#but because those ending lines are repeated twice i think he's implying that there is a cycle to it

[dazzelmethat]

*reaches out my hand and grabs you* I have the power to subject non vocaloid people to pinop..

TW: for flashing lights

Mushroom mother analysis in my tags. ..

[withacapitalp]

i’m gonna be real here, and i mean this in the kindest way - i loved your wayne & steve series so much when i first read it, and i just stumbled on it again and saw it was still updating and thought ‘now why didn’t i subscribe???’ and then went back to reread and catch up, and then i got to the end of the fifth fic and remembered why - it seemed like you were turning it into one of those fics where billy is a rapist, who abused & assaulted steve, & you didn’t tag that you would be using him as a villain, and in your end notes you said that arc would feature heavily in your next fic, but then i go to that fic and i don’t see any relevant tags or warnings and i didn’t want to read and get even more attached and then be caught off guard, again, by such a harsh depiction of one of the characters without any warning.

idk. i get that a lot of people don’t like billy, and that’s fair and it’s up to everybody which characters they do and don’t jive with. it’s not even like i haven’t read and enjoyed fics where billy is set firmly as a villain or presented in a really 2 dimensional way, because i have. but it’s different when you go into a fic, wanting to read about a certain dynamic and certain characters, and are blind-sided with hate towards another character that you like - especially when the author has decided to depict that character sexually assaulting somebody and implies that the character is a repeat sexual predator. that’s really heavy to be sort of thrown into on a fic where you’re not expecting to see that character at all, you know?

like i said, i really enjoy most of your fics and i think you’re a great writer. i guess i’m just disappointed that i’ve now TWICE had the experience of happily reading your fic and then being blindsided by such a dark depiction of a character who wasn’t even tagged. it’s really disconcerting and upsetting. ao3 has a great tagging system and i wish you’d chosen to use it a bit more effectively, i guess.

looking at your sixth fic in that series, it’s not tagged for domestic violence, sexual assault, anything like that, and it also has no tags for billy, a past steve/billy relationship, or even just a general ‘this fic is not billy friendly’ tag. looking at it i’d never think you’d have any of that sort of content in it, especially because you DID tag for /other/ potentially triggering content, but then in the end notes of the fifth fic you said that the sixth fic would deal very much so with that introduced plot line. it just sucks because i’d probably read it if i didn’t feel so much like i was clicking on a youtube jump scare video.

Long ask and long reply so I'm going to put my thoughts under a read more but TL:DR This is the kind of constructive criticism that is incredibly valid, and I appreciate your courage and energy that you put into writing all this. Also I'm going to get slightly personal here so if you don't want to read that just continue on

This is like, strangely, the fourth or fifth ask I've gotten about A New Perspective today, which has forced me to look at it again and admit to myself why I stepped away from it.

I use my fics to work through a lot of my own personal things. This fic series and the relationship that Billy and Steve have in it is based entirely on a real life relationship I had with an ex. They have an incredibly complicated sexual relationship that is inherently unhealthy for both of them. Not just Steve. Not just Billy. Steve does not think of himself as a victim, he sees himself as the problem. In reality it's both of them. I think Billy Hargrove is a really interesting character, I don't talk about him a lot here because he's really divisive in the fandom, and I don't need to get involved in Billy drama tbh.

For this fic he isn't the villain to Steve, even if he might seem like a monster, and I hope that gets across when I eventually come back to this series. I took a break from it for a lot of reasons, but part of it is needing to reevaluate what I'm getting out of writing it, and if it's healthy for me. I don't know if this is an exceptionally harsh depiction of Billy, it's not necessarily positive, but it does have a lot of different layers. Finding a nuanced way to portray that relationship (and a way to work through my own thoughts and feelings about mine) isn't easy, but I don't really think I write it in a two-dimensional way. I'm not sure if you were saying I did, but if you were, I'll just have to respectfully disagree and leave it at that.

As for tags, well this one I just have to own up and say I'm sorry. I didn't really know how to tag it, because I still didn't know what to consider for them. I don't really know how to consider my own relationship, which is what this is based on. So tagging it with things like sexual abuse or with things like SA...I don't know I just haven't worked through if it would even be considered that?

Regardless of my personal journey with my writing though, there's outside readers who have their own journeys. It's something that you explained in a really clear way, so I appreciate that you took the time to make me see where I was leaving a gap. I don't want people to think it was intentional? I don't think of my fics as a 'YouTube jumpscares' but more as a complicated web of a lot of things I work through in my own mind.

I put the note on my fifth fic to let people know that there would be a lot of complicated stuff going on, and so they could choose to opt out or not, but I understand that wasn't enough. If anyone got triggered or upset by what I wrote, then I do sincerely apologize for that. We talk a lot about curating your own online experience, but to do that you also have to be properly prepared for the experiences you go into. Where I didn't help contribute to that is on me.

As for people who might be worried about the series mentioning this a lot after this? It won't. I work through things in my own way, and I knew I wanted to make this part of Steve's journey, but it's not his entire journey. After this there's just a lot of fluffy parts like the first few one shots again. This was just something I needed for myself.

It's funny, I owe that series a lot, but I honestly just kind of hate it right now.

I don't really know if 'being blinded by hate' is really fair to say about the relationship I'm trying to portray, because I don't hate Billy and neither does Steve. There's love there, and a wish for something better that they'll never get to have, and I hope that you can stick with it to see how it all plays out. I like to think I'm writing for more than just bashing on a character. As for just dropping it in, well I've known what I want to do this entire time, but I can understand where people would come from thinking it was just dropped in.

I'm sorry if you're disappointed, but don't forget, writers are just humans too. We do things and we make mistakes, and this was just one of mine. I think I have everything properly tagged on the series now? If you feel differently though, you're welcome to DM me. I don't bite. I struggle with ao3 tagging in general, so I'm always grateful when anyone suggests tags I should be adding. Someone told me today I should add a genderfluid Steve tag to my latest fic, and I didn't even realize I forgot to.

Anyways. Long and probably too personal, but I figured I wanted to explain best I could. If you don't care about any of that, well, the tags got added.

[bisluthq]

A Change of Heart is mostly about his ex before Taylor tho. Gemma Janes. I do think the first verse is about Taylor and he doesn't call her shallow but rather "cold" (which fits with COSOSOM's "If you wanna break my cold, cold heart" line). Matty has a habit of making songs about more than one thing or person. The rest of the lyrics are completely about Gemma/a long-term RS (she literally posted a pic of her salad and put it on the internet lol) and don't make sense to be about Taylor. And if I'm not mistaken, an article came out at the time saying that only part of the song was about Taylor and the rest was about another ex of his (this was in 2016, when there were only rumors that they had something).

Maybe Somebody Else is about Taylor but it's just a broad song, not very specific. I always thought of a long-term relationship when I heard it. I don't think it's a derogatory song for the girl unlike She's American though lol

It's possible that Change of Heart is about both Taylor and Gemma and like the general feeling of like being like "eeeekkkk I think I don't wanna do this anymore" which tbf is a feeling Matty has experienced many, many, many times as recently as last year TWICE with Meredith lmao and three times if we count Taylor. That said, here are the bits that to me sound like they could be about Taylor: "You smashed a glass into pieces / That's around the time I left / And you were coming across as clever / Then you lit the wrong end of your cigarette" because to me that sounds a lot like "did you leave her house in the middle of the night"/"leave you like a dumb house party" and again the whole section on coming across clever to me also sounds like that bit in She's American about how she's so into how intelligent they are. I also did say in my previous post on this I am WELL AWARE that Gemma posted a salad but as you also point out Matty's rarely completely literal so while it's POSSIBLE that he's talking about the literal salad pic, it also tracks to me with the stuff in She's American about how she's so into them not eating tbh and Taylor's stuff on how he saw her "bones" and whatnot back then. I also think the "face out of a magazine" is pretty fitting considering he would've first seen Taylor in magazines like long before he saw her irl so to me there's interplay there. But it COULD be about both girls and the general feeling of wanting to peace the fuck out.

Re Somebody Else, the parts that make me think it's mostly about Taylor are the comment about "I'm looking through you while you're looking through your phone" because again the girl is implied to be both thin and shallow which is his kinda repeated gripe seemingly with her and the stuff about "fuck that get money" really feels Taylor (and Tayvin) coded to me. But sure maybe it's again a more general feeling.

I agree Matty doesn't write court documents/depositions and it's poetry but those three songs do seem to me like they're about Tatty 1.0 idk. Fwiw Taylor also does not write depositions. They write... songs. About things that they've experienced or thought about tbh.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 324: Is There a Force Field Around Him??

Previously on BnHA: Flashback!Rat Principal was all “please tell Midoriya that I spent a concerningly small amount of money upgrading U.A. into a wacky physics-defying funtime grid so as to make the final battle much more confusing for everyone.” Present Day!Mic (or Present!Mic, if you will) and Jeanist were all “if only somebody could deescalate this dangerously unhinged mob, we’ve tried nothing and we’re all out of ideas.” Ochako was all “LISTEN UP PEOPLE.” The mob was all, “god??” Ochako was all, “NO, IT’S ME, OCHAKO. I’M REALLY HIGH UP ON THIS BUILDING AND THE VISIBILITY IS LOW DUE TO THE RAIN, SO I CAN SEE HOW YOU MIGHT MAKE THAT MISTAKE. ANYWAYS, DEKU WAS OUT THERE RISKING HIS LIFE FOR YOU CLOWNS EVEN THOUGH HE’S JUST A KID, SO I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE IF YOU COULD ALL REMEMBER HOW TO BE DECENT HUMAN BEINGS, THANKS.” Let’s see if her Big Scolding Energy has any impact.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi is all “so I have this speech planned out, and it’s really good, but it also only really needs about 6 to 8 pages, but I’m gonna see if I can stretch it out to 17 pages so I can kill time before we get to the next volume cliffhanger two weeks from now.” Anyway but it really is a good speech though. There are feels, and tears, and more talk about how Deku is so in need of a shower that just looking at him requires a tetanus booster, and more feels, and more tears, and bonus ship drama, and an iconic callback to the very first chapter which reframes the entire series in a new context in a totally epic and moving way, and it’s all very good. Except that Horikoshi is determined to never let anyone actually give this kid a hug. Who hurt you, dude.

omg we are opening on a callback to chapter 212, a.k.a. the chapter with by far the cutest flashback that doesn’t involve any baby Todorokis

baby Ochako is lethally cute. she could literally murder someone with her cuteness. I just want to scoop her up and play airplane with her until she accidentally activates her quirk while we’re spinning around and we both helicopter up into the air never to be seen again

“a child’s insistence” huh well that’s all well and good, but I sure hope this doesn’t mean we’re going to drag out the whole “sternly lecture the obnoxious citizens” plot for another whole chapter. no offense but I think we’re good

so page 2 is just continuing the whole happy/worried faces monologue, which of course is very important to Ochako’s character as it provides the context for why “who protects the heroes” ended up becoming her thing. and this is making me think we actually are in for a whole second chapter of this sob. when will my boy finally get to rest

OH MY GOD SUDDENLY THESE PEOPLE HAVE EYES IMAGINE THAT

HORIKOSHI: [reaches for a box of tissues while tearfully penning an homage to his beloved Spider-Man 2, specifically the train scene where the crowd sees Peter without his mask and they suddenly realize just how young he is]

HORIKOSHI’S HOMAGE SCENE: “COME TO THINK OF IT, I GUESS IT WAS KIND OF MEAN FOR US TO PICK ON THIS TEN YEAR OLD KID WHO WEIGHS 75 POUNDS AND LOOKS LIKE HE LOST A FIGHT WITH SATAN’S MOLDY OLD BASEMENT”

lol at this one guy who can feel the mood of the crowd shifting and is all “WAIT, NO, I WANTED TO KEEP BEING AN ASSHOLE DAMMIT”

as many pointed out last week, this man is wearing an All Might shirt. that’s some fantastic irony there

-- SDKFJWIGKS

“LITTLE GIRL, I HOPE YOU’RE NOT SUGGESTING THAT WE SHOULD ALL BE WALKING AROUND DRESSED LIKE A SOVIET-ERA BUS STOP.” heh. last week I said I was ashamed of BnHA being my favorite manga. that was a lie, actually

(ETA: in the original Japanese Ochako’s next two lines are basically “the only ones covered in mud will be us heroes!” followed by “please give us some time to get rid of the mud”, with that second line basically being the single funniest thing I’ve ever read rdslkjl. Ochako thank you so much for supporting my running gags. “YEAH WE KNOW HE’S DIRTY. WE ARE GONNA TRY AND CLEAN HIM UP, BUT IT MAY TAKE A WHILE, I’M JUST SAYING. I MEAN LOOK AT HIM. HE LOOKS LIKE AN ASBESTOS COSPLAY.”)

doesn’t the megaphone kind of look ever so slightly like an axe that she’s wielding maniacally here

easy there Lizzie Borden

also that’s a really bold claim to make there. and not one she necessarily should have to make, either. but as we all know, there’s nothing that shounen manga likes more than having its heroes bravely hoist heavy burdens of responsibility like good self-sacrificing citizens

p.s. lowkey loving how Kacchan is positioned here standing slightly behind Deku. not presuming to stand in front of him all overprotectively (because he would hate if anyone ever did that to him), and kind of being unobtrusive and letting others take center stage -- but still being close enough to Deku that he can catch him if he stumbles or passes out again

(ETA: or maybe not lmao.

DEKU: [falls to his knees]

KACCHAN: [glancing up from his phone a few minutes later] “someone just sent me the stupidest meme about milk crates -- oh. uh. you good...?”

really, son. “the burdens you can’t carry, we’ll carry them for you. ...later, I mean. right now it’s late, and we’re all cold and wet.”)

also lowkey loving this OchaTsu moment here

I was going back and binging Ochako chapters this past week for reasons, and I gotta say it really stuck out to me just how often these two are paired with each other. they do everything together. it’s a really sweet friendship that often goes unappreciated but it’s very cute

meanwhile, not to be outdone by the OchaTsu, Iida is staring at Ochako with open admiration talking about how she’s fighting too. it’s been so long since we’ve had any IidaRaka you guys. I was starving and I didn’t even know it

oh my lord IT’S FINALLY HAPPENING

THE LIGHT IS BACK. he finally looks like him again. what a cathartic fucking moment omg

ffklkdw

“I KNOW YOU ARE ALL SCARED, BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS, WE DEFINITELY CANNOT GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY AND WE ARE ALL SCARED TOO!” good pep talk there kiddo

BUT, jokes aside, truth be told this is the exact right approach to take imo, and something that’s long overdue. I’ve said this before, but this new generation of heroes is shaping up to be much more transparent than the All Might generation. they’re basically abandoning the almighty, untouchable Superman “heroes as gods” concept in favor of the more nuanced “heroes as people” concept instead. and that’s a good thing. seeing their heroes as humans, with human limitations and weaknesses and flaws, will hopefully not only lead to more scrutiny and accountability, but also more awareness of how hard some of them are working and how much they’re sacrificing. that’s something All Might never quite grasped back at the start of the series -- that the weak, vulnerable, injured him could be just as inspiring as the mighty, invincible him -- perhaps even more so. there’s a power in seeing otherwise ordinary people show extraordinary bravery and compassion. it inspires others to try and do the same

SSDLHK AIZAWA SIGHTING AAHHHHHH

so he was still back at the hospital this whole time?? smdh at this disrespect. that feeling when your sexy self-insert character’s powers of rationality are too strong, and so you have to nerf him so that he doesn’t ruin your Deku Angst arc twice over by (1) immediately talking some sense into Deku and making him come home Right This Instant Young Man, and (2) not allowing him to leave U.A. in the first fucking place. excuse me, you want to do WHAT now, Midoriya?? that’s it, go to your room

also living for Katsuki and Hawks’s soft expressions. Shouto’s too, although his is tinier and harder to see. and Jeanist’s 12-foot-long neck. imagine Jeanist’s head with Mic’s hair. maybe Jeanist had a mohawk back in the day and that’s why U.A.’s doors are so big now

speaking of soft faces, Enji’s is also excellent

what could this random close-up possibly imply?? hell if I know. but Horikoshi truly fears no discourse and that’s what I love about him

OMGGGG

“smh my child is so dumb.” poor Ochadad. your child is cute af count your blessings

SDOFFHSMH

I’m telling you guys. lethally, catastrophically cute

this speech is still ongoing lol. Horikoshi you’re doing so good but I think we get the point now my dude. you gotta learn how to transition out of these things

UNEXPECTED TOGA WHAT

“there we go” Horikoshi says, crossing off the last line on his list of Ochako ships. “that’s all of ‘em”

poor Ochako is just repeating the same “LET HIM REST, PLEASE, WITH EVERYONE’S COOPERATION, IF YOU DON’T MIND, WE APPRECIATE IT” talking points over and over again hoping someone will throw her a bone and acknowledge her already. SOMEONE PLEASE HELP HER

literally they’re all just staring up at her silently omg. work with me people!!

now she’s saying it for the 56th time but more dramatically all of a sudden

they got so dramatic that for a minute I thought she had suddenly leaped off the building or something

look, not to rush you or anything Horikoshi, but I’m starting to get the feeling that this is yet another one of those “the volume is ending soon so I need to either hurry things up or slow things down in order to make sure we end it on my perfect cliffhanger ending” chapters where you go to ridiculous lengths to drag things out much to the exasperation of your week-to-week readers

(ETA: ftr, volume 31 ended on chapter 306, and I’m predicting that vol. 32 will end with chapter 316 (a.k.a. “you’re next!” [explodes]). I’m guessing vol. 33 will follow suit and likely end on chapter 326, so keep your eyes peeled for a big cliffhanger in two weeks’ time. Deku’s dad?? All Might in peril?? U.A. traitor at long fucking last?? we shall see.)

is Deku straight up falling in love with Ochako right on the spot lol what is happening

I know I just said that I enjoy when Horikoshi gives zero fucks about discourse, but shipping discourse is a whole different beast lol. I hope he’s prepared

(ETA: and for the record, I have no interest in shipping discourse either, as always. and I think this scene can be interpreted as platonic, tbh, with the context being that Ochako was literally introduced as someone who was willing to help him so casually without a second thought, and now here she is saving him again.

I don’t think it really fully hit Deku until this moment how much he needed saving. like I said in another meta somewhere, selflessness is basically just selfishness on behalf of others. and Deku is selfless to a fault, but that’s okay, and it doesn’t mean he needs to change -- he just needs friends who are willing to be be selfish on his behalf in turn. and I think the full emotion of what it means to have friends like that just hit him at last. everything his friends have done for him, how much he needed it and didn’t even realize, and how grateful he is. anyways what a terrible day for rain.)

-- son of a --

is he apologizing?? or pleading?? please tell me that’s not the case, because what the actual fuck. Deku you beautiful precious radiant selfless child, this is the exact opposite of how this should be. all these motherfuckers should be on their knees apologizing to you

DEKU WHY

I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS FREAKING BOMBARDMENT OF EMOTIONS GODDAMIT. OUT HERE ARMED WITH YOUR FREAKING TREBUCHET OF FEELS TO LAUNCH AT ME UNPROVOKED. WHAT’S WITH THAT

FREAKING CHRIST. THIS BOY IS CRYING HIS EYES OUT AND HORIKOSHI IS JUST ZOOMING IN WITH THE CAMERA, LIKE CAN WE JUST CUT HIM A BREAK ALREADY. ENOUGH OF THIS. HE’S SO YOUNG AND HE TRIES SO HARD AND I JUST NEED HIM TO FEEL SAFE, HORIKOSHI PLEASE CAN YOU JUST GIVE ME THAT ALREADY WHAT IS THE FREAKING HOLD UP!!

GIGANTIC FOX LADY!!!

GIGANTIC FOX LADY PLEASE BE MY HUGGER BY PROXY!! SERIOUSLY GIRL IF YOU JUST HOLD YOUR UMBRELLA OVER HIM OR SOMETHING AND DON’T GO THE EXTRA MILE I’M ABOUT TO LODGE AN OFFICIAL COMPLAINT. THIS IS GETTING RIDICULOUS NOW

!!!!

A KOUTA IS GOOD TOO!!! oh my god if Kouta hugs him I will seriously 100% straight up cry. go on and test me

FOR THE LOVE OF --

is this man expressly forbidden from drawing hugs in his contract or something. DO YOU DO IT JUST TO SPITE ME?? this is tyranny, sir

AND I KNOW, THIS PAGE ACTUALLY CHALLENGED THE VERY PREMISE OF THE SERIES ITSELF, AND HERE I AM COMPLAINING ABOUT HUGS, OR THE LACK THEREOF. “this is the story of how we all became the greatest heroes.” and just like that, he waves a polite middle finger at all of the Strongest Greatest Chosen One shounen protags of old, in favor of something much less conventional, much more interesting, and much more suited to Deku’s character. because if that one sentence doesn’t just sum up Deku to a T. he gladly relinquishes his Greatest Hero status in favor of acknowledging the hero in everyone. what a class act. that’s my protagonist

I love this kid so fucking much I swear. only just PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. GIVE HIM HIS HUG

[from-the-clouds]

Kiss Me More (Part IIII) - Zemo/Reader

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | 

Summary: Reader ponders the decision they made after meeting Zemo in Riga. Series now complete!

Words: 5.2k

Warnings: Kissing, marijuana & alcohol abuse, heavy angst & depression, small reference to suicide, implied casual sex, yearning

A/N (also check out A/N at end when finished reading): This is it, everyone! I was going to end this completely differently originally, but after some thinking --  and some light peer pressure from ya’ll, I did something a little different. I did fight with this part the most out of all of them, so I hope it’s still good. Please enjoy. And thank you for all the love on this series, it’s been so fun to write! Also I was listening to this song while writing this.

---

The incessant buzz of her alarm clock jolted her out of her dreamless sleep. Fumbling in the dark, she slapped the top of it, hitting the snooze button and looking at the interface with bleary eyes. 

4:00 A.M. It stared, indifferent, back at her tired face. 

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and lamenting, bargaining, half expecting the clock to turn back time when she opened her eyes again. Unfortunately, it did not. With a huff, she threw back the covers and stretched, disturbing the orange cat that slept in the empty spot next to her where her husband used to lay. 

Snorting, the cat lifted its head to look at her as she climbed out of bed before curling back up in a ball where her feet had been. 

“Don’t mind me, just getting ready for work so I can feed us,” she said, grumpily, then in a moment of repentance, affectionately scratching her behind the ears. 

She had always been a night owl, so she didn’t think it would be possible to ever get used to waking this early. No human was meant to function at this time. It was the one part of the job she hated most. The rest of it was manageable, though it was still work. 

Setting about her morning routine, she showered, made coffee, and donned her uniform. Eating a day-old bagel and nursing her coffee on her tiny balcony, she looked out over the darkened horizon. It was far too early to even enjoy a sunrise. 

There was a saying, time heals all wounds. After her husband died, she’d heard it a lot. It was a saying she had come to find true. But it’d been well over a year since she’d left Helmut, alone in that swanky hotel room, and it still hurt like it was yesterday. 

“I understand,” he’d murmured, and she felt the ghost of his kiss on her forehead, arms around her waist, even now. She shivered, not from the chill of the morning air.

She’d left her old life behind, all of it. Sam and Bucky, too, about a month after their time in Riga. She couldn’t look them in the eyes after what she’d done.

But, she was proud of what they’d accomplished. They’d defeated the Flag Smashers. Bucky seemed happier, more at peace. Sam had accepted his role as the new Captain America. John Walker seemed to have faded into irrelevancy. All the loose ends had been tied up in a pretty little bow.

Except for hers.

Which is why she moved, sold all the stuff in her tiny NYC apartment, and packed her car full with what she couldn’t bear to part with, some photos and momentos from a different lifetime. Her car didn’t stop until she hit the Atlantic Ocean, on an island just south of Charleston. All but undiscovered by tourists, the residents in the sleepy beach town kept to themselves, and she could go about her life in peace, undisturbed. 

She couldn’t just run away from her problems, that was why she’d left Zemo. It seemed counterintuitive, but in her mind, it made sense. The problems would catch up to her, like they always had. The dissatisfaction she had with her life, with herself, was always going to return. And she knew she had to be alone to deal to face it head on. Like a wounded animal, crawling into the woods, there were only two ways things could end here; either she’d heal and come out stronger, or eventually she’d die. And so far, the healing part wasn’t going great. 

Each day was a matter of convincing herself that she’d made the right choice. Especially now, as her eyes burned, fighting to stay open against the inviting embrace of sleep. 

Despite it being dark outside, the bakery was bustling already when she walked in the service entrance. It smelled amazing, as always. Sweet and warm, a cacophony of aromas, baking bread, fresh coffee, sugar.

She set about the usual preparations to open up, packaging orders for the regulars, sweeping the floor, wiping down countertops. Once the place was open, she didn’t have to work the register, as she prepared batches of dough in the back for proofing, to be baked the next day. 

Before, she’d been a terrible cook, but she’d grown comfortable in the kitchen after learning to bake. There was something satisfying about working with her hands, at this point she’d memorized all the recipes and the work became second nature to her. Now, she always had fresh bread and pastries in her kitchen, although they were the slightly disformed, ones the shop owners deemed too ugly for the glass display cases. Daylight was cherished, even if she barely saw it inside the shop. Because while she was awake, busy with work, her thoughts remained pleasant.

At night it was the hardest. Things got quiet, lonely. When she got home, she poured herself a drink. Cheap whiskey, the kind that came in a plastic bottle and burned on it’s way down. She had never been much of a drinker before, she was now. Her thoughts were more manageable after a drink. Especially because she was usually thinking of Helmut. 

It was often that she wondered what he may be doing, and those thoughts usually ended with the image of him lying in the sun, poolside, on some island in the Pacific Ocean, drinking expensive champagne with a supermodel. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought to her, and yet she was plagued by some variation of it every night. 

Sometimes, she’d humor herself, and imagine what they might be doing had she decided to stay with him. Unfortunately, thinking of that was more upsetting. She wanted it, selfishly, though she wasn’t willing to admit it.

When she was younger, it had been so easy to block out the pain, to just press forward, no matter what. Much to her dismay, it didn’t get easier as she got older. Years of watching those she loved in pain, years of being in pain had taken a toll on her resilience. She wasn’t the strong woman she once was, she was weak.

That night, one drink had turned into two, into three. Wallowing in her own self-pity had become second-nature, she felt like Hamlet, lamenting her circumstances, a constant turmoil monologuing in her brain. But this night felt particularly worse, for some reason. 

For the record, she had been doing better. But she was all-too-familiar with how grief worked, pulling her back down the dark side of the mountain, where she was forced to fight her demons over and over again. At some point, they were going to win.

It was a funny thing. Despite the loss of her husband, who she had loved dearly, his death had been easier to accept. Final. She couldn’t bring him back. Helmut on the other hand, was still out there, an open wound that could never fully heal.

Before she knew it, she was four drinks in, at her bedside table, fumbling through the bottom drawer, until she found what she was looking for.

Back on her couch, she stared at the card in her hand, the hastily written phone number on it, an international line. Helmut had given it to her, the day she left, stuck it in her purse while she wasn’t looking. She didn’t discover it until she had returned home.

It had been months since she last did this, pulled the card out of its hidden place in her drawer, placed it on the coffee table in front of her next to her phone, and considered dialing it. It had been a frequent occurrence when she first moved here, when she couldn’t find a job and spent most of her mornings either hungover, or stumbling home from rendezvous with men whose names she wouldn’t remember, and she wouldn’t care to, because there was only one man she really wanted. She could only hope he’d be as close as one call away. But she never called. 

I mean really, he’d probably moved on by this point. If she was going to call, she should have done it months ago, when there was more of a chance that he’d give a fuck. 

She considered this a setback. But she’d made her way halfway through the cheap bottle of whiskey, it was the drunkest she’d been in ages and she was curious. She didn’t know whose number it was, who’d be on the other end of the line, and never knew why Helmut would want her to have it to begin with.  

At this point, she wasn’t capable of good decision making. In general, it hadn’t always been her strong suit. So why did doing the right thing matter now? It didn’t, she decided. 

Taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, she ensured she wouldn’t remember what happened next, at least not clearly. 

The phone rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello?” she didn’t recognize the sound of the man on the other end of the line immediately, so she didn’t answer. All she had wanted to do was maybe hear Helmut’s voice, he didn’t even need to know it was her that was calling. 

“Hello?” the man repeated, and she realized it wasn’t completely unfamiliar. The grandfatherly, comforting tone wasn’t her former lover, but someone close to him. And she supposed that wasn’t terrible.

“Is this Oeznik?” she asked. 

“It is,” he said after some hesitation. “May I ask who’s speaking?”

Truthfully, she was shocked she’d allowed herself to go this far. This was a bad idea. If she stopped now she could get off without doing any real damage. But just as she was about to hang up, she heard her name, muffled, on the other end of the line. 

“H-How do you know it’s me?” She raised the phone back to her ear. 

“I thought you sounded familiar,” Oeznik chuckled, low and soft. “Helmut told me you might call.”

“He did?” she squeaked. “Yes, although it was awhile ago. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I uh….I….well….” she managed. “I guess I just….I guess I wanted to see how he was doing.”  Her words flowed together like the liquor she was drinking, she knew she sounded drunk.

“Good, since we last spoke,” he said. “I don’t hear from him much these days...maybe every couple months. As you might imagine, he’s trying to keep a low profile for the time being.”

She nodded. Perhaps Zemo was as lonely as she was, hidden away in some cabin in the middle of nowhere. Though she had to imagine it looked much nicer than her current place, and maybe he had better company than a portly orange cat that begrudgingly liked him. “I understand.”

“How have you been?” he asked.

It sounded stupid, but she realized it was the first time someone had asked her that. Sincerely. Checked up on her. Even if she was the one who had dialed the number in the first place.

“I’m good,” her voice cracked. “Just keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Helmut always had such nice things to say about you.”

“Really?” she couldn’t stop herself. 

“Of course, would you like me to let him know you called?” 

“No, no...I wouldn’t want to bother him,” she choked on her words, something catching in her throat.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

“I’m okay, I just….” she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes, lowering her voice, since she didn’t think her normal register would come out as anything other than a whine. “I think I made a horrible mistake.”

“What’s the matter? What did you do?”

She shook her head, shaking the tears loose and now they were lining her lashes, threatening to spill over. However, she managed to make the next words she spoke come out clearly. “Nothing, I just...it’s really stupid, I really shouldn’t have called.”

He sighed on the other end of the line, and she felt like, despite her attempt at staying calm, he could still see that she wasn’t somehow. “It seemed Helmut was awfully sweet on you,” Oeznik’s words next came hesitantly, calculated. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he told me if you ever called, to help you with whatever you might need, no matter the ask.”

Oh God, what had she done? A sob left her, one she couldn’t control, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle any more. Her tears were flowing freely now, tracking down her cheeks and along her chin. She wiped at them clumsily, clearing her throat. 

“That’s very kind of him, but you can’t help me. I’m so sorry to bother you, please just forget I even called,” she forced a smile on her face so that hopefully he could hear it. “Goodbye.”

She hung up, horrified, and within seconds had deleted the call log from her phone. She’d been thoughtful enough not to memorize the number, and the lighter she used whenever she smoked sat in front of her. Without a second though, she burned the card, watching the paper blacken and disintegrate, until it was all but a pile of soot on her Wal-Mart coffee table. It was a fair punishment, and ensured she’d never get the chance to embarrass herself like that again. 

And then she cried, sobbed into a pillow next to her, until her tears ran dry and she wore herself out, falling asleep on the couch alone. When she’d wake the next morning, the only evidence of her actions would be a throbbing headache and a dead phone. 

She wouldn’t remember the call.

----

Life went on, as it always did. It had been about a month, and since that night she grew more indifferent, remembered how to ignore heartbreak. For now, she was stuck in her purgatory, waking up before the sun and falling asleep before it set, smoking joints, drinking cheap liquor, and going on the occasional date with people who she didn’t really like, tourists who would leave after a week and wanted temporary company. 

Despite everything, she partly believed things were getting better. Maybe they weren’t, but the possibility that someday they would seemed feasible. And that was enough, for now. 

On her days off, she’d walk to the beach and lay on a blanket, reading a book until the sun dipped below the horizon and lit up the sky in hues of pinks and purples. She found a record player at an antique store and began collecting vinyls, listening to obscure artists whose albums she found in the $1 bin. It wasn’t so bad. Life wasn’t so bad. 

She took a shower after work. Tomorrow was her off day, and she wasn’t sure what she had planned besides maybe watching a movie and getting stoned. Maybe she’d try going to the beach. The weather was getting warmer, and she could even go swimming if the water wasn’t too cold. 

Exhausted from her day of work, she laid down in her bed, still in her robe, her hair wrapped in a towel around her head. The sun was setting outside, the windchimes she’d hung outside slowly clanging together, birds singing in the warm spring air. Her cat hopped on the bed, offered an affectionate trill and curled up at her side, purring, in a rare display of affection. A cool breeze drifted through the open window. And for the first time in over a year, she felt content. Closing her eyes, she savored the moment, committed it to memory, so she could recall it the next time she was drunk-crying in front of her TV. 

She fell asleep slowly, so slowly that when she woke, startled by something in her kitchen clattering to the floor, it felt like she hadn’t even been sleeping at all. The clock next to her red 11:31 p.m. and it was pitch dark outside, the cool breeze from before had grown stronger and her bedroom curtains were billowing, wind whistling loudly through the apartment. Her cat had left her side, and she frowned, shivering in the sudden cold.

Pulling the towel off her head, she made her way over to the window with the intention to close it, sleepily, lazily, until she heard something else. A creak in the floorboard. A heavy footstep in her kitchen. That wasn’t just her cat. 

Some kind of muscle memory was ignited then, an ancient instinct that called to her from a different lifetime. Darting across the room, the gun she kept was in her hand, stealthily pulled from its hiding spot beneath her mattress. Truth be told, she never thought she would’ve needed it. Anyone looking for her would be smart enough to kill her in her sleep, not be so foolish as to wake her first with their heavy footsteps. 

A dark silhouette stalked through her kitchen, moving slowly. It was a man, she assumed, based on his broader figure, and lack of coordination. In her experience, women were often stealthier without trying. He took another step, the floor creaking below him, shuffling on bargain linoleum. 

Staying low, she crept forward, ducking stealthily behind furniture, avoiding the spots on the floor she knew made noise. It didn’t appear the intruder had a weapon, in fact, it seemed he was bumbling about, searching for something. A burglar, and a bad one at that. An island full of vacation homes owned by rich doctors and they thought they’d find valuables in her shitty apartment?

It wasn’t until she was standing directly behind him, gun aimed at his head, that she finally spoke up. 

“I believe you’ve come to the wrong place,” she said flatly. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’d be in your best interest to leave empty-handed.”

Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark, but the intruder froze, arms slowly raising in defeat, empty-handed, as he turned around to face her. In the dingy room, she couldn’t make out any of his features, could only see that he was clad in all black.

“Unfortunately, liebling, that wasn’t my intention.” 

She would’ve recognized that voice anywhere, though the endearment he’d used was enough to clue her in. Hitting the lightswitch with her free hand, she was face to face with the man she’d spent the past year trying to purge from her memory, Helmut Zemo. 

Her gut twisted, her mind raced, but the only thing currently bubbling up, over the surface of every other emotion was the pure, seething rage left behind in the wake of fearing for her life.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she stepped towards him, gun still raised, fuming. 

“Hey, hey!” he staggered backwards, hands raised, eyes averted. 

“I thought you were a fucking robber!” she hissed. “I thought you were here to kill me!”

“Lower your voice,” he scolded. “You’re going to wake your neighbors.”

Taking a deep breath, she realized she still had her gun trained on him and she lowered it, clicking the safety and discarding the weapon on the countertop. “What the fuck?” she asked. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know you had such a mouth on you,” he smirked, but she wasn’t finished, and she glowered at him. 

“You broke into my apartment!” she growled.

“I had to be sure I was in the right place.”

“Yeah? You couldn’t have knocked first?”

He nodded, eyes trailing down to her hands, which were trembling, she hadn’t even realized. He seemed to understand what he’d done then, and she flexed her fingers, eyes locking with his. “I suppose...you may be right,” he said, surrendering.

She felt the rage subsiding as she took in his appearance. He looked not so different from the last time she’d seen him, except a fair amount of stubble covered his jawline in a short beard. He was still devastatingly handsome. Zemo’s dark eyes, filled with longing, drank her in, tilting his head as his gaze shifted to her lips. It was like she could read his mind, she knew what he wanted, what he was thinking. And her body was going to betray her if he kept it up.

Despite everything, she was still upset. Upset and embarrassed, as the light was doing an unflattering expose of her tiny, cluttered apartment, full of mismatched furniture and water-damaged wallpaper that her landlord refused to replace. It probably gave the prison cells that Helmut had spent years in a run for their money, and was in stark contrast to every other aspect of his life.

“What’s this?” he asked, gesturing to the empty liquor bottles on her countertop, stowed in her trash can. “Have you been drinking?”

“Not tonight,” she quipped, on guard. Had to be. As much as some old instinct told her to throw herself into his arms, press her lips to the underside of his jaw, and let him envelope her in the comfort of his embrace, she knew she couldn’t.

“Hmm,” he brushed past her, frowning, looking disappointed, as he made his way to her living room. 

“How did you find me?” she asked, eyeing him wearily.

“I’m a wanted man, I trace every call that comes into my estate,” he said over his shoulder. 

Helmut was taking inventory of the cramped space, staring at the photos she’d hung in a collage on the wall behind her couch, with a few watercolors painted by her late husband. One in particular, that he was focused on now, was from her wedding. Of all the memories she chose to hang, this one was her fondest, her former partner was all dark curly hair falling into deep blue eyes, and she was the portrait of a blushing bride, wearing a dopey love-drunk smile, gazing at him, ignoring the camera. 

“You looked so beautiful on your wedding day,” he said, turning over his shoulder to look at her. He was so out of place here, standing in her living room, for a moment she thought he might be a hallucination, some physical manifestation of the heartbreak she’d experienced. “Although that doesn’t surprise me.”

She flushed, suddenly self-conscious in her thin black robe and still-damp hair. It occurred to her that she wasn’t looking her best, which made this whole situation that much more disconcerting. However, the compliment disarmed her slightly, and the anger she felt began to dissipate, slowly. She was going to offer him something to drink until her cat, who had been absent through the chaos, suddenly jumped up on the back of the couch and promptly hissed at him in an attempt to defend her territory.

“Pumpkin, be nice,” she said, although it was mostly to placate Helmut. Pumpkin never listened to her. 

Helmut let her sniff his hand, and she was stunned when the cat rubbed her face against it. Of course, Pumpkin would like him of all people. That made sense. Then again, she supposed it made them not so different. He turned away to look at the rest of the room. “I see you haven’t kicked that bad habit you told me about,” he gestured at the ashtray full of roaches on the coffee table. 

“Did you just come to my place to insult me?” she asked, putting her hands on her lips and feigning confidence. She could’ve rolled over and cried and told him how much she missed him, how many nights she’d spent crying over him, and while all of it was true, she felt indignation was the better option for her self-preservation.

“That’s a good question,” Helmut turned to face her now, hands in the pockets of the leather jacket he was wearing. Completely inappropriate for the weather here, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asked.

She shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be.”

He snorted, his frustration evident, and she saw a glimpse of the man that so many feared, the side that had earned him his dangerous reputation, that had him locked away in a high-security prison for nearly a decade. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing, draga, we’re going to have it out.”

“Fine,” she said, lacing as much venom as she could into her words to prepare herself. “Then get on with it.”

He stared her down, and the expression her wore startled her, something sparkled in his eyes, mischief, relief maybe? It was insulting. Like he didn’t take her seriously. But there was something else there, too, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it was wiped from his visage before it registered.

The tension in the room dissipated slightly when Zemo sat on the arm of the worn couch she’d bought from a yard sale, and she winced. “I spoke to Oeznik the other day,” he said flatly, snorting, eyes focused on a stain on one of the rugs she owned. “He told me he had the pleasure of speaking to a friend of mine about a month ago.”

Frowning, she tilted her head, her eyes meeting Helmut’s. Something in her brain sparked a memory she’d once dismissed as a dream after a particularly bad night of drinking.

“He was concerned, you see, because this friend didn’t seem to be in the best state of mind,” Helmut rose from the arm of the couch, stalking forward slowly, and she couldn’t move backwards, not even if she wanted to, as he could pin her easily against the front door. His voice grew louder, faster as he went on. “He said she was crying, slurring her words, he told me he thought maybe she might be-” Helmut cut himself off abruptly and closed his eyes, clenching one of his fists, a look of distress on his face as he took in a terse breath. “I won’t finish that thought, but you’re a smart girl, you can imagine what I’m getting at.”

Swallowing hard, the phone call came back to her in pieces, the tears, sobbing on the phone to a man she hardly knew. It was the night she finally admitted to herself she’d made a mistake, even though she’d already known it, deep down when she left him in the hotel room. 

“Please forgive me for breaking in tonight,” Helmut said. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of you not answering the door, I needed to see with my own eyes that you were okay.”

Exhaling through her nose, she looked at the floor. “It’s not like that. I had too much to drink.” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “It was just a bad night.”

“Then tell me, what was the horrible mistake you made?” he asked, stepping closer. He was close to her, now. So close. And his proximity made everything more difficult.

God, if only she could remember exactly what she’d said, the only thing that came to her were the emotions, desperation, sadness, grief. It was all too much, and he was threatening to bring them all back to destroy her again. 

“I shouldn’t have called,” she said, shaking her head. “And I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” He asked, tilting his head, his eyebrows pulling together. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? How hard it was to sit on a plane when all I wanted to do was be here? With you?” His hand rose to cup her cheek, stopping just short of her face when she flinched away from his touch.

“Please stop,” she managed, the burn of tears behind her eyes almost menacing. The last thing she needed was to cry in front of him. “You’re undoing everything.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. 

“You’re….you’re here,” she murmured weakly, wetness seeping, glossing over her pupils. “I only have so much capacity for pain right now, if you touch me now, you’ll ruin everything.”

No one ever had this kind of hold on her, she’d never bent her rules to appease anyone else, and she’d gone toe to toe with super soldiers. He was just a man, and yet, he terrified her. 

“You really want me to leave?”

She couldn’t answer, but one tear escaped, sliding down her cheekbone, and she sniffled. 

“I’m not the one who did this to you,” his thumb, swiped along her face gently, wiping it away. He’d touched her, just barely, and she was reeling. 

“I know,” she stuttered, gasping. “I know it was me, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You are so stubborn.” His expression softened as he looked upon her, his thumb tracing underneath her jaw, tilting her head upwards to look at him. Malleable, she obliged. “I’ve thought about you everyday since the night we spent together. You’ve plagued me. That can’t be a coincidence. Are you really happier this way? You must be honest with me.”

She shook her head, blinking out fresh tears. “No, I’m not. I just thought...by the time I realized I made the wrong choice, you’d have moved on. People like us don’t get to be happy.”

“Says who?”

How could she refuse him anymore? This would continue to go on until she gave in. And from the beginning, she wanted to give in. There was no use in fighting the inevitable. The small point of contact -- his hand on her chin -- radiated impressive warmth, and she could feel every part of herself being attracted to him, quelling some ache deep within her. 

Reaching up, she clutched at Helmut’s palm, which didn’t last long, because he pulled her into his arms, nestling her head underneath his chin. She melted into his embrace, finding solace in the warmth of his solid frame. 

“Come home with me,” he coaxed softly. 

“I will,” she murmured, surrendering to the comfort of his presence. “But you have to let me bring Pumpkin.”

He chuckled, warm and amiable, the vibration of his chest echoing in her own. “Of course, you’ll bring Pumpkin,” he murmured into her hair. Oh, how she had missed hearing him laugh. They could’ve stayed that way for hours, and she would’ve been content, but he pulled away, hands on either side of her face as he studied her.

Unable to hold back any longer, she leaned in to kiss him. It was chaste at first, all the memories of her last night with him came flooding back quickly when he parted his lips to deepen the kiss, but she didn’t want that quite yet, just needed a moment to process this. The simple comfort of being held by him, kissed by him, was more than enough for now. He’d been waiting for this, she could assume in the way that he responded, pulling her impossibly close so she was engulfed in him.

Her stomach flipped, a warmth blossoming in her chest as he pulled away, their foreheads touching. “Oh, I missed you,” she sighed, shivering as his beard tickled her neck, his mouth on her sensitive skin.

“And I, you,” he murmured. His eyes studied her, carefully, up close, and for the first time since meeting him, she really let him see her, teary-eyed and vulnerable.

She would never let him go again. 

---

A/N: So here we are! I know it’s been a ride, but I’m really excited for these two. However, I don’t feel like I’m done writing for Zemo yet. If ya’ll have any headcanons, thoughts, questions, requests, etc, feel free to drop them in my ask box or shoot me a DM. I’d love to talk more about him. I also would be down to write more oneshots based around this series, because I am sort of like….okay, they obviously have a connection, but they don’t know that much about each other, and I may or may not have a light future already mapped out for them. I might do an epilogue at some point even. But if you have anything you’d like to add, let me know!

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[pikahlua]

Ochako Uraraka may become more than just a love interest soon

I’ve mentioned once or twice that, when it comes to Ochako Uraraka, more than anything I’d love her to have a role that doesn’t solely revolve around being an underdeveloped love interest for Izuku Midoriya.

And with chapter 322, I now see a path.

If I’m right, chapter 323 is when it will all come together for her. Chapter 323 may be where Ochako becomes the light of hope.

“Who protects the heroes when they’re the ones who are hurting?”

I think we all assumed the above line refers to a future where Ochako saves Izuku.

But...what if Ochako isn’t the “who” she wonders about?

We may have been interpreting this line very wrong.

Several times now, I’ve alluded to the rot within hero society, particularly the bystander effect problem that plagues the non-heroes of which Shigaraki often complains.

Perhaps Ochako will find the solution to that problem.

If the problem lies in the attitudes of civilians, then it’s the civilians who need to be addressed, who need to be inspired.

Chapter 322 highlights Ochako in reference to Class 1-A’s next hurdle, implying she may be next to take the stage.

The chapter ends with Ochako preparing to face down the civilian mob at UA protesting Izuku’s sheltering.

Her narration repeats the central question of her character.

And I think the “who” is the civilians.

I think she’s going to try to turn the mob to their side, and I think she will succeed.

Because damn if it hasn’t been foreshadowed.

In chapter 161, at the end of the Overhaul Arc, Sir Nighteye speaks of a bright future formed by the wishes of everyone converging on a point.

This implies that a lot of people wishing for a bright future are necessary in order to change a dark future. Perhaps more than just a few heroes. Perhaps the entire country would be necessary.

Thus, Sir Nighteye’s legacy is to stress the importance of smiling.

And it is Sir Nighteye’s death that inspires Ochako to become a hero who saves.

These points lead directly into chapter 212 of the Joint Training Arc.

The story line is direct. Nighteye foretells that a bad future can become a good one if enough people wish for it, and he philosophizes that the best way to do this is through smiling.

Ochako is inspired by Nighteye’s death to become a hero who saves. And Ochako was inspired to become a hero in the first place by her memories of heroes as a child--not the heroes themselves, but how their heroism cheered the crowds around them.

She loved how everyone was smiling.

And those inspirations are at the forefront of her actions in chapter 212 as she jumps in to save Izuku, all the while asking, “Who protects the heroes when they need protecting?”

Her question becomes pertinent by chapter 296.

Suddenly the world is filled with civilians in peril, distraught, crying out for help. It’s a horrifying scene, and it’s the beginning of the end for hero society. Many heroes find themselves quitting out of pessimism for the future. The world looks very bleak at this stage.

And Ochako takes stark note of the heroes’ reactions.

As society crumbles over the next few chapters, many heroes will be heckled and jeered and derided by the people they wanted to protect. They can’t keep up morale with such a negative response from the civilians.

And then Izuku drops out of UA, throwing himself head-first into that world.

When Ochako learns what Izuku has done in chapter 306, she fears for him, once again asking that all-important question.

Izuku is all set to fall victim to despair in a world that doesn’t view him as a hero. Chapter 317 especially depicts that toxicity Izuku trudges through.

So this is the mentality of the mob in chapter 322, and this is what Ochako turns to face down as she supports Izuku and welcomes him back home to UA.

She is the best person to face the mob.

Because she’s seen it all before, waaaaaay back during the Sports Festival.

Ochako is lovable. So lovable that even the “unbiased” commentator Present Mic declares her his pick to root for.

So lovable that in chapter 36, the arena crowd sides with her so much, they boo her opponent, Katsuki Bakugou.

And whew, did that mob underestimate her.

So yeah, I think Ochako’s about to win over the hearts of the civilians and probably endear Izuku to them to make them want to protect him. Perhaps she will explain how Izuku inspired her in order to convince them.

Or maybe she’ll crush them all in a monster meteor shower.

[linkspooky]

Who is it who really needs saving? 

is the question Dabi asked when Tokoyami came to rescue Hawks in the middle of the raid war arc. Dabi asks this question just after Hawks stabbed twice in the back with the justification that it would save people, despite the fact that Twice was also a victim too, and also someone in need of saving. Dabi’s question is especially poignant because it asks who is hero society invested in saving, a question that is repeated by Twice who believes Hero Society only saves the good victims, and Himiko as well who asks if Heroes save people, then was Twice not a person. 

I bring this up because chapter 299/300 end on another parallel between Dabi and Hawks. Both of them have their backs being shown, however, Hawks is already healing due to the nature of his quirk, whereas the permanent burns on Dabi’s skin has already gotten worse. Hawks and Dabi also have opposite goals at this point, Hawks to support Endeavor, and Dabi’s ultimate goal is to bring him down. However, Rei’s words over Endeavor’s panel add another layer of complication to this. “Those regrets and guilt, the rest of those have borne that burden much more than you have.” Endeavor is suffering, but he’s not the one most in need of saving. I believe next chapter rightly, Rei is going to point out that the ones most in need of saving are the ones who suffered the most because of Endeavor’s actions. Endeavor was never the one in need of saving, and in need of redemption in the first place, rather it was Dabi. 

1. Started From the Bottom Now We’re Even Lower

Hawks and Dabi are seeming opposites even from their origin points. Hawks was born in a poor household the son to a minor villain, Touya a rich household the son of the number two hero. Hawks family name basically means nothing to the point where the hero commission easily erased it, whereas Dabi’s family name has dominated his entire life. Touya from a young age was given everything he needed to become a hero and his father even encouraged him, while Hawks was on the run from the law and couldn’t even leave his small house without getting yelled at. 

At first, Hawks was born with a quirk that both of his parents disapproved of as they constantly asked him what his wings were even for, and seemed disgusted by his mutation. While at the same time, Touya was born with a quirk that his father was happy with, a fire quirk even stronger than his own which Enji thought gave him enough of a potential that he didn’t need to worry about finding an ideal hybrid quirk. He could pass all his techniques onto his firstborn son who seemed eager to learn. 

The only real similarity between both of them was that for both children, Endeavor was clearly their favorite hero. Touya was eager to please his father and train with him in order to inherit his hero techniques, and when Endeavor captured Hawks father, it convinced Hawks that heroes were real. 

However, both of them experienced a sudden reversal of fate. This is where circumstances for both of them flipped. Touya’s quirk was in fact revealed to be a very harmful hybridization of his parents two quirks, he inherited his father’s flames but even hotter, while at the same time inheriting Rei’s sensitivity to fire which made th overheating flaw even worse on him causing his quirk to deliberately harm his body. Hawks however, is an ideali hybridization of both of his parents quirks. His mother Tomie has a quirk that creates eyeballs and seems ideal for searching, watching and locating things, while his father’s feather quirks on his arms that could sharpen into blades turned into wings on his back that were both capable of searching and detection like his mother’s eyeballs and sharpening into blades like his father’s. 

At first it seems destined that Touya was ging to become a hero, while Hawks had no hope for him, but because of the nature of their quirks the opposite happened. When Hawks was young he was able to save a busload of people from crashing which got him recruited by the hero commission. While it’s implied that Touya kept trying to train on his own even after Endeavor stopped the training and abandoned him in favor of Shoto, and because of that Touya had his training accident at Sekoto peek and burned to death. 

Dabi and Hawks are seeming opposites, but they’re actually quite similar if you think about it. Both of them grew up in abusive households that are intentionally paralleled, they have controlling and physically violent fathers, and mothers who are coded as mentally ill, Tomie was unfit to take care of a child, and Rei was eventually pushed to a breaking point where she was unable to anymore and then forcibly separated and institutionalized by her husband. Both, also experienced a separation from their mother, Rei was hospitalized around the time Toya finally died, and the Hero Commission promised Tomie support if she cut all ties from him. Both of them also dreamed of becoming heroes, and tried their best to, even Touya after his father rejected him kept training on their own. 

The only difference between them is circumstances, Hawks was saved because he was born with a useful quirk, Touya despite his father being the number two hero was never saved. 

2. We’re the Heroes, Who Don’t Do Anything

In fact it’s implied that Enji intentionally looked away and forced himself to forget Touya’s suffering. For instance, the first time Touya trains with Enji he’s shown wearing a sleeveless shirt. Every time after that, Touya has long jacket sleeves on. When he’s crying to Natsuo, when he’s pulling out his hair, and the last memory from before his death, every time Touya is shown hiding his arms. We also know that Dabi, has burns that go all the way up his arms which is exactly where his flames emerge from. It’s also the place where Touya burns himself when Enji remembers training with him for the first time. 

It’s likely that Touya was walking around with burns up his arms from the training he was inflicting on himself, and Enji simply didn’t notice because his unreliable narrator status, he forgets everything he has done to other members of his family, or intentionally downplays the severity of it in order to avoid the guilt and consequences of his actions. Hence why he can say things like “I never meant to neglect you” to Natsuo, when we saw him call Natsuo and the others failures from Shoto’s perspective, because in Enji’s perspective he’s just a good father who went wrong somewhere along the line, whereas from Natsuo’s perspective he never really acted like a father towards him at all.

Enji only ever sees his own intentions, and not the impact his actions had on others. He only saw his heroic ambitions, and not the way he taught Touya that his only value was his quirk, and then completely tossed him aside as a failure and ignored all his suffering when Touya kept trying to get his attention. That he intentionally neglected Touya until either an accident or a suicide claimed his life. 

Either way it’s a running theme that Endeavor hesitates when it comes to saving his own sons. Despite seeing himself as both a hero and a father, he completely fails in both roles to them. 

He froze when it came time to save Natsuo from Ending, and the second time when Shoto was begging Endeavor for help against Dabi, Endeavor chose not to do a single thing. In fact the only thing that moved him was Deku’s pep talk that exclusively stoked his ego and called him a good mentor, which caused Endeavor to finally move into action. 

Endeavor is a hero in name who has no interest in directly saving others, because his number one priority has always been to stand at the number one spot and feel like he’s accomplished something. He didn’t notice Touya was most likely continuing the training on his own, and was spiraling that badly until after Touya had died, and even after that happened he still continued the training with Shoto like nothing happened, even mentioning that Touya was a small mistake. 

When the wounds from Touya’s death were still fresh, it seemed like barely anything more than an afterthought to him. There are some people who even theorize that Enji only believed Touya was always alive because he had never truly faced the guilt of Touya’s death and his role in it, that it was a comfort to him to believe his son was still secretly alive out there. 

The signs were obvious that Touya was spiraling, but he was neglected so much that Endeavor the number two hero who prides himself on most cases resolved didn’t notice what was going wrong with his son until he literally burned himself alive, and even then that wasn’t enough to stop him from mistreating his other son and forcing him into painful training. 

Touya’s neglect is as much abuse as Shoto’s favoritism and training, that’s the point of the golden child / scapegoat dynamic, they are both being abused. Enji was the only parent in the household, and if his kid was burning himself, and injuring himself all the time and it got to the point where the child literally died because of a lack of adult supervision, Enji could be prosecuted for manslaughter in a court of law. There are cases where adults just, do absolutely nothing for their kids, and those kids sometimes die of neglect, starvation, because of their parents completely failing to take care of them. It’s just as sinister a form of abuse as physical abuse. In both cases a child’s needs aren’t being provided for by their parents. 

Dabi is someone who could have been easily saved by his father paying attention to him, and should have been saved by the man who prides himself as the number two hero, but he was left to rot. This is a running theme with Endeavor, he’s a hero who continually fails to save his family. 

Dabi’s situation is also a metaphor for hero society at large. Who are the types of people that Hero Society prefers to save? Those who are useful to it like Hawks. It intentionally turns a blind eye to cases like Touya, Tenko  or Twice. If Touya did have burns on his arms from training but was able to cover them up just by wearing long sleeves, and Natsuo was the only one who knew then that goes even further to explain Dabi’s specific obsession with discrediting Endeavor.

If Dabi’s father had just acted like a hero, or acted like a father then he would have been saved. If Dabi’s father had noticed the person most in need of saving was right next to him, the incident where he burned to death never would have happened. Which is why Dabi’s grudge is specifically against heroes who do not act like heroes. Heroes who, cannot save anyone because they are too self involved to perform the duty of saving. He shares Stain’s obsession with ideologically pure heroes, that only heroes who put saving others selflessly over everything else should be allowed to exist and the rest are pretenders to the title.

Notice how Dabi pulls on the scars on his face when begging the people to think about this, about who should really be allowed to call themselves heroes. 

Dabi’s entire arc revolves around this question. Who are the real victims? Who are the ones that really need to be saved? Dabi is a character of mystery and subversion who is constantly hiding his real feelings. 

Dabi is commented on being heartless about Twice’s death, but his actions contradict his words. Dabi goes out of his way trying to avenge Twice even after it’s already too late to save him, even burning up his own body to do so. He tried so hard we see literally there are new scars growing on his back the next time we see him Post-War Arc. 

I’d also like to bring up that while Hawks accuses Dabi of feeling nothing about Twice’s death, Hawks is the one who killed him, and who after the fact shows no regret in his actions because he’s completely justified it to himself. He even remembers Twice like he’s some kind of old friend he took inspiration from, and not a person he manipulated into trusting him then killed. My point is it’s a reversal, Hawks is set up as the one who cares about Twice as a friend, but really was only using him. Dabi claims he was only using him, but he’s the one who showed an actual emotional reaction to Twice’s death and made an effort to save him. 

If I were to say this is one more point of foiling between Dabi and Hawks. They both don’t see themselves as victims and because of that they deny the victimhood of the other. 

Dabi accuses Hawks of becoming a murderer because his father was a murderer. Hawks when he learns the truth about Enji, takes Enji’s side over Dabi’s, believing Endeavor being the true victim in need of help in that situation. This is because Dabi and Hawks both deny their own victimhood, and they project that on each other. Dabi denies his victimhood and pretends to be the villain instead, he’s the villain who is going to take down Endeavor and therefore he’s not suffering. Hawks denies his own victimhood and his abusive past and pretends to be a hero, he’s helping Endeavor become a better hero, so therefore all the abuse Endeavor committed is in the past so therefore he doesn’t have to think about it. Both deny themselves and therefore deny any similarity in one another. 

They’re also two people fatally wrapped up in their own circumstances they turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. Dabi assumes that Shoto is “good” and therefore, must have been raised with love and had it better than him and was raised with love. Whereas Hawks assumes that Twice is “good”, and therefore worthy of saving because he helps other people. In both cases, neither Dabi nor Hawks really understand Shoto or Twice, they’re just judging them by their own projected standards. Dabi only understands his childhood as Touya desperately trying to work for Enji’s attention, so Shoto who had Enji’s attention must have had it good. Hawks was saved because of the bus accident where he saved people as a hero, so obviously it makes sense he reach out to try to save another good person who just had bad luck. 

Despite the fact that both of them are pretty much emotionally dead and in deep denial of their true feelings. 

Dabi has also made a show of how little he cares about Natsuo, while at the same time his most famous line from the pro hero arc is “overthought things and snapped...” 

Dabi is also the only one who notices it’s dangerous to bring Tokoyami onto a battlefield. This is when he asks the question, who is it who needs saving. 

We learn at around the same time, the hope from the Pro Hero arc was intentionally a set up by Dabi to bring Endeavor down, and show everyone eventually that Endeavor hadn’t truly changed. 

These are all small details yes, but keep in mind we’ve really only gotten crumbs of Dabi’s characterization so far because his perspective is one that has deliberately been kept from us. We see his past through almost everyone else’s eyes but his own - because so far the focus has been on Endeavor.

Just like Dabi set up Endeavor’s earlier success only to bring him down, this might also lead to a reversal in the narratives. In 299, Hawks believed Endeavor to be the one in need of help. We are also as an audience set up to believe that the narrative arc will focus around Endeavor’s redemption. This is before the series revealed the circumstances of his son. 

However, Endeavor and Dabi are literal opposites. They’re inversions of each other. Dabi pretends he doesn’t care any more for his family and will go out of his way to hurt them, that all he cares about is revenge, but at the same his ideals are heroic. In his actions and ideals he’s the one calling for a better society. Dabi is the most independent and distant from the league it’s true, and so far he’s denied their friendship, but at the same time it’s Dabi who is the most idealistic of the league. Shigaraki wants to destroy the current society, Himiko wants a society that’s easier on her, but it’s Dabi who has the ideals for a society he wants, one where heroes are held to standards and act like Heroes. It’s dabi better than anyone else who makes the standards for mass appeal. Because, deep down Dabi still has heroic aspirations and drive even if it comes from Stain of all people he’s inspired by. He has some sort of ideals, a world he’s trying to create.

Whereas, Endeavor doesn’t have any heroic ideals at all. His idea of being a hero has always centered around fame, status and the ranking of number one. He’s a hero unconcerned with saving people, only defeating villains to prove his strength. Endeavor presents himself outwardly as someone who is trying to do what’s best for his family, and working towards being the best hero he can be but his intentions are revealed to be selfish, at the same time as Enji’s narration is revealed as unreliable. It may have been set up for an inversion all along, with the setup being that Enji is the one who needed to redeem himself, when Dabi was pushed to the background. Around this time Rei also tried to reassure others, that he was trying to carry his regrets with him. 

However, as soon as Touya’s identity is revealed, Rei’s stance reverses. Now she properly calls out that, Enji hasn’t been carrying his regrets at al.. Instead, he’s been forcing his family to carry the burden of it while he gets to go play hero in front of the public. 

As soon as Touya is revealed to be alive, it’s not Enji who is the center and focus of conversation but rather Touya. In 299, Hawks believes that it’s Endeavor whose in need of saving, but we’re shown that Endeavor only really seems to pity himself in this situation. 

It’s Rei who shows up to remind us, who really is in need of saving in this situation. Not Endeavor but rather those who have been burned the most by Endeavor’s actions. 

Which may be the ultimate parallel between Hawks and Dabi as well, Hawks can’t see himself as a victim so he can’t realize who the victims who need his help the most is. Whereas, Dabi in the future may receive the change of heart he needs to reopen his heart again and accept others, and therefore learn to accept himself. Dabi is set up for a reconciliation between his two selves, Touya the victim and Dabi the villain. While ultimately, Hawks will intentionally turn his back on Keigo the victim, because he can only ever see himself as a hero.

 I’m not suggesting that Dabi is good or Hawks is bad, or the other way around, not something as simple as that but that Dabi is open to change, and this will lead to him eventually opening up to others. Whereas, Hawks who is given practically every opportunity to change, and even escapes killing Twice with no permanent consequences, (his wings are growing back, and he even is freed from the hero commission) chooses to support Endeavor once again. It’s Dabi who calls others to think and reevaluate, and is actively trying to create a change in the world, whereas Hawks only interest is protecting other heroes and not the victims that heroes themselves create. Because in his mind heroes are good and that fact will never change. 

Because Dabi is the one trying to create change, while Hawks continues to cling to Endeavor I believe we’ll eventually receive a reversal for both of them. Just as the narrative around Dabi has changed from irredeemable villain to person in need of saving, we may see exactly what was foreshadowed in this panel happening. Dabi walking towards the light, while Hawks falls further and further into the shadows - because it’s Dabi who is looking for that light, while Hawks chooses to remain in the dark. Hawks was saved once, and now he believes that everyone who is good gets saved, unless they are unlucky like Twice. It’s Dabi who knows the truth, that there are heroes who don’t save people, and it’s Dabi who is at least trying to confront that truth head on and change it rather than just ignoring it. 

In a way Hawks is someone who has gone blind from looking too closely at Endeavor’s light, whereas because Dabi was failed by Endeavor and fell into the shadows he at least knows the truth about what it’s like for those who don’t get saved, and unlike Hawks can’t keep deluding himself that this is a world where everyone who deserves it gets saved. 

[kingofkingdom-archive]

Your Wish Is My Command

Pairing: Maxwell Lord (WW84) X Fem!Reader

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love on my last story! I’m grateful for all the feedback and can’t wait to get back to anyone who’s replied or reblogged it or whateva. This one’s pretty different - Recovery was mainly plot with a bit of porn, this is... well, the opposite of that. ;) As always, heed the tags/warnings, and again there is no use of Y/N here.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only!)

Summary: You have a gift - a powerful, unique, dangerous gift, and King Maxwell wants to take full advantage.

You’ll let him.

Warnings: mostly smut, Maxwell being an absolute jackass (no redemption arc here folks), you encouraging and very much liking the jackassery, brief mention of abuse/trauma, greedy authoritarian behavior, kinda spoilers for ww84

Tags: semi-public sex, exhibitionism, royalty kink (?), unprotected sex, implied and/or inferred consent (i.e. not explicit but there), Maxwell’s POV (until very end), fingering, p-in-v sex, come marking

Word Count: 3.4k

"The messenger you requested, reporting back from the northern provinces, sire."

King Maxwell of the house Lord, sitting in the throne gifted to him by birthright, dismisses the servant with a wave of his hand. He's become quite irritated with the futility of his efforts concerning this matter, and therefore has little patience for further delay. The future of his lands, his wealth, his power, rests on the shoulders of these menial workers and the news they provide. It bears no repeating that should they continue to come up empty-handed, someone is going to lose their head.

He needs the girl, and then it will be sealed. He will crush all opposition and assert his dominance over the entire region, coast to coast.

The messenger, a boy no more than 15, scurries into the room. His hair is tousled under his cap, which he hastily removes in the presence of the king. He bows, deeply and with a flourish, before standing upright.

Max watches with disinterest, legs spread over the velvet seat and head resting on his fist. His rings dig into his temple.

"We believe we've found her, sire."

That grabs his attention. He sits forward, both hands gripping the arms of his throne.

"You believe you have? Have you or have you not?"

The boy swallows, growing pale. "We-we have, your majesty. It's just, uh, we-we can't p-p-prove it's her until she demonstrates the gift."

The king groans, rolling his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face. These people are impossible.

"Where is she, then? Have you at least brought her along?"

The boy nods frantically. "Yes, your majesty. She's been quartered in the guest wing, with two guards to watch her."

Immediately, Maxwell stands. Everyone in the room looks up at him, and he adjusts his sleeves. The boy is nearly trembling.

"Well, then take me to her," he orders, and the boy hesitates.

"Now!"

The messenger boy practically trips over his own feet in haste to correct his error. He sets a quick pace to the guest wing in order to account for the king's long strides, head bowed and arms stiff as he does so.

The room is located to the east of that which houses his throne, on the third floor, overlooking the orchards. Maxwell follows the boy, wooden-soled shoes echoing on the gleaming marble floors of his palace. Mirrors line each hallway, along with fine art ranging from rare vases to family portraits. 

Maxwell sees the door as soon as they turn a corner, identifiable by the armored men who stand at either side of it. The boy stops and gestures to the door with a shaking hand.

"Just in here, y-"

"I can see that," the king barks, ignoring the boy completely. "You are dismissed."

He hears footsteps retreat quickly down the hall as he checks his appearance in a mirror. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkled seam in sight. The king sighs, smiling as he admires himself. He takes a moment before turning to the door, the door that hides behind it wealth and prosperity like nothing he's ever known.

The guards simply bow as he approaches them. Maxwell knocks twice on the door and pushes it open.

Inside there is a single room, with a bed and chest of drawers and a vanity. There is a balcony, with glass French doors, through which he can see the shape of a woman standing and looking out over the scenery. 

She leans one hip against the stone railing, and as Maxwell walks forward he can see that she holds a goblet of wine in one hand. Her dress flows in the light summer breeze, and her hair is decorated in intricate braids, ribbon laced throughout.

The girl does not see him, yet. He stands in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, watching her.

"Is it true?" he asks, after he's looked his fill. 

The young woman starts, a gasp escaping her lips. She turns to look towards the voice she has heard and startles again, seeing the king himself staring quite intently at her.

"Your majesty," she breathes, a smile ghosting across her lips. She bows deeply and then looks up at him, eyes bright and playful.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear. I've heard many... extraordinary things about you."

Maxwell is immediately taken with her. Not only is she quite beautiful, despite her pauper's clothing, but she is one of few who have not reacted to him with fear or malice. Most begin shaking when they see his face; she, however, seems quite happy to see him.

"Oh, sire, the pleasure is entirely mine," she responds, voice soft, like music to Max's ears. "What things could you have heard about someone as lowly as I?" Her words are humble, but he senses a hint of teasing in them - as though she knows exactly what he's heard, but just wants him to say it.

"You are rumored to possess a very unique skill, one that I am most interested in learning about." He plays along, because her elusiveness frustrates him much less when she's right in front of him.

The king is a very visual man. 

He steps forward, fully onto the balcony now. She backs up until her back hits the railing, smile never leaving her face, even as the king crowds into her.

"I possess many skills which I would be happy to demonstrate to you," she says, and Max does not miss the meaning she intends to convey in those words. His eyes darken, his blood running hot at the thought of the many things she could give him. The things he could take from her willingly, without the hassle of a fight.

"It is said that you grant wishes," he murmurs, looking down at her. Max finds he quite likes this view, her looking up to her king. "One must only touch you and state their wish, and it will be so."

The girl chuckles, and daringly takes a sip of her wine. Maxwell grins, before reaching a hand up and grabbing the wine from her grasp. He tosses the liquid out over the ground below and carelessly throws the goblet over the edge to follow its contents.

The girl does not bat an eye.

"What you have heard," she mutters, eyes slipping down to his lips and back up again, "is true."

The king runs his hand up her side, settling at her ribs just beside her breast, savoring the way she shivers at his touch. His fingers splay out over the bare skin of her back, warm and soft and hinting at more.

 He dips his head down so that his nose brushes against hers, mouths nearly touching.

"Is there a limit," he breathes, because he knows he must ask this, "to your generosity, my dear?"

The girl smiles, placing a hand on his bicep. Her small fingers feel divine against him, even there.

"No," she whispers back. 

Maxwell hums, stroking his thumb idly along her warm, soft skin. He needs to confirm that she's telling the truth, as tempting as it is to believe her outright. The way she's looking at him... she'd let him do anything to her. The thought is as enticing as it is dangerous. 

"I wish to find a raven's feather in my shirt pocket," he says, and then feels a slight breeze on the back of his neck.

The king reaches into his pocket, and his fingers brush against exactly the object he wished for. He pulls it out to show the girl. She smiles and runs a hand up to his shoulder, resting her wrist there. His loose linen shirt, which flutters lightly in the wind against his tanned skin, is perfect for a summer's day like this - and when he feels the warmth of her hand through it he thanks his past self for selecting it this morning.

"What a remarkable gift you have," he comments, and tucks the feather behind her ear.

An endearing blush rises to her cheeks, and though she ignores it, the king takes notice. "Thank you, your majesty."

At that moment, an idea forms in his mind. It's devious, downright lecherous and more the act of some tavern drunkard than a king, but she is sure to react well, if he's gauged her correctly. 

"You said there's no limit on the wishes you can grant a single person?"

"Yes, sire. I did."

A smirk forms on the king's face. "Then I wish, my dear, for you to be naked."

The wind around them picks up again and the girl gasps. In the blink of an eye, her plain, beige dress has disappeared, leaving nothing behind. She is a vision, bare and beautiful in the midday light like this.

Maxwell is immediately hard. Not only is there a gorgeous, naked woman before him, but his absolute, unlimited power has just been confirmed and lies at his fingertips. He is unstoppable now, now that he has her.

The girl's hands fly up to grasp at his shoulders as his own trace over her curves. Her hips, her waist, her thighs - one of which he brings up to hook around his own hip - all of it is open and shimmering before him. 

"They said - in my village, they said you are a monster," she says, though her words trail off into a moan as one of the king's hands finds her breast. He tugs at her nipple, squeezing and pulling at the supple flesh, drawing sweet sounds from her pink mouth.

"Is that so?"

She nods. "I would look at your portraits and - and think... I'd think, no... no man so handsome could be so evil."

The king laughs, dipping his head to lick at her neck. She tosses her head back, giving him full access to the elegant column of her throat. 

"And even... even if you are what they said... I don't - I don't care."

Maxwell groans just as she says it, biting a bruise into the junction between her shoulder and neck. He trails bites and kisses down her collarbones, leaving his marks across her unblemished skin.

"I am," he murmurs into her ear, smoothing a hand over her stomach so that his middle finger comes to glide over the thick hair that covers her mound. He dips it into her folds, rubbing softly at the wet, slippery flesh there until she moans, high-pitched and needy. He grins, licking his tongue into the shell of her ear.

"I am a monster, my dear," he whispers.  "Every vile thing they said about me is true. And... I wish to fill my personal vaults with triple the gold. I wish to increase my fleets tenfold, with loyal soldiers to match. I wish to never see you leave these palace grounds so long as I live."

The wind picks up considerably around them. The king presses a finger against her opening, hot and dripping for him, and slides it in. Her moans are heavenly, loud and unashamed as he violates her in the open, where anyone could look up and see them. Her cunt opens for his finger, the gold and precious jewels of his rings swallowed by her sweet embrace. Her hands grip at his neck while her leg draws him closer. He adds a second, and it enters just as easily.

The king begins to fuck her with his fingers, watching as the muscles in her stomach tense and her eyes go glassy with the feeling.

"I wish to never be challenged by anyone for the throne," he grunts out. The girl moans at his words, and he realizes that she likes it. Not just the way he's touching her, but that he's making his wishes as he does it. He grins at her, predatory, and cups her ass with the hand not currently knuckle-deep in her pussy. His fingers dig in, sharp and strong and unyielding, surely leaving bruises in their wake.

"You like granting my wishes, darling? You enjoy giving me power, worshipping your king?"

She nods, mouth half-open. "Yes, your majesty." Her voice is breathy, the sound of it nearly knocking him out with the way it draws blood from his brain to his cock.

Speaking of which.

Maxwell thrusts a third finger into her cunt, the stretch made easy by the slick leaking out of her profusely. She wails, hands scrabbling at his neck and shoulders and back and the collar of his shirt. 

"Take me out," he orders, and she pauses to look at him, confused. "Take me out of my trousers, my dear. Feel how hard I am for you."

She gasps and her hands fly down to the button at the crotch of his pants. Quickly she fumbles it open, and his hard member pushes up into her palms. The girl gives the king's dick a squeeze, and he grits his teeth, moaning.

"I wish to claim all of the lands in the south as my own. I wish to have loyal subjects in every village and town, that no one may ever defy me again. I wish to have any traitors killed without question."

The girl's moans have increased again as she rubs and caresses his cock. Her hands disappear for a moment as she leans back, licking a long stripe from her wrist to fingertips, and returns to her task. 

Maxwell groans, dropping his head forward to press his nose against her skin, breathing in. She smells faintly of lavender, a crop that grows abundantly in the north, sweet and fresh. His tongue darts out to lick away a drop of sweat that rolls down her collarbone. Her hands squeeze and pull at his cock, thumbing at the head and slit and dipping down to fondle his balls on every other stroke.

It feels positively exquisite, but he wants to put his dick to use elsewhere. Somewhere tighter, warmer, wetter. 

The king removes his fingers, drawing a whine from the girl. The noise of it is obscene in itself, squelching and sticky as her cunt tries to cling to his fingers and the jewels that adorn them. He chuckles, lifts his head to meet her gaze, and brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks away her essence. She watches, rapt, as he makes sure to get every inch of the three digits that were inside her. The sight of it makes her keen, high pitched noises spilling out of her lips and eyes watering with desperation and need for him.

The king laughs, the taste of her on his tongue. Someday, he swears, he'll taste this sweet nectar straight from the source.

Now is not the time.

He brings his spit-soaked hand down to his red, throbbing cock, giving it a few strokes. His other hand slips up to grasp her waist. The girl lifts her leg further, resting her heel against his ass, helping him to guide his length into her.

"What else do you wish for, my king?" she asks, just as the head of his cock notches at her opening. With a grunt, Max pushes in.

Her words, combined with the feeling of her pussy stretched around his dick, causes his vision to blur and images to flash in his mind of what's now possible with her gift at his disposal. He pushes in further, drawing another moan from deep within her throat.

"I wish... I wish..."

"Your wildest fantasies, my king..." she urges, grip tightening on his neck and shoulder. "Anything is possible. What do you -- oh!"

As her words soak into his skin, he pushes in further and further, until his balls are nestled squarely at her ass. She's pushing him to take, rather than to give, unlike so many who surround him. It breathes fire into his veins, this woman who's encouraging him to do all the selfish, power-hungry things he'd do anyway, all while he fucks into her like this.

The king draws out and pushes back in in one smooth motion, stealing the breath from her lungs. He presses his lips against hers as he speaks, as he sets a rough pace, fucking her into the stone railing.

"I wish to never fall ill or suffer injury in battle. I wish to have the unwavering allegiance of every foreign leader, and that they will defer to me in all international affairs. I wish for my reign to be the longest this nation has ever seen. I wish to live longer than any other man, and I wish to have you here at my disposal for the entirety of my long life. I wish to never succumb to old age."

By now, the wind is tossing her hair and whistling around them, but Maxwell does not care. He's thrusting into her roughly, recklessly now, and all he can hear are her sweet, delicious moans. Her pussy clenches his cock just so, and he sees nearly sees stars at the feeling. Her tits bounce as he fucks into her, her nudity on full display but only to be taken advantage of by him.

Maxwell adjusts his grip on her waist and thigh, maneuvering her around so that now he's taking her from behind. She leans forward on the railing, looking out over the palace grounds.

"Isn't it beautiful, darling?" he breathes, gripping her ass cheeks now, pumping in and out with increased fervor. "Looking out onto your lands, as far as the eye can see..."

She merely responds with moans, punched out of her with each thrust, and Maxwell feels her cunt throb in a way that tells him her orgasm is imminent. He reaches a hand around and searches for her clit, knowing he finds it when she shouts out. He rubs a finger against the sensitive, pulsing nub until she comes apart, writing and screaming on his cock.

Max feels his own climax approaching, and just before he tips over the edge, he withdraws his cock. Taking himself in hand, he strokes a few times and cums directly onto her ass and lower back, marking her up with his potent, royal seed.

Chest heaving, the king runs his hands through his own semen as it cools on the girl's backside. He rubs it into her skin like a masseuse might a fragrant oil.

Maxwell steps back, admiring his conquest. The girl is still leaning against the railing, head bowed and naked as the day she was born.

"I wish for you to be my queen."

The words are a surprise even to him, though he's not shocked at his own impulsivity; that is a trait of his that has followed him from childhood onward.

The girl turns to look at him.

"You have to be touching me for it to work, sire." She doesn't sound angry with him, which is a relief, though he'd never show it.

"I know, my dearest. I wish it, but I won't compel you."

At that she turns to face him fully. She's got that fucked-out look on her face, to be sure, but now there's something else in her eyes.

"Are you asking me to marry you, King Maxwell?" Her smile is sly, something befitting a woman of much higher status than herself. It makes his cock twitch in a valiant effort to get hard again.

"I suppose so."

"In that case, my answer is yes," she says, and pulls him in by his shirt collar for a searing kiss.

-

The next morning, you wake up sore in an unfamiliar bed.

You look around for a moment, taking in the luxurious decor and faint smell of roses, until you remember where you are. Who you are, now.

Your head rests not on a pillow - something much warmer than that. It rises and falls softly, and then you realize there's a weight around your waist that feels distinctly like an arm. Lifting your head just slightly, you see the king himself asleep above you, face soft and youthful in rest.

As you lay your head down on his chest to fall back asleep, you can't help but think of the people back in your village. The horrors you endured at their hands once they learned of your gift. The nightmares you still have because of what they did.

You think of how much they suffer under the rule of the king - of your husband - and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

[shurisneakers]

shut in [3]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, ptsd, fighting over beds

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: every part i introduce more anonymous characters smh. i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Don’t make me shoot you, Wilson.”

“It doesn’t have to end this way, agent.”

“How’s it looking out there?”

“There’s been some talk. Apparently Serpentine isn’t very happy that their intel is dead. They’ve got people looking out for you everywhere.”

A frown adorned your face. Sam was leaning forward on his arms, head turned down as he listened to Ransone.

“How dangerous is it?”

“I would say that everyone’s a little wound up. Best not to go anywhere even a little populated.”

“Noted.” It would blow over in a while. The media coverage of Pierce’s assassination would die down with the changing news cycle soon.

“I can have someone pick you up wherever you are. Just tell me where.” 

“Don’t bother. We won’t be here for too long,” you responded, Sam nodding in agreement. Once it quietened down you could leave, go back to Ransone without blowing your cover.

“Whatever makes you happy. Just let me know when you’re out.”

The click of the call ending took with it the only noise in the room.

Sam picked up the phone to remove the battery, discarding it to maintain your security. Burner phones were useful, but you didn’t want to take any chances.

“Wait,” you cut in, holding your hand out for it, “I need to make another call.”

The both of you were seated at the dining table. A piece of paper lay in front of you, playing the dangerous role of being the mediator. 

You were trying to ration out your supplies and create a schedule as a way of finding middle ground. Things were more or less calm for the last two days, but the fight over the bedroom was wading into territory that could only be solved by a good old middle school fistfight.

Currently you were figuring out a meal plan so that you could establish some kind of routine. With bread as the only uniting factor, the other three components were going on a rotation. You had reached all the way till Saturday before running out of possible combinations.

“I’m just saying-”

“Don’t.”

“We’ve exhausted all edible options, it’s the only combination left-”

“I will not hesitate to fatally wound you.” You were only half kidding. The ridiculousness of the ideas he was proposing was entertaining, and you knew he wasn’t being serious. It was hard to catch a moment where he was. 

“Fine. But in case we get to the point where peanut butter and jelly is the only thing that’s left, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

“I would rather die than shovel spoonfuls of plain jelly and peanut butter into my mouth.”

“Your survival game is weak,” he chided, tsk-tsking at you.

You only rolled your eyes at him, moving on to the next subject.

Bed.

“Easy, we just alternate days. You got the last two days, so I get the next two and then we just switch everyday.” Sam eased back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head leisurely.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” you asked, writing down the plan he had just presented. The bed wasn’t queen sized with memory foam or any kind of privilege like that, but it definitely beat the couch with its odd lumps and depressions.

“A week tops. Anything more is just excessive.”

“Hello,” you said, voice low, even though you were well out of earshot of Sam. He was eying you from the living room window. If he was as good as he claimed he was, he’d know how to read lips and you couldn’t afford to have him do that.

“Code?”

You turned your back to the window, facing the large trees that loomed before you. “1993. It’s me.”

“Y/N?” He sounded suspicious, a little shocked, and you understood why he would be.

“Living and breathing.” You toed at a rock that lay ahead of you.

“Word on the street is that you’re dead,” he pointed out dryly.

“Not me; Pierce. I escaped. It was a trap.” When the rock you were playing around with escaped after a particularly hard kick, you started pacing up and down instead, “Ransone put a hit out on him because he thought he was leaking information.”

“How on earth did he come to that conclusion?”

“Don’t know. He was dead before we got there.”

“Who is ‘we’? You got someone there with you?” You didn’t realise it had slipped out during your conversation. 

“Another one of our guys. Apparently I was a backup in case he didn’t show up, but he did, so now we’re stuck together.” You averted your gaze to Sam who was still observing you from the window brazenly, intently. 

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe.” 

“Alright.” He sounded like he understood, albeit not entirely convinced. “Stay low.”

“Will do.”

With that you hung up the call, dropped the phone to the ground and crushed it under your boot heel. When you were convinced that it was sufficiently useless, you turned on your heel, making your way back.

You walked back into the house, beelining to the kitchen to make up for your missed lunch, only to be greeted with Sam sitting on the couch looking at you inquisitively.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody,” you answered straightforwardly, opening the cabinet to get two slices of bread.

“If it has somethin’ to do with this situation we’re in then I need to know who you’re talking to.”

“Just drop it. It has nothing to do with you.” You found the jar of peanut butter he had already opened, using a butter knife to spread it along the bread.

“Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you must. I’m going to take a nap,” you answered evasively, chewing absentmindedly on the sandwich you had just made. You didn’t bother to look at him as you headed towards the bedroom.

“Hey now, hold on a minute. Who said you had bedroom privileges? You’ve been using it for two days.” You stopped in your tracks, face scrunching in annoyance. “If you’re keeping vital information about my life from me, then I think I deserve to not have a fuckin’ backache when I wake up in the morning.”

You quickly weighed the pros and cons in your head, imagining how the next few minutes would pan out if you just said ‘no’ and left. But in every imaginary argument you proposed, the bottom line ended with him prodding at you until he either got the information that he wanted or the bed.

Frankly, the bed was something you were willing to sacrifice to get him to stop meddling in your business. It seemed like the only reasonable way to get him off your ass.

“Fine.” You spun around to face him. “We’re making an arrangement.”

“Whoever has the bed has to forfeit TV privileges for that day.”

“Sounds reasonable. None of those three movies can be played more than twice in a row.”

That was more to preserve your sanity than anything. You had already seen each of them once, bordering on thrice for Die Hard. Sam’s fault, not yours.

“We should have a codeword. In case there's danger or something. Or maybe if you just want to be left alone,” Sam suggested, finger pointing to the blank space left at the end of the paper. “But it’ll be like solitary confinement since it’s so fuckin’ quiet here.”

Almost on instinct your mind flashed to images of dark cells. Quiet sobs. Blood stains on the wall, originating from clawing at it. Sunlight through one small window at the top. Utter loneliness except for yourself.

You could remember the soreness in your legs from curling up into a ball for hours, rocking back and forth. The smell of drain water collecting in the basement where the cell was.

Isolation.

“You got any suggestions?”

“Huh?” You forced yourself back to the present. Your knuckles had a dull ache in them from holding the pencil too hard.

“Do you have any ideas for a codeword?” Sam repeated, looking at you intently.

“No, nothing off the top of my head.” You shook your head, trying to regain focus. You loosened your grip on the pencil, letting it fall to the table.

“We’ll just leave it at ‘Brooklyn’ for the time being.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed to whatever he was saying. It was just a precaution in case something major happened. It was rather unlikely that you were going to use it anyway. 

Codewords weren’t uncommon in your business, but it was mostly used for missions or other professional standings. Regardless of being less adventurous than what you tended to work on, this was work at the end of the day. 

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, I think we’re done.” His chair scraped loudly against the ground as he got up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a while. Need to shake off the possible osteoporosis.”

You didn’t bother asking where he was going, ears following his footsteps as he walked down the hall to the bedroom, probably to get his jacket that he hung up in the drawer.

You left the paper on top of the mini fridge, alongside the car keys and a few dollars you had nabbed in the hurry from Pierce’s house.

Staring around you at the silent room, you realised that there really wasn’t much to do. It wasn’t like you to have so much time on your hands. You could always go for a run or test out some of the weapons hidden here. 

You had the rest of the house to explore, plans to draw up, a post mortem to assess what went wrong on the mission, even though the last option wasn’t possible without Sam’s cooperation.

Fuck it, you decided. Couch it is.

Kicking your feet up, you grabbed the TV remote to flip to the news station. The town rarely had anything to report on but it would be worthwhile to know what exactly was available around. Possibly assimilate in the crowd in case you wanted to be hidden.

It took you a few minutes of mindless surfing through static channels till you found it. It seemed like a scene right out of a Hallmark movie; the reporter was holding a microphone to a child who looked like he understood nothing of what was going on.

You were barely paying attention as it flipped from segment to segment, other things taking precedence in your mind even though you willed yourself to relax. There really wasn’t much to make a note of other than a few good samaritans and how utterly boring the lack of content was. A few occasional glimpses of stores and other resources available in the background were the only interesting part.

You were starting to drift off by the time it reached the breaking news of the evening. Sam had already come back when the sky slipped into twilight. He barely acknowledged your form lazing on the couch, only offering you a greeting and a goodbye as he made himself his dinner to take to the room.

Your eyes were just about closing when the breaking news of that evening came in. It was all politics. People you knew from old missions waving and smiling their way to lead their country as if the dubious acts they committed behind the scenes to get there was erased.

Until you suddenly jolted awake, eyes wide open.

“Wilson. Wilson!” You hit the cushion furiously to get his attention when he didn’t respond the first time around.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“What?” he yelled in response, mild irritation in his voice. You knew it sounded like you were shouting bloody murder even though no one was around other than you two, but you didn’t care.

“Look at this!” You couldn’t stop gawking at the screen. “Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“What? What do you wa-” He stalked into the room, ready to tell you to stop yelling but stopped mid sentence when he finally saw what you were so concerned about.

“Reports claim that the victim was attacked early in the afternoon at his villa. Officers say they found multiple signs of a forced entry, following which he was shot dead. So far no arrests have been made but the police have since released photos of two suspects of whom, they claim, have reason to believe orchestrated the attack.”

On the right side of the screen flashed yours and Sam’s picture side by side. Old mugshots from a petty offence you committed years ago for which Ransone bailed you out.

“The pair are said to be on the run after escaping before law enforcement arrived. If you have any tips on the whereabouts of-”

You turned to look at Sam. His stare didn’t budge from the TV as they once again reminded the public what you both looked like.

Years of anonymity, working in the shadows and creeping around to avoid being recognised only to have the entire country know what you looked like.

“Well, shit,” he finally exhaled. “Somehow I think our stay here just got extended.”

Part 4

[lcksndkys]

Title: Here for you 

Pairing: PJM x reader

Rating: SFW

Genre: fwb au meets hospital au

Word count: 1,475

Summary: after an especially hard day at work, Jimin tries to comfort you, except you don't seem to respond to his usual tactics. 

Warnings: imposter syndrome, a penis wiggle, discussions of medical complications but no death, implied smut

A/N: Hi, all!! There’s a bit of medical lingo. Resident= a physician who practices under the supervision of an attending physician. Attendings= doctors who have completed a residency, and supervise residents. Med surg= medical surgical unit/floor of the hospital where patients are generally, but not limited to, those recovering from some type of surgery. PE/pulmonary embolism= an emergent medical condition where there is a blood clot in the arteries that supply the lungs.

Also, this was written as part of the ghostie drabble marathon with the prompt: Character A gets emotional easily. Character B does not. A catches B crying alone and realizes that they never learned how to comfort B since they were usually the one getting comforted. Please drop a line, anything you want, to let me know what you think!!

You feel like an idiot. 

Head in your hands with your eyes squeezed shut, you inhale slow and deep to calm your stuttering breaths. 

Inhale, pause, exhale. Repeat.

You refuse to break down while at work. Doctors didn’t have that kind of luxury and you can’t sit here forever (even if a small part of you wants to).

Hands braced on the cold, hard concrete of the hospital's dingy stairwell, you're ready to continue with morning rounds when the door suddenly opens.

Fluorescent light floods the dimly lit stairwell.

“Dr. Lee’s lookin for you,” comes Jimin’s concerned voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper at being caught crying like a scared first year intern. You swipe under your eyes, erasing any trace of wetness and avoiding Jimin’s worried gaze. 

“Yeah, I was just- just going down for coffee. I’ll come right back up to med surg” you sputter. You’re nowhere near the cafeteria.

His dark eyes meet yours briefly. Two years of friendship and casual hooking up has him believing he knows you better than most. He knows when you’re lying.

 You make a quick exit, pushing past Jimin, refusing to make eye contact. Heading down towards the cafeteria to keep up pretenses, you decide maybe you do need the extra caffeine. 

Coffee in hand and hearing the death march ringing in your head, you dread meeting with your attending. 

Dr. Lee is a stern, but fair, mentor. She scolds you harshly for your mistake and then gently reminds you that this case will stay with you for the duration of your medical career. She promises you won’t let yourself make the same mistake twice. You hope she’s right.

By the end of the day, you’re feeling wretched. Having worked 80+ hours this week has exhausted you mentally, emotionally, and physically. 

You head to the staff changing rooms not noticing the figure following you. Angrily pulling off your scrub top, you pause at the soft knock at the door.

“It’s me,” comes the quiet of Jimin’s soothing lilt.

In your bra and scrub pants, you crack open the door and peer around him confirming that he’s alone. Opening the door wide enough to slip his lithe body between the cracks, you sigh.  “What do you want, Jimin”

“You had a rough day. I wanted to make you feel better” he rasps, winding his arms around you and pressing his body into yours. 

He easily crowds you against the door, one hand slithering around your waist, the other discreetly locking it.

Mouth slotting against yours, you part your lips wider to allow him to press his tongue to yours. You moan into his kiss, letting him tilt your head, deepening the angle. His hands wander the expanse of your exposed back, down your hips, and landing on the swell of your ass where he palms at the soft flesh.

He kisses you like it’s the last time every time. Ardently and enthusiastically, like he can’t get enough of you. It takes your breath away. 

You give yourself a moment to enjoy his affection, sliding your hands under his scrubs to scratch lightly against the soft skin of his abdominals before pushing him back with a firm hand against his chest. You pretend you don’t feel the rapid thrumming of his heart under your palm. 

“Not tonight, Jimin” you pant. 

You can’t get fully out of your head and into Jimin. Not right now. He lets you withdraw from him with worried eyes. 

The past two years have been hard, but your unforeseen friendship (turned fwb status in the last year) with Jimin has been a nice bonus. He made you laugh, he talked you up to the other nurses and your superiors, he made you cum, (he made your heart race, but you’d never tell him that). You were focused on completing your orthopedic residency and Jimin had hesitantly agreed that there were to be no strings. 

You hastily finish changing, stuffing your scrubs into your bag and making for the door.

Before you can hustle down the hallway and away from the sterile white of the hospital, you’re stopped by a firm, yet gentle, hand around your wrist. With a light tug you’re falling right back into his arms.

“It’s not your fault. You’re a great doctor” he insists, holding you close and pressing his forehead against yours.

Word gets around fast.

You scoff, tearing out of Jimin’s hold. 

Great doctor? A second year resident and you still feel like you’re flying by the seat of your pants. You don’t belong here.

“Shortness of breath, coughing, fatigue, recent surgical procedure, chest pain, lightheadedness when ambulating with physical therapy” you tick each off on your fingers. “Classic signs of a PE, Jimin, and I missed them all” you spit. 

The nurse shrinks back at your harsh words. After two years of friendship- and in Jimin’s opinion, more- he’s never seen you like this. Jimin has always been the emotional one; tenderhearted and in need of comfort after rough days. He’s always turned to you for that. 

“We caught it in time though. He’s gonna be fine” Jimin tries, trying to hold you closer.

Your brow furrows in frustration. He doesn’t get it.

“He could have died!” you burst. A patient could have died because you didn’t catch it when he threw a pulmonary embolism. “Stop trying to pretend you know what I’m thinking!”

At your venomous words, Jimin backs away. “I-I didn’t. I’m sorry. I only wanted to comfort you.” 

Eyes tight and biting his lip, he takes one last look at you before retreating back to his unit. 

You sigh, disappointed in yourself. But you have the next two blessed days off. Hopefully by then, you’ll have grown the nerve to apologize to Jimin for blowing up at him. 

Washing up and throwing your dirty scrubs in the laundry, you curl into your bed, finally allowing yourself to cry.

On day two, your phone pings with a notification. You see that Jimin has sent you a snapchat. 

Intrigued, you tap open the icon and-

Jimin is standing in front of his bathroom mirror- cheeks rosy, hair pushed back to expose his neatly trimmed undercut, ends dripping wet- covered only by a towel hanging from the base of his very erect penis. 

He must’ve just finished showering as you clearly see the beads of water running down his exposed neck and chest in rivers to undoubtedly pool on his bright orange bath mat. 

One hand is holding his phone, the other is waving into the mirror as he repeatedly clenches his pelvic floor muscles to make his rigid cock wiggle in greeting.

“Miss you,” comes his angelic voice.

He continues slowly waving, towel-covered cock bobbing in time with his hand as if purposely synchronized. 

“I hope you’re feeling better today” he says earnestly with a goofy smile.

You cackle at his antics, feeling your mood boost instantaneously. 

Eyes trained on his figure, you try to imprint this short video to the backs of your eyelids. It’s over as quickly as it began, video disappearing. 

Reciprocating, you snap back a shot of your body covered in nothing but his oversized shirt. Then, you open your texts and arrange for Jimin to meet you in an hour at your apartment. 

Waiting for his arrival, you pull out your favorite lube and some condoms in preparation. 

When your doorbell rings, you’re already worked up and ready for him to pound you into your mattress. 

Fixing your lips to his with a soft groan in greeting, you pull him towards your bedroom and pin him down onto the bed. 

You’re both panting when you break away from his plush lips to kiss down the column of his throat.

Jimin purrs beneath you, unable to resist the soft pull of your lips against his sensitive flesh.

“Shit, I wasn’t planning on-” he pulls back from you, eyes glazed with desire. “I just wanted to be here for you and make sure you- that we- were ok.”

You stare down at him. “Jimin. I’m sitting on your half hard cock, trying to apologize, and you’re talking right through it” you chuckle. 

He stops you as you lean in again. He’s serious.

“I mean… I also wanted to tell you," he looks shyly up at you. "You’re the only person I’ve been hooking up with,” he quietly admits. “I don’t want anyone else”

You gulp. Have you been stupidly exclusive this whole time? 

“Same,” you whisper, meeting his excited eyes with your confession. 

“So, then, this- you and me- it’s real?” he asks again with an endearing rouge to his cheeks. 

You look into his hopeful gaze and can’t resist him. 

“Ask me again after you take me out on a real date,” you agree easily as his eyes crinkle with happiness, beaming up at you.

[oddnub-eye]

The Emer Post

Emer, wife of Cú Chulainn, is fucking rad. Personally, she’s one of my favorite characters in the Ulster Cycle, tied only with Cú Chulainn himself. And this makes sense, given that, at least in my readings, they seem to parallel each other in several ways.

The build up to the introduction of Emer seems to emphasize this, “Cuchulaind said that no woman should go with him but she who was his equal in age and shape and race, and skill and deftness, who was the best handworker of all the maidens in Erin”. The buildup to Emer emphasizes that she is more or less “his equal in her own fields”. Where Cú Chulainn has established himself as the best of the best of warriors, he seeks a wife who is the best of the best among them, with Emer fulfilling those conditions. Their actual “introductions” parallel each other. Emer is introduced with her foster-sisters, the daughters of the lords around Forgall’s dun. She appears to be the leader of the group, as she is teaching them, teaching being a position that implies more experience, or superiority. This is similar to how Cú Chulainn’s interactions with the boy-troop of Ulster is described in The Boyhood Deeds of Cú Chulainn; Cú Chulainn defeating all the other boys in the games they play, and taking them under his protection, proving himself to be the best of the bunch. They both, at separate points, are established as “the best” of their given fields and the best among their peers.

This shared superiority in their fields and abilities is reaffirmed in Bricriu’s Feast. While the major plotline and events of the story focus around Cú Chulainn fighting over the “Champion’s Portion” with Conall Cernach and Loegaire, Emer competes with their wives in a battle of words to try and claim who is the best. Emer takes the opportunity to assert her superiority and that she is the “the standard of women, in figure, in grace, in wisdom; None my equal in beauty, for I am a picture of graces...”. As if to be a visual metaphor of Emer winning, where Conall and Loegaire lift one of the building's pillars to allow their wives to enter the house, Cú Chulainn lifts the entire house off its foundations, “till the stars of heaven were to be seen under the wattle.”

Emer, however, did not view Cú Chulainn in the same favor or equivalence that he saw in her. When Cú Chulainn approached her for marriage, she did not immediately agree to his conditions, laying her three famous marriage conditions, “until he has killed a hundred men at every ford from Scenmenn ford on the river Albine, to Banchung - the “Woman’s Yoke” that can hold a hundred”, “until he has done the feat of the salmon-leap carrying twice his weight in gold, and struck down three groups of nine men in one stroke, leaving the middle man of each nine unharmed,” and “who hasn’t gone sleepless from Samain, when summer goes to its rest, until Imbolc, when the ewes are milked at spring’s beginning.”

She does come around after Cú Chulainn agrees to attempt to fulfill these conditions, even shooting down her father’s attempts to marry her off to Lugaid. She also marries Cú Chulainn after he fulfills her marriage conditions.

Arguably, Emer’s shining moment as a character comes in Serglige Con Culainn, otherwise known as The Wasting Sickness of Cú Chulainn. Which seems strange at the outset, considering that it's arguably the story where she’s at her most unlikable. Most versions of Serglige Con Culainn you can find are pieced together from two separate tellings, with the role of “Emer” being filled by the woman Ethne in the first half. However, Emer begins to be used in the back half as the primary character, and arguably is the protagonist over Cú Chulainn for this portion of the story. And in this half after Emer starts being used, much of her actions don’t come off as those of a particularly likable or even those of a character we would deem as “in the right”; for the some-odd year her husband has been suffering wasting sickness, she’s not been by his side (Ethne was described as such, but Emer explicitly needs to be fetched from Emain Macha by Laeg), she shames Laeg (who traveled to the otherworld to seek information about curing Cú Chulainn) for not returning with a cure, she badmouths the Ulsterman who had stayed by Cú Chulainn’s side for not fixing the problem, she shames Cú Chulainn for “lying prostrate for a woman’s love” despite knowing their was fae bullshit and involved, and then, in probably the crowning moment of “what the fuck” in the story, despite spurring Cú Chulainn to go to Fand, and knowing full well that Fand both beat wasting sickness into her husband and that Fand wants to marry Cú Chulainn, reacts rather violently when she finds out about the tryst between Fand and Cú Chulainn.

Let me repeat this for emphasis. Emer knows that Fand wants her husband’s hand in marriage, having established that as a consequence of him doing what he needs to do to free himself from the wasting sickness, shames Cú Chulainn for having wasting sickness, sends him to Fand, and then reacts violently when all of that ends exactly how you think it does.

However, the interesting thing is, Emer is not portrayed as incorrect, foolish, or negative in any way for that. In fact, it is instead another thing meant to establish Emer as “the bestest wife”. She is “the hero” of this part of the story. In her debate with Cú Chulainn regarding Fand, Emer wins. She’s the one with the most iconic line of the story “Yet fair seems all that's red; seems white what's new alone; and bright what's set o'erhead; and sour are things well known…”

And this is because Emer isn’t actually meant to be the sole hero of this story. Indeed, we are supposed to sympathize with Fand in her plight as well. That is why the detail of Fand’s dissatisfaction in her marriage with Manannan is included. We are supposed to sympathize with Emer for Fand’s interference and her life, and her response to Fand’s status as a threat to her position, as well as sympathizing with the plight of Fand and how it isn’t necessarily wrong of her to seek Cú Chulainn. Fand’s love for Cú Chulainn is equated to Emer’s in the text, shown through both of their attempts to yield him to the other. Likewise, both Emer and Fand are established as “ideal wives”, described as having the traits of one, for the sake of both Cú Chulainn’s arguments to Emer, and to further drive home how both Fand and Emer are meant to be viewed as sympathetic. It is something that is driven home even further when Fand confronts Manannan, reminding him of her status as “the bestest wife” echoing Emer’s assertion to Cú Chulainn during the actual conflict of the story.

A minor thing that’s intriguing about this is how it almost seems to mirror the “myth moral gap” that is present in so many other stories about ancient heroes. The values these heroes adhere to are different from ours, and this is present across nearly all ancient stories. Emer and Fand’s “hero-like” position in this tale proves no different; beating wasting sickness into the object of your affection, shaming your partner for getting his ass beat, badmouthing the people who stayed by his side when you did not would hardly be considered behaviors of a “good” partner, much less supposedly the “best of the best”. But, they are not framed as slights against Emer or Fand within Serglige Con Culainn.

Emer is fucking rad. She’s a pretty interesting character, via her parallels to Cú Chulainn and her proactivity across various stories; even appearing as what could be described as “the hero” of a few of them. Fair is the plain indeed, as Emer stands above several of her compatriots in the Ulster Cycle in terms of interest and being pretty damn awesome.

Source List:

Early Irish Myths and Sages; Jeffery Gatz

The Tain; Thomas Kinsella

Fled Bricrend (The Feast of Bricriu); George Henderson

The Wooing of Emer by Cu Chulainn; Kuno Myer

The Sickbed of Cu Chulainn; Maelmuiri mac Ceileachair

[pit--rat]

I love love love Deaf Parrot and Hallowed so much. They're probably my favourite songs on the album (plus Washing Machines, and Pulse, and Trophy Case, and Silver Lining, and... you know what? The whole album is just great).

They are just a remarkable beginning and ending to the album. Deaf Parrot perfectly sets up the tone of the whole album, outlines exactly how Prilly is feeling, hints at his and Rudiff's shared backstory, and perfectly sets up the whole "writing letters to an old friend" thing. The slow rise in intensity, not capped by choruses and only interrupted by him throwing away the first draft... its perfection.

And Hallowed is such a wonderfully emotional and cathartic song. A beautiful release of all the emotions to the person who has been ignoring you for so long. A glorious, horrible, comforting realisation that the person you've been idolising was actually a let down. It was, without a doubt, the perfect end to the album whilst also being great set up for the next, with how it left Prilly and Rudiff's fates open.

In those two songs though, I want to draw attention to two specific sets of lyrics:

I'm a walking bomb, ticking wicked clicks

Just a thought and its all gone

- Deaf Parrot

and

This bomb inside’s a ticking clock

And it’s been slickly tricking seconds of our lives away

The longer we keep sitting here debating, the more it’s all degrading

It’s entertaining

We can blow up the entire world

If that will get you to admit that you have got a fucking problem

- Hallowed

These two sets of lyrics are just so perfectly reminiscent of each other - I can't hear one without thinking of the other. Its not just the idea of Prilly calling himself a bomb, its the phonetics of it, they are clearly supposed to remind you of each other because of the similar sounds and line delivery (ticking wicked clicks vs slickly tricking seconds of our lives). It's interesting because Justin loves his repeated motifs (the spear in Three Gods and Me, the crown in Heavy is the Crown, the mirror in both Dear Rudiff and From Windfall to Hell... I could go on). But Prilly comparing himself to a bomb only happens twice, right at the beginning, and right at the end.

It shows that, after everything, the therapy, the drugs, the revelation from Rudiff's letter, even Barbara's death, Prilly's feelings for Rudiff haven't changed, at least in intensity. But that self-destructive love and idolisation has become hate, not pure dark hatred for someone who has wronged you, but the disappointment and anger and upset that can only come from betrayal, from being let down. And even after all that, Prilly still values Rudiff so much in a strange way, because he doesn't give up on him. He doesn't just kill him and leave. He wants Rudiff to admit that he wronged him, and to accept responsibility. But Prilly knows that will never happen, so he just leaves (at least, that's what you think, but Channel 5 News implies that he didn't exactly get far).

[skekheck]

Theory: UrVa’s Arrows Were Originally Meant To Incapacitate, Not Kill, skekMal

Maybe this is common consensus, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while. On the surface, it seemed like urVa had wanted to put an end to skekMal at the Circle of the Suns and the Hunter escaped before he could finish the job. But then there was this line in episode 10 that always felt odd to me:

urVa: I had a dream that I was one that became two that became one again. I looked through my dark half’s eyes and knew Aughra was right. [...] ...The Hunt must end. 

It’s just “but urVa, weren’t you doing just that a day or so prior?”. But then after rewatching their standoff again it hit me: maybe urVa’s intentions were not to kill skekMal but to incapacitate him.

Let’s look at the scene again

SkekMal was shot a total of three times: the first one through his upper arm, the second around the bottom right of his torso, and the last through his upper leg (possibly thigh?). 

(Sorry couldn’t find a better pic of his leg shot)

Weird places to aim for if urVa had wanted to kill him, right? Wouldn’t he have gone for targets that would more likely result in death, like the throat or through the eye sockets? It’s not like he would miss: urVa’s a master marksman. Instead, all three shots prevented (or at least was an attempt to stop) skekMal without taking his life.

The first shot prevented skekMal from harming Rian. The second was retaliation for ignoring the Archer’s warning. UrVa flat out told him to not approach the Gelfling but you see the Hunter take a step forward anyway, prompting him to release the second arrow. The final one was an attempt to stop skekMal from escaping with Brea. Seeing as how urVa immediately collapsed after firing that arrow, it would have worked. However, he underestimated how committed skekMal was to the Hunt, considering he pushed through the pain to get what he needed done.

Those arm and leg wounds aren’t inherently life-threatening. The arrow in his torso, though, is more concerning. It’s possible it could have had or at least be at risk of damaging his organs. Now, the Skeksis have weird-as-fuck anatomy (that goes without saying) so we have no real way of knowing if it was endangering him or not. But considering the nature of his other two wounds, I don’t think it was a kill shot. A more serious wound, but not deadly if tended to. And that’s probably what urVa intended: he aimed for that spot in the hopes skekMal would stop to take care of his wounds. 

But Weren’t Both skekMal and urVa In Critical Condition?

Oh yeah, they still were and skekMal’s partially to blame for it. It’s not a great idea to move around too much with arrows lodged in you. The arrow heads and shaft could move around and cause more internal damage. SkekMal moving made what would have been minor to moderate wounds way more serious. Not to mention, he never stopped to pull them out and heal himself: he kept those things in. 

And let’s not forget how far of a distance between the Circle of the Suns and the Castle is. There are multiple versions of maps of Thra that have some siginifcant differences, but the main point is those two locations are pretty far from each other. Even if he used Bennu to fly all the way over to the Castle, skekMal would still have to deal with Brea thrashing around on his back. And it looks like he took a detour to grab a cage for her, which he then dragged through the Castle’s corridors. Baiting Rian and his friends just so he can fulfill his Hunt was apparently more important to him than his well-being (which is ironic if you believe skekMal’s philosophy surrounding the Hunt is his own way of self-preservation).

EDIT: Wanted to add that skekMal was in a difficult position in terms of what he wanted. He would know that if he’d pull those arrows out he would have to treat them right away otherwise he’d bleed to death. At the same time, he would also had to keep Brea from escaping. I think he weighed his options and found that he’d had more success just pushing through it and keeping them in then treat them later. SkekMal might had also thought the other Skeksis would be able to treat him if it was serious enough? 

And SkekTek Made It Worse

SkekTek is no doctor. He can cut up and research on animals all he wants, but that doesn’t count as medical knowledge. It’s painfully obvious he has no idea what he’s doing: his diagnosis and treatment of skekMal’s condition is enough proof of that. And speaking of which, skekTek’s diagnosis is full of nonsense:

Skektek: Subject suffers severe exsanguination. Extreme distress to the humus. [...] Imbalance of intrinsic fluids. Manifold ruptures in corporeal morphology. [Checks for a heart beat] Ah. Ah... . Expiration... is... [dramatic pause] inevitable.

Literally he’s saying skekMal has multiple holes in his body and he’s bleeding out. You know, pointing out the obvious. Also, I tried finding out if “humus” related to anything biologically, but all I could find was it’s a term for... soil made of organic matter. I’m not sure what he was trying to refer to, I think he was just misusing it to make himself sound smart.

EDIT: I have been told by a few people that skekTek might be referring the humerus, which is a bone found in the upperarm that’s forms joints at the elbow and shoulder. This would make more sense and would mean skekTek made a proper diagnosis. However, at least to me, it still sounds like he’s saying humus. Another skeksis repeats him and they also say humus, not humerus. Turning on the captions also has it as humus. This could either be a typo or skekTek did mean humerus, but said humus instead. 

And how he actually treats skekMal is atrocious. 

He pulls the arrows out without making any attempts to stop the bleeding, clean the wounds, or apply stitches. He’s letting him bleed out and he should at least know they need blood to live. Do you know what happens when someone loses too much blood? Among other side effects, organ failure and falling into a coma. SkekTek did eventually made an effort to heal skekMal by giving him essence, but it was too little too late. SkekMal’s condition was so far gone at that point he really needed Aughra’s essence to survive.

UrVa’s Intentions

And now we’re going right back to urVa. While thinking over on urVa’s actions, I started wondering if he anticipated skekMal wouldn’t stay put and that the Hunter would do his own self in by moving around with the arrows lodged in him. I mean, urVa is a mystic, an indirect kill would make sense. But giving it more thought, I don’t think that’s the case. A lot of his actions during the series suggests otherwise. 

UrVa was very contemplative, even saddened, about having to end the Hunt for skekMal. He is not like his other half: he respected and appreciated all life on Thra. He also sees the cycle of life as well as the wilderness as something untamable. This is implied while he was talking with Aughra in episode 4:

urVa: We do not get to decide when our part in the song is finished.

While urVa is one of the more proactive Mystics, he still is... a Mystic. He doesn’t believe he should manipulate or control what goes on around him and let things be. The Bestiary book points to the fact that while urVa did keep tabs on skekMal, he never interfered with his hunts. So it was a big deal when Aughra quested him with the task of stopping skekMal. 

Also I’d like to point out urVa and Aughra’s final conversation because it’s also important for this discussion:

urVa; And where does my path lead? Aughra: Into the sands to face the Hunter. urVa: [sighing and looks away from Aughra for a moment] I cannot defeat my dark half. Aughra: You will find a way. But not without sacrifice.  urVa: And if I fail? Aughra: The heroes of Thra will be lost. urVa: Mm... [pauses and takes a deep breath] I will end the hunt. Aughra: Good. Get a move on. You Mystics are not known for your swift speed. We have much to do. [...] urVa: [pauses and looks at Aughra] Will we meet again, Aughra? Aughra: [stops walking, saddened] Hm... [faces him] Some things... even Aughra cannot see, old friend.  [urVa pauses and then groans, walks away from Aughra as they both parted ways for the final time]

He shows a lot of hesitance in completing this task. I’m sure he knew what Aughra was implying: that he may have to take skekMal’s life away but he still went and asked if they would meet each other again anyway. I think he was hoping for a positive answer, that it wouldn’t have to come to that, and seemed disheartened by her answer. But he still tried. He tried to stop skekMal in a way that, while not exactly peaceful, was not meant to be life-threatening. UrVa even pleads for him to stop... twice! The first time as skekMal was making his get-away and the second time while urVa helplessly watched him go after Rian again through the Hunter’s eyes. 

These two only had one scene together so we don’t really know the extent of their relationship. But if there’s one thing that’s clear was the conflict between them. I mean, during their whole duel, the characters were purposely placed on opposite sides of the room while making sure to show that skekGra and urGoh, a pair who were able to find harmony, were always side by side. It’s also in the way they address each other: while urVa does refer to him as his dark half, he also called him by his name. SkekMal, meanwhile, only ever referred to urVa as his title and nothing more. 

But I don’t think urVa had any ill-will towards his Skeksis. He seemed understanding of him and valued his life as much as he valued all living beings on Thra. I think if they both didn’t end up in a near-death situation, he’d try incapacitating skekMal again. However he understood and accepted his situation towards the end: with skekMal on an essence high, incapacitation method was no longer possible. If he allowed it to go on, all of Thra would be at risk. It was a desperate situation, but he knew Aughra was right. She gave up her life for the preservation of the world and urVa knew he had to do the same: for her and for Thra. The Hunt had to end and in order to protect the world he cherished he had to make the ultimate sacrifice. 

[illfoandillfie]

I don’t know if you’re still doing asks for the advent calendar. But just wondering if you could do a Ben x Reader x Present!Roger, where Ben and reader are the subs for Rog and he is hard!dom and they’re getting punished but at the end it’s super fluffy with my fav poly relationship. Idk if this makes since and I hope you could be comfortable with writing this! Btw love your writing! ❤️❤️

Oh i absolutely love this prompt and honestly i can’t think of a better way to end this thing than with a rog x ben threesome!!

Warnings: smut, spanking, edging/orgasm denial, sir kink, dom! rog, sub! ben, sub! reader, collars, a tiny bit of hair pulling, overstimulation, minor mentions of oral sex (m and f receiving), there’s also a bit where rog steps on reader, also its like 4k lmao

Blurb Advent: Day 25

It had been natural to let Roger take the lead, so to speak, in your relationship. Even in the early days, there’d never really been a question about you submitting to Roger. For one thing, you trended towards submissive anyway but something about Roger, the way he carried himself, automatically made you want to kneel before him. Age probably had something to do with it too. There was a perceived expertise because he was older (and as he frequently joked, wiser too), that had you agreeing to call him Sir and to follow his instructions, even within the first few weeks of getting together. Normally you’d wait a while before jumping into anything especially kinky with someone new, and to be fair he hadn’t rushed into bringing out the harder stuff, but it was almost shameful how fast you’d let him toy with you, agreeing to wear a collar to symbolise your submission. You’d well and truly established your dom/sub relationship before you’d agreed to consider each other boyfriend and girlfriend, (His age may have been a hinderance there, the word boyfriend not often associated with someone like him) so when Ben first met you, he assumed something entirely different. Roger had invited him around for dinner, with the added intention of being able to talk drums for as long as they wanted. Ben had shook your hand and made a comment that implied he thought you were Roger’s niece or grand daughter or something along those lines and before you’d been able to correct him he was caught up in a discussion with Roger about one of the songs he had to play in the movie. You left them too it, shrugging Ben’s assumption off. If you were going to date a man in his seventies then you had to be prepared for people to think you were connected by blood or else that you were in it for the money. Neither was true but it’s what people would think and there was no reason to get upset about it. Ben’s impression was re-evaluated later that day when he’d wandered away from the drum kit to find Roger and walked in on him giving you a quick edge. As soon as he realised Ben was there Roger apologised.

“Oh, that’s um, no, uh, no need for that,” Ben stuttered out, “I just thought, but, uh, I was obviously wrong,”

“Family or sugar baby?” Roger asked curiously.

“Family. Then sugar baby when I saw your hand up her skirt.” Ben seemed to realise what he’d said, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“She’s my girlfriend actually,” Roger turned his head to smile at you, “I would have said so but we’ve really only just started telling people so it kind of slipped my mind that I could,”

“No worries, um, I’ll leave you to it and just go try out that bit on the drums again.” Ben turned and walked back down the hallway as quickly as he could, Roger chuckling softly as he kissed the top of your head.

“How would you feel if I invited Ben to have sex with us?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“I’m not saying I definitely will but…he’s been looking at you a lot this afternoon. I figured he was probably trying to work out who you were to me but if he assumed family he might have been checking you out.”

“You think?” you asked, trying to keep your tone level. Ben was fit and you wouldn’t have minded him making a pass at you, even if you’d had to turn him down.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, see if I can work it out, but would you be okay with that? If he joined us?”

“That sounds kind of fun,”

“Alright then, I’ll feel him out and see if I can’t convince him to stay the night.”

 Over the course of the afternoon and evening Roger used every trick in his book to determine Ben’s attraction to you, and if he’d be interested in a threeway, steadily getting less and less subtle. By the time dinner had been eaten just about all delicacy was out the window.

“Look, sorry again about earlier,” Roger said, passing Ben a scotch and soda, “I’ve been edging Y/N a bit today because I’m planning on fucking her rotten tonight and I want her dripping wet and ready to beg for it,”

You weren’t sure whether you or Ben was more embarrassed by that but Roger didn’t seem to notice.

“Not that I really need too because she’s got, well let’s call it a very healthy sex drive. Edging her keeps her in her place and makes sure she knows I’m the one who controls if and when she gets an orgasm, but honestly she’s ready to go whenever I ask. I could tell her to strip right now and she would.”

“Is that right?” Ben said despite himself. His eyes darted about the room, not knowing where to look, but his tone was curious.

“She’s very obedient. If you wanted I could tell her to suck you off and it would take literally two seconds for her to be on her knees.”

Ben audibly gulped, his face beyond pink.

“Should I tell her to do that Ben?”

“Umm,”

“I think she’d like it if you joined us tonight. She does think you’re fit.”

“J-joi-join you?”

“We can set up one of the spare rooms for you if you want to stay. I might even see about lending her to you for the night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, hypothetically, if you did stay, we’d share her for a bit, make up for all those edges I gave her. Then afterwards you could take her off to another bed and have her as many times as you wanted while I got a good nights sleep. Twice this week she’s wanted me in the middle of the night, it’d be nice to let someone else deal with her instead. Of course, there would be a few ground rules but they’re easy enough.”

“Like what?”

“Oh well, you can take her raw if you like but we’d prefer you not to finish in her cunt. Anywhere else is fine though. Obviously safewords are a must and limits have to be respected, hers, yours and mine. And you do need to understand that I’m in charge. She submits to me, she calls me Sir and she wears a collar for me. We both enjoy it, we both get off on it, and we expect anyone who joins us to understand that.”

“I understand,” Ben nodded.

“Does that mean you want to stay?”

“Yes.”

Roger had grinned and turned to you, “Well, why don’t you give our guest a proper welcome.”

 Ben fit in better than you might have assumed he would. It had been natural for you to submit and apparently Ben felt the same. That first night he constantly looked to Roger for guidance and permission, not wanting to overstep any boundaries or do something that would bring the night to an end. As you’d sucked Ben’s cock Roger had commanded you both, telling you when to deepthroat him and when to come up for air, telling him to grab your hair or push you down further. After that he’d suggested Ben repay you and walked him through edging you with just his fingers, teaching him the signs of your impending orgasm so he could stop it at the last second. And when you did finally make it to the bedroom, he’d told you both how to position yourselves, giving instructions and making demands as you’d been filled by both of them. Ben joined you in calling Roger Sir, giving up control as fully as you did. When Roger suggested edging Ben himself, Ben didn’t object. He dropped his eyes and bit his lip and whined prettily as Roger stroked his cock carefully, always stopping short. Afterwards he’d been rewarded, as Roger had promised he would be, with you as company in his bed. Mostly you’d stayed up talking, Ben curiously asking questions about your relationship with Roger and how it had come about. He was most intrigued by the dominant and submissive dynamics, how it worked and how you’d felt adding an extra person to it. Of course, you’d made sure it wasn’t all talk. Ben was hot and Roger expected him to fuck you so there was no harm in it. Besides, you knew Roger would call you a good girl if you were obedient and took Ben however he wanted. Ben seemed to like that aspect of your reasoning too. He didn’t want to disappoint Roger by not using you and the chance of being called a good boy for it was motivation enough.

 You’d expected it to be a one night thing but a couple of weeks later Roger had extended Ben another invitation to dinner. Things went in much the same direction, only Ben had fallen asleep in the bed you shared with Roger rather than taking a spare for himself and the next morning had offered a repeat performance of the night before. It was the same the next time Ben came for dinner and the time after that. On the sixth time you all gave up the pretext of dinner. Ben arrived earlier in the afternoon and Roger greeted him with the order to strip, which he did without question. The next morning Roger, pleased with Ben, made a suggestion that it become more official, and offered him a collar identical to yours.

“You can say no, of course,”

Ben hadn’t even hesitated before he picked up the collar and fitted it around his throat. You’d helped him with the clasp at a look from Roger who’d then ordered you both to suck him off. From then on it became a much more regular thing. For the most part both you and Ben would submit to Roger, gradually showing Ben harder things like spankings and restraints and all the fun stuff. Sometimes Roger would just sit back and watch Ben have his way with you and sometimes he’d disappear with Ben while you were busy or not in the mood. When Roger was called overseas unexpectedly Ben stayed with you. Roger asked for photos and videos and you delighted in sending him pictures of hickeys and scratches you gave each other as well as videos of each of you edging or Ben’s cock sliding in and out of your cunt, your moans in the background. Of course, the shifts in your sexual relationships also impacted your non-sexual relationships. Ben was important to you and Roger. He wasn’t just someone you hooked up with, he was part of things. When you redecorated the kitchen, Ben helped pick out the colours and when Roger wanted someone to listen to the first demo of a new song he’d written, Ben was there to give feedback. He was an extra shoulder to lean on, an extra pair of hands when there was chores to be done, and extra person to spend time with. But even with all the changes, your sexual dynamic remained the same. Roger was in charge. And that was how he liked it. Especially when he got to punish one or both of you.

Not that his punishments were ever really punishments. Once he’d come home from a weekend trip, expecting a clean house only to find the kitchen covered in rubbish and dirty dishes while you and Ben giggled away under the covers upstairs. He’d got very stern and made you both write lines. I will complete my chores before I have sex one hundred times each. But for the most part his punishments were actually fun, if a little painful. Spanking and orgasm denial and bondage, things that you could get off on, and always for small misdemeanours like poking your tongue out at him or going over an edge before you had permission. Because you and Ben enjoyed giving up control so much, your slight bratty tendencies generally just signalled a desire to be pushed or for something a little harder than what he was giving you. When one of you acted out without involving the other he’d let them help with the punishment, giving you both an outlet for any of your slightly more dominant inclinations. But more often than not you’d wind up being punished together.

On one such occasion, you and Ben had started teasingly referring to Roger as Mr Softie within his hearing after he’d dripped ice cream on his shirt. He’d smiled and laughed along but that evening he’d got back at you, using your collars to chain you to the desk in his office, your hands bound in cuffs in front of you. For a while he left you there, just out of reach of each other, wondering what he had in store. The silence was broken every so often by one of you making a quiet suggestion as to what he might do to you or wondering when he’d return, the anticipation building with each passing minute. Your heart pounded in your chest but you only grew wetter as you were forced to wait and Ben seemed to be in a similar predicament, his pants getting steadily tighter. Finally, Roger returned, ignoring you as he placed a paddle and a vibrator down on the desk you were tied to. Without acknowledging you he unclasped Ben’s collar, giving it a tug to make Ben crawl toward the couch set up at the other end of the room.

“Sir?” Ben asked as he reached the couch, looking up at Roger from his place on the floor.

“Up on the couch. Face down. Now.”

Ben jumped to follow the direction, settling with his face pressed against one cushion, his knees resting on the other, and his hips as high in the air as he could comfortably manage.

“Right,” Roger said, turning back to the desk and continuing to ignore you, “It seems you need to be taught a lesson about respect. And I think the fastest way to teach you is to spank your arse raw. Maybe a few days of not being able to sit down will be a strong enough reminder that I own you and you will respect me.” As he talked, Roger retrieved the paddle and tapped it against his hand, just loud enough that Ben could hear, his whimpers rising as he waited for the first strike. You watched as Roger stalked towards Ben, raised his arm and brought it down hard on Ben’s arse, the shocked cry that escaped Ben almost enough to have you whining yourself. Roger didn’t pause, just lay three or four hits on Ben, each one hard enough that Ben tried to wriggle away and the sound cut through the mostly quiet room. Suddenly Roger reached for Ben’s cock, stroking his already hard member before laying another few spanks on him. Ben made a mixture of sounds, some of pain and some of pleasure but all of them egged Roger on as he edged Ben and turned his arse a dappled purple wherever the paddle struck.

“How does that feel slut? Does it hurt?” Roger’s tone shifted to one of mock whining and back in a matter of seconds, “that whore’s going to be in for it too since it was her idea to disrespect me.”

Ben howled as another few spanks hit him, tears getting lost in the cushion of the couch, but you could see how his hips jolted with every light touch to his dick and how he twitched when Roger retracted his hand.

You’d lost count of how many edges and spanks Ben had received by the time Roger hooked two fingers into the collar, using his grip to pull Ben up higher, “Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson or should I keep teaching you?”

Ben shook his head, eyes still watery and voice more of a sob, “no more, please, I understand,”

“I’m very happy to hear that. Do you think you should be allowed to cum now?”

“Yes please Sir,”

“Yeah? You think I should stop being mean and wank you off already?”

Ben nodded.

“Okay then Benny. But only if she manages to hold out.”

Ben whimpered but nodded, falling to his side.

Roger gently stroked his fingers through Ben’s with a few quiet words of praise before he turned to you. Just like with Ben, Roger unchained you and then made you crawl to the couch. It was awkward with your arms bound but you didn’t dare sit up straighter to walk on your knees, that would only leader to a harder punishment. When you reached the couch Roger stopped you, telling you to turn around and get into the same position Ben had been in, your face against the carpet and your arse in the air. The only difference was that you remained on the floor, your arse facing Ben. The first spank took you by surprise. You’d been so concerned with your position and wondering how closely Ben was watching that you’d forgotten what was coming. It was followed by another three in rapid fire, the paddle thwacking you with such force that you jolted forward each time.

“You’re in trouble Benny,” Roger said, bending slightly to drag his fingers along your cunt, “She’s already soaked. Don’t know she’ll last.”

You whined and squirmed as his fingers traced over you and then yelled when he hit you again. There was no pattern to his punishment, try as you might to find one. He gave you two hits and then pressed his fingers into you, fucking you with them for a moment, and then another five hits, his fingertips lightly rubbing your clit, another two spanks, a spank to your cunt, another three to your arse, and then his fingers again. But there was no way to tell how many spanks you’d endure before he edged you or even how he’d touch you, whether he’d twist his fingers inside you or circle your clit.

“Finger her for me,” Roger said and you heard Ben wince as he stood and knelt behind you. You heard Roger walk away as Ben sank his fingers into you. He slowly pulled them out and pushed them back in, wanting to do as he’d been told, but not wanting to accidentally push you over the edge lest he not get his own orgasm. That was until Roger, over his shoulder, told Ben to do it properly or be spanked again. After that Ben was merciless, shoving a third fingers into you and roughly pounding his them as deep as he could go.

“That’s better,” Roger said when he returned to your side, “make the whore pay for getting you into trouble.”

You cried out and tried to wriggle away as another spank came down on you, but it was impossible to escape with Ben’s fingers hooked in your cunt and your bound hands. All the same Roger placed one of his feet on the side of your head, holding you down against the carpet as he whacked you again and again, ignoring your screams and the tears soaking the carpet. He stopped and you breathed a sigh of relief but it was short lived as a buzzing noise filled the room and you remembered the toy he’d brought in with the paddle.

 There was no way to suppress your moan as Roger held the vibrator against your clit, warning you not to cum. He held it there for a matter of seconds and then pulled it away again. Ben’s fingers left you a second later and then you were being tugged up by your collar again, the thick leather band pressing into your throat.

“On the couch, whore.”

“Yes, Sir,” you managed to sob as a few more tears rolled down your cheeks.

Once you were on the couch, positioned the same way you had been on the floor, Ben was handed the vibrator.

“Against her clit, highest setting. Don’t move it until I tell you.”

You whimpered, knowing there was no way you could hold back an orgasm with that kind of stimulation. But that didn’t seem to matter to Roger. He expected you to hold it, reminding you that you didn’t have permission in low growl as he spanked you on the back of your thigh. Your arse tingled all over, stinging twice as much whenever he hit you again but it was nothing to the sensation of the vibrator against your clit.

“I’m close,” you whined before another cry was ripped from you as Roger spanked the back of your other thigh.

“Don’t move it slut. The whore needs to fucking hold it.”

You tried but it was no use, there was nothing you could think of, nothing you could do, that could keep you from disobeying. You moaned as the orgasm rolled through you and heard Roger drop the paddle.

“Don’t move it Ben,” Roger growled as he stalked around to your head, pulling it up by the hair, “I thought I told you to hold it whore,”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” you half yelled, whining as the vibrator kept buzzing against your clit.

“You will be.”

You lost sight of Roger as he shoved you back down and walked away.

“Guess we have our answer Ben. Since the whore couldn’t stop herself from cumming, you won’t be allowed to.”

“No, Sir, please, I really need to,”

“That was our deal though slut.”

“Sir,”

“Don’t argue, it’ll just make things worse for you. And don’t move that vibrator.”

Ben fell silent, though a few whimpers escaped him as he pressed the vibrator against you harder.

You were expecting another series of spanks, so when you heard the small jingle sound of Roger removing his belt you cringed away, assuming that was what he was going to hit you with. But instead of the swishing sound it made before a strike, it was followed by the sound of a zip. Roger grabbed your hips and pulled them around so he could press his cock into you. By now the vibrator against your clit felt painful, the overstimulation enough to make you sob but the feeling was only amplified by Roger fucking you hard, his jeans rubbing against your arse since he hadn’t bothered to push them down. You squealed and sobbed as he used your cunt, the vibrator torturing your sensitive clit and making you cry into the couch cushion. Roger just grunted about how tight you were and how your sobs just turned him on more, until finally he came deep inside you. Only after he pulled out did he take the vibrator from Ben, shushing you when you sobbed out a thank you. He stood behind you until he saw his cum dribble out of you and then pulled Ben up by the collar and told him to clean you up. There were footsteps as he left the room but neither of you dared disobey so Ben continued to spread your lips with his thumbs and lick along your slit, pulling a soft moan from you. Roger returned with a warm damp cloth and told Ben to stop. He swiped the cloth over your thighs and up along your lips, gently cleaning off whatever Ben had missed. When he was satisfied he asked you to move over and sat down in the centre of the couch.

“You did so well, Y/N,” he said softly, letting you rest your head in his lap and smoothing back your hair with his palm, “Do you wanna come up here Ben?”

Ben nodded and gingerly knelt on Roger’s other side, too sore to sit properly.

“You were such a good boy Ben, and I’m so proud of you for holding out,” he said as he lay the damp cloth flat against his hand and then reached for Ben’s dick, using the cloth to wank him, “You can cum now.”

Ben panted out a thank you, his voice falling into a moan as he finally got what he’d needed for so long. You watched through tired eyes as Roger’s fist pumped over Ben’s length until his hips stuttered and he moaned with his release. Roger kept praising him until he was completely spent, using the cloth to gather the evidence of the orgasm. It was thrown to the floor and Roger carefully unfastened Ben’s collar, leaning in to give him a soft kiss on the lips and whisper that he loved him. He wrapped his arm around Ben and let him settle on his chest.

“Y/N, love, can you sit up for me?”

You nodded and slowly pushed yourself up, feeling a little dazed.

Roger gently removed your collar and kissed you too, taking an extra moment to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away the last of your tears, and remind you how good you were and how much he loved you before he let you settle in his lap again. He knew he’d have to move you both eventually. There were ice packs and aloe downstairs in the kitchen that would help with your bruised arses and he’d have to make sure you both ate something and drank some water before you went to sleep. But Roger was happy just to sit there for a while to comfort and cuddle the two people he loved most.

[heyyyharry]

Chapter 17: The Battle

(from ‘The Winter and The Crown’)

…in which they go to battle. / Warning: DEATH, GORE / 

Word count: 4k

AU: queen!y/n, commander!harry

Description: Y/N and Harry set off on a new adventure to find ‘the cure’ for an ancient curse, meanwhile, the enemies are plotting to take her kingdom.

Wattpad link (Reyna as Y/N aka Peach)

A/N: 

According to plan, we have 2 chapters left.

This chapter is inspired by Train Wreck by James Arthur and Arcade by Duncan Laurence. 

Play these songs for a better reading experience!

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As the cold rain whispered over the muddy fields at the southern border, Isolde soldiers started setting up tents for their Queen to have a meeting with her council. Outside lay long horse-lines and wagons with fires stretching every direction. Y/N had heard enough stories of her father’s victories so she’d been able to picture what a battlefield would look like before coming here. Nevertheless, it was a lot different to hear of those tales than to pick up a blade yourself and end a living person’s life. Hundred thousands would die tomorrow. One of them could be her. The thought sent chills down her spine despite her best effort to overlook it.

It was almost sunrise when the last men crowded into Y/N’s tent. Wary looks were exchanged. Everyone was heavy with fatigue. Lance wasn’t with them. He had temporarily returned to Attwell and would arrive later with his own army, according to plan.

“The Northerners are assembling here.” Y/N stood beside a map on the table, pointing to a marshy place. “They are waiting for reinforcements from Orioch, mercenaries from Cianna. We must strike before their reinforcements can come up.”

“By how much do they outnumber us now?” asked an old general named Seren.

Y/N didn’t answer. “We will form two lines. Here.” She touched the map again. “And use the forest to guard our flanks. We are at a disadvantage because we’re not fighting in the snow–”

“By how many, Your Majesty?”

“Do not interrupt the Queen,” Harry hissed at Sir Seren.

Y/N put up her hand to ask Harry to stay calm. She could not avoid answering the question. “Twice our force.” She sucked in a breath. “Perhaps a little more.”

Muttering passed around the men.

“Have you had any word of the Attwell army?” another general asked.

“They’re on their way,” Y/N said.

The muttering redoubled.

“It matters not,” Harry’s loud voice silenced them all. “We have enough.”

“Enough?” snapped Sir Seren. ”No disrespect to you, Your Majesty, but you might have survived the North mountain and found the magical lake, but what magic can save us, your subjects, when we’re being slaughtered on the field?”

Y/N rose to her feet. Her glare momentarily shut down the men’s murmurs. “Are you questioning your loyalty, Sir Seren?”

“No, Your Majesty. I would not dare. I’ve served your family for nearly two decades. That is why I believe your father would never have blindly trusted a foreigner in a war with Theros. How can we be sure that Lance Devany would not turn his back to us at the last minute?”

“Perhaps,” said a calm voice from the flap of the tent. “You shouldn’t be here if you’re such a coward, Sir Seren.”

Heads swivelled. A few reached for their swords. Y/N heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Lance at the entrance. Sir Seren’s face burned with shame as he bowed his head and slipped to the back for Lance to take his place by Y/N’s side.

“You thought I’d abandon my queen?” he murmured to her with a smirk upon his face. Harry rolled his eyes yet said nothing.

Y/N cleared her throat, grateful for his presence nonetheless. “Now, where were we?”

“Hold on,” Lance cut her off, his brows pinched together. “Why did I just see Mary outside?”

“It’s a last-minute decision,” Y/N said. “It wouldn’t be safe to have left her at the castle. Calanthe wants her. If she knew Mary was there, she’d send people there and my subjects would be in danger.”

“Fair enough,” Lance said, back straight, hands behind his back. “I just wish you’d told me.”

Y/N didn’t know what he was implying, but she could be sure that he was implying something. Did he think she didn’t trust him enough to tell him everything? She just didn’t think it was important, and he’d been in a hurry to get back to Attwell anyway.

By the end of the meeting, Y/N’s concern had been confirmed by Lance not making eye contact with her even once. She wanted to believe he was just tired from the journey to and from Attwell. However, she knew him too much for her own comfort. This wasn’t as simple as that.

The other men followed Harry outside to assemble the Attwell soldiers, and Lance was the last to stay with Y/N.

“Lance,” she called out as he was about to leave.

He turned, an eyebrow arched. “Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

He regarded her for a second in silence.

She didn’t want to give him a chance to lie. “Did I upset you somehow?”

He averted his eyes, looking quite uneased. “You could’ve reassured them before I arrived.”

“Lance,” Y/N breathed.

“You could’ve just told them you knew I’d not betray the North,” Lance went on. “They accused me of turning my back to you, and you didn’t say anything.” He turned, and they locked eyes. “Do you not trust me?”

Y/N had always assumed that she had always trusted him. Hadn’t she left her kingdom in his hands while she’d been gone for weeks? How could one trust another that much? Still, he was right about her not defending him earlier. She couldn’t explain it herself, and it made her feel even worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Lance’s expression went grim. “I know it’s hard to trust someone after all that you’ve gone through,” he said. “You couldn’t even trust your own family, and I can’t blame you, because I’ve lived that way my whole life.” He released an exasperated breath. “But I meant it when I said I loved you and that I would die for you, Y/N. All I ask is for you to trust me.”

Y/N clenched her fists on the table, her chest heavy with tension. “I don’t want you to die for me.” Or love me, she wanted to add, but didn’t. “I want you to be safe.”

Lance smiled faintly before nodding once.“I’ll try. I promise.”

Try. She hated that he’d used that word, for it implied that there were things that were out of their control. She wished she could say with confidence that all of them would make it back alive ,and Isolde would win the war, but all she could manage to do was...try.

“Your Majesty,” came a voice outside her tent, “we found your lady-in-waiting hiding in a wagon with our supplies.”

Y/N whipped her head to Lance, who looked equally dismayed.

“Jo?” he mouthed to her.

Immediately, Y/N bolted past him as she stormed out of her tent. “Take me to her,” she told the guard. To Lance, she said, “Could you check on Harry and my men?”

“Sure.” He worked up a smile and bowed. “Good luck with Jo.”

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Jo jumped to her feet as soon as Y/N stepped in. Y/N waved for the guard on either side of Jo to release her and step back. On the ride here, Jo had prepared what she was going to say to Y/N but now that she was standing in front of the Queen, her tongue was tied and her head empty.

Would this be considered treason?

“Your Majesty, I can explain,” she uttered, hands clasped together against her chest.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asked, her expression hardened. “It was safer in the castle.”

Jo twisted the hem of her jacket as she chewed on her bottom lip and hung her head. “You took Mary,” she said. “You promised me you wouldn’t turn her in, but you brought her here.”

“We weren’t going to turn her in,” Y/N replied calmly.

Jo’s head shot up. “Well, where is she?”

“She’s safe,” Y/N said, her voice soft. She didn’t look like she was about to go to battle, which concerned Jo greatly. She wished she could do something to help, but her being here was already causing trouble to everyone. “We keep her here so she can be safe,” Y/N repeated, emphasising the word. “But you are not safe here. I’ll have someone take you home.”

“I want to stay with Mary,” Jo said fast.

Y/N’s brows furrowed a little. “Jo, don’t be ridiculous.”

Quickly, Jo stepped forward and grabbed Y/N’s hand. “Please let me stay,��� she pleaded, looking into Y/N’s eyes. “You wouldn’t let Harry go to battle alone.”

“That’s because I can wield a sword.” Y/N slipped her hand out of Jo’s grip. “You cannot. You’d be dead when the enemies arrive. I’m sorry, Jo. You must leave now. This is an order.”

Jo took Y/N’s hand again before the Queen could turn. “Can I at least see Mary first?”

Y/N parted her lip yet she didn’t say no right away. She spent a moment thinking, then the look on her face softened with sympathy. “Sure.” She exhaled, nodding to a guard. “Follow me,” she said to Jo.

The guard took Jo and Y/N to another tent where they kept Mary. “Hurry up,” Y/N said coldly, not looking at Jo. Jo could tell she was angry and disappointed so she dared not speak, only curtsied to her Queen before she entered.

Mary wasn’t being tied up like she’d imagined. The witch was sitting in a chair. Her face taut with shock and worry when she saw Jo. “What are you doing here?” She jumped to her feet and took Jo’s hands. “This isn’t the place for you, Jo! Does the Queen–”

“She knows. She’s waiting outside,” Jo said. “I was worried they’d turn you in. I was trying to stop them.”

The corners of Mary’s mouth raised despite her furrowed brows. “You idiot,” she chuckled, yet there was sadness in the sound. “It’s safer for everyone when I’m here. They’d attack the castle to look for me. The Queen did the right thing, Jo.”

“I know,” Jo muttered. She’d thought once she’d seen that Mary was unharmed, she’d be at peace. But what she was feeling then was the opposite of peace. Her thoughts were all tangled up together. Even though she wouldn’t be able to help, the thought of leaving Mary here was just too painful.

As if she was able to read minds, Mary released Jo’s hands to cup her face, making Jo flinch, for he wasn’t used to having anyone touch her like this beside Y/N. Mary’s hands were cold and unfamiliar and comforting at the same time. Jo didn’t want her to let go.

“You should go home,” Mary whispered. “You can’t protect yourself.”

“Neither can you.” Jo frowned. “You’re the one they’re after. Not me.”

Mary shook her head. “When they’re here, every life is the same. They’d kill both of us.”

Jo’s stomach knotted. Her fingers were trembling so she wrapped them around Mary’s wrists.

Mary’s expression relaxed with a smile. “But did you really come all the way here for me?”

Jo nodded. “Yes. That was so stupid. I know.”

Mary let out a faint laugh. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say what for, but Jo already knew. Even though Mary had made a lot of mistakes in the past, Jo believed she wasn’t a bad person. Bad people wouldn’t feel guilty for being bad.

“You are not going to die. I won’t allow it,” Jo said, bringing her forehead to Mary’s.

They both closed their eyes and stood in silence until came Y/N’s voice from the entrance, “It’s time to go, Josephine.”

Jo pulled back, her heart heavy. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered.

Mary offered another reassuring smile. “Take care of–”

Not caring what Mary had to say, Jo interrupted her with a passionate kiss, both hands cupping her face. She could tell Mary was in shock at first, then she started kissing back as if it would be their firstand last one. That was the best and worst part.

They broke apart, faces flushed both breathless. “I’ll see you later,” Jo said. Mary squinted her eyes, perhaps wondering why ‘later’ and not ‘goodbye’. Before she could come up with what to say, Jo had already walked out.

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The thick mist had begun to burn away.

Y/N was already sweating.

This was happening.

Her whole life had come down to this one moment. Different people were born for different fates. She could not believe this day would decide hers.

With nerves and exertion, she’d riden Thunder here and there to rally and settle and encourage her army before joining the first line of soldiers. On her right was Harry. Lance on her left. There was no sound but the horses’ snorting breaths.

Suddenly, there was a single long blast of trumpet from the distance, and Y/N shifted her attention to the great swampy field. Mist still lay in patches between the two sides, but now the enemies could be seen.

Her heart sank.

There were so many. Their line stretched out as far as she could see; the snorting of their horses was like a rumble from afar. Clouds massed in the north. The first drops of rain started coming down.

Lance, at her side, surveying them, said, “This will be your first battle, Y/N. Do not make it your last.”

Y/N made no answer. In her head, she was praying for them all.

Tension lay thick in the air. In a moment, the mist was gone. The battle was about to begin. A hundred thousand men were about to start killing each other.

Lance let out a shaken breath.

Harry sighed, as though in the most profound grief.

Y/N stood straight, her father’s sword in her hand. She kissed it and lifted it to heaven. “The Gods are on our side!” she called to her men. “To victory! Ride!” And then the men of the North started charging, all screaming in the name of their Queen.

A shout came from the enemy. Y/N leaned forward as Thunder raced across the open field. On either side, the armies were rushing up. Rain was getting heavier, but Y/N wasn’t worried. A disadvantage to one side was a disadvantage to the other.

Thunder and Lightning, light on their feet, cut through the battle faster, but the enemies were closer and it was a race between them. Ears flat to his head, Thunder dodged and sprang and galloped. Isolde’s horses were sturdy beasts, used to running on all surfaces, so the muddy ground didn’t sway them. Wind and rainwater blew into Y/N’s face, almost blinding her, but still she rode with determination. Men everywhere, fighting. Arrows flying from all sides. Harry was riding knee to knee with Y/N, keeping arrows from her while she was doing the same for him.

“The line is wavering,” he said. “We’re going to have to–”

Suddenly, she heard Lance’s voice roaring out over the clash of armies. “Fall back!” he cried.

“Where is he?” asked Y/N in distress. She could hardly see through the rain and mist and the thrash of fighting men. Finally, she spotted Lance, still mounted, dressed in black armour, his sword in his hand. Whooping, he ran a man through, used his white horse’s weight to boost another man out of his saddle. There was blood on his cheek, his arm, his saddle, and the neck of his mare. “Fall back!”

The enemy was advancing. Arrows flew all around. One grazed Y/N’s arm but she barely felt it. “Y/N!” snapped Lance. He looked angry that no one was with her. Harry was busy taking down two Theros soldiers coming at him with spears.

“Protect Her Majesty!” he shouted at the Isolde guards nearby. “All this for nothing if she dies–”

And then Lance’s horse was level with her horse, rearing, forcing another attacker back. His face changed as he leaned over and seized her arm, not minding of her wounds or his. “Where’s Jo? Is she safe?” he asked.

“Yes,” Y/N said. Battle had numbed her.

Lance showed no emotion. Y/N knew he was feeling all sorts of things yet battle had numbed him as it’d done her. He turned to his men again. “Fall back! Join the second line, bring them up!”

It was then that Y/N realised her men were breaking, fleeing, hiding in the second line of battle, which was wavering badly. And Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Lance said, turning to her suddenly, “I haven’t seen Calanthe.”

“I’ll go find her,” she said. “Don’t let Harry die.”

Lance only nodded, turned his horse to keep up with Harry. Y/N’s heart ached when she saw Harry fighting on Lightning’s back. There was mud on his face and blood. A long scratch married the neck of his mare. She pushed away the intention to help him. Lance would do that. She had to do her part.

Quickly, she turned Thunder and cut through the advancing line of enemy in search of Calanthe. Rain was beating down on them. Y/N’s nose was full of the smell of earth and rot and dried blood. The whole scene was illuminated luridly by a flash of lightning.

She found Calanthe standing on a rise, safe and sound, watching the battlefield like a spectator of a show. Vossler was standing by her side, amused by the death of the enemy and his own people. Y/N was charging toward them when a man on a tall red horse rode out to stop her. Suddenly came a black shadow on a white horse riding knee to knee with her.

“What are you doing?” she shouted at Lance. He did not speak. Y/N felt her heartbeat strangling-fast in her throat.

The man didn’t slow down, probably thinking he could take down both of them. His horse threw great arcs of mud with each stride as he dipped in the last moment to catch Y/N in the breastbone. Her blade deflected the full force of the blow. Her sword came down with a clang on his spear.

Then came another Theros soldier, and Lance was too busy fighting him off to help Y/N. She could not help but worry for Lance. Where was he? She could hear the ringing of their swords despite being in the middle of chaos. She tried to locate him, but was unable to do that while wheeling her horse and striking and feinting this man who was keeping her from coming for Calanthe and Vossler. She had blood on her face and she could taste it. Not sure whose blood it was.

Suddenly, Lance cried out. Y/N’s heart was in her throat, but she couldn’t help him. Nor would she. She’d promised him that she would mind her own business. He would be fine. He’d promised.

The flying dirt stung her face as she parried another thrust and scored a strike along the man’s ribs, cutting him open. Blood splashed as he was thrown off the saddle. Even from the distance, Y/N could make out the frightened look on Calanthe’s pale face. Meanwhile, Vossler showed no emotion as he studied Y/N’s every move. A corner of his thin mouth lifted. He was smiling.

Y/N turned her head to another cry, this time, finding Lance on the muddy ground. He had fallen off his horse.

No!

She raced towards him.

He was too near yet too far.

There were bodies lying in the way. She could not get there fast enough. She felt a spark of hope as he pushed himself up.

Yes, Lance, stand up.

He stood straight, gripping his bloody sword. She saw him look around as though to call for his horse.

Except that he didn’t.

And that was when Y/N saw it. A blade going right through his black armour.

“No!”

Lance turned as though he could hear her. He fell to his knees. Y/N screamed. She did not know such a sound was in her. She had stopped thinking of victory. The world was silent for that one second and all she could hear was her violent heartbeats and the heart-wrenching scream of his name. She kicked Thunder into a gallop and jumped right off the stallion’s back into the mud. The man who’d wounded Lance was dead, facedown in the black water. Y/N had no thought to spare for him. Her throat closed in when she watched Lance, still kneeling, shake violently as the blood spilled from his lips.

She caught him right before he fell back. He looked up, his eyelids fluttered. “Y/N.”

“Shh,” she told him, holding him to her chest. “Don’t talk.”

“I am sorry. I meant to live. I did.”

“You’re going to live. Get on the horse,” Y/N said through the tears as Thunder silently knelt in the mud, shielding her from harm. The ground shook from the thunder of two armies, but Y/N felt like there were just them in this moment. Lance could not sit upright but slumped deadweight. Nobody was coming for her. They didn’t want to kill her now even though they could. They wanted her to suffer, just not simply in the way she’d imagined. She could feel Vossler watching with his satisfactory smirk. He knew he was winning.

Trying to control her voice, she said, “We’ll take you to the lake. We’ll take you to the lake. It’ll heal you.”

“Y/N.”

“You’re going to be okay. It’s just a tiny wound.”

Lance chuckled slightly, then came the smirk that she used to hate as he shook his head. “This is not a fairytale, Y/N. Guard this land. Win.”

She stared at him. Wild thoughts darted through her brain.

“I’ll see you again,” he whispered and lifted his hand to graze his thumb across her cheek.

“Promise?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“Promise,” he said and smiled suddenly.

She nodded, unable to speak. She knew her face was crumbling as she embraced him and felt him slipping away in her arms. She did not know how long she wept while the battle raged on. The sound only flooded back in when she felt a presence behind her and looked over her shoulder to see Harry.

He slid from the back of his horse and gazed down at her. She had no words for him, and he knew that gentle speech or a soft touch would have shattered her so he offered neither. He reached out a hand, still smeared with blood and his own. She grabbed it and got to her feet, tumbled back, and bowed over Lance's unmarked body. Her soul was now full of restless violence. She could not bring Lance back. But the thing they had both wanted, she could do.

“Where’s Vossler?” Y/N asked, fuming with rage. Vossler and Calanthe weren’t standing on the rise anymore. They’d either escaped or joined the army. Y/N doubted it was the latter.

“Doesn’t matter. We must win this battle first,” Harry said. All around the wind shrieked. The cry of a storm. They mounted their horses together and wheeled and galloped back to the battle.

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Hour by bloody hour, and Y/N did not know how long it had been. Hours? Days?

It was only when a voice shook her that she was brought back to herself. “Peach,” Harry said. “It is over. They are fleeing.”

It seemed as though a haze fell from Y/N’s sight. She looked around and all around she saw only her own men.

Lance, we won.

The wind had dropped. Steadily, snow began to fall.

Snow? At the border?

How?

Not only Y/N, but every standing soldier was looking up, appalled by the scanty flakes drifting down from the sky. A chill wind raced through the field as the falling snow, slowly, thickly, silently, covered dead enemies and dead friends alike.

The cold that touched Y/N’s cheek caused her to flinch. She turned to Harry. “Where’s Vossler and Calanthe?”

Harry couldn’t answer.

A guard rushed up to them on his horse. “The Monks and the Theros Queen are heading to our camps, Your Majesty.”

“Mary,” Y/N said. “They want the witch.”

But why?

[starculler]

Whumptober 2021: Day 4

Word Count: 2048 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Batman, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Open/Ambiguous End, Injury, Referenced Violence/Violent Acts, Family Feels, Implied/Possible Death

me, chanting: father-son feelings, father-son feelings, father-son fee--

Jason looked between the window and the locked door, determined to ignore the flickering, orange glow peeking in through the gap between it and the floor. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth as he spared a look at Bruce, half-slumped and wheezing softly against an alarmingly warm wall midway between the two. They’d trudged up the stairs earlier, Bruce limping and leaning most of his weight on Jason, in an attempt to hide out and recover after their mission had gone tits up in the most spectacular ways. A real prize winner, he thought to himself, derisive and sarcastic.

He sucked in a shuddering breath and tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling, sorely missing the familiar weight of his helmet — abandoned after some now-toothless idiot had smashed it to pieces. The fault, he knew, lay at his feet if Bruce died. It almost made him laugh. Maybe he would have, if he’d ever really wanted Bruce dead, back before he’d wormed his way back into the family’s mostly-good graces.

“Fuck,” he growled, dropping his head down to drag a gloved hand roughly, painfully, through his hair. “Ten story fall, or trial by fire?” he asked Bruce, knowing the Bat could barely hear him, let alone parse out what, exactly, he’d said. A few hits to the head with a blunt object would do that to a guy, no matter their bull-headed, mile-wide stubborn streak.

Never one to let an injury get in his way or find a way to prove Jason wrong, Bruce managed to muster up a rumbling grumble in response that sounded, to him, a lot like “try harder.” He huffed, shooting the barely conscious man a mild glare. Not that Bruce deserved it much, at least not this time. This time the fault lay primarily at Jason’s feet — a mixture of bad intel, overconfidence, and his inability to pass up any chance to rile the Batman up. Bruce’s only real error in their situation had been trusting Jason enough to not be an overly paranoid asshole just this once, leaving them locked in a room with no working comms, no backup, not a single one of their gadgets still intact — the ones those assholes hadn’t taken at least — and two incredibly awful options for escape.

Or, he mused, death. But Jason wasn’t too keen on giving that experience another go.

He groaned, the acrid smell of smoke wafting in from under the door growing slowly stronger with every passing minute, and started to pace a straight line from window to door and back again. Every so often he stopped — to breathe, to reach for his pistols wishing he could shoot his way out of their situation, to check on Bruce, to think — before picking the trail back up, seemingly intent on wearing a hole through the linoleum flooring.

Every so often his thoughts strayed to things that might help him in a day or two, after he and Bruce were safe, but did nothing for him now. Who started the fire? Had they been found? Was his luck just that shitty, that the first place he’d chosen to hide out in just so happened to light up? It was a struggle to wrangle them back to something useful or productive, but he managed. Mostly.

There had to be another angle he couldn’t see, anything at all he might have missed. But there was nothing. No matter how hard or how often he looked into every nook or cranny or upended piece of old, rotting furniture, there was nothing.

“Fuck!” he yelled, slamming his fist in some shoddy desk he’d shoved over at some point earlier and earned himself nothing more than a dull throb of pain. It didn’t even help cool him off which just further fanned the flames — hah! — of his anger, the core of it a molten, leaden thing, suffocating and sparking in the pit of his chest.

He stomped back to the window, peered out through the cracked, still-cool glass, and sighed, doing his inadequate best to expel as much anger and frustration as he could with his breath.

It’ll be fine, he told himself, unsure if he really believed it.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __

Every inch of Bruce’s body hurt, some of it so badly he coudn’t feel it at all.

He sucked in a wheezing, rattling breath and shifted just enough to see Jason at the window, forehead pressed against the glass. He gritted his teeth, frustrated but not bothering to waste what little energy he could spare on wishing their circumstances were any different. Instead, he poured it into standing, using every ounce of that bullheadedness he was so known for to force himself, however shakily, to his feet.

Every step forward was agony and the room, more gray than color by then, swayed nauseatingly as he made his slow way across the stretch of room that lay between him and his son.

His son.

Those words pulled at a small, shuttered part of Bruce’s heart. Jason had been the second child he’d taken in, almost a teenager by then, but he’d been the first Bruce had been able to refer to, loud and proud, as his son. He remembered Alfred and Jason both teasing him for how brightly he’d grin as he said it, the words sweet as honey on his tongue: “My son.”

He’d watched his son die, once.

He staggered, exhaustion dragging at his every limb those final few steps until he stood, quietly heaving for breath, just behind Jason who didn’t notice him until he reached up to grab his shoulder with one heavy, gauntleted hand.

Bruce would not stand by and watch his son die again.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __

Jason startled when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, weak fingers curling into his battered jacket. He whirled around, tense and ready for a fight, only to find Bruce there, panting softly and swaying in place. The sight of him — pale, sweaty, breathless, and hunched — made his his stomach twist uncomfortably. He opened his mouth, unsure if he wanted to scream at or scold Bruce for being an injured idiot, or help the poor man sit his ass down and breathe only to have the decision ripped out of his hands.

“Jay,” Bruce rasped, breathy and strained and so unnaturally quiet that Jason ached.

He swallowed, a bitter mix of saliva and regret, and reached out to grab Bruce’s forearms, hoping to steady him at least a little. Bruce sagged, just slightly, when his weight wasn’t his own to bear anymore. Jason couldn’t help but squeeze his arms, a slight pressure meant to offer what silent reassurance and comfort he knew, deep down into the core of him, he’d never be able to say aloud.

“You shouldn’t be standing, old man,” he said instead of the myriad of things he wanted to, but never would. Bruce offered him a tight, wobbly smile — the kind Jason hadn’t really seen on his face since before the Joker and the warehouse and his first, explosive death.

“Jay,” Bruce said again, his every word slow and measured in a way that could have been intentional, or a result of how much pain he was in. “Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” Jason blinked, feeling a little too much like his brain had short-circuited.

“Wh— I.” He grimaced. Swallowed. Felt a sudden surge of prickling static buzzing under his skin, close to but not quite like the rush of adrenaline that came before a fight. “Yeah,” he finally managed to say, strangled and pitchy. “Yeah, Bruce. I trust you. Always have,” he added, low enough that he hoped Bruce hadn’t even heard it.

Bruce nodded, head jerking up and down like it hurt to move his neck that way. Jason’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth, meant to ask what the hell was going on, only to snap his jaw shut when Bruce’s hands pressed against his chest. He wondered, brief and panicked, if Bruce was having trouble staying upright and tried to adjust his grip on Bruce’s arms accordingly.

“How long of a fall?” Bruce asked, sudden but sounding almost bored even as the words were a struggle to get out. Jason’s lip curled, a small spark of anger dousing some of his concern as Bruce’s line of continued questions gave him whiplash.

“Ten stories at least, but—”

“I saw … water?”

“Yeah,” Jason growled, annoyed at being cut off and not understanding where Bruce was trying to lead him. Because he was leading. Jason had known the man too long not to recognize that tone of voice, even pained and wheezy as it currently was. “Ocean, right off the cliff,” he said, half-falling into the familiarity of reporting to the Bat. “Bad building design to have it so close to the edge, but I figure that might be why it’s abandoned.” He shrugged. “It’d be a good way out if you angled it right, but…”

But you’re too injured and I’d never make it carrying you, he thought but didn’t say. Bruce seemed to understand regardless.

Slowly, painfully, Bruce reached up and pulled back his cowl. Jason hissed at the damage: most of it bruises, a few cuts, one eye nearly swollen shut, and the very clear impression of the pair of hands that had tried to strangle him wrapped around his neck. With that same hand, Bruce reached out to briefly touch Jason’s cheek, good eye crinkling as his lips twitched up into another, probably painful, smile.

“Proud of you,” Bruce murmured, the words a little slurred. Jason reared back, flinching like Bruce had struck him instead of telling him … that.

“What’re you—” he started only for Bruce to pat the side of his face. Twice. Two gentle, trembling taps that made Jason feel all of thirteen and no taller than Bruce’s chest instead of a man standing eye-to-eye with, if not a little taller than, the person who’d been his father, once. Was his father, still, even if Jason refused to acknowledge it even to himself.

“Proud of you,” Bruce repeated. Paused. Then: “Love you, Jay.”

Tears pricked, sudden and awful, at his eyes. A million words and feeling stuck in his throat, all jumbled together and conspiring to make it impossible for him to speak. Anger and confusion and bitterness at first, all familiar and easy to put a name to. But then: a gooey sort of tingling warmth that spread up from his stomach, so much harder to name and overwhelming on top of that.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jason snarled, letting himself fall back on the familiar anger he’d relied on for years, and finding it easier than trying to shape the only other words he could have possibly used in the face of that — Confession? Admission? Declaration? None of it felt quite right, and he didn’t have the time to sort his thoughts out just then. Nor did he want to. “What’re you playing at, Bruce? ‘Cause I’m not fuckin’ laughing here.”

“Hold your breath.”

“What?”

It happened so fast.

One moment Jason stood in front of Bruce with his back to the window and the next he was in the air, watching Bruce — His Father — shrink, smaller and smaller until he was just a smudge of black against the bright, burning light of a building being slowly consumed. He didn’t scream. Didn’t think. His body moved automatically, years of training kicking in without so much as a conscious thought from him.

He still hit the water wrong.

It surged up around him, frigid, violent waves swallowing him hungrily as he fought down the urge to scream and worked instead on finding his way to the surface. He didn’t think about anything but moving through the current, gritting his teeth against the sharp, mind-numbing pain in his lower body, and did his best not to drown. Not to die. Not now that he had a goal to strive for in the neat little checklist he arranged in his head as he sank: a shore to find, a cliff-face to climb, and an idiot of a father to punch in the face.

And Jason was nothing if not a goal-oriented bastard with a stubborn streak to rival the Bat’s.