was something special about him, but this? This is a whole different level. The red and black suit, with its sleek, form-fitting design, is unmistakable. The spider emblem on his chest is a dead giveaway.

You swallow down the knot in your throat, willing your body to turn and go back inside.

He doesn’t come back.

You leave when Flash starts his ‘when I say Penis, you say Parker’ chant.

The yellow blazer feels tacky, but you’re required to wear it as part of the Academic Decathlon. Though, MJ isn’t wearing hers, so maybe you can get away with taking it off until you get to D.C.. But MJ is MJ.

“Hey, it’s Peter!”

What.

You turn around, seeing Peter run up to your group. Peter’s face is bright with excitement as he approaches your group. His usual nervousness is replaced by an eagerness you haven’t seen before. It’s like a different side of him is on display.

“I was hoping I could rejoin the team,” he says, looking at Liz.

And he’s welcomed back with open arms. He decides to sit next to you. You’re pretty sure because it’s closest to Liz, and because Ned has decided to sit in the back. You wonder if Ned knows his identity.

He nudges you with his arm. You’re snapped back to reality, looking at him. He’s staring at you, brows furrowed just the smallest bit. You feel your traitorous heart skip a beat, like it always does when he’s around.

“You okay? You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice low.

You manage to nod, not having much to say. Are you mad that Peter kept this secret from you? No, of course not. There was never any obligation for him to tell you, or even anyone. It’s a pretty big secret to have, after all. Though, now you wonder if him being Spider-Man has something to do with that Stark internship…

Peter’s eyes linger on you, a mix of concern and curiosity. You can sense he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling. It’s a little uncomfortable, you’ve never really had to lie to him before, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to. You’ve just discovered one of the biggest secrets in your life, and it’s about someone who’s become so important to you.

His phone starts ringing. You peak at it, someone by the name of ‘Happy’. Weird name, but okay. He moves to the back of the bus to take, settling in next to Ned.

You sigh, slouching in your seat. You can’t believe your life.

At least you get to room with MJ. You’re just about to fall asleep when Liz comes knocking on your door, saying that she and the rest of the team are going to sneak down to the pool. MJ decides she’s going to come. For ‘enrichment’ she says. You on the other hand… kind of just want to stay inside right now.

Until another knock on your door rouses you from your would-be sleep. Again . You grumble as you make your way to your door, opening it to find Peter, his face a mix of uncertainty and hopefulness. “Hey,” he says, looking nervous. His hood is over his head. You think he’s got his suit under there.

You don’t bother trying to fix up your appearance since you truly doubt he doesn’t see you like that. “Hello?”

“Uh,” he mumbles, gesturing away from him. “You… weren’t with the others. Are you not going to go with them? To the pool?

You shake your head. “No, not feeling it.”

“Oh,” he nods, like it was obvious. “Are you, sick or something?”

“No.” You don’t mean to be blunt with him, but you don’t really know how to act around him anymore.

“Oh, Okay.” He shifts back and forth on his feet. “Can I come in?”

You open the door wider to let him in, never able to say no to him. Peter steps are hesitant and awkward, deciding to sit on the leaning against your bed, while you sit on the mattress.

“So..?” you prompt.

Peter licks his lips, looking down to fiddle with the hem of his hoodie. “I, um, wanted to talk. About... the party. Liz’s party.” For a moment, your heart races. Did he know you were there? He glances up, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of vulnerability and determination. “I didn’t mean to, uh, leave you hanging. I just... had to go take care of something.”

You nod, understanding differently to what he knows. “It’s okay, Peter. I get it. I mean, you had... you had something important to do.”

Peter takes a deep breath, clearly relieved by your reaction. “I just... I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you or anything. I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that.”

Peter’s earnestness tugs at your chest. He’s going to give you a damn sweet tooth. You can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and frustration. “Peter, it’s fine,” you say softly. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

He shakes his head, his expression earnest. “But I do. I care about you, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

Your heart skips another traitorous beat at his words. His sincerity is disarming, and you find yourself wanting to reassure him, even though you’re the one grappling with this newfound knowledge about his double life. Why does he have to say things like that?

“Are you not going to the pool?” you ask, gesturing to his get-up.

He scratches his cheek, shaking his head. “No I… gotta… do something.” His voice gets quieter the more he speaks, realizing he’s just quoted the very thing he just apologized for. You snort, unable to help yourself in reaching out a brushing a curl away from his face. His eyes soften, and he reaches out, tentatively taking your hand.

Your fingers brush against his, and there's a moment of silence as you both just look at each other. Peter’s grip is gentle, as if he's afraid of pushing too much, too soon. You feel the warmth of his hand, and for a second, you forget about the secrets and the confusion.

After a moment, Peter clears his throat, his expression shifting back to a more familiar, awkward smile. You snap back to reality. “You should, uh, probably go do that thing.”

He nods, not meeting your eyes. “Yup. Gonna go do that thing now.”

He’s out the door before you can blink.

Peter doesn’t come back in time for the Academic Decathlon. MJ wins you the last point, anyway.

You’re just out of earshot as Ned talks to what you assume is Peter on the phone. You look away when Liz takes the phone and begins to speak to him.

Your coach decides it’ll be fun to have a tour of the Washington Monument. You zone out during the long elevator ride, thoughts drifting to Peter. Always Peter. You wonder if you were his girlfriend, would he look to you to patch him up when patrol gets rough? Would he take you away, swinging through the night while he tells you how pretty you look–

There’s a bright light, and everything goes deafening as a loud sound explodes within the elevator. Everything comes to a stop. Ned throws his backpack on the ground, frightened.

“Oh my God. Look at the ceiling.” There’s terrifying scorch marks on it.

“Just stay calm, everyone.”

“Oh, we are all going to die here.”

You don’t listen to anymore of what anyone has to say, too focused on steadying yourself against the wall. Holy shit. Peter better be hauling ass back here, now .

Security pushes the failing doors open, and the elevator hatch is opened as your group is prepared for evacuation. It’s a scary process, and you feel like you’re just waiting for the elevator to give up and start plummeting.

Flash, always an asshole, shoves Liz out of the way, taking the trophy with him. You scoff in disbelief as he says, “Take my trophy!” ready to give him a piece of your mind, because by God, you are in a life or death situation and he still finds the time of day to be himself–

Speaking of death.

The elevator just gave up.

You are actively falling to your resting place right now.

You can’t hear anything over the sound of everybody else’s scream. You can’t even bring yourself to scream. Even as you’re about to die, you hold yourself back, just as you always have. You’ve held yourself back when it comes to school, not putting in as much effort as you could’ve, and you’ve held yourself back from telling Peter how you feel.

Now you’ll never get too.

Except the elevator jerks to a stop, almost sending you to the floor.

There’s a web attached to the top. You can barely see a red clad figure connected to it.

Nevermind, maybe you will get to.

And then the doors he’s held up against break off the hinges and you’re falling again, spider included like a package deal. The damned box catches itself on something, and the love of your life has a rough landing as he falls into the elevator with you. Oof.

Unfortunately his impact knocks the elevator off, and you’re falling. Again. If you make it out of this alive, you’re going to take a five year nap. Peter, with all of his amazing smarts, sends a web to the top of the shaft and plants himself upside down in the elevator, stopping the thing.

He clears his throat. “Hey, how you doing? Don’t worry. I got you.” Why do you love this loser.

You stand with your whole body tense as Peter makes the perilous journey of dragging your group back up, slowly and steadily. You’re gripping the handrail so tightly your knuckles turn white. Every jolt and creak of the elevator feels like a death sentence. But Peter – no, Spider-Man – is pulling you up, inch by inch.

Ned is out first, then Mr. Harrington, and Liz clutches your hand tightly as it’s just the two of you left.

But then the floor shoots out from under your feet. Liz, ever so pretty and ever so brave, jumps out, reaching a hand for Spider-Man.

She misses, and for a split second it’s just you and her falling. And then there’s a thwip sound and suddenly you’re not falling. You’re just hanging. Hanging by a thread. Or a web, you should say.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Spider-Man grips Liz’s hand so tight and so assuredly, you feel like everything’s okay. Liz’s hand feels warm. Really warm. Probably all the sweat from it.

The sweat from it.

Sweat that’s making your grip come loose.

Liz looks down, terrified. “She’s slipping.”

“What–” chokes Peter.

And your hand falls from her grip. This time, you let yourself scream. The mask Peter wears gets tinier and tinier as you fall. The sensation of free-fall is overwhelming. It’s like you’re completely weightless. You wonder if this is how Peter feels when he’s swinging through New York. You also wonder he ever feels the twisting of your stomach.

You feel something wrap around your waist tightly. You’re yanked back up with a sharp tug. The warmth of an arm is something you’re not all that foreign to. You’ve been hugged by your family and friends before. But not like this. It… kind of feels like home.

“I got you, [Name].” Is whispered in your ear like a prayer. “I won’t let you fall.”

Peter’s voice in your ear is like a lifeline, pulling you out of the chaos and fear. The sheer relief of his presence makes your heart pound in your chest. You cling to him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he swings you both out of the elevator shaft and onto the relative safety of the doorway.

You can hear the panicked voices of your friends, but all you can focus on is Peter, his breath coming in quick gasps, his suit slightly torn but his grip on you unyielding. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice trembling slightly.

You can only nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak. Tears blur your vision as you look at him, your best friend, your hero, the boy you've been in love with for so long.

"You saved me," you whisper, your voice breaking.

Peter tilts his head, voice  a little wobbly but genuine. "Couldn't let you fall," he says simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He gently lets go of you, leaving you to connect back to the real world again.

“So, uh, is everyone okay?” And just like that, things go back to the way they were.

Then the piece of metal he’s hanging upside-down from breaks off, and he’s falling down the shaft.

He’ll be fine.

The school news plays on a nearby team, retelling the events in which you almost died. Weird flex, but okay.

You’re on your way to your next class when arms suddenly wrap around you. You blink. Uh…

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” says a sweet voice. Ah, Peter. Who else but Peter? You smile and melt into his embrace. “Hi, Peter.”

He pulls back slightly, his eyes scanning your face as if checking for any hidden injuries. “You sure you’re alright? That was... intense.”

You shrug. “Yeah.” Then, you feel like being mean. Only a little bit. As a treat. “How would you know, though? You weren’t there.”

Peter’s eyes widen in confusion, a frown pulling at his lips. “What do you mean? I was there. I–” Then he stops himself. He was there, just not as Peter. You raise a brow.

Peter’s face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, and finally, a nervous chuckle. “Oh. Right.” He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just–”

You roll your eyes halfheartedly. “Had to do that thing, I know.” Maybe you’d be more upset if you didn’t know any better, but you do. Maybe you’re just tired from everything.

Peter’s apology falters as he looks at you with those big, apologetic eyes. He seems so earnest, so genuinely concerned. He gives you those puppy dog eyes, filled with guilt and embarrassment.

“Look,” you say, taking a deep breath to steady yourself, “it’s fine. Really. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

“Come on,” he whines halfheartedly. “Let me make it up to you.”

You look at Peter, a mix of exhaustion and affection in your eyes. Despite everything that happened, you can’t help but find his earnestness endearing. “Alright,” you say, managing a small smile. “Here’s my proposal.”

Peter's eyes light up with a hopeful glimmer, and he leans in closer, eager to hear your proposal. You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day lifting off your shoulders as you prepare to make your request.

“If neither of us get a homecoming date,” you begin, watching as Peter’s eyes flick back and forth between yours, “we’ll go together.”

Peter's eyes widen with surprise and a hint of nervousness. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, processing your proposal. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to steady his racing heart, and then he nods with a flushed face.

"Deal," he says, his voice steadying. "But let's hope neither of us ends up dateless, okay? I mean, it's homecoming. It should be fun."

His words kind of sting. He basically just said he hopes he can find a date that’s not you. You’re not sure if the fact that he’s willing to go with you if things don’t work out is a good thing or not.

“Yeah, let’s hope,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. Peter gives you a reassuring smile, though there’s an awkward tension between you now.

“Parker, my office.”

Peter looks at you exasperated. You shrug. Looks like Peter has detention.

The next couple of days, Peter looks down in the dumps.

He just seems… less like himself. Still as sweet as ever, holding doors open for you and carrying your bag. It’s hard to miss the way his usual enthusiasm is replaced by a constant air of melancholy.

You notice him moping in the hallways, his usual banter replaced by awkward silences. In class, he doesn’t seem any different, but you can tell the way he zones out when he’s not answering a question.

You try to give him space, but it’s hard to ignore the sense of worry you feel. You don’t want to pry, but you also don’t want him to sink into a deeper funk. Perhaps it’s in your nature to want to make him happy.

May greets you with a smile when she sees you on your doorstep. She’s always been kind to you. Maybe too kind. May always let little teasing comments about you too getting together slip. Peter always waved away her comments, chuckling awkwardly and saying ‘she’s just kidding’. Not very healthy for your heart.

Peter’s sitting on his bed, lost in thought. He jerks up as soon as you enter, staring at you in surprise. “[Name]!”

“Hi,” you greet, coming to sit next to him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I can leave if you want,” you hum, point a thumb out the door. It’s mostly a joke, you really hope he doesn’t actually want you to leave.

Peter looks a bit flustered by your presence. “No, no, don’t go. I just… didn’t know you were coming.”

You lean back on your hands. “Well, when you’ve been acting weird the last couple of days, I’m gonna get worried.”

Peter slumps in on himself, sighing. He contemplates for a second before meeting your eyes. “I lost the internship.”

The internship. The Stark internship. The one you’re pretty sure is a cover for him being Spider-Man. Who hasn’t been active in a couple of days. Oh.

You give him a sympathetic look. “Peter, I’m so sorry.”

Peter nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah, well, it’s my own fault. I was… I messed up. Tried to overcompensate, and it didn’t work out.”

You can see the frustration and disappointment in his eyes. He’s always been so driven, so dedicated. To see him like this, struggling with something that clearly matters to him, tugs at your heartstrings.

“It’s not your fault,” you say gently, trying to offer him some comfort. “Sometimes things just don’t go as planned, no matter how hard you try.”

Peter offers a small, bitter smile. “I guess. It’s just… I don’t know.” He looks in a faraway corner. “It was all I had.”

You purse your lips, wanting to scream ‘you have me!’, but you can’t bring yourself to.

Peter clears his throat. “At least I got that date with Liz.”

…Huh?

You think there’s a ringing in your ears. Your heart sinks as Peter mentions Liz. It feels like a punch to the gut. You try to mask your surprise, keeping your tone steady. "Wait, you got a date with Liz?"

“Yeah…” he chuckles shyly. “I asked her to homecoming. She said yes.”

You nod slowly, trying to process this new information. It's not exactly a blow to your heart, but it's definitely unsettling. Peter, the person you’ve had feelings for, is going out with someone else.

Though, you shouldn’t be surprised, really. You knew Peter liked Liz. If the way he stared at her wasn’t obvious enough, then the fact that he asked her to hoco is. And the fact that she said yes… God, you need to get over yourself. It’s not the end of the world. You just…

You really wanted to go with him.

“So… who’s your date?” he asks, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

You bring your legs up, wrapping your arms around them. “Nobody. I think… I’m not gonna go.”

Peter’s face falls at your words. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it, clearly at a loss for words. “Why not?”

You shrug. “I don’t have a date. Don’t wanna go alone.”

He furrows his brows. “I thought you did.”

Now it’s your turn to look confused. “No. Why did you think that?”

“You…” he trails off, looking lost. “I heard you. Talking about your crush”

“When did you hear that?”

He gulps, turning away guiltily. “In. Gym… class.”

You take a moment to think back. The only time you ever talked about your crush in gym was with MJ, that time Ned mentioned Peter knows Spider-Man. But that time…

“How did you hear that?” you ask, kind of knowing the answer. “You were, like, twenty feet away from me.”

He blushes. “I, uh… have really good hearing?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Whatever. At least you didn’t mention Peter’s name. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t like me back. So.”

Peter’s face softens as he processes your words, a mixture of guilt and concern evident in his expression. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t be. He likes someone else. Can’t be helped.”

Peter is silent for a moment, his eyes searching your face as if trying to gauge your feelings. There’s a tension in the air, a weight that seems to hang between you. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

You breathe, patting your thighs as you stand up. “Hope you have fun, though.”

Peter watches you go, feeling like he missed something.

True to your word, you don’t go to homecoming. You spend the night watching a movie and eating popcorn. You don’t cry, but you do sniffle.

You catch wind of the battle between this guy (Liz’s dad , holy shit, you hope she’s doing okay) and Spider-Man. The next time you see him at school, you run up to him.

“Peter!” you shout.

Peter snaps out of his thoughts, turning to you. A small smile creeps up on his face at the sight of you. “Hey, what’s up–”

His words stutter to a stop as your arms wrap around him. Peter freezes for a moment, clearly taken aback by your sudden hug. Slowly, his arms come up to return the embrace, holding you tightly. He feels warm and solid against you, a comforting presence despite everything that's happened.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

You melt into his embrace. “Just glad you’re okay.”

He pulls back to look at you, arms dropping to hang around your waist. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You can’t help yourself, cupping his cheek gently. Peter's eyes widen slightly at the tenderness of your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, as if trying to decipher the reason behind your concern. He ever so slightly leans into your hand, doe eyes looking into you.

“You’ve just… been through a lot lately,” you decide to say.

Peter takes a deep breath, his gaze dropping to your hands resting on his cheek. He seems to be grappling with his emotions, his usual composure wavering. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile gently, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Of course I am. You’re important to me, Peter.”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes, unable to form words. He gulps, shifting on his feet. The tension in the air is thicker than it’s ever been, though you can’t tell why.

Peter thinks he just had an epiphany.

He takes a deep breath, hands on your waist tightening. “Hey, um. Can I… can we talk later? After school?”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

Peter nods as well. “Cool, cool.” His hands fall from your waist when his phone buzzes, and you finally feel like you can breathe. “I gotta take this,” he says, already walking away from you.

Peter texts you before the last bell rings, saying that something came up and if you can push your talk a few hours ahead. Your fingers shake as you type out your reply agreeing. You do your homework in silence, foot tapping up and down nervously. The sun is on the cusp of setting when there’s a knock on your door.

“Hey,” Peter greets you when you open it. He looks out of breath, like he just ran here.

“Hey,” you respond, trying to keep your voice steady.

Peter shifts nervously on his feet, glancing around before focusing on you. “You’re parents home?”

You raise a brow. “No..?”

“Good.” He moves past you, making his way to your living room. You close the door and follow him, heart pounding in your chest. Peter paces for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning to face you.

“I,” he starts, voice unsteady, “have been doing a lot of thinking.”

You remain silent, waiting for him to continue. Peter runs a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been focused on the wrong things. I know I haven’t really… been there. So, I’m sorry for that.” He wrings his hands together. You watch Peter with a mixture of anticipation and concern, your heart racing as he continues to struggle with his words.

“And, um, I guess, what I’m trying to say is…” He looks directly into your eyes, a mixture of vulnerability and resolve in his expression. He takes a deep breath.

“I–”

“–Know,” you blurt.

Peter’s mouth flops open like a fish out of water. “Uh. What?”

You purse your lips. Cat’s out of the bag. “I know you’re Spider-Man.”

Peter stares incredulously at you. “I… saw. When you went outside to change at Liz’s party. You just left, and I followed you, and for some reason you were changing in front of a big ass window without your mask on? So, literally anyone could’ve saw you, so that might be more your fault than mine–”

“[Name].” Peter's voice cuts through your rambling, and he takes a step closer, hands coming to grasp yours. “You… know?”

You gulp. “Well, yeah? That’s what I just said.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, shoulders hunching. He brings your hands up to his mouth, lightly kissing them. It sends your heart cracking through your ribs. “[Name], that’s not what I was gonna say.”

You look up at Peter, confusion and anticipation mingling in your eyes. He seems almost relieved, a soft smile gracing his lips as he holds your hands close. The moment feels suspended, and you can hear the quiet hum of the evening outside, adding to the atmosphere of calm and intensity.

“I like you. I really like you.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat, the words sinking in as if time has momentarily stopped. Peter’s eyes are locked on yours, filled with sincerity and a vulnerability that’s rare to see from him. The warmth of his hands around yours feels electrifying, grounding you in the moment.

“...I thought you liked Liz,” you whisper.

“I thought I did too,” he mutters, close. “But I was being stupid. I thought you liked someone else, so I stayed away.” He shakes his head. “But I can’t anymore.”

“How do you know it’s you I like?” you croak.

“Apart from you basically just admitting it?” He smiles cheekily. “MJ told me.”

You click your tongue. “Meddler.”

“She said she got tired of our bullshit.”

You giggle quietly, head dropping. Peter doesn’t take his eyes off of you, biting his lip in anticipation. You squeeze his hands gently, still processing the whirlwind of emotions. “So, what now?”

Peter’s expression softens, and he takes another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “Can I… can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart flutters at his words. “Yes,” you say, almost breathless.

Peter leans in slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as his lips meet yours in a gentle, tender kiss. It’s a kiss filled with all the unspoken emotions, a release of the tension and a celebration of what’s finally come to light. The world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, shared moment.

As Peter's lips linger on yours, the kiss deepens, becoming more passionate yet still tender. You feel the warmth of his body, the soft pressure of his lips, and the gentle caress of his hands around yours. The kiss seems to hold everything that had been unsaid, all the confusion, the longing, and the relief of finally being on the same page

When you finally pull back, both of you are smiling, the weight of recent days seeming lighter. Peter’s eyes are full of warmth and affection, and he holds you close, his forehead resting against yours.

“Will you, um… be my–”

“–Guy in the chair? Sure, Pete. It’d be my pleasure.”

Peter hides his grin in your neck. “Sorry. Ned beat you to it.”

“Barely seconds into this relationship and you’ve already betrayed me,” you scoff playfully.

“So we’re dating now?” His voice sounds hopeful.

“Duh.” You’ve never been more sure. “Pete, I’ve been down bad for you ever since you gave me that pencil.”

He pulls back, looking at you with heartbreaking eyes. He leans in to kiss you on the forehead, then pulls back slightly, his expression soft and sincere. "I’m really sorry about homecoming. I’ll take you to prom and we’ll have the best night of our lives.”

You’re pretty sure the best night of your life will be when you and Peter get married, but maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself. “I heard you dumped her there as soon as you got there, anyway. If you ever do that to me I’ll make sure you can never be Spider-Man again.”

He nods his head seriously. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he grins, giddy with the outcome of the situation. “I’ll still make it up to you.”

“I can think of a few ways.”

He blushes, scandalized. “[Name]!”

“Down bad for a long time, Pete,” you remind him. “Like I said, my parents aren’t here…”

He scoffs, shoving you away slightly before pulling you back to him, not willing to let you go after he finally has you. The two of you stand there, holding each other, savoring the quiet and the closeness. The weight of the past few days lifts, replaced by a renewed sense of connection and possibility. It feels like the beginning of something new and wonderful, a chance to explore this newfound closeness and see where it takes you both.

“Can we just. Go out to dinner or something?” he asks, thumb rubbing at your waist. “We could use some celebration, I think."

You smile, feeling a surge of warmth at his thoughtfulness. "That sounds perfect."

As you both head out the door, hand in hand, the evening feels full of promise. With the uncertainties of the past few days behind you, you're ready to embrace whatever comes next—together.

notes: i wanted reader to drop the "i know ur spiderman" bomb and somehow find a way out of the conversation and now peter has to try to confess to them but he just cant get a hold of them for whatever reason. but that would be like a whole nother 3k or more words and like... this fic already too long LOL

thanks for reading !!

[swift-creates]

category: Gen

fandom: Batfamily

characters and relationships: Dick Grayson and Jason Todd - platonic, some batfamily

warnings: blood and injury, fight scene, mention of gun and knives, minor swearing, a bit of unhealthy thought processes but mostly bc he’s dazed and out of it, present tense

Summary:

@ailesswhumptober Day 31: Panic attack, facing a phobia, “You need to get out of here!”

Jason is injured during a battle, but Dick can’t protect him forever.

notes: fucked around and wrote a fic based on this drawing by @ashrayus as one does (I didn’t really know how to end it so just. have this lol) (also sorry if it’s OOC)

—

Dick has always been scared for Jason. That’s his baby brother, his Little Wing, the shadow at his back. Save for the broken time where he’d abruptly become an only child, Jason has always been there, and Dick has come to expect he always will be. Jason is older now — he’s the Red Hood, Gotham’s most feared crime lord, and is capable of single-handedly taking down some of the worst rogues in the gallery — but he will always be Dick’s little brother. Dick rarely has reason to be scared for Jason these days. 

Except for the times when he watches Jason stumble and finally fall to seemingly endless hordes of enemies, bleeding from a bullet to the gut. 

“JASON!” All strategy and codenames get thrown out the window, and he fights his way to his little brother, throwing a smoke bomb for cover and pulling him to safety. “Jay, look at me.”

“Ngh… Don’t need you to save me, Big Bird.” Jason tries to glare at him, but the effect is somewhat dampened by the way he doubles over in pain and leans into Dick’s arms. “Y-You need to get out of here.”

“Yes you do, and I’m not leaving you behind, dipshit.” He half-supports, half-carries Jason out of the alley, ignoring the strangled sound of pain he makes (or attempting to, anyway). He leaves the fight behind, and keeps going until the distance is between them is enough for him to feel comfortable setting Jason down against a wall. 

Jason’s black-and-white curls stand in stark contrast to the grimy grey-red as he grimaces, head tipped back against the brick. Dick smooths them back from his face more by habit than anything else. “Shhh. You’ll be okay, Little Wing.”

He knows it’s bad because Jason doesn’t object to the nickname. 

“Jay?” His brother’s eyes are fluttering closed, and he’s slumped against the wall, the hand held over his wound starting to loosen. Dick clamps one of his own in place of it, swearing. “Jay, if you die again without paying back the ten bucks you owe me I’ll resurrect you just to kill you myself.”

“Mmh…” is the only reply, and Dick can feel him slipping away — not again not again not again God please — despite every attempt to rouse him. Making this situation even worse is the slowly increasing volume of the mob catching up to them. He grabs a roll of gauze from his belt and quickly wraps Jason’s torso with it, then stands with both escrima sticks in his hands. 

There’s blood leaking from a cut on his cheek, and he’s pretty sure his nose is broken, but he’ll die before he lets them hurt Jason again. 

They come on in a rush, almost falling over each other in their attempt to reach two weakened vigilantes. He sweeps one aside, slams another into a wall, hits the first one with a stick and lets him fall to the ground, unconscious. The movements become instinct, strategy turning to survival, as they flood the alley, reaching to him, past him, their guns and their knives all hungry for blood. He barely dodges one bullet, feels another graze his thigh when he turns to swipe at a girl with white-blonde hair and a switchblade in her hand. He can’t go on like this forever. He has to. 

He’s reeling from a hit to the side of his head, about to lose his balance, when white smoke rises around them. Dick almost collapses to his knees in relief, but he makes himself stumble back to stand over Jason as familiar figures drop from the shadows and create a circle of safety in the chaos. 

“He’s here,” he whispers to Jason. “You’re safe now.” He curls up next to his brother, exhausted and bleeding, and pulls him close. 

Of course, that’s when a man with a gun decides to level it straight at Dick’s forehead. 

He grips Jason tight and glares at the guy, one stick left in his hand, trying to remember where he’d dropped the other one sometime during the fight. When, not if, the guy shoots, he’ll twist to shield Jason with his body, just in case his aim is wildly off. One bullet each seems to be fair. 

His finger tightens on the trigger, and Dick tenses, ready to move. 

Then a black shape slams into the man, sending the bullet careening into the darkness and the guy careening into the ground. Few have seen the Batman’s fury unleashed, and even fewer experienced it, but this unlucky sap will most likely remember this for the rest of his miserable life. He’s tossed to the side like a rag, and B makes a beeline for his boys. 

“Dick. Jason.” His hands search for injuries even as his eyes flick anxiously up and down them, the only outward sign of his worry. 

Dick melts gratefully into the embrace. “We’re okay. Barely.” All he wants to do is sink to the ground and be cuddled and carried back to the Batcave, but he can’t rest yet. “Jason — he got hurt. Bullet wound. I bandaged it, but…” 

“We’ll get him home.” Bruce kneels by Jason’s side, gently calling his name, but there’s no response. So what does Bruce do? Obviously he goes and scoops up all two hundred pounds of Jason into his arms and carries him away to the Batmobile like he weighs no more than Damian. Cass appears out of nowhere to support Dick, and he leans against his sister with a grateful smile. 

[skele-bunny]

Stress Relief. (No CW) Dewdrop/Aether/Mountain.

CW - None

Tags: Bondage, Subspace, Groping, Casual Nudity, Cock Warming, Trans Dewdrop

Characters: Dewdrop, Aether, Mountain

(Ghostober day #12 Bondage by @kroas-adtam ! Divider by @/wrathofrats , no beta, we die like men. My ghostober will be short fics!)

"Aether," Purple eyes met wet heterochromic ones, Dew's lip trembling as he held their rope bag. "I-I need it."

That had been an hour ago. Currently, the fire ghoul laid up against Aether's side, breathing soft and eyes closed. His entire form constricted with nylon rope, torso in a harness connected to a mermaid tail, ankles and wrists as the last piece. The common room was still full of activity, the pack's laughter and vocals giving a sense of familiarity, Aether chiming in every now and then as his hand went through Dew's hair.

"How's he doing?" Mountain mumbled, leaning over the couch with a soft smile as he admired the two.

Aether chuckled, moving some of Dew's hair to show his mouth laxed with Aether inside, breathing soft and completely out of it. "I'd say he's doing good. Keeps going in and out but I think he's just in deep, is all."

"Makes sense," The earth ghoul moved around the couch, gently readjusting Dewdrop so he was across both of their laps. "Is it alright to touch?"

With a nod, Mountain began to gently rub his thumb into Dew's thighs, admiring the rope work Aether had done. With each touch, Dew began to stir before opening his eyes, fogged yet misty at the same time and locking onto Aether. Aether's index gently rubbed over Dew's cheek, smiling down at him.

"Hi bunny, are you okay?" Dew took a moment to process before his eyes went down, trying to see what was touching him. "It's just Mountain, love."

A hum vibrated up Aether's cock which sent a small shiver up his spine, continuing his caresses gently. Mountain's tail thumped against the couch, hands continuing to trail upwards and finding the opening of the mermaid tail. His fingers trailed inwards, petting softly at Dew's folds. Another vibration went up, Aether leaning his head back as he became hard again, Dew's tongue responding by moving against Aether but never releasing up or wiggling against Mountain.

"Oh he really is in there, isn't he?" Mountain laughed a bit, removing his hand to continue his soft massages towards his backside. "Sweet thing."

"Shit, I've been to one of those higher-up meetings with Papa that only lasted thirty minutes and I was already sick of it. But three hours? AND having to speak? I'm honestly surprised he didn't burn down the chambers." Aether and Mountain laughed, a silent agreement between them.

Mountain spoke softly. "Rosemary, I'm going to lift you real quick. Will that be okay?"

They waited patiently before Dew's tail lifted, signaling permission. Aether sighed as Dew was removed from his cock, pre stringing to his lips and covered in drool. It was a slow process getting him upright, completely relying on them both for balance as he couldn't regulate himself just yet. His back was leaned against Mountain's chest, hands moving around to touch Dew's front. Gentle and bare lingers went down and up skin, drawing soft breaths and twitches.

"Feel good, don't you? Such an empty little brain, darling." The earth spoke, thumb circling his nipple.

Dewdrop only whined, tilting his chin back more and squirming on his lap. Aether watched with a content smile, waving to Rain who passed by into the kitchen, catching a second look for a moment before going back to what he planned. Mountain laid Dew on his side, looking at his face and smiling—Dew returning it back with a soft giggle.

"Do you wanna go back to Aether or want to lay here for a bit? Up for Aether, down for stay." His tail moved downwards, wrapping around his furry calf. "Stay it is."

Mountain kissed his forehead, readjusting once more so Aether could have his legs, Dew somewhat focused on Mountain as he began to be touched again. Slowly, Dew opened his mouth, presenting his tongue. With a quick tug, Mountain held his semi-chubbed cock, tapping his tip on Dewdrop's bottom lip. He was slowly fed Mountain's length before being nuzzled to the base, his bottom neck gill being the only one left to open to assist him. Drool quickly formed and went onto Mountain's fur who didn't truly mind, going back to petting the smaller ghoul.

[stackslip]

OK OK CHAINSAW MAN THOUGHTS FOR THIS CHAPTER UHHH i haven't done this in a while.

love, love the continuation of the previous chapter's yoru pointing up into these regular americans pointing up (possibly giving the gun devil more strength inadvertently?). this series of chapters is gonna be such a treat to read once it's put into a volume

lots of talk about how "freedom" and "gun" sound almost the same in japanese and this is clearly a dark pun, but the thing i also really love here is.... the arm symbolizing the "light"/flame of america/american styled "freedom" falling and replaced by a gun. the bit of the gun devil clearly having emerged FROM the statue, crawling out of it and revealing its ghastly interior, the sham it's always been. fujimoto's works starting with fire punch have always been obsessed with the idea of the image/representation and the many truths it disguises, how ugly realities are turned into stories, or propaganda, or even into merchandise to be bought, sold, covered up, used as justification for idleness or atrocities. belief is what makes devils powerful. the statue of liberty symbolizes deep held beliefs that America is all about pursuing dreams and protecting freedom, no matter what america's actual past and present actions reflect upon it. this is just the nature of that symbol and what it represents laid bare for all to see!

one of part 2's greatest strengths and worst weaknesses has been asa's passivity--which fits thematically, and makes her character that much more realistic and interesting when fujimoto bothers to draw her and put her emotions center stage (and makes it that much more depressing when she barely has a role outside of gawking at new information). but see this--this! this is what i want! this is what makes asa's passivity so devastating as a character! the exchange here is SO perfect, from yoru having committed the crime to asa suddenly being in her place, witness to the atrocity she's let herself be an accomplice to--and by extension, having committed it herself! we've seen that most of her power is fueled by guilt and regret--something that comes to her so, so naturally. and now she's confronted with it. with the results of her actions, of her dreams and attempts to save chainsaw man (to have a friend/someone who could love and understand her). the results of her passivity vis-à-vis yoru. she's committed this atrocity, essentially. she can't hide behind yoru for it. this is her body too.

just an unbelievable panel. the hole looks like it's *bleeding*, like a bullet wound on a corpse. sick sick sick!

see what i mean re asa's passivity being so compelling when used right. how could i forget? how could i get so comfortable? gd. also yoru's laugh is so good she looks so awkward. and most importantly she looks like nayuta did when making fun of asa after making her bark like a dog. sisters!

sick ass design. absolutely TWISTED parallel to when denji last faced the gun devil, with humans helping denji and begging him to save them. TWISTED parallel to makima's "save me, chainsaw man" and asa's own "i'll save you, chainsaw man!". fujimoto king of making narrative parallels so evil you'll feel sick ever rereading the first panels.

yeah uh i'm just gonna drop the parallel here and fucking run and die. isn't it romantic? you understand, don't you chainsaw man? you of all people would get the love involved in this?

the juxtaposition of the ruined city by asa/yoru and the children being led to the slaughter by the japanese government to resurrect denji is just. jesus christ man

[aventurineswife]

Stages of Shadows: Chapter 2 - Unravelled Connections

(Art credit to @gmnskdy on X)

The sterile white walls of the room echoed with muted sounds, the air thick with tension as contestants adjusted to their strange new reality. Clad in all-white attire reminiscent of psychiatric patients, each of them sported shock collars—reminders of the dire stakes they faced. It was a harsh new world where freedom felt like a distant memory, and the only semblance of solace came from the bonds they formed amidst the chaos.

Robin paced the small space, her heart racing. She cast a glance at [Name], who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes focused on the faint light filtering through a barred window. “You okay?” she asked, trying to bridge the distance between them with her gentle tone.

[Name] turned, their expression softening as they met her gaze. “I’m fine. Just trying to wrap my head around all this.”

“Yeah, me too.” Robin admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Despite the uncertainty of their situation, there was a warmth in their shared silence, a connection that felt increasingly vital as the world around them twisted into something darker.

As they spoke, Robin couldn’t shake the feeling that she was drawing closer to [Name] in a way that transcended mere friendship. The shared glances, the small smiles—they meant something, didn’t they?

But there was something else lingering beneath the surface, an unspoken tension that both excited and terrified her. As the thought flitted through her mind, she noticed [Name] watching her, a hint of curiosity in their eyes.

“Do you think we’ll make it through?” [Name] asked, voice low.

Robin smiled, trying to infuse confidence into her words. “We have to. We’ll face whatever comes together.”

From the corner, Aventurine watched the exchange with a furrowed brow. The sandy-haired young man leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, feeling the sting of jealousy surge within him. There was something about the way [Name] and Robin interacted—a comfort, a chemistry—that made Aventurine’s heart twist.

Why did they seem so connected? It wasn’t fair. He had spent more time with [Name] than Robin ever had, hadn’t he? Yet here they were, sharing quiet moments that seemed to exclude him. As he observed them, Aventurine's mind raced, grappling with his feelings.

“Why am I feeling this way?” he muttered to himself, anger mingling with confusion. He knew he liked [Name], had felt drawn to their kindness and resilience since they had first met. But watching them with Robin made him question everything. Was he simply a secondary character in their story?

Robin continued to talk, her words flowing freely. “I know we’re all in this together, but there’s something about this whole ‘perform or die’ situation that doesn’t sit right with me. It feels like they’re stripping away everything we are.”

[Name] nodded, their brow furrowed. “It’s designed to break us, isn’t it? But we have to stay strong. You know, when I found out we’d be paired for the first round, I was… anxious.”

“Why?” Robin asked, her heart racing as she leaned closer.

“Because I don’t want to lose you.” [Name] admitted, vulnerability seeping into their voice.

Her breath hitched at the admission, warmth spreading through her. “You won’t. We’ll figure out something. I believe in us.”

As they shared a moment of silent understanding, Aventurine’s stomach twisted further, and he pushed himself off the wall. He had to break the tension.

“Hey, you two!” Aventurine called, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s so riveting over there? Planning your victory speeches?”

Robin shot him a look, and [Name] turned, a slight frown on their face. “Just discussing strategies, Aventurine.”

“Strategies?” Aventurine echoed, trying to inject a sense of levity into the situation. “Don’t forget—if we don’t perform well, we won’t have the chance to strategize again.”

The tension in the room shifted. Aventurine felt a wave of irritation as Robin’s eyes flickered back to [Name], a soft understanding passing between them. He clenched his jaw.

Just then, the atmosphere thickened, and the door creaked open. Sunday entered, his presence instantly commanding attention. He surveyed the room, his golden eyes piercing through the mundane white of their clothing and the heavy air.

“Robin,” he called, his voice firm yet gentle. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Aventurine’s heart raced, a knot forming in his stomach. The protective edge in Sunday’s voice sent alarm bells ringing. He exchanged a quick glance with [Name], who looked just as unsettled.

“Sure, Brother.” Robin replied, rising from her spot. She cast a glance back at [Name], concern flickering in her eyes.

As she stepped closer to Sunday, Aventurine felt the urge to interject. “Hey, is this about the competition? We should all—”

“It’s fine, Aventurine.” Sunday interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “This is personal.”

Aventurine watched as Robin followed Sunday outside the room, the door closing with a soft click behind them. He turned to [Name], frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “What the hell was that about?”

[Name] shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. But he seems to be on high alert.”

Aventurine's mind raced, thoughts tangled in jealousy and protectiveness. “This isn’t just about the competition. Sunday sees you getting close to Robin, and he’s not liking that.”

“What do you mean?” [Name] replied, confusion etched on their face.

“He’s protective of her, and he thinks you pose a threat…” Aventurine’s voice trailed off, the unspoken implications hanging heavily in the air.

In the corridor outside, Sunday led Robin to a quiet secluded area, his expression serious. “You need to be careful around [Name]. I don’t trust them.”

“Why?” Robin asked, her brows knitting together. “They’ve been nothing but kind.”

“Kindness can be a mask,” Sunday replied, his voice low. “You don’t know their past or their true intentions. You have to stay vigilant.”

As Robin’s heart raced, uncertainty began to cloud her judgment. Would her trust in [Name] be shaken by Sunday’s warnings? And what did this mean for the competition ahead?

Back inside the room, Aventurine exchanged worried glances with [Name], the tension thickening as they awaited Robin’s return. Unbeknownst to them, the fragile bonds they were forming would soon be tested in ways none of them could foresee.

In this ruthless game, alliances would shift, hearts would break, and the true cost of their choices would be laid bare.

With R O U N D 1 looming, the stakes were higher than ever, and survival was no longer a guarantee.

[Navigation]

[strwbmei]

summary: fucking march's fever out of her

contains: soft sex, friends to lovers at the end, fingering (character receiving), arguably dubcon since march is sick, sort of porn with plot?, virgin march, not proofread, maybe ooc

pairing(s): march 7th x gn!reader

a/n: i need to spoil her and take care of her and eat her out. thank you

"Cute girls can't get sick!"

Or so, were March's last words before diving straight onto the freezing snow of Belobog and proceeding to make snow angels. It had been a long time since the Express had the time to visit Jarilo VI, and while you understood her excitement, her decisions, as expected, did not end well for either of you.

A few days later, March is still sick and you're taking care of her while the other Nameless enjoy their visit to Belobog. "[Name]..." She called out to you with a whiny voice, her lips put into a pout. "Don't you think it's fine for me to go down to Belobog now? Look, I'm basically fully healed!" She sat up from her bed, doing air punches as if that would prove that her fever was gone.

"Pfft..." You snorted. "What are you even doing? And no, I'm not letting you go anywhere until your temperature is back to normal." You say sternly, sitting down next to her. "I'm sorry, March. I know you were really looking forward to visiting Belobog again, but your health comes first."

She slumps in defeat as she lays back down on her side, her back turned to you. "Fine... I enjoy spending time with you like this more, anyway." She mumbled, but due to how quiet her voice was, you only heard the first part. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing." March sighs, turning to face you with her rabbit stuffy clutched in her hands. "Hey, uh... I'm sorry you have to stay behind with me. I really wanted to show you my favorite spots in Belobog."

You tilt your head, resting the back of your hand on her forehead to feel her temperature. "You sure you're alright? You're being way too nice today." You tease. She pouts, playfully swatting your hand away. "Hey! And here I was trying to be considerate..."

You chuckle at her reaction. "Y'know, you're surprisingly pretty cute when you're sick."

"Well, for your information, I'm perfectly cute even when I'm not sick!" She retorts.

"Yeah, yeah."

In all seriousness, taking care of her wasn't an inconvenience to you in the slightest. She was surprisingly cooperative, and you'd be lying if you said that you didn't enjoy how much more clingy and affectionate she is when she's sick. After all, you've had feelings for her for quite a while now... Her bubbly personality and her admittedly cute looks just seemed to draw you in more and more each day.

March speaks up after a few seconds of silence. "Can I ask you for a favor, [Name]?"

"What is it?" You tilt your head in curiosity.

"Can you... cuddle with me?"

"Hm." You raised an eyebrow. Honestly, you expected something more serious. Cuddling was almost routine to the two of you whenever you hung out, especially during sleepovers when March would cling to you in her sleep like you were a pillow. You never minded. In fact, you've grown to like it.

Not once did she ask first, though. "Why?" You ask with a grin, ready to play it off as a joke. You're not sure what you were expecting, since it was a stupid question in the first place. Cuddling wasn't out of the norm for you two, and you wouldn't be surprised if she was the type to find comfort in snuggling with somebody whenever she was sick.

"Because I miss your touch..." She says in a voice barely above a whisper, yet one that you could hear in her now silent room where it felt like nothing else mattered other than the two of you. "Oh." You gulp, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks as soon as she says those words.

Meanwhile, March wants to dig herself into a hole and die. She wasn't supposed to say that out loud, and you were much less supposed to blush! She's surprisingly oblivious for someone so observant when it comes to you, so she never even considered the possibility that you might return her feelings...

However, you best believe she'll be putting out all of the stops if there is a chance that you do, in fact, like her back.

"You don't want to? Fine..." She pouts, and your train of thought is broken once she looks up at you with those eyes that you've always loved, oh so needily... "No- no, I mean, yeah, I'd... love to cuddle with you." You splurt out, stumbling all over your words.

Which is how you ended up in this situation: her body pressed up against yours in a way that isn't appropriate for friends. She might be sick, sure, but she's almost fully healed and there's no way she'd be doing this unintentionally... right?

After a few seconds of contemplation, you decide to speak up. "We shouldn't be doing this, March." You say, your voice soft and barely loud enough for her to hear. "Mm..." She pays no heed to your words, instead opting to wrap her arms around you even tighter if that were even possible.

You gulp. She understands what you mean, right? Maybe you're just reading too much into her actions? Your mouth moves faster than your brain can, and you speak without realizing it. "You're driving me insane."

"...If I'm such a bad influence, maybe you should put me in my place."

She whispers with an almost seductive tone that you've never heard her use before, and you have to take a second to process if you really heard her say that. She knows what she's doing. Has she always been this bold, or is this how she usually gets with everyone every time she's sick? God, you hope that it's just with you.

You roll over to position yourself on top of her, your arms now on either side of her head as the mattress dips under the two of you. "Are you sure that you want this?" She giggles at your question, wrapping her arms around the back of your neck and pulling you into a soft, yet hungry kiss as if she'd been ready for this her whole life.

"Be gentle, okay?" She smiles once she finally pulls away, the room devoid of any other sound other than your heavy breathing and a silence that spoke volumes of the unresolved feelings you had for each other. "Just let me take care of you." You mutter as you leave a trail of soft kisses along her jaw and collarbones, your hand reaching out for the waistband of her pink pajamas. "May I?"

She nods in response, turning her head to the side in an attempt to hide her reddened cheeks. "Pfft... You really are adorable." You mumble to yourself as you pull her pants along with her panties down to her knees. Your fingers find themselves teasing her entrance, rubbing slow circles over her clit and occasionally collecting her slick.

"Mmpfh... I'm fine, [Name]. You can put it in now." As if sensing your worries that you were trying hard not to show, she spoke up. Although you've imagined this scenario multiple times before, you can't help but feel nervous. You want to make sure that her first time is as soft and as pleasurable as it can be.

"Tell me if it hurts, okay? Just relax." You say softly, carefully curling your index finger into her cunt and giving her a few seconds to adjust before pumping in and out at a slow pace. The small moans and whimpers she lets out are even better than you'd imagined. "A-ah... That feels good..."

As if on instinct, her hand reaches out for your free one; an act much too intimate for friends, but you indulge her nonetheless. Besides, the two of you have long since done things that most people would deem past the border of a platonic relationship. When did the line between friends and lovers start to blur?

"I've got you, pretty girl. I'm not going anywhere." You coo at her, the gentleness of your voice much in contrast to the quickening pace of your fingers.

Her eyes are fluttered shut. Her hair is sticking to her forehead. Her mouth is ever so slightly parted in an "o" shape. Truly, she is beautiful in every sense of the word. Beautiful like this; beautiful always. "Do you think you can take another finger, March?"

She nods almost too eagerly at your question. You slow down, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as you slowly insert a second finger and stretch her out even more. "That's it. You're doing so good, taking me so well..."

After a while, she starts grinding on your fingers, and you take that as a sign to go faster and give her more. The second you start rubbing and pressing down on her clit, she can feel herself nearing her orgasm. She looks up at you with doe eyes and squeezes your hand, and that's all it takes for the feelings you've been repressing all this time to break loose.

"I love you."

Before you can process what you said amid the sea of emotions you're feeling and apologize, she pulls you in for a kiss. Unlike before, this kiss is more tender and warm than lustful, as if she was trying to say that she loved you too. As if she had been waiting for you to say those words her whole life.

You swallow her moans and whimpers as she comes undone around your fingers, finally pulling away after what feels like an eternity. You wish that kiss would last an eternity. Hell, if it were up to you, that moment wouldn't end even after the seas had dried and there were no stars left in the vast skies that she loved so much.

Heavily breathing, you collapse beside her. "Uhm," You break the silence, albeit a little hesitantly. "I'm going to get you some water, and help wash you up if that's fine?" You're far too ashamed to look her in the eye after what you said.

She embraces you in her arms, and it's the safest you've felt your whole life. "Just a little bit more..." She nuzzles her head into your neck, inhaling your scent and holding you just a bit closer.

"I love you too, you big dummy."

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