#but is the same person who will ship a woman and a man together even though through canon she hates him or states she will never love him

[yall-batman-fanfic]

[Maxie] Zeus | Bruce Wayne/Batman x Reader!Magician

Synopsis: Before Maxie Zeus became part of Batman's rogue's gallery, he was a mild history professor in Gotham University, working in the same department as Vivian. Though married, he admits to himself and some of his colleagues his infatuation towards Vivian. But nothing stays innocent in Gotham City.

Maximillian Zeus is a horrible person. How could he have these thoughts about his new and much younger colleague while he has a wife and child?! But how couldn't he either? The new Symbology and Iconography, and Art History professor was as beautiful as Aphrodite. Her red hair reminded him of Sandro Botticelli's The Birth of Venus, her pois of the three Graces---the Charities, who are the goddesses of beauty, grace, and charm — or she could be Helen. Homer never really gave an explanation on how Helen looked and the woman remained somewhat of a mystery in all stories. All that was known of her was her treachery towards her husband, and to have been the most beautiful woman of all, hence the saying: the face that launched a thousand ships.

“Everyone, let's all give Professor Vivian Pryor a warm welcome---Justin, you're both around the same age, I'm sure you can show her around?” Said Gregory.

Justin Kirk, a young, handsome, and outgoing man, which was everything that Maxie Zeus wasn't, happily went to greet Vivian first with a shake of a hand and said, “Leave it to me, we young folk gotta stick together.”

Vivian laughed, it was perfect in Maxie's opinion. The right kind of laugh for a woman. Soft, melodic, not the kind that reminds him of harpies and crones. “I guess so. I'm just glad to find someone here who might know my pop culture reference.”

“You watched Star Wars?”

Vivian winced, “Can't say I have.”

“Lord of the Rings?”

“Yes.”

Justin hummed for a moment in thought. “What are your thoughts on the Beatles?”

Vivian smirked. “I grew up in Liverpool.”

“Football team?”

“Manchester,” she gave him a quizzical look. 

Justine grinned. “We'll get along just fine. Welcome to GU.”

“Thanks, it's great to be back here, actually.”

To explain, Gregory informed everyone that Vivian was a student of Gotham University when studying for her Bachelors degree, then she took her Masters as a scholar in Italy, supported by her mentor there, Sebastian Rossi and then back at Gotham again in GU where she was mentored by the current Dean of their college. Many were in awe to know about her background, especially when Vivian turns out to be just in her twenties. 

Vivian was given the desk beside Kirk, which was a desk in front of him. So it was him, then Marge's desk, then Vivian's. It wasn't the most ideal but it gave Maxie the chance to see her every day, even if it was just her red hair.

Stop.

He should stop this.

He's married.

He has a daughter.

He has a happy family.

No sarcasm there. They really were happy!

But then again, what's so bad with an office crush, right? It's not really cheating if he just admires a young and beautiful woman from afar, right?

Right… He'll just keep telling himself that.

And he does keep telling himself that for the future that comes as he would often look across his and Marge’s table to see Vivian Pryor, or come to the office a little early so he could be one of the first few to greet her good morning. Always just a greeting and never a conversation. He has no reason to talk to her anyway, they have different interests aside from their work, and it looks like Justin Kirk also has interest in her and he has a better shot with her too.

Until Vivian came to his table to talk to him.

“Is that your daughter?” Her voice startled him. Turning, he saw Vivian standing there in her iconic tweed jacket, and earth tone clothes – today she opted to wear a blouse and skirt than her usual trousers — and boots. Her hair was pulled to a low bun being held by a pencil. A sharp pencil, he observed.

“Yes,” Maxie found his voice again. “Yes, she is.”

“What's her name?”

“Medea.”

A smile krept to her face. “A bold choice, but I can see in her eyes that she is as strong as her namesake.”

Maxie chuckled. “Yeah, she's — she's headstrong. I just hope she doesn't do whatever Medea did with Jason and their children.”

“Women's wrath,” Vivian shrugged. “You have a beautiful family, Professor Zeus. Your wife is so beautiful too.”

“Thank you, I'll make sure to tell her.”

Great, even she sees that this little crush is wrong.

“Anything I can do for you, Professor Pryor?” Maxie asked.

“Vivian's fine. And yes, I was going to ask for the keys to the storage. I wanted to borrow the Overhead projector to show something to my class, and they said that you are the master of keys to all our department's assets.”

“Right, right, um…” Zeus got up from his desk. “Well, I'm not really the master of keys, but I just—I fixed the system with it. Here.” He brought her to the wall where the key holders were, each key hung with a label on its loop, and at the side was a form that had names, signatures, details, and time. “Um, just write your name here, the time you took the key, the item you borrowed, and the time you returned the key and item. Do you need any help with getting the projector to your class?”

“No, I got it, but thanks,” Vivian smiled at him and went to sign on the form then took the key. “I'll make sure to remember where I took it from. Thanks again, Professor Zeus.”

“No problem, Professor Pryor.”

That was the first conversation he had with Vivian. A simple on but it meant a lot to him too, and it stuck with him until his downfall.

~*~

Vivian's career was skyrocketing with her research getting published. Many academic publishers bid on her work but only one got it with the best offer. A year working in academia as a professor in Gotham University, she is now getting what every scholar dreams of: getting their works published and recognized. They were all invited to her book launch, and were one of the first few to get a copy of her book too. Everything was going so well for her with the money she was getting from her books, the recognition, publicity, and offers for her studies.

Then it happened. 

During her book launch, a murder took place. Her agent was killed and hanged for display in the middle of her talk, and a knife was thrown at her direction. If it hadn’t been for billionaire-playboy, Bruce Wayne, Vivian would have been dead.

The case went on for weeks. Vivian was placed under police protection, which meant she can’t go to work. She was just stuck in whatever place they chucked her in. Then, a miracle happened.

Rather, the Bat happened.

The next day, they saw an article about Batman and Professor Vivian Pryor stopping Blackfire’s cult. The cult ran by Deacon Blackfire believed bathing in the blood of humans would make them immortal, and for some reason, they wanted Vivian to be the sacrifice for their ritual that night, and to get to her, they scared her to hide until they could find her in one place. But it was the other way around, it was Vivian and the Bat who found them in their catacombs.

The second take of her book launch took place in Wayne Tower, and based on rumors, Wayne paid for everything as well. As a way to thank her as Vivian would be giving half of the revenue she’s getting to the Wayne Foundation to help Gotham City.

“They look a little cozy,” Marge whispered to their little group as they watched Vivian and Bruce Wayne talk at the corner. Smiles never disappearing.

Justin scoffed. “Please, Wayne’s just trying to get into her pants. We all know his M.O.”

“I don’t know, that looks like a man who isn’t just after that,” Gregory laughed. “It would be interesting if that happens, right?”

“It’s just a one-night stand and Wayne is going to forget about Via,” said Justin.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Justin,” Katherine told him. “Maybe it’s just Wayne socializing.”

“It better be.”

Maxie agrees.

But that wasn’t the case. The next day, they learned that Vivian was asked out on a date by Bruce Wayne, but an emergency happened that cancelled it, then a couple of days later, Wayne personally went to GU to ask her out again. They went dancing that Friday, and the next school day, Vivian told Marge and Katherine what they did and what surprised him and Justin was that Wayne and her didn’t have sex, and that Wayne wanted to see her again.

Then it happened, Bruce Wayne became a reoccurring face in GU, and whenever he was there, it was always for Vivian. 

It was official. Bruce Wayne and Vivian Pryor were dating.

It seems, like Dionysus, while the god had Aphrodite as a wife, it was Ares who won the goddess’ heart and love.

~*~

It always starts with death. 

The madness  came when his wife died. It was a robbery gone wrong, said the GCPD. The thieves thought no one was at home, but then they saw his wife and they shot her, took what they could and ran. Medea Zeus was in her room that time, asleep, and when she woke up she saw her mother’s body on the ground in a pool of blood.

It was from that tragedy, that grief that made the mild man, Maximilian Zeus, to start these delusions of him being the very mythological god he teaches to his students. He was Zeus.

~*~

“I can’t believe it,” Vivian said as she looked at the Bat Computer's monitor that had the photo of Zeus with his gang. “How –”

“We both know how,” Batman muttered. “I’m sorry, Viv.”

Vivian sat on the chair beside Bruce’s and massaged her temples to try and grasp what she was seeing. A couple of days ago, Batman was dealing with a case from Commissioner Gordon about a new crime lord that’s rising in Gotham by the name of Zeus. At first Vivian shrugged it off, believing it was just some Greek mythology fanatic, it was best she doesn’t meddle with Batman’s cases and focus on her own work and with Dick, who was still undergoing training before he could wear the mask and cape.

But now…

“Do you remember the last time you saw him?” Bruce asked her.

“Yeah, it was at his wife’s funeral. We all went there to give our condolences and to see how Medea was. She saw her mother’s body that night and was the one who called 911.”

Batman’s jaw clenched in anger at the thought of another child witnessing another tragedy.

“How is she? The girl?”’

“She wasn’t talking then, Max said she hasn’t talked since calling 911,” Vivian sighed. “After that, Max went on a bereavement leave and extended it for a couple of more weeks, then we never heard from him since. Some say he left Gotham with his daughter, too distraught to go through the proper paperwork to resign and leave that he just did.”

“No communication since then?”

“No. I can’t ever imagine him becoming a crime lord — Max was this timid and mild man who adores his wife and daughter, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly! He even tends to the university garden.”

Bruce doesn’t really remember Maximillian Zeus that much, the man was the person who would blend in the background of a photograph, and he would notice him whenever Vivian points at his direction. He remembers her calling him the Master of Keys in their department because the man fixed their chaotic key holder and other assets too.

“Bruce, I don’t meddle in your affairs as Batman, but…” Vivian took his hand, holding it tight. “Not too harsh. He’s a good man who – I think – spiraled after the death of his wife. He needs help.”

“I promise, Vivian,” Bruce said to her. “I’ll make sure to deal with Zeus without inflicting harm.”

“But if push comes to shove… if you need to, then do so. I want you back here, okay, Batman?”

This time he smiled, pulling down his cowl, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Yes, Ma’am.”

~*~

She was walking to the bus station when it happened. The sun was just about to set, there were many bystanders, and traffic seems to be on her side, which was why when they came, Vivian was caught off guard. It was a black sedan that parked right in front of her at the bus stop, and before she could even react after realizing the traffic light wasn’t red, the door opened and a taser shocked her to unconsciousness.

In the middle of the day, she was kidnapped with a simple taser to knock her out. 

Gotham City, everyone. 

Waking up, Vivian was met by silk sheets and a soft bed, but she knew that this wasn’t Wayne Manor. It didn’t have the smell of the place nor the comfort it brings her. She knew Bruce’s bed intimately to know that this wasn’t it too. So where was she?

It was a lavish looking room – she’ll admit it – with a bed decorated with a large clam as its grame, the walls were marble white with Greek pillars to support the structure. Where the fuck was she? And what happened to her clothes? She was no longer wearing her blouse and trousers, nor her jacket and shoes, all she was wearing was a chiton with her hair tangled with ornaments – gold. 

“Ah, Aphrodite!” The door opened.

“Max?” Vivian gasped.

“Goddess of beauty, how are you?” Max approached her but Vivian immediately jumped out of the bed to get away from him. “My love!”

Nothing about this felt right. This wasn’t the Max she knew, Maximillian Zeus wouldn’t talk like that, nor would he walk around wearing a peplos and himation. And he would wear underwear too!

“Max – Professor Zeus — ”

“Yes, it is I, Zeus! God of Thunder! King of Olympus!”

“No…” Vivian whispered. “No,” she said firmly. “You are Professor Maximillian Zeus — you teach history and classics in Gotham University! You had a wife –”

“Yes,” he said sadly. “Hera's passing has weakened Olympus.”

Vivian looked at in in disbelief. He can't possibly –

“That is why for the sake of Olympus and my daughter, the Princess Medea, I am in need of a new wife.”

The way he looked at her brought a chill down Vivian's spine. 

“No,” Vivian said. 

“But you will. And you must, for Olympus and Princess Medea –”

“Where is Medea?!” Vivian exclaimed, worried for the girl. “Where is she, Max?”

He was silent for a time, looking at her, then he called for one of his men. The door opened and appeared a man holding a little girl's hand. Medea looked frightened but still did not speak. She trembled in fear with the man and with her Father who took her from him.

“Medea!” Vivian ran to her. The child pulled her hand from her father's grasp and wrapped her arms around Vivian. “It's okay, it's going to be okay.”

Medea hid her face at Vivian's clothes and held her tight.

“I'll get us out of here,” Vivian whispered.

“My love, do you really think I do not know of you?” Zeus spoke, with a smirk. “You may be Aphrodite but I know that you are a child of the Hecate. The goddess of magic and sorcery. My studies have helped me in building this fortress, it is protect by a seal that prevents magic users to escape from it. You are bound here with me, my love.”

Vivian's hold on Medea tightened and she hid the girl behind her. “Professor, please, stop this. You're scaring your daughter. Is this how you want Medea to remember you?”

“She is a Princess of Olympus, she must learn the ways if she wishes to take the throne some day. If not, then our children will.”

Vivian glared at him. “Like hell that would happen.”

“We shall see, my love,” Zeus walked up to her and grabbed Vivian by her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. “One way or another, you will give me sons to create an army.”

Vivian spat at him, and with it Zeus backhanded her, sending her to the ground with Medea holding her. Protecting her from her father. 

No more, was what the child wanted to say. Please, stop this.

Zeus only looked at them for a moment and then left.

Getting up, Vivian flexed her jaw to check if it was broken, then she tried to use her magic. Zeus wasn't bluffing, she can't use magic. If it was his delusion that had him stumble upon this, then he was damn lucky. But for her and Medea, all they can do was wait – either for the right time to strike and escape or for Batman to save them.

~*~

Angry was an understatement. Batman, Bruce Wayne, was livid to know what happened to Vivian. For days, he's been looking for her after learning from Alfred and Dick that Vivian never got to the Manor nor has she called either of them. He searched Gotham for her, questioning every enemy he has faced, showing them that he wasn't fucking around. No one touches Vivian Pryor. Else they get the Bat.

Then one key witness, a bystander, said to Batman that they saw Vivian get tased and tossed in a car with a customized plate: PEGASUS. He didn't need to go to the registry nor the computer to figure out who has Vivian. He went straight to Zeus’ New Olympus.

Climbing the tower, battling every one of Zeus’ henchmen, Batman made it to the very top of the penthouse where Zeus resides and is holding Vivian and Medea hostage. Upon entering the floor, he was met by a Greek-styled suite that resembles Olympus from those picture books, then sitting on his elevated throne was Maximillian Zeus himself, looking tall and strong. Then at his side, sitting at a much smaller throne was Vivian, who was chained to her throne with Medea clinging to her like a babe clings to her mother.

“Batman!” Vivian got up with Medea but she couldn't take a step with the chain around her ankle.

“Viv,” Batman whispered, relieved to see her alright, but that relief disappeared when he saw the bruise on her cheek and the cut on her lip. Turning to Zeus, Batman growled, “You touched her.”

“She is my wife. My property, I do as I please,” said Zeus.

That struck a nerve.

“You better choose your words carefully, Zeus,” Batman sneered. “She is not your wife. She is your hostage. I'll ask you once, and handle this carefully out of respect for Professor Pryor's wishes. Let them go and surrender.”

Zeus laughed, his laughter booming in the suite, then he exclaimed: “You dare tell me, a king – a god – what to do? You are nothing! I am your King!”

“You are no king, nor will you ever be a king of mine. I'll ask one last time: let them go and surrender, Zeus.”

Zeus got up from his throne, bringing with him his thunderbolt – a technology he stole from one of the warehouses he raided – and unclasped the clip of his peplos, leaving him shirtless as he faced the Dark Knight.

“You have always envied my position, Hades,” Zeus sneered at Batman.

Inaccurate and very much untrue for both the mythology and for Bruce Wayne. If she wasn't a hostage with a child, Vivian would have laughed at the irony of what he said, but that wasn’t the case. 

“Do you really think I will simply let you take my wife and child, my kingdom, Hades?”

Batman sighed. “I'm sorry, Viv. But he hurt you.” 

Reaching for his cape, he discarded the thing and threw it across the room, leaving him with his uniform, cowl, and utility belt. 

“I’m not leaving without Vivian,” Bruce declared.

“Then this is a battle for her hand. Beat me and you shall have – oof!” 

Before Zeus could finish, Batman punched him across the face, and kneed him at the stomach. 

Vivian hid Medea from the sight of her father getting beaten up. Getting up from the throne, Vivian circled the thing as far as she could and hid behind it with Medea with her. Placing the child down, Vivian told her to stay put while they looked for a way to get out of there. If only she could erase the seal that Zeus that traps her magic, she’s seen the marks while captive and have tried to erase the thing but Zeus have intervened and used force to keep her from doing so. He hasn’t done anything drastic, as forcing himself to her, but he has hit her a couple of times, hence the bruise on her cheek, the black eye, and the cut on her lip.

“Professor,” Medea spoke the for the first time. 

“Yes, Medea?” Vivian sighed in relief when the child spoke. 

The girl held up her palms, showing the red ink on them. Was that blood?

“Medea! Where did you get that?!” Vivian held the girl’s hands. How did she not notice them?

“Daddy said you have magic. I promise not to tell… please bring back my Daddy,” Medea sobbed.

That wasn’t blood.

Those were the marks Zeus used to seal her magic.

Vivian held the girl’s hands and lets her magic flow through her magic once again. 

“I will. Stay here, okay?”

Medea nodded.

Removing the cloak around her, Vivian wrapped it around the girl and stood from the ground and walked towards the sight of Batman battling Zeus. While Bruce was exceptional, Zeus had his thunderbolt. 

“Kaerb eht niahc.”

The sound of her voice casting a spell distracted Bruce for a moment. Turning to the direction of the throne, he felt the change in the winds, the shift of power. Vivian’s magic was back, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her glowing gold eyes, and the magic exhuming from her body.

“Aphrodite, wife! What have you done?!” Zeus exclaimed. “You let the three-faced goddess take you!”

Vivian held her palm towards Zeus. A force lifted the man from the ground and forced him to drop the bolt to the ground. With her magic, Vivian flew from the ground and hovered over Zeus, her glare never faltering and the glow in her eyes intensifying. 

“My love, have mercy! It is I, your husband!” Zeus exclaimed.

“Enough!” Vivian spoke, her voice laced with layers of voices that Bruce haven’t heard. “If you truly love me, Zeus, then surrender. Free me and Medea, and surrender.”

“A king never surrenders!”

Vivian frowned. “Then I am sorry, Professor Zeus,” her voice returned to the same voice that Bruce knew all too well. Placing a finger on Zeus’ forehead, she cast a spell: “Peels, sueZ.”

The man’s eyes fluttered, trying to fight the spell, but he eventually fell asleep and slumped against the force that held him in the air. With Zeus knocked out, Vivian got them down and settled the man down at the ground, kicking the bolt away from him.

“Vivian,” Bruce went to her side, holding her arms to see how she was. Aside from the bruises on her face and her arms where Zeus must have grabbed her, she was alright. Seeing them, Bruce pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, “I am so sorry for taking this long.”

“It’s okay… I’m sorry for not escaping sooner. He had a circle that kept me from using my magic, my love.” Vivian whispered. “Medea!” She realized.

“The girl,” Bruce agreed.

Pulling away, Vivian and Bruce ran to the throne where she left the girl. Still hiding behind it, they saw the girl hiding under the cloak that Vivian used to wrap around her. Scooping her into her arms, Vivian carried Medea and pulled back the hood. 

“It’s over now, Medea,” Vivian told her.

“Is Daddy…” Medea trailed off, her eyes on her knocked out father.

“He’s just sleeping.”

“Okay… I want to go home now, Professor Pryor,” Medea muttered.

“We’ll get you out of here and get you somewhere safe,” Batman told her and offered to take the girl from Vivian.

“He’s a friend,” Vivian told her when Medea showed hesitation.

Seeing that Vivian trusted Batman, Medea held out her arms to Batman, letting him carry her. 

“Everything alright now, Medea. I promise,” Batman swore.

~*~

Harvey Bullock came to the crime scene to apprehend Zeus after getting a call from Vivian Pryor about it. But when they arrived, Vivian Pryor and the girl, Medea Zeus, were missing, and all that was Zeus and his henchmen tied up with a note stuck on Zeus saying he needs to go to Arkham not a jail.

Unknowing to Bullock, Batman and Vivian were at the roof of a building across where Zeus made his New Olympus, with them was Medea who held onto Batman, not wanting to fall off a great height. 

“Will they take Daddy?” Medea asked.

“They’ll take him somewhere that would help him,” said Vivian. “Let’s go, we can leave her with Commissioner Gordon.”

Batman agreed. “You both will be safe with Gordon. He’ll inform Wayne about this as well.” As they prepared to use Batman’s grappling and Vivian to fly using her magic, he adjusted his hold on Medea so she would be secure in his arms. 

“Do you want to fly?” Batman asked the girl when she hid her face at the crook of his neck.

Medea looked up to him and nodded. 

“Then keep your eyes open, this is just like flying,” Batman smiled at her.

Firing his grappling, Batman jumped down and swung down, building to building with Vivian flying beside him. In his arms the girl, Medea, smiled for the first time since seeing her mother’s body in their home.

~*~

“Viv, how are you?” Justin was the first to greet her as she entered the faculty office with a still bruised cheek. “Shit, I can’t believe Maxie would do this.”

“Me neither,” Vivian sighed. “But it’s okay now. Medea is now will be staying with her grandparents, and Zeus will be sent to Arkham to be rehabilitated.”

Days after the incident, Vivian was given paid-offs to rest after the whole ordeal. Her boss told her to stay at home for at least two weeks, that kidnapping was nothing to take lightly, and while Bruce agrees, Vivian was adamant in going back to work. Hence, her presence at the faculty office.

“You really should stay at home, Via,” said Katherine.

“I told her the same thing, maybe you could convince her,” Bruce appeared at the door of their faculty office.

“Mr. Wayne!” One of the professors gasped.

Vivian sighed. “Bruce, please.”

“You left this in the car,” he held up her packed lunch. “Alfred’s famous soup and sandwiches.”

Smiling, she got on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, my love. And thank you, Alfred. But I am ready to go back to work. I promise!”

Bruce sighed. “I’ll pick you up after work.” He then turned to her colleagues and said, “Please make sure she doesn’t escape to take the bus home.”

Katherine and Marge giggled and said: “We’ll do our best.”

The sound of her huffing had Bruce turn to Vivian and saw her pouting. Taking her hand, he pulled her out of the faculty office, earning teasing cheers from the others, and brought her to a dark hallway where he had her caged against the wall.

“Bruce,” she began.

“I just want you safe,” he said.

“I know,” Vivian cupped his face and got on her toes to kiss him. “Thank you, Batman.”

Wrapping his arms around her, Bruce kissed her deeply and didn’t want to let go if it were not for the sound of students about to pass by them. 

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Vivian asked.

“We can only hope from here on,” Bruce said to him. “I sent a gift to Medea earlier, she might get it by tomorrow. Hopefully, her experience with her father doesn’t create a hatred towards Greek mythology.”

Vivian smiled and said, “I’m sure that won’t be the case… now, go to work! Wayne Enterprise won’t run by itself!”

“I will, but just one last,” he kissed her again. “Viv.”

“Yes?”

“Are you willing to wait for me?”

“What?” she laughed.

“It might take a while but will you wait for the day I have a ring and get down on one knee?”

Vivian laughed. “Bruce, come on! We just got back a couple of months ago, don’t you think it’s too early to ask?”

“I guess,” Bruce kissed her again. While she laughed it off now, Bruce knew then and there that this was the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with and he wasn’t going to let her go. Not even if it meant battling gods.

[epickiya722]

I just love how in 220 Shoko is pretty much like "Uh, my guy, you were not alone??? I am you friend??? Hello??? But I'm not falling in love with you or that other one, never gonna happen."

Sad, but amusing.

[sp4ceboo]

As Selfish as Love: Merman!Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw: 18+, smut (afab reader, p in v, bkg has a merman cock, marking + biting, oral f receiving, fingering, crying during sex but not like you think, unprotected sex, creampie), violence, blood, death, vivid gore, grief, reader treated as a tool by evil ppl, random worldbuilding, questionable medical knowledge, kinda plot heavy, other stuff i don't remember

wc: 19.8k

For years, all you’ve known is darkness.

Chained by the wrist to a ring in the wall, swaddled and asphyxiating in the blackness of the brig - it is there where your closest companion has become the dark. It is the absence of light: not only because they do not deem you human enough to spare lamp oil on you, but because the kiss of the sun has been reduced to a foreign concept, a distant, syrupy memory.

Every morning when that door opens, letting light leak in and crawl painfully between the cracks of the roughly hewn floorboards like an intruder, you repeat your name back to yourself, remind yourself who you are - a witch, a survivor, a person at the end of their tether but that all the same does what they can to keep the shadows at bay.

For the darkness is not just the absence of light: it is the absence of hope, and if you let it take you, your very substance will dissolve and you will sink beneath obsidian waves and melt away without a sound. They will have won.

This is something you will not allow.

White knuckled, you hold onto memories of the past the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. They swirl in the currents of your mind, fickle things. Sometimes they are so tangible you can feel the grass beneath your feet and the bracing wind of the highlands on your face even in the still, humid air of the brig, sometimes they eddy away before you can catch a glimpse.

You were barely a woman when they caught you, when they tore you out from where you’d been rooted to the earth, ripping through the stitches that held your life together. You were young, and you were naive and ignorant. This would not have happened if I had been as I am now, you think, but as you are now is shackled in the belly of a ship built for the single purpose of hunting merfolk.

They hunt to purge. Their so-called divine has commanded the eradication of magic, and so that is what each and every child is trained for from birth. The land has been rife with their conquest for centuries, making witches such as your kind unheard of, yet the sea for all its worth has lain mostly untouched until recently.

You are jealous of the merfolk. The magic must come easily to them, because they have not had to suppress it out of fear - it seethes in their blood, potent as an ocean storm, imbued within their essences as salt is in seawater. For this, they are feared, and for this, the hunters are more so hellbent on their extermination.

Over your years spent in the hull’s constant night you’ve learnt that your captors are the most celebrated hunters of their time, held above everything but their leader and their divine. They are revered among their people, and that is why they are allowed to chain a witch in their brig and force her to heal wounds sustained from hunting the undeserving - because they are strong enough and honourable enough to not be corrupted by your magic.

There is nothing honourable about the way they treat you.

Though you are human as they are, you are lower than an animal to them. They have no care for your limits - oftentimes, you are pushed to heal and heal and heal until you are exhausted, and yet you refuse to succumb when the darkness calls, because each time you meet their eyes, without fail, you see, buried deep within, is fear.

They fear what is unknown, what is not under their control, and every time you refuse to break when they beat you just for entertainment, every time they push you almost to death yet you survive, you wrest back an inch of control. You are needed, and that is something you will use one day, when the time is right. For now, you collect those sparks of fear in their eyes and let it feed the fire nestled within your soul that fends off the growing dark.

It is a day like any of the other days. Stirring in your fraying blankets, you wake up to the sound of the crew’s strident voices, and as it is sometimes, you almost forget that they are cruel and stained by their own wrong doings because for now, there is no talk of blood shed, just breakfast. You hate that they can seem so normal with so many innocent lives on their hands.

The day very quickly progresses into the type you have come to dread.

They neglect to bring you your daily portion of bread and water, nor the echinacea you had asked for more of, and it can only mean one thing - a hunt is on. Already, you can feel the unruly lurch of the ship as it skims over the waves, picking up speed. The crew’s voices become louder, crowing and eager, and you despise them so deeply your heart twists and becomes an ugly thing in your chest.

Almost imperceptible, you can hear the rattle and hiss of ropes as they ready their harpoons. This part is the worst, where the darkness closes in so near that you can feel its cold touch brush up your arms and its breath ghosting over your face. Sometimes you hear the anguished cries of the merfolk, sometimes the whoops and victory cries of the crew are loud enough to drown it out. You don’t know which is worse.

After will come the wounded, grinning still and soaked in blood of two kinds - theirs and their victims. You are always numb to it by then, turning a blind eye to the crimson dipped trophies they grip in dirty hands: lopped off fins and strips of scales, sometimes small enough to be a child’s.

How they can butcher beings as beautiful as the merfolk and think it the right thing to do, you do not know.

It makes you sick to your stomach, that somehow you have become their accomplice, stitching their wounds with your magic, saving their lives so they can kill again. You vow that one day, you will strike back, but what good can you do now, trapped in the bowels of a boat that was designed as a vessel for murder?

You have to try. You have to survive, if just to try. You are yet to come up with a method for escaping past what you have already attempted, but if you do not, more lives will be lost, more bloodshed that you had inadvertently aided. Right now, on deck, the patterns for it to happen all over again are falling into place.

You’re sure that this time will be no different.

And so you wait for the injured to come, almost defeated if not for the hard, bright little ball of hate settled in your throat. You wait, and you wait, listening to the strange thumping above that you can’t decipher, and still they don’t bring you their wounded. Neither comes their usual sickening shouts of triumph - you wonder if the merfolk managed to escape. You hope desperately that they did.

Listless, you turn your head as footsteps approach. There are more than normal. You can’t count exactly - five, maybe six, and they all walk with a strange irregular gait as they approach the brig.

I hope the merfolk put up a magnificent fight, you think as the key scrapes in the lock. I hope that taught them; you know it never does. The more damage the merfolk do while they fight for the lives of their mates and children, the more they are damned as unnatural and beastly and deserving of the fates that are doled out to them by men.

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again.

Back when you took the warmth of the sun on your face for granted, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as sick memorabilia.

None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes.

A merman.

Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls.

He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances.

Or maybe that’s just blood.

There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him.

Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms.

“Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

You frown as they begin to manoeuvre all three metres of merman into the brig. Studied? They must be looking for a weakness to exploit. After all, merfolk succumb less easily to flesh wounds than humans - the magic of the sea resides in their very bones.

A hand fists the front of your shirt and you’re jerked forward. You can feel the hunter’s foul breath on your cheek, feel the violence roiling just below the surface of his skin, and yet you cannot tear your eyes from the merman until you’re struck across the face. Reeling back, you raise your head to look at him, a hand flying up to cradle your jaw where it has begun to swell.

“Are you deaf? What are you waiting for?” he spits.

Your brain is still stuck on the fact that there is a merman before you, alive on a ship full of specialised mermen killers, but your body has gone through these motions many times before and brings you to kneel by your patient so fast your chain jingles crassly in the relative quiet, your hands already working to gather herbs for a poultice that will slow the bleeding.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see your captors filing out of the door, the last of them grumbling and wiping his hands on his trousers as if being near enough to hit you had sullied him. Realisation dawns abruptly on you.

They’re leaving you alone with the merman.

“Wait,” you call.

Disquiet grows in your stomach. As much as you hate the life forced upon you, serving as a tool for men who would not hesitate to kill you if you ran out of worth, you have gotten used to it, and this merman at your feet has disrupted your delicate equilibrium, tripping you as you balance on a knife’s blade.

You have never had problems with thinking fast in a pinch. You are a healer, you are accustomed to endless wells of blood and snapped bones sticking through skin. Conversely, you are not accustomed to the sight of a half conscious merman taking up the majority of your floor space, a single fingernail on his hand no doubt potent with more magic than is contained in your whole body.

Your tongue is slow, your mind slower, but you force the words out, emboldened because whether he likes it or not, this merman is leverage for you. There is no one else on board that could save him.

“I will need a lamp indefinitely, while I’m in the process of healing.”

You realise how important the health of this merman is to their study because the hunter holding the lamp brings it over with no words of criticism, just the curl of his lip when you draw near enough to take it from him.

Its metal is warm in your hands, and you cup it in your palms - a little sun that clears the clinging shadows from the brig like they’re cobwebs. Carefully, you set it on the floor next to you, just outside the border of the canvas the merman lies upon, sitting back on your heels as the door slams shut.

You stare at the merman for a weighty moment. If it did, there’s no telling what organ the harpoon may have punctured - do his intestines extend all the way down his tail? Or are they in the same place as a human’s, and his tail is just muscles, like legs would be?

Never in your life did you think merfolk anatomy would have any significance to you. Even if you’d thought it did, there wouldn’t be any books for you to study on it. A hysterical, jittery laugh builds in your throat, wringing itself from you when you spot the strange slit - for lack of better words - that sits just below where his skin turns to obsidian scales.

The nervous sound breaks the silence, jolting you into action. Never mind his anatomy, he’s still bleeding out. Somehow, you need to get that harpoon out of him: the hunters don’t clean them off once they’ve used them, and if you’re not vigilant, infection will get him before whatever they’ve got in store will.

Determinedly, you scoot closer to his lower half, stretching out a hand to test the area around the wound. In preparation, you will your healing magic to rise to the surface, and it fizzles at the surface of your palms, warming them.

Your fingertips have barely brushed over his scales when pain slashes across your cheek.

The merman jerks away from you so hard that he cries out, and you wince as you see the wound pull wide, blood oozing out from where it gapes. Gingerly, you touch a hand to your cheek - one of his spines had glanced off your face as he’d moved away, its tip sharp enough to shed blood.

Any human patient would have lost consciousness moments after being hit by the harpoon that’s buried in his tail, and if by a miracle they hadn’t yet, the pain caused by what he just did surely would have knocked them out. Inexplicably, he’s still conscious, blood red eyes glaring at you with blatant distrust.

You hadn’t gotten a chance to look closely at his face before - you’d been too busy ogling his tail. Spikey, sandy hair casts a shadow over his eyes. They glow, carmine and half crazed, no doubt with the same agony that pinches at his face and curls his lip, revealing sharp canines that he bares at you, twin ivory warnings.

A rattling, hissing sound emanates from deep in his chest when you attempt to move closer again, his dorsal fin undulating in an obvious threat display. You can tell it hurts him; the spine you’d noticed before is definitely broken, the parts of the fin around it drooping and limp. He growls when he catches you looking.

You really, really don't know what to do.

Your skin prickles, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you were left alone with him. Aside from the obvious hostility, his face is effectively blank; there’s nothing in his gaze except the primal instinct to survive, and the unspeakable, offensive terror of a wounded animal backed into a corner and trapped there.

There’s no getting through to him with words. You remember the night you were ripped from your cottage by the hunters, the way you clawed and screamed until your voice was gone and your nails were torn and bleeding. You know what it’s like to have the adrenaline coursing through your veins so fast it burns, you know what it’s like to feel the anger and fear blend together in your chest until it strips away your humanity and you’re reduced to nothing more than a feral, wild eyed animal.

Slowly, you get to your feet, your chains rattling. He growls, making that hissing sound again, and despite his size, despite the muscles straining in his chest and the magic you can sense in his form, he looks small. You grit your teeth. The shock is beginning to wear off, burnt to ashes by a roaring fury that licks up your throat and fills your lungs.

You wonder if he had a pod. You wonder if they got massacred before his eyes.

Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you scoop up the piece of dried fish that remains from yesterday’s meal. It’s the only food you have, so you turn and offer it to him - when he doesn’t hiss immediately, you slide it over to him on the dented tin plate it had been on.

Tentatively, the merman picks up the fish, his nose very obviously wrinkling. As he examines your peace offering, you notice his hands are webbed up to the lowest knuckle and are a little larger than a human man’s, the fingers longer and the nails considerably sharper.

Relief fills you as he begins to chew at the fish, and you retreat to your pile of blankets, sitting down and half facing away to give him as much privacy as is possible in as small a space as the brig. You begin to make a poultice for him, crushing the herbs between your fingers because you’re not allowed a mortar and pestle and depositing them on one of the dishes you have lying around.

Once you’re done, you turn back to him. The edge in his eyes has softened a touch, and when you scoot over to settle closer to him, he doesn’t make a sound, instead just leaning away a little, watching you warily. Warningly, he hisses when you lift your hand, his red eyes flashing.

“I’m going to have to touch you to put this poultice on,” you tell him. “It will reduce the bleeding and might alleviate the pain.”

He twitches but remains silent. You wonder briefly if he even understands - people don’t talk to merfolk these days. They either run or they kill. For all you know, he might speak some ancient language of the sea that you have no hope in understanding.

You scoop the poultice up in your fingers and lean forward, aiming to ease him in by angling first for a smaller wound situated just over a hip bone on a human would be (you’re not even sure if his equivalent qualifies as a hip seeing as he lacks legs).

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice guttural and rasping, like he hasn’t uttered a word in years.

Fumbling, you almost drop the dish. You guess that answers one of your many questions - he can speak your language, although you presume one word doesn’t really express fluency. For a moment, you consider telling him that they’ll no doubt beat you for not healing him, but it seems rather insignificant since it’s nothing they haven’t inflicted on you before.

Sighing, you sit back on your heels and look at him, defeated. He regards you with those same crimson eyes as before, but they’ve cooled considerably and hold traces of scathing criticism you find you aren’t the fondest of.

You begin to realise that he’s not going to give you any explanation as to why he doesn’t want you to treat him. He doesn’t trust you, most likely - you haven’t given him any reason to think otherwise of you, rather, you’d gawped openly at him. You’re not surprised he hasn’t taken a liking to you. You wouldn’t either.

So you retreat back to what has now become your corner of the brig, since the other three are taken up by the length of his tail and the doorway. On a whim, you prepare yourself a turmeric tea; it’s anti-inflammatory and you know you’ll be needing it sooner or later.

It takes a day, but one of the hunters barges in, light sneaking in past the outline of his silhouette. You don’t know any of them by name, nor would you want to, but you do know that this particular one is the first mate.

The merman hasn’t let you near him still, and although at points his eyes are closed, you’re worried that if you try to sneak up on him, he’ll move away again and tear open the parts of the wound around the harpoon that have partially closed up. The perimeter of blood soaked canvas beneath him has slowed its expansion but still grows.

It’s amazing that he’s survived this long while still losing blood. You presume merfolk must be rather resilient, unsurprisingly - the sea is no easy place to live in, nor is it made any easier by its recent infestation of merfolk hunters.

“Did you not hear your orders yesterday, you useless bitch?”

Passively, you look up at him as he looms closer. “I did.”

“So you don’t want to cooperate, then,” he snaps. “Do I have to encourage you?”

You don’t get to answer. A fist full of scarred knuckles collides with your nose, and your head snaps back, white exploding across your vision as the hunter shoves you backwards. Your back hits the ground and before you can even think of scrambling away, you’re kicked hard in the ribs.

You don’t try to resist it. You’ve learnt it’s better to take it than to fight and make him hit harder.

Red hot pain shoots through you when the tip of his boot catches your chin, clacking your teeth together. You cry out as your blood fills your mouth, streams from your nose, stains his knuckle bones. Hands up in a pitiful attempt at protecting your face, you curl up on the floor, as small as you can. Your ribs throb, your chain trapped awkwardly beneath your body.

You’re still balled up with your arms over your head long after he slams the door behind him. You ache all over, and your lower lip is trembling treacherously. Tears press at the backs of your eyes so you squeeze them shut: you’re not going to cry.

You need to get up.

You need to down that damned turmeric tea you made, just to feel the ginger burn as it slips down your throat.

When you open your eyes, the merman is staring. You grimace as you heave yourself to sit upright, the metallic taste of blood still coating your tongue and curdling until it’s sour. His face is unreadable, shuttered and devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t speak, although that isn’t exactly atypical.

“Well, now you’re not the only one bleeding all over the floor,” you mutter, unable to keep the resentment from your tone.

You turn your back to him as you set your nose with a grunt, letting your magic flow through your fingers and knit your flesh back together. Running a hand over your ribs, you check if any are broken, but when none are, you don’t heal them up; you’ll need to save your energy. The hunter didn’t bring food for you, and you doubt he’ll be bringing you any more until you treat the merman. That could take anything from an hour to a week.

Falteringly, you glance over your shoulder. He stares off to a place far away, a place you cannot see. A scowl furrows his brow, and you sigh, wondering if he thinks of the sea and the freedom that was torn away from him the way it was for you.

Curling up on your blankets, you pull one over yourself, rolling to face the wall and shutting your eyes. Loud in the darkness, your stomach growls, and you twitch but ignore the urge to look over your shoulder and stare accusingly at the merman - you too would not trust a human if all their kind had brought him was pain.

Your ribs hurt. It is alright, though. You’ve fallen asleep through worse.

When you wake, the first thing you do is crouch down beside the merman to check his wounds. The rattle of your chains makes him open his eyes, and you see that his face has paled, the alertness in his gaze dimmer now the adrenaline has worn off. As is becoming clear, he’s more resistant to injury than humans are, but there’s a worrying amount of blood saturating the canvas sheet beneath him, and you doubt he’ll make it much longer without help.

If he lets you near, what you’re going to have to do is far from ideal. The hunters’ harpoons are barbed and vicious, but you can’t exactly keep it in, and you can’t exactly cut it out without risking more blood loss. You’re just going to have to yank on it and hope it doesn’t destroy anything too vital on its way out.

“I’m going to have to take the harpoon out,” you tell him measuredly, gauging his facial expression.

He simply stares at you, his face blank but for the slight pinch of his brow. Shadows bathe half of his face; there is barely any lamp oil left to burn. The little flame flickers and sputters, letting darkness dance up the close walls of the brig, and if you do not hurry, you may have to treat him in the dark.

Slowly, you lift your hand, letting it hover over the splintered end of the harpoon. Tension bleeds into his body, the set of his jaw tight and his hands fisting as if he’s bracing himself, but he doesn’t growl or flinch away. Expectancy and resignation lurk in his gaze.

You don’t like that he won’t say anything in response even though he’s proven he can talk. You can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you gather your materials: the poultice from yesterday, a roll of bandages, a thick strip of worn leather. The latter you give to him, sighing when he turns it over in his hands, quizzical,

“Bite down on it,” you instruct him as you roll up your sleeves. “Either that or it’ll be your tongue.”

He frowns, but does as you say. You glance up at him to check if he’s ready. The hard lines of his body stand out, taut as a bowstring. He looks brittle, as if he might break and crumble into dust the moment you touch him.

Years ago, when you healed children’s scraped knees and the broken bones of men who had fallen from their ladders while fixing leaks in roofs, you had the words to comfort your patients. These you lost to the eternal darkness of the merfolk hunters’ ship, and these you wish to find again but cannot.

Instead, you murmur a quiet warning as you kneel by his tail, wiping your sweaty palms off on your trousers before getting a strong two handed grip on the end of the harpoon. Under your breath, you count down: three, two, one. Pull.

It makes a squelching, sucking noise as it comes out. You cringe but keep on tugging - if you stop now, it’ll be worse for both of you. He cries out, voice ragged and spilling over with agony, his tail arcing off the floor, and you feel the movement in the way the harpoon jerks in your hands with the bunching of his muscles.

All of a sudden, the resistance disappears. His tail fin slaps against the floor as he goes limp, both his and your heavy panting filling the room. You’re left with the splintered harpoon in your hands, a chunk of flesh and a twisted scale still clinging to one of the bloodied, rusted spokes. He spits the strip of leather out and it lands near your knee.

Carefully, you set down the harpoon and begin applying the poultice straight onto the weeping gash in his side, spreading the rest over the bandages which you bind tightly around his tail. Leaking from your fingertips, your magic suffuses across his skin as you work; you can’t heal him accurately without knowing much about his inner workings, but it should help to stave off any infection.

He shelters his face in the crook of his elbow, and though he tucks his other hand tightly to his chest, you can see the way he trembles.

You give him his space by swiftly moving on, busying yourself with his other injuries. You splint the spine in his dorsal fin, ignoring the way his hands shake and gently placing the arm crossed over his torso by his side so you can use your magic to clean and close up the various cuts and slashes littering his scar flecked body.

His scales seem to be damp, even though it’s almost been a full twenty four hours since he was brought in. It must be seawater somehow, you decide, or a sweat-like substance that keeps his tail wet enough when he hasn’t been in water for a while. He doesn’t look the most comfortable: he’s probably not used to having to support his own weight without the buoyancy of the waves.

There are little scars all over him, his skin a map of cicatrices, but the one that catches your attention is raised and jagged, spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel. You touch your index finger to the centre of it, and he inhales sharply, flinching away.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pulling back, half expecting him not to hear you.

He’s silent for a while, ignoring your apology, but then comes a begrudging: “Thank you.”

Though he won’t see it - he’s still hiding his face from you - you shrug. “You should never have been hurt in the first place.”

He’s quiet again, lying still enough for you to imagine him dead if not for the rise and fall of his broad chest. You slouch, the energy having leaked from your body in order to mend his. The lamp finally gutters and winks out, leaving in its absence a tiny pinprick of light, a vanishing ember at the wick’s tip, buried in ashes.

When you tear your gaze away from your expired little sun, you’re confronted with a pair of blazing eyes. Pinned on you, they glow in the darkness like two pools of blood, but you find their luminosity strangely comforting, like Arcturus and Betelgeuse to a sailor: stars to lead you on your course.

“You are a witch, are you not?”

You jump at the sound of his voice, rough around the syllables but measured, as if he rolled them around on his tongue before he spoke. The scarlet light from his eyes dims a little as they narrow (you’re not sure if that’s meant to convey amusement or distaste) and you become aware that maybe he can see a lot more in the dark than you can.

“I am,” you confirm, still squinting at him - to no avail.

“Why do you not fight them, then?” He demands, his tone darkening. “Surely you cannot like it here.”

You scoff. “Of course I don’t like it here. You think I like the way they beat me?”

He’s silent, and though you still cannot see his face, you sense his scowl.

Sighing, you reign yourself in. This merman comes the closest to being an ally than all the others that have entered the brig, and you cannot squander this. He may not trust you, and you may be ignorant and ill informed of his kind, but you both have a common enemy, and though he may not like the thought, you are similar enough: the raw energy that flows through him is the same that you harness to perform your magic.

“I could fight, but there is nowhere for me to go if I escape the ship - there is just the sea,” you explain. “In the end, they are scared of all those associated with magic, even the witch they keep chained in the dark. The moment they deem that the risk I pose outweighs the use I have to them, they’ll kill me.”

He’s quiet again while he processes what you’ve said. “And what of me, witch? Why have they not killed me yet?”

“They want to study you,” you reply, wincing at how harsh your voice comes out. “I think we’re quite far from their lands - a few months’ travel, maybe - but it’s hard to tell.”

“What - ”

“Enough questions,” you cut him off. “My turn.”

A plethora of questions crowd your mind, but as you think of the merman in front of you, you find that they can wait, because although he must have stories of the sea that you’d only dreamed of hearing, and although magic you could learn endlessly from is threaded through his being, he is primarily, before anything, a soul. He is a soul: a soul with eyes that make the permanent night you are lost within just a little more manageable.

You will have to find out whether the kraken is real or not later; you will ask him about selkie skins afterwards.

Instead, you ask him his name, and tell him your own.

Bakugou, he grunts in response before turning his head to face the wall, clearly ending the conversation. Frowning, you stare at his back - or where you presume his back is, in the darkness - and mull over the name he provided you with; you are certain he has given you the one he gives to strangers. You suppose that is what you are.

Pulling absently at your chain, you sit with your back to the wall, your knees to your chest, and think about the merman, about Bakugou. For a moment, you are seized by the absurd belief that his most grave injury is a bleeding heart, but that cannot be true, for he has not said anything that indicates it. Questions find their way to your tongue, but you let them stick there, stifling them before they deign to interrupt the silence.

Neither of you move from your positions until the door opens, revealing the first mate. Squinting, you rise to your feet, a muscle feathering in your jaw as he purposefully kicks Bakugou in the shoulder, lifting his lamp high so he can see the bandages you’d applied.

“I’ll need a top up on lamp oil if I’m to continue the healing process,” you announce. “And we’ll need food and water. He’ll have - ”

You hesitate, glancing over at Bakugou, but he just lifts a shoulder and makes a face of disgust that you know isn’t conscious. Deliberating for a moment, you wrack your brain for any clues about merfolk diets.

“Fresh fish,” you decide. “And crabs. The bigger the better. Also, he’ll need a tub big enough for him, filled with seawater.”

“Watch the way you address me,” the first mate snaps, taking a step forward.

You shrug. “You wanted him healed, didn’t you?”

Your first two requests come within the next few hours, appeasing the increasing hollowness that had resided in your stomach and sending the shadows inhabiting the brig retreating up the walls and into the corners of the room, but the tub doesn’t come until two days after. It is barely watertight, plugged with tar and made from rough sawn wood.

You haven’t exchanged words with Bakugou since you asked his name and he gave you one, though you find yourself on the receiving end of his red eyes more often than not. He’s silent as the hunters bring the tub in, as they fill it with pails of seawater, as they leave and slam the brig’s door behind them. He’s silent, even as he slips into the tub and into a thin slice of his home.

And then, after a moment, he turns to you, and there’s something painful and cutting and cynical in his eyes.

“You know, the water doesn’t speed up the healing.”

You nod. “I know it doesn’t. You were uncomfortable.”

His eyes blaze. “What do you want?”

You regard him, regard the intensity of the fire in his gaze and the way his chest heaves. His tail fin hangs out of the tub, but even so, water swills over the side and splashes onto the floor like it can sense his agitation. Loudly, the links of your chain clank against each other as you cross your arms. 

“I do not want anything, Bakugou.”

He narrows his eyes. “All humans I have known but one are cruel, witch. You wish for me to owe you something.”

“I don’t,” you reply, noticing the strange look that creeps onto his face. “Who is this human you hold in such high esteem?”

A distant look erases the furrow in his brow, and you get the sense he is no longer talking to you when he speaks again: he is lost in some place far away, a place coated in the golden sheen that tints all good memories. His voice turns soft as he brushes his fingers over the scar on his chest.

“His name was Izuku,” he murmurs. “But I called him Deku.”

“Deku?” You echo, your voice crudely loud all of a sudden.

A flash of grief slashes across his features like lightning on the high seas, there and gone so fast you almost don’t catch it. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly shutters slam down behind his eyes and his expression melts away until his face is blank and cold. Regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

You wince. “I’m sorr - ”

“He’s dead,” Bakugou growls.

He doesn’t speak to you for three days. There is a certain rawness in his blood red eyes that makes you gentler as you change his dressings and reapply your poultices. He looks at you as if he hates that you are healing him instead of leaving him to die, so you avoid his gaze, staring instead at the scars that cover him like warpaint.

You get the sense that he is mourning this human he told you of all over again, and you cannot help but see the weight of it in the tension of his body and wonder if you could alleviate the pain.

On the fourth day, he shuts the vulnerability away somewhere deep inside of him, buried far enough beneath other things that he can pretend it never even existed. Yet you remember it, still vivid and fresh in your mind as you lie curled up on your side, watching the lamp’s flame until your eyes burn. He breaks the silence by clearing his throat, his gaze fixed on you.

“Witch,” Bakugou says softly. “How did they catch you?”

You glance over at him. “I was young and foolish and alone. It’s easy to snatch a girl from her home under those circumstances.”

“You have been here for years, then.”

“I have,” you sigh. “I tried to escape once. That’s why I’m chained down.”

“A weaker soul would not have survived this darkness,” he remarks solemnly. “You are strong, witch.”

You look down at your hands, watching your fingers fidget to and fro in your lap. Your tongue is frozen in your mouth - you had not spoken properly to someone in years before he was captured, and his behaviour confuses you. No words come to mind that express how grateful you are for his acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you settle with in the end.

He hums but other than that remains silent.

Later you discuss with him the possible logistics of an escape. He explains to you that he cannot channel the magic the way you can, but that he is soaked in the magic of the sea; he is unable to use it for spells because it is innately part of him, enhancing him beyond human capabilities. Together, you come to the conclusion that you must get off the ship before you arrive at the hunters’ lands, or your chances of freedom will have narrowed to almost nothing.

An actual method of subduing or injuring the hunters enough to allow an exit route evades you, though. After all, you are chained to the wall, and there’s no easy way of moving Bakugou - he is, evidently, far too heavy for you to drag around all by yourself.

Uneasy silence falls over the brig. You stare at the lamp again: with it, your ability to see has been restored, along with a piece of your humanity, but now its light seems to illuminate how small a space you are contained in, how strong the chain binding you to the wall is.

As you drift off to sleep that night, you find yourself gripped by the fear that Bakugou will never return to the sea, and instead, they will inflict unspeakable torments upon him.

You will be the one who kept him alive for them. You will be the one who he grows to hate, because you had the chance to let future pain pass him by, but you saved him, and by doing so, you failed to spare him from their torture. And while they cut him open and study his insides, you will be somewhere far away, still risking yourself to heal their most elite, almost as if they are beloved to you.

The thought gnaws at you as the weeks pass. Blood no longer soaks the bandages wrapped around his tail; his dorsal fin is almost healed. He is gaining strength, more rapidly through your magic, and it is clear he has shaken off death many times before if his scars are testament to anything. In particular, the one on his chest draws you: though it is long healed, you can tell it was deep.

He almost died back then, too - the scar tissue around its edges is strange, lumpy and malformed as if he was kneaded back together by a child who saw his flesh as nothing more than clay harvested gleefully from a river bank. Even so, the shape of it is familiar. You know you shouldn’t pry. You remember the way he flinched away when you first touched it, but you ask, anyway.

“Bakugou,” you ask him once you’ve finished changing his bandages. “What did you do to get a merfolk’s blade stuck in your chest?”

He snarls. “All you do is fucking dig, you shitty witch.”

“I - ”

Hissing, he swipes at you half heartedly, and you stumble backwards, dodging his fist and almost tripping on your chain, caught off guard by the agitation in his eyes. Stunned, you gape at him. The fury is vehement on his face, evident in the grit of his teeth and the tremor in his hands as he grips the side of the tub; you can tell he despises how he is trapped in here with you, fending you off with the sting of his words.

You open your mouth. You’re not certain what you’re supposed to say, other than an apology that he will shake off easily, but you hope that words will form on your tongue. He levels his gaze on you, and this time, within it dwells an overwhelming sorrow that stops you short.

“Don’t try,” he whispers. “You cannot change the past.”

Brow furrowed, you stare at him. You take in the pain carved all over him, and this, you realise, not his scars, is his warpaint - he holds it close to him, like a cloak of inwardly turned, savage blades, reminding him to keep his distance. It is present in the bow of his head, the slump of his shoulders, a weight so heavy it threatens to rend his flesh from his bones.

You get to your feet, and in the lamp light, the single tear that rolls down his face is turned to solid gold.

Balefully, he looks at you, yet he holds still as you reach out and smooth it away with your thumb. A rawness resides in his eyes that you wish you could soothe as you catch the next tear that spills over, gently as if he is made of porcelain.

“You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders, Bakugou.”

Your words wrench a sob from him. His fingers curl tight around your wrist, tearing your hand away from his face, silently weeping as he grips you so hard you begin to lose feeling in your palm. You watch as the anguish in his eyes evolves into anger, harsh and brittle and bleak.

“Get away from me,” he spits, voice strangled, and yet he does not release you, so you perch on the side of the tub and make a show of not looking at him so he is not alone in his privacy.

It’s then that you realise that whether or not he likes it, you have gotten through to him. In the month that goes by, sometimes he is cold and aloof, keeping to himself, and sometimes he allows you close enough that you can feel his warmth. You find you savour his company when it’s there.

His wound is fully healed, a pink scar bordered by healing scales, and his dorsal fin spine is back in working order. You check up on him still, every other day or so, careful to monitor them in case you have somehow healed him wrong, careful to keep your regular intersections with him, because although you would never admit it to him, he is amusing, and he keeps the darkness at bay.

You are unsure what he thinks of you. Sometimes, he smacks you upside the head with no real force, and you dare to label it as affectionate. He gives you the name which he gives to those that mean more to him than strangers, too - well, you wring it out of him.

(“Bakugou, what’s your name?”

A scoff. “Witch, have you hit your head?”

“We both know you’re not obliged to answer, so if you’re not going to tell me, spare me the insults.”

Pause. “Katsuki. It’s Katsuki.”)

There are times when he has nightmares, too. You surmise that most of them are about Deku, and that the scar branding his chest, the one made by a merfolk forged weapon, is linked somehow to this dead human. Incomprehensibly, he mutters in his sleep, snarling about krakens and storms and sometimes even witches, but it always leads back to Deku.

Sometimes he protests against him, speaking a language you do not fully understand, cursing and thrashing so hard you fear the tub will splinter, while sometimes he proclaims his love, his voice slurred as he slumbers, but each time, without fail, he begs: forgive me, Izuku, forgive me, Deku, I’m sorry.

Katsuki is unaware of what he gives away in his sleep. Often, he settles down quickly after raising his voice, but sometimes you look over to see him stiff and terrified and shake him awake; he then jolts upright, the water sloshing out of the tub as he reaches for you, his stricken eyes searching yours for something you do not know the identity of, but he always finds.

He does not let you go, not ever. At these times, you lean or sit by the tub and let him crush your fingers in his grip.

He never speaks of it in the morning.

You would not hide from him what you have learnt, nor the feelings that grow treacherously in your heart, but you are too cowardly to tell him of either. It is certain that he loved Deku, and that maybe Deku loved him too. What was it like, you often wonder, to have loved Katsuki?

When he holds onto you, still half lost in the dark lands of his nightmares, you think about it. He would have been less guarded, a young merman not yet covered in scars; he would have given Deku his name immediately, for he would not have learnt that he needed to be wary of humans. Still, he would have fought for him until the end with the same ferocity he would fight for his own heart - because Deku was his own heart.

And Deku, you imagine Deku saw people as they really were. You imagine Deku with bright eyes and a brighter smile, with a face that all his emotions could be read off as easily as a book. He must have been good, persistent, if Katsuki had fallen for him. Soft, even, but tough when he needed to be.

They fit each other, no doubt.

You feel guilty, as if your speculations are invasive, rummaging around within Bakugou’s heart where he has not let you set foot. Mercifully, he can pin his red eyes on you as much as he likes, which he often does, but he will not hear your mind.

Now that he is healed, that is how you pass your days, exchanging words with him when either of you wish to, while you wrestle with the unspoken in your head and while god knows what happens behind his eyes. It is normal for silence to fall after a conversation - it is not awkward, but not comfortable either. It is pensive, it is familiar.

And today, it is shattered by screams up on deck.

Katsuki perks up, his keen ears picking up things your dull ones cannot, and he tilts his head, listening intently. You do not have to hear what he does to know what is happening: there is the sound of clashing steel above you, the all too familiar war cries of the hunters. It is not often that the merfolk are prepared for the hunters as they pass by, but neither is it impossible.

The ship lurches, harshly enough that some of the water in Katsuki’s tub overflows. You wager it must be a whole pod, then, maybe two, and you glance over at him, wondering if he knows who they are, wondering if -

“Are they yours?” You blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your pod,” you clarify.

Bitterly, he scoffs. “If the merfolk wanted to rescue me, they wouldn’t have waited months.”

You freeze. The detachment in his voice does nothing to hide the betrayal beneath, and ice begins to crawl up your spine, for he addresses them as the merfolk, not as his kind, his people. Harshly, you swallow as you start to understand that the hunters would never have been able to capture a merman if he wasn’t alone.

“You don’t have a…” You trail off, feeling far too inadequate and stupid to continue.

“My pod renounced me the moment they learnt about Deku and I.”

A picture forms in your mind, of a Katsuki who lost his family because he gave away his heart to a human - of a Katsuki to which the sea was no longer home, but a huge expanse of alone. Horror closes over your head like cold water as your eyes slide down to the scar on his chest.

His pod didn’t stop at just renouncing him.

You had always hoped that beings whose very essence was rooted in magic would be fair and just as the tales said. Your hope had always been that the merfolk would see that humanity was not united in the purging of them, that they would spare you if your path ever crossed theirs. Never did you think they would be so blind as to turn on one of their own for something as reliant on fate as love. You are a fool.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it comes out almost like a sob.

“We are no better than you are,” he replies.

His voice is so devoid of hope that it cuts you to the quick. You open your mouth so say more, to try and fill that emptiness inside him if you can, but your words are stuck in your throat and before you can force them out the door flies open, banging loudly against the wall and almost extinguishing the lamp’s flame.

Three gravely wounded are deposited in front of you and then the door slams. Silently, you get to work, sealing the deep slashes to their flesh more carelessly than you should be - but with Katsuki watching, you feel sullied, a betrayer who works for the purgers of magic. Their blood coats your tingling palms, and yet not in the way you wish it could be.

You have just finished the last when four more are dragged in, and you’re hit hard across the face and ordered to work faster, which signifies only one thing: more are coming. As blood wells up in your mouth, you hope that the merfolk are victorious, even if it means sinking the ship and letting you drown within.

Hate rises within you again, searing and acrid like smoke clogging your lungs, but this time it is different. You hate them for what they have made you; a tool, a means to an end. The determination you nurse in your heart is unimportant as long as you do what they say, and yet you cannot defy them, and this is what you hate yourself for.

Prickling sensations begin to claw up your arms as you heal. You are lost in it, the blood and the battle and the patients, and you swear you see the same faces twice: hunters who you healed once coming back more injured than last time. Your energy dwindles like a dying flame and you dip into your reserves when you recognise the violent light in the hunters’ eyes.

You cannot ask for a break. They already bay for blood and death; what more is yours but just another magic using bitch’s?

You are being bled dry. You are no longer aware of your surroundings, just the halting of the flow of blood beneath your hands and the wheezing gasp of your breath and the rattle of the chain locked around your wrist.

They have not been attacked like this in a long time. You almost forgot how fast the darkness closes in when you send out your energy through your palms to knit flesh and skin back together again. Spots cloud your vision, and futilely, you swat them away. Muffled, Katsuki’s voice hums in your right ear, but you do not understand the words he utters.

Your hands tremble. You pitch forward, slumping over your newest patient.

A hand fists in your hair. Knuckles press into your jaw, far harder than a lover’s touch and yet it feels like it in the way your head lolls slowly to the side. It takes time, but pain radiates through your skull, vibrating your teeth and sharpening your focus, and then you can hear yelling, yelling for you to wake up, yelling for you to carry on or they’ll kill you -

There are so many of them. So many hunters with frenzied eyes and blades that shine where they are not coated in innocent blood, and they are hurt and they want to return back to the battle and you must abide by their demands. The air is too thin as it whistles in and out of your lungs. You cannot think.

You press your palms to the blood slick abdomen of the next man placed down before you and do as they say. Your mouth is dry, your head pounds, your eyes won’t focus, and yet, you do as they say, you always do what they say.

What a fucking coward you are.

Letting them push you farther than you ever would let yourself go. You’re right on the edge, right over the edge, clinging onto the side of the perilously vertical cliff face even as the mossy stone crumbles beneath your fingers and threatens to make you fall down down down. But still, you heal. Your body performs numbly what your mind cannot take any more.

All of a sudden, there is not an open wound for you to heal or guts to force back inside a torso, there are just crimson soaked planks and a raised voice. Loud. An incensed, raised voice, cursing and roaring. Can’t you see she’s almost gone? They shout, earsplitting enough to make your head pound. She can’t heal you fucking bastards if she’s dead!

Bakugou. No, not that name. It’s… Katsuki. Katsuki making all that racket. You don’t know when it happened, but now your cheek is pressed to the rough planks that make up the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Some more splatters to the ground and you notice that the din isn’t being made by Katsuki any more. Your eyes are hazy as you lift them upwards and see a hunter raise his fist again.

“Kats,” you slur. “Watch… watch out…”

The lamp goes out, which is strange, since the oil got topped up this morning. You pay it no mind, though.

You’re too tired.

You wake surrounded by water. For a moment, you wonder if the merfolk won, and if somehow you managed to get tossed off the boat and into the sea, but then you move your leg and it hits something hard and vertical which must be wood. Peeling your eyes open, you find you’re in… the tub? Katsuki’s tub?

Lifting your head, you’re met with a pair of concerned red eyes. One is almost swollen shut, and blood has crusted down the side of his face from a wound in his temple, yet he smooths his hand soothingly over your upper back, watching attentively as you come to.

“You’ve been out for just under two days,” Katsuki says. “You need to eat, get your strength back up.”

Your memory begins to trickle back, and with it floods a torrent of shame: you always told yourself that you survived out of spite, out of the belief and conviction that one day you would hurt them enough to negate all the healing they made you to do, but it was all a pretence. You were scared and so you took the easier road of complacency, and it has caused the deaths of hundreds of merfolk.

It is without a doubt that if you had healed even just a papercut more, that if Katsuki had not stopped them, the life force within you would have winked out, and you would have died. Death had loomed right over you, brushing boney fingers over your face, and even now, it lingers.

You are burnt out, exhaustion weighing on you as if a whole mountain rests on your back. Worse is the fear, revealed in the blinding light, shackling you, for you are its slave, and you cannot shake its hold off you.

Your face crumples. “I am spineless, for letting them use me so. I am a coward, a - ”

“They give you no choice, witch,” Katsuki remarks. “Do not put it on yourself.”

You shake your head. “You cannot ask that of me. How many lives have been lost because I obeyed when the hunters told me to save them?”

Bowing your head, you sob. Fatigue envelops you, the chain around your wrist unspeakably heavy, and you lean heavily against Katsuki; he holds you like you are precious, handling you with care so that the pieces you have shattered into do not fall apart and scatter onto the floor. He tips up your chin, forcing you to look him in those eyes of his as he wipes away your tears.

“What was that you told me, as I wept like you do now?” He asks. “You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders. That was what you said to me.”

Nodding, you feel more tears leak out when you squeeze your eyes closed. He strokes your hair, and you hide your face in his chest and wish you could do forever, for he is warm and he is far gentler than you ever imagined he could be. You are tempted, but he nudges you and chides you, reminding you that you will feel much better once you have eaten.

Wobbly as a newborn fawn, you climb out of the tub, Katsuki steadying you with a hand on your arm. Wrapping one of your blankets around you like a shawl, you retrieve a hunk of bread to gnaw on before planting yourself on the tub’s rim, loath to be any farther away from him than you have to be.

Though hunger worries insistently at your insides, sending tremors through your hands and weakness in your legs, you force yourself to eat slowly; you cannot risk wasting any of the food by throwing up. Katsuki rests his forearms on the sides of the tub, watching you with a keen gaze that you cannot read. You become more aware of the purpling bruising across his face and reach out without thinking.

He catches your hand before you can tap into the slowly replenishing well of magic inside of you, his fingers circling your wrist before he lets them slip down and lace with yours. Something ignites behind his eyes, and you find you are mesmerised - you lean closer to see how the spark dances.

“Katsuki,” you breathe, and then your lips are on his.

He tips his chin up to lean into you, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer to him, so tender that it makes your chest ache. You could stay like this for eternity, simply doing nothing but tasting the salt of him on your tongue and savouring the sweet, sweet scrape of his canines over your lower lip; he is all that matters, all that is.

Slowly, his hands come round to cup your shoulders, pressing you closer to him, and so you feel the moment his grip falters and he stiffens, feel the way he recoils from you as if you have burnt him, and you can do nothing to prevent it. You’re propelled backwards with the force he jolts away. Though it is only a few steps, you feel the gap between you yawn wide, stretching into an uncrossable chasm.

“No,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “No, not - not like - ”

Abruptly, he falls terribly, terribly silent. Stunned, you touch a hand to your mouth; your legs buckle, and you throw out a hand to steady yourself against the wall before sinking to the floor. It feels as if you are drowning.

Katsuki does not love you - how can he, when he fits with Deku like they were made for each other? You were wrong to hope for anything else, wrong to give in to what you wanted, because you have torn open old wounds that never properly healed. It is no longer significant that he does not love you, for you should have seen that already; what matters is that in your blindness, you have ripped him open.

You’re beginning to realise that it was not the lamp that kept the shadows back, but him. It is only natural that you are drawn to him like a moth to a flame, only natural that you were too weak to resist flying straight into the fire. This time, it is not only the moth who gets hurt.

You are left alone with your thoughts. Time passes, as it always does, but you pay it no mind. However hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes. You are numb, numb to the slow rock of the ship as it cuts through the waves, numb to the sounds of the crew at their battle stations again, numb to it all now that it is undeniable: you love him.

He cannot love you.

Wearily, warily, you raise your head when the door opens, revealing the first mate, soaked in blood. Crossing the room in a few strides, he stands before you, chest heaving, a frantic sort of desperation contorting his face as he tightens his hand around the hilt of his sword and glares at you.

“The captain is near death. We drop anchor home in a fortnight. I will be put in command if he does not survive, and if this happens, I will make certain that you come upon a death slower and far more painful than his.”

You do not answer, nor do you pay any mind to his threats. You can sense Katsuki staring in your direction, the feeling of his red eyes on your skin unmistakable: no doubt, he has heard what you have. We drop anchor home in a fortnight - a fortnight until Katsuki is delivered into hands who seek to study him, to slit him open while he still lives and examine his insides and the way his heart beats, ensnared in the cage of his ribs.

Just like that, you know what to do.

You wait silently until they bring the captain to you. The first mate did not lie when he said the captain is near death. Sweat creates a sheen on his brow, and though his eyes are open, he is barely conscious, for he has been sliced open from gullet to navel by a merfolk blade. Briefly, you touch a fingertip to the lip of the gash, ignoring the pained moan it causes and the disquieted mutters of the other hunters.

If you were superstitious, you would deem the wound too similar to Katsuki’s to be anything but fate, but you do not believe in such things. Instead, you put your trust in the strength of good steel and the sharpness of a tongue. Yes, you know what to do, and you will do it.

The chain fixed around your wrist is not broken, but it does not have to be. You are free to do what you wish, because before you is the captain, and he is leverage. There is no fear left in you, no shame to hold you back as you look up at the first mate; he opens his mouth, about to ask why you do not jump to heal his captain, but he pauses when he takes in your cold smile.

“Free the merman, and then I will heal him.”

A silence falls. They are left with no other choice but to do as you say, and they know it. The first mate’s hands ball into fists, a reminder to you of what will come once Katsuki is let go and you heal their captain, but it does not concern you any more. None of it is of concern to you, only his freedom.

“What the fuck did you just say, witch?” Katsuki spits.

His voice jolts the first mate into action. He heaves you to your feet by the front of your shirt, seething, and punches you squarely in the nose. Something cracks. Your head snaps back, the air knocked from your lungs when he drives his knee into your stomach and lets you crumple to the floor by his feet. Gritting your teeth, you glower up at him.

“Come at me all you like,” you hiss as blood pours down your face. “It will not save your captain.”

He crouches down before you. You do not listen as he shouts at you, because you see it in his eyes. He knows you have them all backed into a corner, he knows you’re aware he will not risk the captain’s life. Over his shoulder, Katsuki urgently mouths something to you: do you know what they will do to you because of this? They will do worse than just kill you!

“Let them,” you reply, and as you gaze at him, you smile again. To the first mate, you say: “Bring me up on deck. I want to see.”

The first mate hurls you away from him, barking orders at the other hunters, but all you hear is the crash of the waves outside and all you taste is the nectar of victory on your tongue. You watch, still smiling, as they grab Katsuki and drag him from the tub. He fights, of course he does, screaming your name and slashing at the hunters, but there is but one of him, and he is unarmed.

Cursing, the first mate unfastens your chain from the ring in the wall, wrapping the length of it around his hand and jerking you forward with it, pulling you to follow him through the ship. There is murder written on his face and in the curl of his lip, and you let it slide it off you like water from a sea bird's feathers.

He throws open the hatch, and for the first time in years, you see the sun. Slowly, you step into the light, and the salty breeze tugs playfully at your clothes and hair, fresh and briney and strong, pulling tears from your eyes. All around you is empty space, just blue sea and blue sky and the wind that dances gloriously between them as far as you can see.

The air is invigorating and crisp in your lungs. Hesitantly, you take a step forward, then another and another, seeing the way the sun plays on the water’s surface, scintillating as it warms your cold skin. It is as resplendent as you remember it.

“Witch!” Katsuki cries, shaking the hunters’ hands off him. “Why? Why would you do this to yourself?”

There are countless ways you could answer him. Instead, you take him in one last time, his spiky ash blonde hair and his crimson eyes and the way his scales glitter under the sunlight. You do this for love: if you can’t give him your heart, you will give him his freedom.

“Go,” is all you say, and though tears stream down your face, you smile.

“I will not forget you, witch,” he replies, voice thick. “I swear it.”

Running to the side of the ship, you cling to the taffrail and lean forwards to watch as he dives overboard. He slices through the water, the amber of his tail bright as he goes, further from you with each passing second, and your breath catches in your throat - he is more beautiful than you imagined he would be in the light.

As he crests a wave, he looks back at you, and you see the shimmer of his scales and the graceful arc of his dorsal fin one last time before he twirls in the surf and dives. With that, he is gone, and you are alone again, yet you do not fear what is to come.

A hand grips your shoulder, nails digging sharply into your skin. “Enjoy your peace, you thankless bitch, because once you heal the captain, all you’re going to know is pain.”

You turn to the first mate and laugh in his face.

He loves you.

Bakugou Katsuki fucking loves you.

He loves your deft hands, careful despite their calluses and nimble despite the chain around your wrist. He loves the smell of you, herby and laced with petrichor. He loves the brightness dancing in your eyes when you laugh. Most of all, he loves your sweet soul: the fierceness woven into it like second nature, the blaze of your heart when you stand up for what you believe in.

He was stupid for pulling away from that kiss. You had fit your lips to his, and suddenly panic rose in his chest, and he jerked backwards as if ignoring his heart would silence it; he was scared to love another human, scared because last time it led to pain. His fear had hurt you, and this is his regret - that he was the one to cause the slow dimming of the light in your eyes.

There are countless other things he regrets. He should have trusted more easily, he should have fought harder as they yanked him out of that silly tub and away from you, and he should never have left you by yourself on that ship with those despicable hunters.

He didn’t tell you he loved you, and now he is scared he will never get the chance.

He has left you in a den of beasts. Deku would never have let this happen if it was Katsuki in danger. Deku would have found a way to get him out. In fact, Deku did, he saved him instead of himself, and now Deku is gone, and he fears his heart is not strong enough to lose another. He does not want to lose another.

That serene little smile on your face as you watched him go - it haunts him, fucking burns itself into his retinas, because you knew. You knew precisely what you were doing, when you bargained with that hunter’s life, and you knew exactly what they were going to do to you for making them let him go.

You must be hurting right now. You must have been beaten within an inch of your life. You, who broke down the walls he rebuilt, brick by brick, after Deku was gone - the same walls that Deku himself tore down too. Katsuki is beginning to think that their foundation has always been flawed, or maybe they crumbled like Jericho simply because you shine brighter than the sun on the waves, and he could not look away if he wanted to.

He has been tailing the ship for little over a day. Keeping out of sight and in the shadows is easy; he has felt the sting of their harpoons enough and he will not risk an injury when getting you away from them is the priority, yet he can’t help but resent the way he must hide. There is no other way, though. Currently, he has no plan, and he must bide his time.

Katsuki was never the most patient, but he has no choice but to be patient since he has no sword and no allies. It is plausible that he could scuttle the ship by himself, but he can’t risk it with you chained inside and possibly unconscious.

But then he sees it - a shape in the distance.

It is an isle, small enough that it could sustain maybe one hamlet of people, and rather plain, with rocks that make up a small cliff on one side and a sandy beach dotted with rock pools on the other, a thicket of trees spanning the distance between. One could call it nondescript, but there is nothing nondescript about it to Katsuki.

He has bled out on that golden beach. He has fought to protect his own life and the life of another in the waters near that isle, and he has failed. He has wept on that shore, wept enough to cleanse the blood soaked sand beneath his newly fixed body that held his newly broken heart.

That isle is where Deku washed up, half dead, a decade ago. It is where he watched from afar as this green eyed, freckled human nursed himself back to health, and where he watched from a little closer as he learnt that humans were more than what they are portrayed as in the tales of his pod.

He understood many things on that isle: what love was - the touch of his lips to a man with unruly green curls and an infectious smile, and what betrayal was - when his pod found out and the waters were tinted red because of it.

Just like that, he knows what to do.

Hidden in the underwater caves below the isle is a monster that slumbers until a soul dares to wake it. The humans call it a kraken, but the merfolk leave it unnamed, for it is too great to be reduced to a simple moniker. He has seen it once before, through the haze that descends over one close to death, and felt as its power stymied the lifeblood that poured hot from a wound spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel.

Both he and Deku had lain on the beach after his pod ambushed, both bleeding from fatal wounds. He had been too fucking weak to get to the kraken first, and so Deku had been the one to sacrifice himself and give himself to the monster so Katsuki could live, when it should have been the other way round.

This time, though, he is strong enough.

He remembers slipping back into the ocean with his freshly healed wound so the saltwater of his tears mixed with the sea, unable to understand why Deku would leave him. Now, he understands all too well, and he will not fail to protect the one he loves again.

Summoning the kraken means no going back. After waking it, the summoner is transported into the kraken’s form, and they have a limited time within it before the kraken reaps its payment - the summoner’s soul. It will shatter their spirit and ensure they cannot return to their body.

Katsuki dives down deep, breaking away from the ship and swimming ahead of it to find the gaping mouth of the cave that the kraken slumbers within. He is far down enough that the water is murky, frigid as it weighs heavily on him, the sun a weak pinprick of light suspended somewhere above him that does nothing to pierce the gloom.

The entrance is curtained with seaweed, the cold fronds  caressing his skin as he slips past them. Nestled in the darkness, it lies there, slumbering: a behemoth shadow, looming as high as the cavern’s ceiling and filling its width like the berth of a warship docked in a seaside hamlet’s harbour.

As he swims towards it, he realises he has already had his last glimpse of you through his own eyes. The last time he will see you, he will be fighting to keep hold of himself before he loses his soul to the kraken, and then it will just be bottomless darkness until it is summoned again. You might not even know it is him inside the monster.

It doesn’t matter - a lot has ceased to matter to Katsuki. He can no longer deny that he loves you, and with that epiphany comes another: you knew what the hunters would do to you when you bargained for his freedom, and yet you did it anyway, with no fear of the consequences. Now, it is his turn to put his life on the line for you, and though he may lose it, you will be free.

He will never feel the sweet touch of lips again, but that’s alright. He hopes that you will find another to make you happy, another who will make your heart soar and help you forget him. They will be to you what you were to him: a light to scare away the shadows, a star in the night sky to guide you, even if at times, just like him, you believe you do not wish to be guided.

Katsuki pictures your face as he draws near to the kraken.

Its flesh is odd beneath his palm - slippery and uncomfortably cold. Pressing his palm to its skin, he wills it awake, and it obeys him alarmingly fast, an eye as big as his head snapping open and rolling around until it fixates on him. An abyss of a pupil sucks him in, beckoning him forward to a place that will be the last he ever visits.

Though he knows his body remains still, he feels himself fall forward, sucked towards the magnetic emptiness within the kraken as if it aches to be occupied. For a moment, he resists, pure instincts making him struggle against it, but he forces himself to let go. Sensation briefly forsakes him.

When his vision is restored, he finds that he is looking at his body, limp and vacant. Already he can feel a difference in the water, the sharp tang of fear drifting toward him on currents that hadn’t been there before as creatures begin to flee, aware that something ancient has been roused from its sleep.

A tempest is brewing.

Katsuki - or a version of him that no longer is really Katsuki, but instead a wrathful monster caller - cannot see the dark clouds amassing above, but he knows they are scudding across the blue skies to taint the high midday sun, and it is his doing. Cruel winds accumulate in the shadows cast by his thunderhead, and he can hear the sharp snap of canvas and the raised voices of a crew readying their ship for a storm.

Unfurling a tentacle, he curls it around his old body, careful not to crush it, and reaches up high enough to deposit it on the beach. He begins to move the kraken out of the cave, dislodging pebbles that would have been boulders as the bulk of its body manoeuvres through the exit.

In a way, he is disconnected from the body that is his now; there is empty space that he is not large enough to occupy, like he has donned a garment made for a merman the size of a mountain. It is strangely silent inside this huge vessel, although he is not alone. Shadow wreathed souls lurk in the corners of his mind, and he knows they are disgusted by him.

He is not surprised. Historically, the kraken have been summoned only in the utmost peril. To the merfolk, the kraken are as sacred and as old as the sea, called upon in the wars of old, when the magic beings of the sky were eradicated. Despite being only scattered shards of themselves, the past summoners look down on him, because he does not summon to seek the solution to mighty matters.

For the second time in a lifetime, the kraken is being summoned for a cause as selfish as love.

There’s an awful symmetry to it, really. He imagines the way they must have abhorred Deku, a dying human who did not use the kraken’s power to destroy, but to knit together the wound of a simple, unnoteworthy merman.

Faces contorted beyond recognition flash before his eyes and hands claw at his sides with nails as vicious as knives. They want blood, they want a whole fleet to rip through and ruin. He tells them that they will have to settle with one ship, and they cry their discontent in his ears, their voices rough and rasping, like rusting metal on stone.

He has not broken the surface of the water yet. His body prowls many leagues down, but still, he spots the shadow cast by the ship, and the moment he does, his vision narrows, blurs, and he sees winking lights on board: the lives of the crew, twinkling and tantalising and begging to be snuffed out.

The kraken jets upwards and breaches, spraying up a wall of water, and though he does not command it, he bellows a war cry, the sound so bloodthirsty and wild it almost sweeps him up and incapacitates him. The shadow souls close in, fragments of vengeful souls garbed in shadow, greedy and eager to see him torn apart, and he shakes them off, wrenching himself from their grasp with all his strength.

A twinge pinches at his side, and he glances down to see a volley of harpoons glance off his hide, leaving shallow gashes in their wake. The crew swarm on the deck, their terror sour as he breathes it in and savours it. They are but ants, small and irritating with their measly weapons and made to be crushed and devoured -

He seizes the mast and uses it to rock the ship from side to side, fighting to keep the visions of blood staining the water red away from him. Too fast, his control is slipping, and he feels the souls swarm around him, filling his field of view with darkness until all he can see is those tiny flames that he must put out. There is something he wanted to do, something he needs to do -

Selfish, the souls hiss in his ears, trying to sink their hateful claws into him again, and he agrees with them.

He loves, and therefore he is selfish.

It is no bad thing.

The storm clouds gather over the ship, roiling and rumbling with thunder. Lightning strikes, a bolt of white fury that splinters the deck and extinguishes one of the little lives on board, producing a delighted cackle from the souls at his back, but he ignores them. He knows what he must do.

“Bring me the witch,” he roars.

His voice comes out warped and foreign, the words of men coming out strange and misshapen on his tongue, but the crew understand enough, scuttling to obey, desperate to believe he may spare them if they give you to him. The grip of the souls tightens, squeezing at his throat - he has spent too long in their presence already, and they nip at the edges of his mind, stealing away parts of him when he isn’t looking.

He realises with a jolt that he does not remember his name any more.

It is fine, though. He will join the souls in their namelessness soon. They are a cacophony in his head, and he can no longer hear anything but them, the burn of their claws threatening to tear him apart and shred him the way they are already torn apart, but he barely cares.

The little gnats bring another up and present it to him. This one shines brighter, suffused with a magic the souls cannot wait to devour, and they encourage him forward - surely he too will enjoy the honeyed taste of this offering? Plucking it off the ship’s deck, he brings it to his eye level, and his shadow companions clamour for him to crush it, but he hesitates.

It looks at him like it knows him. In its weak, tiny voice, it yells something that gets lost in the howl of the winds, but even so, it makes the souls shrink back, receding enough for him to remember that this little thing he holds is important. Important for what, he can’t recall, but it is important all the same.

Kicking its legs, the small being beats its fist on his tentacle, still shouting. He leans closer, wincing as the shadows scratch and tear at his back, trying to draw him away again.

“Katsuki!” You scream.

He jolts. It is you, his little, beloved witch - you are why he is being so selfish, summoning the kraken just to save one life. Peering closer, he notices that you are bruised all over, and suddenly the storm worsens overhead, crackling as bolts of lightning stab down like vindictive knives and the wind tears at the ship full of aghast hunters, tossing it violently among the waves.

Carefully, he places you on the beach, next to a body that used to be his. You scramble towards it, limping, and he turns away, looking back towards the ship and the lights it is infested with that still need to be destroyed. Anger comes easily to him, because these are the ones that have marred you with bruises.

The shadows close in again.

Roaring, he tears at the ship, rending it in two and crushing those that leap overboard, yet the souls are never appeased, never satiated. It feels as if power leaks out the seams of his spirit and if he does not let it go it will destroy him from the inside, but he knows he cannot let go. He needs to hold on, to hold himself together, for something that drifts further and further out of reach -

It is as if he has been tied to the bottom of a sea trench for so long, drowning in darkness, that the surface is just a fanciful thought. He does not remember the sun’s sweet face, nor the sound of your voice as you called out the name he has lost again. They sink their teeth into him, ready to tear him apart.

He struggles. He will not go without a fucking fight, he will not let them have him before he has tried valiantly to swim upwards to the sun, where the shadows will not survive.

But the light is so far from him. It floats away every time he strives to be closer, or maybe there are hands holding him back, ripping him open and tethering him to the blackness. They cling to him, shrieking in his ears, sinking curved claws into him and refusing to let go, ready to reap the kraken’s payment.

He is losing himself.

And then - a hand, gentle, touching his face. Emerald eyes fill his vision, wide and lovely, and suddenly he is able to ignore the souls and their blaring dissonance, the pain in his side fading away into nothing. There is a soul that still remains named here, mixed in with those who have been rent apart by hate.

“Kacchan,” the soul says earnestly. “You must fight it, Kacchan.”

“Deku,” he sobs, leaning into the soul’s warm palms as he wipes his tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Deku smiles, and Katsuki weeps, because he looks so proud of him, as if he is worth an eternity spent trapped within a kraken alongside shattered souls that only wish for chaos and destruction. He weeps, because here are Deku and Kacchan, back together again, but they cannot stay this way forever.

“I understand,” Deku whispers, and his touch heals Kacchan once more. “I understand you love her. You need to fight, you need to return to her and love her like you want to. I died so you could live, Kacchan. Let go.”

He looks down and sees the way he clutches onto Deku so hard he is white knuckled, while Deku cradles his hands in his scarred ones, softly as if Kacchan is fragile. Trembling, he loosens his grip, and he feels the light draw closer, the sun’s rays warming his face. Something tightens in his chest when he finally allows himself to release Deku, but it hurts in the manner of stitches pulling taut inside him and binding him together again.

One last time, he looks over his shoulder, to where Deku watches as he goes, smiling brightly, shining like he is a star plucked from the night sky. His brilliance holds the shadows back, rendering them powerless. He pays them no mind, though - his viridescent eyes are lit up and fixed only on his Kacchan.

Deku says something, but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the crashing of the waves and the winds of a dying down of a storm. Still, Katsuki knows what he said by the shape of his lips: I love you. Smiling, he takes a final look at him, at those unruly green curls and those sweet eyes and bright smile, and then he turns and is bathed in light.

The kraken sinks again beneath the waves, but Katsuki does not sink with it.

You know it’s impossible, but you sense the moment Katsuki is back in his body. You’ve heard the tales of the kraken, and you know he should have been taken from you, but there he is, present in the weak pulse of his heart beneath your palm and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Shallow cuts have appeared all over his body, remnants of the damage of the hunter’s harpoons.

His eyes are open, but barely, and he blinks slowly, fighting to keep them fixed on you, giving you only glimpses of familiar crimson. There is a strange looseness to his awareness that must come with the recency of doing the impossible, but still he grips your hand desperately, struggling to stay awake long enough to force words out.

“I - I lo - ”

Before he can finish, his voice cracks and he coughs. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to start again, but you smile, tears blurring your vision as you press a finger to his lips and hush him, and thankfully he relaxes under your touch, curling closer to you and seeking shelter in your embrace. Once he is rested, he will have all the time in the world to tell you whatever he likes.

What matters is that he is here. That in itself is beyond even a miracle. 

Almost disbelieving, you cradle him to you, pressing your forehead to his as tears you cannot stop spill down your face and mingle with his blood. You are bone tired after repeatedly healing your own cracked ribs and fractured wrists, but you are whole enough for now - you won’t waste your energy on your own bruises while he still hurts.

So you hold him against your chest, sweeping your fingers delicately over the deeper of his cuts to seal them. The sky has cleared, the storm clouds departing as fast as they arrived, and the sea is dipped in ruby by the bleeding sunset. It lacquers the wet sand with the glow of dying embers as the incoming tide smooths over where the storm had churned it up, erasing the mark left on the island as if this afternoon had never happened.

If it were not for Katsuki in your arms, it would be like the kraken never came.

You glance down at him. He seems at peace, though worn and battered, as if he has reconciled something deep within his heart; he has closed his eyes, simply leaning against you with his face pressed into your side, his warm hands tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You cannot help but smile. Because of him, you are free. No chains bind your wrists, no threats limit you in what you decide to do next. You are not sure where you will end up later, but for now you intend to fall asleep beneath the open sky, beside the one you love infinitely more than any life you might have had and even this new life he has fought and bled to give you.

When you drift out of your dreams - just simple, golden things full of a contentment that lingers past waking - the tide is high, the ocean lapping at the sand at your feet. The moon is almost at its highest point in the sky, depositing a residue of silver on everything around you.

Katsuki stirs in your arms, and when you glance down, you are met with the twin beacons of his eyes, luminous in the dark and full, brimming and spilling over with unspoken things that leave a deep ache in your heart. Trembling, he grips your hands, and you lace your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles and stroking his face as the tears begin to flow.

He cries like he is mourning. You wonder what he saw while his soul donned the kraken’s skin, how poignant it must have been to wrench these fitful sobs from him. Cupping his face in your palms, you wipe his tears away, and he clings to you to keep you close while he bares his newly healing heart to you; it is wrapped in the past’s scars. He shows you the rawest parts of him, and you soothe them as best you can with your healing hands.

There is no magic to this cure, though. It is just the love that burns within you, consuming you so entirely it makes you shake. You did not know it was possible to love like this, but the proof weeps in your arms, a merman who summoned the kraken and somehow conquered it so he could make it back to you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, tracing the strong lines of his face with your fingertips.

Curling his arms around you, he hides his face in your neck. “Deku stood with me against the dark inside the kraken,” he replies softly. “He held them back so I could come back to you. I - I thought I had lost him forever, when he summoned the kraken to save me.”

Carefully, he brings your hand to touch the scar stretching down his chest, and you outline its edges, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breathing beneath your fingers. You would be happy to stay like that forever, linked to him by your skin on his and the synchronised beat of your hearts.

“He told me to fight so I could return to you,” Katsuki murmurs. “So I could love you.”

Your breath catches, your voice sticking before any words come out. He is blunt and honest as always, but this time, he is without his walls, without his guard up, open and vulnerable for you to lash out at him if you wished to, but he trusts you will not. Still, you hesitate, your throat constricting.

“I… I didn’t know him, or what he was like, but I know I can’t be him to you,” you falter. “I cannot be Deku, Katsuki.”

You do not expect your voice to come out so small, so timid. Neither do you expect the overwhelming tenderness that fills his eyes - no one has ever looked at you like that, as if they really see the whole of you, the blemishes and shadows on your soul and they love those too.

“I don’t ask you to be like him,” he replies. “No one will ever be like him. No one will ever be like you, either. I love you because you are you, not because you are him.”

“Katsuki,” you breathe, unable to swallow down the tears welling in your eyes.

“You know I can’t give you the life you deserve, either,” he continues, voice thick. “If you tie yourself to me, you tie yourself to the sea too, regardless of if you like it or not.”

Searchingly, you look at him, and it feels for a second that as you meet his eyes, you know the whole ocean, down to its unexplorable depths, down to every grain of sand and every critter it shelters and sustains. In that moment, there is a total, utter understanding within you - you would love him whatever the condition.

“I would tie myself to the most pitiful of the things on this earth if it meant I could love you, Katsuki.”

“I too, witch,” he replies, and a fond little smile pulls at his lips. “I would summon that kraken a thousand times if it meant I could win your heart.”

You laugh, out of pure joy more than anything else, and he laughs too, rolling in the sand so he can prop himself up on his elbows. Flopping over, you adjust yourself so you can rest your head against his stomach, lifting your eyes to watch as he tips his face up to the sky, letting the stars reflect in his gaze, as if he holds the galaxies of the universe in each pupil.

Your fingers find his as you stare up at the moon where it hangs highest in the sky now, full and silver as the stars. A new moon: symbolising fresh starts and new beginnings, or maybe even the waxing of a love that was planted in the darkness of the brig of a ship soaked in blood, nourished by nothing but the weak flame of a lamp and swift hands knitting flesh back together.

A familiar prickle trails coyly down the side of your neck, and the sound of sand whispering against itself reaches your ears as Katsuki shifts beneath you, lightly skimming the high tide’s surf with his tail. You are not ready to leave the easy silence you’ve made yet, so you bask in his presence and his warmth a little longer.

The moon has just begun its descent when you turn to face him. He’s just looking at you, looking and looking and looking as if he can’t get enough. You smile, aware of the fresh edge in his gaze that was not there before, the string binding your soul to his pulling delightfully taut.

“You’re as beautiful as the ocean,” he mumbles, fiddling with a lock of your hair. “More beautiful than the ocean. But in a different way, you’re…”

You grin. “Worse?”

“Worse,” he agrees, smirking, but he looks at you as if you breathed life into his seas. “Much worse.”

Time stops for a moment, and you sit up, bringing your face close to his until your breaths mingle - you cannot help but let his crimson eyes consume you, heart and soul. You linger there for a moment, the air crackling between you, both of you waiting as if to see who will give in and pounce first.

Bringing his hand up, Katsuki lets his fingers slide under your jaw, lifting your chin so you are merely a hair’s breadth away. He fills your senses; you can feel the warmth of his body, the roughness of the calluses on his fingers, the feather-like brush of his breath against your cheek, smell his briney sea scent, hear the swish of sand as he shifts infinitesimally closer. A lethal spark gleams in his eyes, tying you in helpless knots.

You lean forward and claim his lips.

It draws a quiet groan from him, and suddenly you are beneath him in the sand and his hands are all over you, grabbing handfuls of you and shucking the damp material of your shirt up and over your head so he can touch your skin. The way he looks at you, with those stirring embers that tug at something low in your stomach, reduces you to a sailor under the influence of a siren’s song - he is irresistible, he is magnificent.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him ever closer, licking into his mouth as if you might find the god’s nectar hiding beneath his tongue. He nips at your lower lip with those keen canines of his, and you cannot help but buck your hips as the tide swirls around the both of you.

Chuckling, he skims a palm over your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook over his hip. It brings your clothed core right against the length of his hardening cock that has emerged from the slit in his tail; you stifle a moan at the feel of him, grinding agonisingly slowly down on him and sighing as he trails wet kisses and purpling bites down your throat.

Katsuki licks at the spot under your jaw, and this time, at the second graze of his teeth against your skin, your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at it and squeezing another sweet noise from him. You keep your hands threaded through his ash blonde locks as he licks at the valley between your breasts. Meticulously, he marks your plush flesh with the imprints of his teeth, laying his claim on you.

When he reaches your stomach, he mouths at your skin, nipping playfully just over your hip bone before he raises his eyes to meet yours. They are heavy lidded and sultry, and they stir the fire building in your core as he toys lazily with the waistband of your trousers. His fingers are casual as they curl beneath the fabric.

“Let me taste you, witch,” he implores.

“I cannot argue when you look at me like that,” you reply, breathless. “Nor would I, anyways.”

That is all the consent he needs before he is helping you out of your remaining clothes, almost ripping them in his hurry to have you on his tongue. His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass and guiding your legs over his shoulders, and there he pauses. Yearning blazes in his crimson eyes, and then he dips his head and puts his mouth on you.

You gasp his name. Your hands scramble for purchase before you bury them in his hair again, yanking to encourage him further, and he responds by sucking harshly on your clit, making your hips jump and buck into his face. He groans into your heat, and the vibrations of it make you see stars.

Slowly, he pulls back, glancing up at you, and the sight of him is enough to make you moan: his eyes are glazed, fervent, worshipful, and your slick drips down his chin, the moonlight making it seem like liquid diamond. Bewitched by him, you choke out his name, and he smirks and slips two fingers inside you. Your legs begin to shake when he pumps them slowly in and out of you, bending them at the knuckle so he can hit that spot inside you.

The friction enraptures you, mounting in the pit of your stomach and winding up tight, and your thighs close around his head, clenching as Katsuki pushes you closer and closer to the edge. Turning his head, he sucks at your skin, marking you there, too.

You balance on a knife blade’s edge.

Abruptly, he slides his fingers out and your pussy clamps down a second too late; already, you open your mouth to lament it when he bends his head and replaces them with his tongue. Your words dissolve into wretched moans; you grind your hips against his face and lightning spears through you when his nose nudges at your clit.

Pleasure rises within you, a gradual, swelling thing that sneaks up on you in the unhurried nature of his movements. You can feel his smile against your cunt. You can feel the light burn as he grips your flesh, anchoring you to him so you could not pull away and part him from the taste of you even if you wished to.

You cry out his name as you come.

Katsuki nestles you close to his chest as you come down from your high, kissing your face as the aftershocks send shivers down your spine. Tenderness resides in his eyes, right beside a longing that makes you melt into him, weak with ardour as you slip your hand between your sea damp bodies to curl your fingers slyly around his cock.

His lips part as you jerk him, and you cross the small distance between you to bite at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth and swiping your tongue over it as you feel him grow impossibly harder in your palm. Ridges swell down his length, flushed a coruscant orange that blurs down into obsidian at his base.

Tipping your head back, you look him in the eye. “I - I need you inside me, Katsuki.”

The words are clumsy on your tongue. You do not know how to articulate the pressing need to feel him, to not know where you end and he begins, to collide with him right there on the beach of this island that houses a kraken, to get lost in the salt on his skin and the eddy of the sea at your joined hips.

Lowly, he curses, treating you as if you are holy as he spreads your legs and settles between them, gripping the curve of your hip with one hand as he lines himself up. You press your lips against the warm bronze skin of his shoulder, sighing against him, urging him forward, urging him closer, a blissed out sound slipping from you as the ridges of his cock push past your entrance, the stretch nothing short of divine.

At last, he is sheathed fully within you. His hips kiss yours, and he remains there, pulsing hotly within you, the pleasure on his face bordering on pain as your cunt bears down on him, yet still, he will not move. Jaw clenching, he squeezes his eyes shut, and a hoarse groan tears itself from deep in his chest.

Panting, he bows his head, and when he looks up, tears rim his lash line, glittering like individual crystals dipped in the light of the stars. One rolls down his cheek and plops down onto yours, and you raise a hand to caress his face, raking your fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead; he leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm.

Slipping your hand round to cup the nape of his neck, you bring your mouth to his. Delicately, Katsuki kisses you before pulling back to press his lips feather-light to your eyelids - he lingers there, his breath fluttering warmly against your skin, his thumb drawing circles on your cheekbone.

Again, he kisses you, and it is only then that you taste the salt of your own tears on his tongue.

Your soft, raw sob echoes across the beach, and you dig your nails into his wide shoulders, urging him to move. With a gasp, he begins to rock his hips into you, and it breaks you apart. You keen, pushing back into his fluid, achingly unhurried strokes, scrabbling at his back in an attempt to bring him closer, to let him consume your very being.

Right there on the sand, under the moonlight with the seafoam lapping at your sides, he fucks into you, slow and deep, trembling and crying above you, and tenderly, you kiss him again. The roll of his thumb over your clit sends thrills chasing down your spine. He dips his head, burying his face in your neck, and fiercely, you hold him to you.

“Mine,” Katsuki whispers, and his teeth sink into your skin.

Something snaps inside you, and the fire in your gut blazes. Your cunt clenches hard around him, vice like around his cock, and you feel him twitch when your velvety walls clamp down on him, feel his soft exhale and know that he too knows the burn of the inferno in your core.

“Please, Katsuki,” you whine. “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice rasping in your ear, and suddenly you are empty.

Before you can protest, he flips you over, pressing your back into his chest and you reel, momentarily blinded by the night sky stretching high and wide above you. He is solid beneath you, and he knocks the breath from your lungs when he surges up into you.

You can feel all of him. Ruthlessly, Katsuki pounds up into you, as if he is desperate to taste the sea salt on your skin and inhale your scent and never let you go. Your body jerks with each thrust, your voice cracking as you cry out his name, the new heady angle of his cock inside you leaving you writhing, lost in the bliss he wrings from you.

His tail thrashes in the surf as he fucks up into you. You are limp in his arms, trembling all over as your back arches - he squeezes your breasts in one hand while the other settles between your legs, his skilled fingers working over your clit to kindle a mind shattering type of euphoria within you that renders you boneless and speechless, your jaw slack.

Your head falls back on his shoulder, your eyes falling shut as you moan, your pussy constricting tight around him. A hand circles your throat, squeezing lightly, and you mewl, your cunt unashamedly spasming at the feel of his calloused fingers about your neck.

“Let the moon and stars witness how I pleasure you, my love,” he snarls.

Your eyes roll, your toes curl. Somehow, he fucks up into you faster, harder, and his cock hits places that cause your vision to white out, the relentless friction of his ridges on your walls enough to make you sob and claw at the arm he uses to keep you in place. Distantly, you can hear yourself begging him, pleading for him to go harder, deeper, to not stop, to ruin you.

You scream Katsuki’s name as you come for the second time tonight. Uncontrollably, your thighs shake, and your cunt convulses around his cock; you can feel him slowing his thrusts, letting you ride out your high, but despite the overstimulation building in the tautness inside your stomach, you grind against him.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Want - want you to come inside me.”

Your words elicit a groan from him. “Fucking filthy, aren’t you?”

Helplessly, you whimper in response, your pussy fluttering as he hammers up into you. He swears as he comes, spilling hot inside you, the sweet sound he makes muffled when he bites down on your shoulder. Both of you lie there for a moment, catching your breath, before gently, he manoeuvres the two of you so you lie on your sides, careful to keep himself deep in your heat; he is warm against your back.

Katsuki splays a palm over your stomach, holding you close, and you lace your fingers with his, sighing happily as he begins to pepper kisses over your back. You can feel the upwards curve of his lips as he smiles against your skin.

“Are you alright?” He asks, nuzzling the nape of your neck.

“Better than alright,” you confirm.

You remain silent for a while longer, happy just to lie there cocooned in his arms and the quiet wash of the ocean; you can feel the pulse of his heart against your back, steady and comforting. A hushed, steady noise comes from him, a satisfied noise, almost a purr. His cock is beginning to soften inside you, its ridges coming down - you both groan as he slips out, moving so his length is tucked against the curve of your ass.

“How did you know it was me?” He asks suddenly. “When I summoned the kraken.”

You squeeze his hand. “I saw you in its eyes. You know, I couldn’t have missed it if I tried, especially not when you yelled for the hunters to bring me to you. I heard it all the way from below deck.”

He laughs, and you shuffle closer to him, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“I didn’t even know the kraken was a real thing,” you tell him. “I wasn’t scared, though. I knew I’d be safe when I saw it was you.”

Katsuki scoffs. “You’re horrendously sappy, witch.”

You laugh, pushing your ass back against him. “I think you like it, merman.”

Laughing, you roll to and fro in the sand, with you grinding on him as he grips your hips and tries to wrestle you into submission. Eventually, he manages to incapacitate you by holding you tightly against his chest, dipping his head so he can whisper hotly in your ear.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to fuck you again,” he grits out.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you challenge.

Giggling, you wriggle out of his grip and plunge further into the shallows, just catching him muttering something about insatiable and damn witch before he dives in and streaks after you, his dorsal fin cutting through the water. A hand closes around your ankle, and you squeal, flailing as you shake him off.

Clumsily, you take off towards the rock pools, wading through the sea water as fast as you can. You know Katsuki will catch you (you’re not exactly opposed to it - you’re running into the sea rather than out of it, after all). Again, he makes another grab at you, and you romp with him in the waves, grinning as you fend him off by splashing water at him, squirming out of his arms again.

In the end, he grabs you around the waist and traps you against one of the tide pools, the rock rough against your back as he smirks down at you. The sight of him above you is enthralling: droplets run down his chest in rivulets, rolling down the grooves his muscles make, and the moon hangs the sky behind him, crowning him with a halo made of silver. Your mouth waters.

Taking your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he brings his face close to yours. A shiver runs down your spine. His red eyes fill your vision, glowing in the night, hypnotic and burning with craving so devout it borders on veneration.

He smiles. “Caught you.”

Katsuki takes you again, against the rock at your back. Afterwards, you lie there, spent and tangled together in the waning moonlight until you grow hungry again and you straddle him, mesmerised by the sight of him staring up at you, pleasure twisting his features as you ride him. You fuck and make love until the sun begins to rise, and it is only then that the two of you are finally sated.

So there you lie, held in his arms and the sea’s embrace - and inexplicably, you find that you do not regret all the pain you suffered at the hands of the hunters, because if it was not for them, you would never have been in that brig to heal him. Inside you, something blossoms within your soul, young and fresh and beautiful as the new moon, and it spills forth from your lips, a whispered confession pressed to his skin like a kiss.

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Cupping your jaw, he brings his forehead to yours and murmurs your name. “I love you too.”

Katsuki glances down at you, where you are curled into the curve of his side like you were made to fit him, and he feels his failing, tired heart bloom once again. You have healed him in ways that run deeper than just his flesh.

He looks in your eyes, and when he does, the sea looks back.

You are his home.

A/N: by the way guys, afterwards they travel somewhere cool and the reader sets up a lil witchy abode by the sea and the villagers come to her for cures and half of them are lowkey a bit terrified of her mermaid husband but it doesn’t matter because she still gives really good remedies and he hasn’t eaten anyone yet and sometimes she and bakugou go out in their boat and attack hunter ships for funsies

also here's a picture i found off pinterest which i kind of imagine his tail being like except it's a bit more rigid and the dorsal fins are more spiney and longer, also there's more black and less red

taglist: @freakingsparkydreamer @d1orhaz3 @msjaeger @mellasimp14 @eyesforbkg @cottagedumpling @silkdolli @teeesthings @raksstuff

[kathrahender]

"You want to make everything LGBT" "They are married and with children" "They're enemies/rivals, wth?" "They don't see each other like that" "They are just friends" "They are like brothers/sisters" "They are in love with another person" "X character is straight" "Why can't two girls/two boys be friends?"

Those are only a few examples of comments people has done about shipping two girls/two boys together. And I'm so tired of reading again and again and again the same things. I'm not gonna lie, I tried to hold back my anger towards this topic, but I need to talk about this to feel better.

First, about the "You want to make everything LGBT". No, no. That's not true. We don't want to make everything LGBT. You are the one who wants to make everything straight. In every single show/movie I've watched there is at least one straight couple (most of the times there is more than one). And you know how many LGBT ships are in the same show? Yes? Exactly. Zero. One or two if the show is good enough to be inclusive. So please, stop with the "You want to make everything LGBT" argument because it's stupid and it makes no sense.

Secondly, about the "They are married and with children". So? What does that mean to you? Why does that matter? Last time I checked, divorce existed. And there are straight couples that divorced in real life, so I don't see a problem if the straight couples divorces in the show/movie. Is it a big deal in reality? No. Or you just don't like the "breaking up because falling in love with someone of the same sex" thing? Huh?

In third place, the "They're enemies/rivals". Ever heard about the enemies/rivals to lovers trope? And about the redemption/corruption arc? Because those are ways a ship like that can happen. And last time I checked, people don't care about the "enemy/rival" thing if the ship is straight. No one cared about the "enemies to lovers" in books like Shadow and Bone, Folk of the Air, Shatter Me or others. So that only matters if the ship is LGBT or what?

"They don't see each other like that". Well. You always saw your lover as your lover? Or first it was your rival, your friend, or someone who wasn't even in your inner circle? You saw them and you inmediatly became lovers or what? Because two characters can be rivals, friends, or people who don't know each other at first and then learn to love each other. Just. Exactly. Like. A. Straight. Couple. So, again, this is a dumb argument.

"They are just friends". Just like I said in the previous point, a boy/boy or girl/girl friendship can turn into love just like a boy/girl friendship can.

"They are like brothers/sisters". Let me ask you a question. They canonically said "I see you as a sister/as a brother"? Because if they didn't, you're just asuming things. You're just assuming they see each other as sisters/brothers because you don't bear them seeing each other romantically.

"They are in love with another person". Agaaaain. Were you always in love with one person? Did you marry the first person you loved or what? Or you liked/loved people until you found the person you actually wanted to be by your side forever? And just as you can fall in love with someone, you can stop loving them. So once again, this argument makes no sense.

"X character is straight". Well. I myself thought I was straight. My best female friend thought she was straight herself. My two best male friends thought they were straight themselves. And I ended up being pansexual, my best female friend turned out to be bisexual, and my two best male friends turned out to be bisexual/gay. Being married to a woman being a man or being married to a man being a woman doesn't mean they're straight. They could realize they are not straight but bisexual. Or pansexual. Or ace. Or whatever you want. But it's not something that cannot change. It's not something written in stone.

"Why can't two girls/two boys be friends?". And why a girl and a boy can't be just friends? Because almost every show has a main straight canon couple. Westallen, Olicity (The Flash, Arrow), Charles/Moira, Peter/MJ (Marvel), Darklina (Shadow and Bone), Stydia, Scallison (Teen Wolf), Deckerstar (Lucifer TV), Hinny (Harry Potter), Mileven (Stranger Things), Anidala, Obitine (Star Wars), Leorai, Apriltello (TMNT 2012)... And I could continue. And it is always the main couple. The main couple is always a girl and a boy. So I don't understand why can't you see that the ones that can't be just friends aren't two boys or two girls. The ones that always have to be romantically involved are a boy and a girl.

If you read this to the end, thank you. I hope you think the same as me. And if you don't, read it again and see some of the shows I mentioned. And please, think about what I said instead of being a close-minded person.

[minswriting]

hey hey I saw you're open for requests!

Anything for Hotch getting caught with non-BAU reader who he shouldn't be associated with? Maybe there's an age gap or she's the babysitter or someone's daughter/sister or even an unsub/witness.

Ik its a really broad request but I love your writing so I totally trust you - I just love a semi forbidden ship (without an angsty or sad ending!).

Thanks!!

nsfw | mdni

warnings: talks of murder, stalking, rape (nothing detailed because it’s literally just a summarization thing lol), nsfw content, getting caught, inappropriate relationships, etc.

it all began when you were a victim of a case. you had been getting stalked by an unsub in new york, a man who was killing women that reminded him of the woman that left him. he would stalk his victims before raping and killing them. you had been approached by the fbi, taking you into protective custody to ensure that the same thing didn’t happen to you. and that’s when you met aaron hotchner.

to say the two of you had immediately taken a liking to one another was an understatement. the two of you flirted with each other right off the bat which wasn’t really the best thing to do due to his position. you were a victim, not someone he met randomly at the bar. even so, he just couldn’t get you off of his mind.

so before he left to go back to virginia, aaron had given you his number. and now? well, it’s been a few months and the two of you have been seeing one another regularly like this weekend. you had flown to virginia to visit aaron and stay with him.

the house was quiet as jack had gone to jessica’s to sleepover for the weekend, leaving you and aaron to be alone. the only sounds in the house were the sounds of your moans mixing with the sound of skin slapping together.

“god, you’re so beautiful,” aaron exclaimed as he thrusted his cock inside of you. his brown eyes were looking down directly at your face. your head rested on the pillow, hair sprawled out, cheeks red, and face contorted in pleasure. “you love my cock, don’t you?” he asked as he watched your eyes roll back with each thrust of his cock.

“mhm,” you nodded your head, licking your lips. “i love your cock so much, aaron,” you replied, moaning loudly. “always feels so good.”

aaron rocked his hips, thrusting into you at a pace that felt best for the both of you. his cock hit your sweet spot repeatedly, making you see stars. aaron looked down at your pussy, watching his cock disappear inside of you. your cunt was glistening with arousal. “you’re absolutely soaked,” aaron groaned, bringing a hand to start rubbing your clit.

you simply whined in response, gripping the sheets below you as you felt yourself get near the edge. “i’m so close, aaron,” you moaned, opening your eyes to look at the man in front of you.

“fuck, me too, baby,” he replied.

and just as you felt your peak nearing, there was a “oh no! oh god!” at the door, followed by a small thud, signaling the person had dropped something. “i’m so incredibly sorry, sir, i-uh,” you and aaron both looked at the person at the same time, scrambling to cover yourself up with the blanket.

at the door was a blonde, someone you’ve never met before. “garcia,” aaron’s face hardened as he tried to compose himself, fully covered by the blanket. “what brings you here?”

“i-well, sir,” garcia began, glancing at you and then at aaron. “you hadn’t answered your phone at all in the past three hours and we have a new case so i told the team i’d come here and look for you and well- is that y/n from the new york case?” penelope asked finally as she rambled, looking at you fully.

you looked down at the blanket, being unable to come up with the proper words to speak.

“not that it matters but yes,” aaron exclaimed. “now please, leave. i need to get changed and then i’ll be right there.” and without a second glance, penelope picked up her phone from the ground and left slamming the door closed, leaving you and aaron alone. “i’m so sorry about that,” aaron apologized, looking at you. he grabbed your hand. “i didn’t expect to be needed at all tonight.”

“it’s okay,” you said with a small smile. “duty calls.”

“are you okay?” he asked, checking in on you.

you let out a breathless laugh. “other than being absolutely mortified that your co-worker just walked in on us nailing one another? i’m perfect.” you grinned at your partner.

aaron laughed as well, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it. “yes well, i agree.” he exclaimed. “i should get ready. i’m sorry we won’t be able to spend the weekend together.” he said, looking at you with a look of guilt.

“don’t sweat it, aaron,” you said with a reassuring look. “i can come down next weekend. maybe even spend a week?”

“i’d love that,” he said, pulling you into his arms.

“sounds like a date.”

and with that, aaron kissed your forehead and lips before getting up off the bed and getting himself ready. let’s just say that when next weekend rolled around, you guys definitely made up for lost time.

however, the secret that aaron was seeing you had most certainly had been told to the rest of the team.

[nightlyrequiem]

Basically when Valeria is getting questioned, she mocks Alejandro by bringing up the fact that right after she left the Mexican special forces, she took his girlfriend with her and made her into her wife. (A fem reader request with reader being the ex girlfriend of Alejandro who used to visit the base but ended up up getting charmed by Valeria and is now her wife.)

Oh I love this. Valeria would totally be able to steal his girl. She's just so suave

Might incorporate this idea into a future series. Or maybe just make a part two or something. I live for the drama tbh I want to write more of Alejandro being upset. I don't even hate his character but I've developed a dislike for him because people ship him with Valeria. That sounds a little pathetic though...

Tags/Warnings: Violence, Valeria and Alejandro Scuffle, TF141 Cameo, Reader Is Only mentioned

Under New Ownership

Phillip Graves keeps one firm hand on Valeria's shoulder as he leads her through Alejandro's base. So many memories flaring up at the familiar sights and smells. His touch is agitating her. Heavy, warm, masculine. She shrugs him off as she's sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair. The interrogation room is nothing more than a shipping container. The others join them. Men of Taskforce 141, and Alejandro and Rudolfo. Valeria regrets nothing. Not betraying and turning her back on her brothers in arms, and not all the damage she's done as El Sin Nombre. Valeria Garza is a woman with many achievements under her belt. Why should she apologize for being successful?

"Have a seat." The blond man says. He turns his attention to Alejandro, who is already glowering at her. "So, how do you two know each other?" He asks.

"Know is a strong word." Alejandro responds. Hatred frosting his voice. Just his voice is enough to alight Valeria's nerves with disgust.

"Strong words are important. Our word is our worth, right?" She taunts. using one of his past proverbs against him. That's all it takes to set him off. To send him storming towards her cursing in Spanish. The others are quick to intercept him. Grabbing ahold of him, like an out-of-control dog, Valeria thinks. Should put him down like one. She was always more of a cat person.

"Yeah? Yeah." Alejandro growls, pulling away and reigning in his temper. He turns back to Valeria, drowning her in his distaste. "Go on, tell them."

Valeria leans back and gets comfortable. As comfortable as a person can be while sitting on a hard chair surrounded by hostiles.

"We served together." She explains with boredom. Nothing but unimportant history. Files collecting dust in a backroom kind of history. "Same squads different units. You were the wild ones. Los Vaqueros." She sneers at him. "We had a common... interest."

Alejandro stiffens. It's barely enough to be perceived but Valeria perceives it nonetheless.

"What might that be?" Graves inquires. Raising a light brow. Valeria angles her head towards the man but keeps her gaze locked onto Alejandro's.

"We have... quite the similar taste in women." She remarks. Picturing your soft face. The angle of your eyebrows. The delicate lines of your lips. The column of your throat. Something once belonging to him now under her ownership.

You always used to visit the base. All soft angles and colours amongst the gray and violence. Valeria felt compelled by you the first time she saw you, a rare flower amidst the barren desert. Such a thing would wilt under Alejandro's possession. Valeria made haste in befriending you. An act she knew would grate on Alejandro, but she didn't care. He felt threatened by her.

"Don't bring her into this." Alejandro demands. Jabbing a thick, angry finger at her.

"This lovely little thing used to visit him every week." She continues anyway. "But he wasn't the only one she sought out. She always liked me better."

"Okay, enough of this." Price sighs. Trying to redirect the conversation. In due time. Alejandro scowls and breathes heavily like a bull.

"You poisoned her mind with lies." He says, voice cracking with hurt. "She's a good woman, she wouldn't have left if you hadn't fed her your bullshit about me."

Valeria laughs in his face. Mocking and cruel.

"I didn't have to do anything besides show her attention." She scoffs. "You were always so high-strung and busy because of work. You had something so beautiful within your grasp and you chose your little Vaqueros."

"Lying bitch." He barks. Taking an aggressive step forward. "Are you hurting her? Threatening her?" 

Valeria scowls at the accusation. She's wicked and vile but she'd never hurt you. Not even unintentionally like Alejandro has. "I haven't." She snaps. "She's at home - our home, probably curled up in bed. Maybe she's baking something." Valeria shrugs, putting on a show of casualty. "She loves to cook for me. After a long day I get to return home to a warm meal, not something you can relate to."

Rudolfo shakes his head. This isn't going where they want it to. Time is ticking, much like the three bombs she's sent to Chicago.

"I'm going to kill you." Alejandro promises. Eyes wide with anger. "After they've gotten their use out of you, I'm going to put a fucking bullet through your head, Valeria."

"Alejandro-"

"You're not a very good leader if you couldn't even keep your own girlfriend." Valeria sneers. Goading him on. She's not scared of him at all. She leans against her chair, lips curled into a smirk. "You weren't very good at leading in bed either." She coos. "You won't believe the sounds she makes, I have her screaming my name every fucking night-"

Faster than anyone can react Alejandro is on her. Not holding back as he punches her hard in the jaw. The force sends her and the chair toppling over. Blinding her with pain. Not enough for her to not fight back. She slams her fist into his nose, feeling a spray of blood and hearing a satisfying crunch. 

Valeria's blood is fizzing with adrenaline and excitement. Unfortunately, the fight is cut short as the two are pulled apart. Alejandro left struggling and yelling in the grips of Ghost and Rudolfo.

"You're over." Alejandro hisses viscerally. 'Do you hear me? I'm going to get you. I'm going to fucking get you."

Valeria can feel a bruise forming in her jaw. You'll ask what happened and kiss it better when you see it. Alejandro has no one to worry over his injuries but himself. Valeria wants to keep fighting until only one of them is left standing but that will have to come another day. She rubs her jaw. Another day.

"You hit like a pussy." She growls, angry and wound up. Valeria is forced back into the chair. The time for games is over. Valeria hands over the information they seek with as much contempt as she can produce in her five-foot-six body. A storm is steadily rumbling in the distance. Its growls audible through the walls. An omen of what's to come.

[imagopirateversion]

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales; Why It Shouldn’t Exist

Or how I invested time and energy into an analysis of a relatively dead franchise instead of doing it for my actual media analysis university course.

An essay by: a bitter and obsessed PotC fan since they were 7, with a lot of free time.

Lads, this is going to be long. You have been warned.

The Beginning

At the very beginning of the movie, we see a young Henry Turner looking for his dad.

Now, we're not talking about characterization problems or how likely it is that a ten-year-old child would risk his life to look for a man he technically only saw once; we're talking about plot problems, actual logical fallacies. My questions are:

How? The Flying Dutchman is a legendary ship, impossible to be found unless She wants to be found. The only reason we see Her in Dead Man's Chest is because Davy Jones himself is looking for Jack to collect his debt, and in that occasion the Dutchman's captain wasn't even doing what he was supposed to do, so he was most definitely in the living world. Will otherwise, he's doing the job Calypso gave him, so he's constantly in between. Is the movie trying to convince me that a kid was able to do something no one in the history of piracy was ever able to do? And even if he did, why hasn't anyone explained me how? He simply looks at a map and throws himself on the bottom of the ocean. How did he know The Dutchman was there? How did he know it would've come to surface?

Where is his mom? We got to know Elizabeth in the first three movies; we know she's a smart woman and we can assume she's an attentive mother. She didn't notice her son preparing himself for a trip in the middle of the ocean to go look for his dad? Was she distracted? Was she outsmarted by a 10ish-year-old? Or is she just not contemplated in this scenario?

Why does Will look like that? Will is doing his job, so... why does he look like he's slowly corrupting? That kind of corruption is the punishment Calypso reserves to The Dutchman's crew when the captain fails her, which isn't the case. Did they forget about it? Was the idea of putting algae on Orlando Bloom's face just impossible to resist to?

Alright, this isn't actually from this movie but it's bothering me, so I have to write it; also, it would make this whole movie unnecessary, so it's somehow related to it. Why (and I can't stress this enough) can't Elizabeth be on the Dutchman? Why can't they do the job together? Is it because she's not a pirate? I'm pretty sure se actually is. Is it because she's a woman? Last time I checked she was the KING. She wants to stay with Will forever, Will wants to stay with her forever, they can literally live forever on the same ship. Why aren't they?

Whatever the Hell Happened to Jack Sparrow

Imagine creating a character that is so iconic whenever you ask a person who was a kid in the early 2000 to imagine a pirate, they imagine said character.

Now imagine fourteen years pass and you decide to ruin that character by making him the most hideous, annoying, idiotic person in the whole saga, and we're talking about a saga that has Philip the Missionary in it. Why? Jack Sparrow is THE anti-hero. Never on the right side, but never on the wrong one. You can tell he's doing something morally questionable, but you still find yourself rooting for him. He's stupid enough to make you laugh, but he's secretly clever enough to always get away with it. Now he's just... drunk. And that's not even an excuse for this horrendous new characterization, because he was always drunk. The guy FORGOT HE WAS ROBBING A BANK, the same guy just one movie earlier was able to escape from the King of England's palace and steal a lady's earring (by pretending to be a literal slut) in the process. He just switched from the iconic drunk bi bestie everyone loves to my cringe uncle that drinks too much at Christmas parties and makes everyone uncomfortable. Please, if the risk is ruining an entire generation's beloved character, either don't make the movie or find a better explanation than "Bad luck dogs you day and night".

The Pearl in The Bottle

So... what you're telling me is that Jack Sparrow, the guy who was able to defeat Hector Barbossa, Davy Jones and Blackbeard thanks to his slyness, and who loves his Black Pearl more than anything else in the world, had said ship in a bottle in his pockets for FIVE YEARS... and he never thought about breaking the bottle to free Her. That's what you're telling me. This is the pivotal point upon which the entire Jack's plot hinges. I... I don't even know what to say. Was this supposed to be funny?

What an Incredibly Lucky Coincidence

A guy needs a treasure to save his father. To find it, he needs the help of a notorious and legendary pirate. He looks for him everywhere, sailing on dozens of ships just so he has the remote chance to stumble across the pirate. The last ship he's been on has sinked, he's the only survivor. He's been found in the middle of the ocean and someone brought him to the nearest city. Which city? I mean, the one that has both the pirate he was looking for and a lady who's the only person in the whole planet who's able to find the treasure he was looking for! And, oh my... he finds the both of them! In that same city! Without even LOOKING FOR THEM! A hell of a coincidence, if you ask me. Also known as lazy writing.

What's Wrong With the Guards?

Now, I know Pirates of the Caribbean isn't exactly known for its accurate historical reconstructions, but why are the guards in this movie acting like they're some sort of hellhounds ready to kill anyone in sight? Even pirates and traitors as Jack and Henry were supposed to stand trial before being sentenced to death. It would've probably been an unjust and barbaric trial, but there should've been one. We literally saw it, in the previous movie. Why's Jack been sentenced to death for simply existing here? He gave pirate vibes and they decided that was enough?

Paul McCartney

This is not an actual point of the analysis, I just wanted to remind people that Paul McCartney is in this movie and that's the only valid reason to watch it.

Salazar

I am confused. Once again, I have questions.

El Matador Del Mar was so good at his job he had almost defeated piracy. "The last ones joined together to try and defeat me". The last what? Pirates? There were no pirates left? This happened when Jack was young, so a lot of time before the first movie, right? Where were, I don't know... Blackbeard? Davy Jones? Barbossa? All the other Pirate Lords? I might be wrong, but I guess Salazar didn't kill them, did he? Why weren't they there during that "last battle" in which "the last ones joined together"?

The Devil's Triangle. I just don't understand what's the logic behind it. So, this is a cursed place. Whoever enters there, can't get out. One would think it means that if you get there, you die; and Salazar does die, but he somehow also becomes a ghost whose only purpose is to find Jack Sparrow and have his revenge. So, do people become ghosts when they get in The Devil's Triangle? We have to assume people have gotten stuck in there before; otherwise, there wouldn't be legends around the place. So why isn't it like full of spirits ready to haunt people? Why are Salazar and his crew the only ones?

Poseidon or Calypso?

What's the Trident of Poseidon? Does Poseidon exist? Isn't Calypso the Goddess of the sea? Breaking the Trident, you break all the curses of the sea, so the Trident must be more powerful than Calypso, which leads to a question. Where is she? She IS the sea, right? So she must have known someone was about to find the Trident and brake all curses, including her one. She just decided it was okay? It really feels like someone decided to suddenly change the world's mythology without giving explanations.

The Compass

This is possibly the most blatant plot hole in the whole saga. Probably the most blatant plot hole I've ever witnessed, and man, I watched all the Harry Potter movies. In Dead Man's Chest, Jack meets Tia Dalma in her "shop" and he tells her he's looking for the Davy Jones' key. She asks him "The compass you bartered from me, it cannot lead you to this?", making another pivotal point of Dead Men Tell No Tales factually senseless.

That man couldn't have given his compass to Jack, because that wasn't his compass.

So either Salazar is lying while telling his tale or they forgot about that line in the second movie. Anyway, let's pretend that line doesn't exist; even if that captain gave Jack his compass in that exact moment, why would it be the key to free Salazar, exactly? How is the compass in any way related to The Devil's Triangle or to Salazar? In the movie, they try to explain it with a sentence: “if you betray it, your greatest fear comes true”. So, is Salazar Jack's greatest fear? I really doesn't seem right, Jack almost didn't remember Salazar when Henry mentioned him. To Jack, he's only a guy he outsmarted decades earlier. Also, Jack technically already gave the compass away, twice: to Elizabeth in Dead Man's Chest, to make her find the chest, and to Beckett in At World's End, when they're negotiating.

That's... That's Just Body Shaming, Mate

Let's talk about her. So, the woman's ugly. It can happen that a woman is ugly. Was it necessary to build an entire scene around some blatant body shaming? This scene wants to mimic the similar scene in Dead Man's Chest: Jack's on an island, running from the main villain, and he's forced to do things he doesn't want to do until someone saves him, then it was Will, now it's Hector.

Except in Dead Man's Chest it was LITERAL CANNIBALISM he was facing, and yet he looked LESS TERRIFIED and DISGUSTED. What's exactly the message here? Lads, is marrying an ugly woman worse than cannibalism? I don't know... that was just bad.

Justice for Hector Barbossa

If you know me (you probably don't, but if you do) then you know about my obsession with Hector Barbossa. I truly believe he's the best written character in the saga, and he's in my top five of the characters I love the most in all media. I watched The Curse of the Black Pearl when I was seven and I am autistic, so I had all the time to develop a literal relationship with these characters in my head. As much as Geoffrey Rush's interpretation was impeccable, as always, it really hurt to watch Hector in this movie. He just doesn't sound like him. First of all, why isn't he on the Queen Anne's Revenge? Why's he letting someone else sail around on his ships? He would've never. Why's he just sitting on a throne and shooting musicians instead of, I don't know... being a pirate? Being a pirate is the only thing that matters to him. He says it at the end of On Stranger Tides, and he even says it in this movie, to the witch. "I'm a pirate. Always will be".

So, why isn't he pirating? What happened to him? And what about the pact with the witch? He made her curse all his enemies; that's honestly the most out-of-character thing he could've done.

Seriously, watch this movie, and then The Curse of the Black Pearl and tell me he sounds like he's the same character. Then there’s his death... was it necessary? And I don't mean if it was necessary to the plot (it wasn't), but the way he died, did it make sense? He takes the sword and sacrifices himself to kill Salazar, but WHY? Salazar was back a mortal. They could've brought him to surface and then shoot him. What was the point of his death, Disney? I will never forgive you.

I would've preferred if they never showed him again. He's alive and living his best life in Tortuga, if you ask me.

How does Carina Smyth exist?

Let's do the maths. Carina Smyth has approximately the same age as Henry Turner, who was born around nine moths after the end of At World's End. At the end of that movie, Barbossa once again stole the Black Pearl (he's iconic we stan a legend), so we have to assume it is during that time (between the At World's End and On Stranger Tides) that he conceives Carina. He stays with this woman during the whole pregnancy, bacause he says he was there when she died. So nine months, at least, right? Except; Jack makes it clear that he and Barbossa met Carina's mom, Margaret, together.

When, exactly, did this happen? It can't be between On Stranger Tides and Dead Men Tell No Tales, because Hector himself says only five years passed between the two, and Carina doesn't look like a five-year-old;

it can't be between At World's End and On Stranger Tides, because we know Jack and Barbossa weren't together, and Hector was too busy losing a leg and planning his revenge by working for the King of England; it can't be during At World's End, because Barbossa was too busy rescuing Jack and then slaying (literally and metaphorically) Beckett's men to save piracy; it can't be during Dead Man's Chest, because he was dead; it can't be during The Curse of the Black Pearl, nor during the ten years before it, because he was... he was a skeleton, I hardly believe he could reproduce, despite what’s written in some fanficions; it can't be before, of course, because Carina would be too old. The only chance, but it's a stretch, is that Hector and Jack met this Margaret Smyth years and years before, and that at a certain point (while he was still busy slaying, losing a leg or planning his revenge), for some reason he decided to come back to her and accidentally had a daughter. That would mean that Jack remembered Margaret Smyth's name DECADES after he met her.

The Post-Credit Scene: What?

WHY'S DAVY JONES BACK? The Trident technically broke all the curses of the sea. He is THE cursed man of the sea. AND HE'S DEAD. The only answer I was able to give me, is that the moment the Trident broke the curses, the curse that said if you stab his heart he dies was also broken, so he technically didn't die, but it makes even less sense, because if the curses just aren't real anymore, then a man shouldn't be able to... carve out his heart and put it in a chest, right? (Which by the way, makes Will Turner being alive senseless as well). Even if so, Davy should've come back as a human.

My conclusion is that this movie should not exist, and we, as a community, should pretend it was never made. Hector is alive. Bye.

Imago

[madamefeu]

Hi! Here’s what your favorite Hazbin Hotel ship says about you!

Radiodust: You're an old-timer who's been around since the pilot. One off-handed joke about Angel Dust wanting to suck Alastor's dick was all it took for you to start shipping them. You always ship the two most attractive male characters together in your fandoms, even if they have no real connection

Huskerdust: I’m not going to touch this one because I’ll probably get death threats if I don’t tell the Huskerdust fandom exactly what they want to hear

Radiorose: Hello, aro-ace community! You love this because they're the closet thing to a canon queerplatonic couple that currently exists in mainstream media, and as a fellow aro-ace, I’m in the exact same boat

Chaggie: You like the idea of forbidden love, but you're not interested in handling all of the social/political ramifications of it, and would prefer to conveniently gloss over both of those things just like in the show. This ship has the flavor profile of vanilla ice cream with chocolate chips, and so does your personality

Lucifer/Lilith: You only want one thing in this life, and that is for a powerful woman to step on your neck. You are a bottom to end all bottoms

Radioapple: Daddy kink, but in a voyeuristic way. You like watching two dads doing each other, but there is no way you’d ever let them touch you, no, all you want is to watch them go at it

Rosiemilla: Mommy kink, but in a voyeuristic way

Radiohusk: Oh, you would let a man do unspeakable things to you if he was hot enough. You read dark romances and you want a dark romance to happen to you in real life

Cherrisnake: You are absolutely terrible at handling your feelings for everyone you've ever crushed on, and will try to convince yourself that you hate the object of your affections because you lack the courage needed to make a move on them. It would take a life or death situation for you to tell your crush how you really feel about them, and even then you'd be more afraid of telling them than of dying

Guitarspear: Hello, Adam simps! You binge-read workplace romances and you fantasise about dating your boss even though he's a dick 90% of the time. Strangely, the fact that he's a dick makes you even more attracted to him

Staticmoth: Your ideal ship is two horrible people who deserve each other. You want what they have, but at the same time you don't

Zestmilla: Your preferred aesthetic is old married couple core, and I respect that. You binge-read found family fics on AO3, and your favorite tag is hurt/comfort

Radiostatic: You love the idea of someone being obsessed with you when you have no interest in them. You like to laugh at their, quite frankly, pathetic attempts to get you to notice them, and you're waiting for the day when the penny will drop and they'll realise that they are nothing to you, and never will be

Arackpentious: You have never cared about canon, and you don't intend to start now. You probably simp for Sir Pentious and use Arackniss as a self-insert. We know barely any canon information about him, so it's easy for you to project yourself onto him so that you can get doubly-dicked down by the Victorian snake man

Charlastor: You're all about the aesthetic. You got into this ship because there's an abundance of gorgeous fanart for it, even if there's no chance of them being together in canon. You don't care about that, however, because they look beautiful together and that's all that matters to you

Radiomimzy: You wish that the old canon of Mimzy being Alastor's girlfriend was still canon

Royalhalo: You hate Vaggie and you think that Charlie deserves better than her, and who better than the sugary sweet angel who was the first to hear Charlie out and argue in her favor when she found out the truth about the exterminations?

Cherridust: You are aggressively heterosexual and you believe that it is impossible for a man and a woman to be friends without one or both secretly harboring feelings for the other. You binge-read friends to lovers fics on Wattpad, and if a man so much as says hi to a woman, you will ship them

Cherrimoth: You like enemies to lovers, but in a bitch eating crackers kind of way. You either have a crush on someone that you love to hate from afar, or you want to fall in love with someone who hates you from afar

[thera-daydreams]

SCARLET & SHADOW

ᱬ The Darkling x Scarlet Witch!Reader ᱬ

[aleksander morozova x wanda maximoff!reader]

Warning: This will be very canon-divergent, considering that it will be a fix-it fic for the Darkling's story. Will contain elements of violence, manipulation, and gore present in the series. Plus, mentions of depression, trauma, regret (as W. Maximoff) and the inclusion of possible adult themes in the later chapters.

Majority of this will also be based on the Netflix show since I haven't read the entire books yet. There may be inaccuracies and a whole lot of changes. You have been warned!

Otherwise, proceed and enjoy! ♟️🌹

(Sidenote: So... okay. I'm deciding to write this and make it a formal fanfic—as per previous post one and post two—because I seriously cannot sleep with the overwhelming inspiration I'm getting from shipping these two characters. Aleksander and Wanda are practically the same person in different fonts. They both did shitty, selfish things but I need to give them a happy ending. Together. Somehow. And hate it or love it, I firmly believe this idea should be shared to the world. If you know my other JJK fic, you'll know Wanda is an obsession of mine. Also, also, also! Please bear with me if updates are scarce. I'm juggling my academic review, work, another unfinished fic, and my daily fangirling. 🥹)

1. once upon a dream

Aleksander had dreams of you long before he even knew you. Maybe it was the stress of this neverending war. Either way, you weren't real anyway... were you?

(3.9k words)

2. coincidence

The Black General finds himself magnetized by the seemingly inconspicuous gardener in the Little Palace. He gets to know you, contemplating life. Just when he thought you were just a strangely wise, young otkazat'sya woman, he finds out why exactly you decided to work in the Little Palace.

(2.5k words)

3. reflection

You are confronted by a certain Shadow Summoner about your motives in bringing the kids to the Little Palace. He realizes that you've loved and lost so deeply, eerily the same as he had. Perhaps that's the reason why he was so drawn to you; he could see his reflection in your eyes. But the more answers the Darkling got, the more questions he had. Unfortunately for you, Aleksander was a patient and persistent man who would stop at nothing to get what he wants.

(4.8k words)

4. haunted

You were no powerless otkazat’sya, Aleksander finds out the hard way. He’s pushed you too far, and he’s left to deal with the aftermath of the new knowledge he half-regrets he gained. On the other hand, you see something bad about this new world that wished you had never seen.

(6.0k words)

5. ?

(tba)

... more chapters?

Synopsis:

"No more magic." You swore to yourself after the madness that you'd spiraled into; the chaos you'd wrecked upon the Multiverse under the influence of the Darkhold. Now, you had destroyed the Darkhold in every universe.

The last universe that had a Darkhold? Safe. Book of the Damned, gone. It was a land with no heroes, gods, or sorcerers... just... normal people and... Grisha? Either way, it was time for your atonement. Your repentance for your mortal sins.

But when you save and bring three orphaned Grisha children to the Little Palace, working as an otkazat'sya gardener to secretly keep an eye on them, it turns out that a certain Shadow Summoner begins to have his eye on you, instead.

taglist: @idohknow @robertthehoover @the-desilittle-bird @pearlstiare

[syrupfog]

Ahhhhh. Soulmates AU where Sanji has built his whole life around the fact that somewhere out there he has a soulmate. 

Like, it’s the only thing that kept him going, kept him moving forward. An entire childhood of being told by his siblings, by his father, that he’s unloveable—

And the only proof he has, after his mum’s gone, is that somewhere out there is someone who’s DESTINED to love him. The universe has SWORN it. 

Even when he’s getting bruised and bloodied and told he’s worthless from the siblings who have all the love of their father.

Even when he spends his days in a dungeon, the light filtering in from the high window barely visible through his iron helmet, alone and cold. 

Even when he’s slowly dying from starvation, stranded on a rock. 

The one truth Sanji knows is that he has someone who loves him.

He spends his time at the Baratie flirting with anything that moves, but is thoroughly aware underneath it all that he’s worthless. That’s been drilled into him since birth. 

If he’s able to make a woman happy for a moment, then he will, but that’s not for his own sake.

He feels confident, having had years to think on it, that there is one single person in the world who CAN love him. And Sanji feels sorry for them, because he knows he doesn’t deserve that love, but all the same he selfishly looks forward to finding them.

And then— he meets him. 

It’s everything the books — and his mum — described it as. The world bursting into colour, the feeling of RIGHTNESS slotting into place. The man (that’s surprising) has green hair and three earrings and three swords and it feels like fate. It IS fate.

And then the man — Zoro — green hair and three earrings and the only thing Sanji has ever wanted, the person he’s centred his whole life around — he tells Sanji that he doesn’t believe in soulmates. Doesn’t want the universe to be in charge of his own destiny.

And Sanji breaks. 

He— doesn’t know what to do with his life now. He joins the crew because Luffy asks, because the only thing he clings to right now is that SOMEONE wants him. But. 

Zoro doesn’t. 

His soulmate. 

The only one MEANT for him. 

And what does that say about Sanji?

He hates Zoro. HATES. 

He fights him at every chance. Wages war with words and kicks. 

He’s drowning inside. Unmoored. The knowledge that he’s entirely unloveable is a burden too great to bear. 

They sail onward and Sanji cooks and fights and cooks and fights and drowns.

Something shifts at Thriller Bark. 

Sanji’s there when Zoro attempts to sacrifice himself. And Sanji HATES him for it. He hates him because in all this time traveling together, try as he might, hate him as much as he does, Sanji’s never been able to stop loving him.

And if anyone’s going to die for this fucking crew, it’s going to be the one who’s so worthless he cant even have a soulmate who loves him back. 

He knocks Zoro out of the way, faces Kuma head on. 

The pain in his side a moment later feels like the Baratie betrayal all over again

Later, on the ship keeping vigil at Zoro’s bedside, he waits until Chopper’s gone and then weeps, face red and blotchy, ugly loud wails as he falls apart, staining the sheets with tears and snot. It should’ve been him. 

He doesn’t stop until a hand wraps around his wrist.

“Cook,” Zoro says, voice painfully rough. “Why the fuck— did you do that?” 

Sanji tries to hide his tears, replace them with that familiar anger. “What?” he asks. “Try to keep you alive?” 

“No,” says Zoro. “Fucking— sacrifice yourself.” 

Sanji frowns. “I’m the best option.”

Zoro, injured as he is, gapes at him. “You’re the cook,” he says. “We need you.” 

Sanji tries to pull his wrist from Zoro grasp. “You need a cook,” he says. “You can find another.” 

“You’re crew,” Zoro says. 

“You can FIND. ANOTHER.” Sanji grits.

“No, we CAN’T,” Zoro yells, grip tightening. 

“You already THREW ME AWAY!” Sanji screams. 

Zoro’s fingers go slack and Sanji gets up and runs from the room.

It’s another week before Zoro can leave the infirmary but when he does, Sanji finds himself cornered in the kitchen, fast enough he can’t plan an escape. 

Zoro’s face is set, serious, Sanji’s gearing up for a fight despite Zoro’s injuries. 

He storms in and pushes Sanji up against the back wall. “I was WRONG,” he says, arms bracketing Sanji in. 

“Wh— no,” Sanji squeaks, trying to find a way around him. 

“Yes I WAS,” Zoro emphasises. “Franky says I was stupid and self protective, but I lied. I’ve loved you from the moment I fucking saw you.”

“No, you DIDN’T,” Sanji says, a rushing in his ears as he looks anywhere but AT Zoro. “Because I’m UNLOVEABLE.” 

Zoro’s breath hitches, and he grabs Sanji’s chin in his hand, forcing him none too gently face to face. 

“You’re fucking not,” he snarls. “Because *I* love you.”

Sanji REALLY can’t handle this. “Stop,” he pleads. “You can’t— it’s okay. I’ve always known that I’m worthless, you don’t have to try to convince me otherwise.” You already did, he thinks. “Just— I can’t handle you lying like this. To me.”

“You’re not—“ Zoro looks at him in shock. “You’re not WORTHLESS, Cook, what the hell? And you’re not unloveable, you’re not any of that shit! I thought you’d be a distraction from my dream, that’s why I said that shit, and I’m SORRY. But I was fucking wrong.”

Sanji is still shaking his head — or he’s just plain shaking now— because it’s too late. He KNOWS this is who he is, doesn’t understand why Zoro is LYING. 

“It’s okay,” he says, making eye contact, placating. “I won’t let this — me— interfere with protecting the crew.”

Zoro growls and lunges forward, capturing Sanji’s lips in a bruising kiss. It hurts, Sanji gasps into his mouth, it— feels like truth. 

“I love you,” Zoro says, low. “Tell me how I can prove it.” 

Sanji chases the kiss before recovering. “I don’t know,” he says, small, uncertain.

Zoro grasps his arms, his waist, his neck, like a desperate man searching, he settles on cupping Sanji’s face, leaning his forehead against him. “I’ll prove it,” he says. “Something in your head is fucked up, Cook, it’s wrong. You’re loved. I fucking swear it.”

Sanji’s still shaking, tears rushing unbidden to his eyes. He doesn’t get it but — he wants it. Desperately he wants it. “Tell me again,” he says, voice small, scared. 

“I love you,” Zoro says. “I’m sorry. I love you.” 

Like a mantra. 

Sanji kisses him, afraid to initiate, but Zoro responds with a vengeance. “

I love you,” Zoro says again, like a prayer. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.” Someday, Sanji will know it intrinsically. But for now it’s good enough to hear it. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.”

[jikooklove9795]

With the news just of JKs series, which seems to be the film split from the trailer, just with extras, am I wrong to pray that we don’t get a documentary for Muse?

I just have this really bad feeling that Jimin would say something more unhinged than he did during the Bangtan bombs we got and the interviews with p dogg, when he said he couldn’t remember the last time he had a crush, that he was alone, and he couldn’t relate to the love songs. That telling the producers what he wanted for Who was like them reading his diary, basically that whole segment is sus, and technically debunked Jikook. I can imagine him saying he’s never been in love etc. I just know he would do that. We’ve got Jimin choosing Who, about not having love, and JK chooses all songs about being with the one you love, so I wasn’t worried about him saying anything, just Jimin.

I am wrong to feel this way? I pray every night for it not to happen

Hi Anon!

First I need to tell you this before I go further on explaining why MUSE, the album as a whole does nothing to debunk Jikook:

As much as I love celebrating Jikook's bond and relationship I'm not someone who has any kind of expectations from both Jimin and Jungkook. I won't demand them to behave a certain way so that I get the confirmation my ship needs. Having such kind of expectations is not ony wrong but also unfair to them.

Anon, I hope I don't sound condescending which is not my intention at all. I'm just saying this in your best interest. I hope you'll take it in the right spirit.

Now I'll share my views on why MUSE does not debunk Jikook.

MUSE is a conceptual album as opposed to FACE which was autobiographical. As stated by Jimin and the producers they were following a storyline for MUSE. Also, when it came to MUSE Jimin had so much to share, ideas to give and discuss while for FACE we didnt get that, did we? Since FACE was about his own life and the struggles he went through, he was hesitant and holding back not letting us know much about it. Which was not surprising knowing how serious he is about his personal life.

And something which I think you're forgetting is that Jimin is an artist. An artist who will experiment with his work and explore diverse genres in order to bring to the table different stories for the fans. Stories which fans also can relate to. Stories which aren't about his personal life and experiences. His work is not always going to be solely focused on his personal life. So, try to separate his work life from his personal life.

Also, taking into consideration his situation (his country, the industry he works in) its highly unlikely for him to say "Hey! Jungkook is my bf. We have been in love for a long time now". That's not gonna happen anytime in the near future. So, what we will be getting instead is "I'm single for as long as I can remember. I don't even know how having a crush feels like".

This is the exact reason why "Letter" gets passed off as a fan song in the general fandom. Cause Jimin is not in a position to say "Letter" is for Jungkook. That's a sad reality. But its for their own safety and well being. Which provides them a cover, a protection. The same cover cause of which they were able to enlist together. Which in my opinion is the most important for them, I mean being able to stay together rather than risk everything and expose themselves.

However Jimin did provide a few hints here and there for those who are willing to listen.

And an even BIGGER HINT with this one here:

The billboard falling at the same time Jimin goes "Who's my heart waiting for". Someone whose facial structure is not that of a woman but of a man. A man with doe eyes. A man who stole his heart all those years ago. A man with whom he's happy and very obviously in love.

Have a nice day Anon!

Credits to the owner of the video

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

Why do you think the tides have slightly turned from "Elia deserves better than Rhaegar" to shipping her and Rhaegar together? Like what is the psychology behind these people because I've seen some of them like/reblog anti Rhaegar posts while also shipping Rhaegar x Elia at the same time.

hey anon! my thoughts are a bit messy, but i’ve done my best to explain them coherently :)

so, rhaegar was the best man anyone could have when elia was alive, and most people want the best for their favs. he was considered the most handsome, didn’t have a bad personality, and he was crown prince—meaning elia was almost queen, which is often seen as the greatest role a woman can have. the narrative also treats rhaegar as a beautiful, tragic, haunting figure, and elia actually had this very aesthetically pleasing man all to herself at one point! she was married to him, had children with him, and her life was so close to perfect! but rhaegar just had to go and ruin it. 😠

for many elia stans, if rhaegar hadn’t fallen in love with another woman (they want him to have been a completely different character), then everything would’ve been perfect, and elia would’ve had the best, most desirable life. however, that’s not what happened—elia met a very tragic end, and as a result, these stans feel double the bitterness. because of this bitterness, they blame rhaegar for everything (even though it’s not logical to do so), but he’s just too ‘perfect’ to let go of. so, for years these stans have made rhaegar revolve around elia, filling his tag with posts about her out of bitterness. so, i do believe that this obsession with rhaegar x elia has always been there, but i think it’s become a more favorable stance on the elia stan side of the fandom because of a mix of reasons.

plus, rhaegar is one of the few canon relationships we know elia had, since she’s not much of a character. because of this, and the fact that most people don’t like to stray too far from canon, most elia stans are forced to focus on rhaegar, which has created an echo chamber. basically, if a sentiment about elia and rhaegar’s relationship becomes popular, then the whole elia stan side of the fandom will likely regurgitate the sentiment. (also, this desire to stick close to canon is likely why the elia x arthur ship was so popular. while it’s a total crack ship, it had good aesthetics, and since elia and arthur at least knew each other, it allowed the stans to create their perfect fanfiction whilst sticking it to rhaegar. but remember, elia was actually married to rhaegar and had children with him, so while arthur is cool, rhaegar was always ‘top dog,’ meaning arthur would never be able to match up to rhaegar to most elia stans. also, the arthur x elia crack ship is likely her second most popular ship, which just shows how little elia stans have to work with, so they’re always forced to eventually return back to rhaegar for a lot of things.)

however, even if the elia x rhaegar ship gains more popularity, these stans will never stop hating rhaegar because he wasn’t ‘perfect’—and he wasn’t perfect because he didn’t love elia. plus, rhaegar loving another woman and supposedly kidnapping her is what began the war that led to elia’s tragic death. that’s bitterness times 1000. and while i don’t actually blame rhaegar for the war, i do think that this is how an elia stan sees it. i also don’t view rhaegar’s complex relationship with elia as a bad thing—it’s actually a very realistic take on an arranged marriage between two decent people. but most elia stans will never be able to get over the fact that they almost had everything, which is why many have it out for lyanna, as they consider her a thief who ruined their ‘perfection.’

tbh, that might be why so many elia stans are so obsessed with the idea that rhaegar only got with lyanna because of the prophecy—they don’t want to believe that rhaegar actually loved a different woman and not their perfect self insert elia. that’s a bit mean of me… but i don’t know what else one would call the ‘elia’ elia stans have created.

now that i’ve laid all those thoughts out, i’ll try to explain why the tides seem to be turning… i think it may have something to do with the ‘targaryens are all evil and bad’ sentiment losing popularity. i think this shift has occurred due to a mix of factors, such as years of fandom fights and fandom cycles leading to the targs being more liked now than before. it helps that canon doesn’t actually condemn the targs/favors them quite a bit, and the influx of new targ fans from HOTD has also contributed. this combination of reasons seems to have shifted the way the mainstream fandom discusses all the targaryen characters, including rhaegar. so, with this shift, it’s only natural that some elia stans/elia x rhaegar shippers—who’ve always been there—are using this opportunity to push their agenda. while these stans still hate rhaegar and see him as the bad guy, they just can’t let go of him. and as the mainstream fandom moves away from the anti targaryen sentiment, these smaller corners of the fandom, which tend to be echo chambers, are also affected, which has therefore led to a rise in rhaegar x elia shippers and the ‘shifting tide’ that you’ve also noticed.

[my-adhd-gremlin-blog]

I am as disappointed as everyone else is with the final season of The Umbrella Academy, but I also have some of my own Thoughts™️. Allow me to weigh in.

We can all agree that the finale was absolute dogshit, right? I've seen a lot of commentary about the character assassination of Number Five, and the cursed as fuck crack ship that should've stayed in the deep recesses of ao3, where no one could find it. But there was also absolutely no character development for any of them in the end? Not really?

Luther still has unresolved daddy issues (why else would he be squatting in the condemned building of the Academy?). And he just, what, gave up looking for his wife? Luther "loverboy" Hargreeves. The man who chased and pined for Allison almost his entire life gave up on HIS WIFE after/within six years? No way.

Diego's character basically went nowhere. Four seasons, and he still didn't come to any kind of realisation that, hey, maybe he is enough. No. If he isn't in Luther's shadow, he's insecure about his marriage, or his powers, and being "strong enough." Everything was a competition to him, even though he was the only one competing. He deserved a little bit of self-love, but apparently, "self-destruct" is all he gets.

Allison had her ups and downs, and they let her end on a fucking down? Her arch was the most disappointing. We literally see her trying to be a better, more honest person in s1, and then a human rights activist in s2. Her powers are morally grey, sure, but she had so much potential. Then she just straight up becomes a villain and has barely any redemption for it? Her character started on a high. It was natural progression for her to hit a low. But not that low. And she never really came back up from it. In six years, it seemed like she made no real effort to make up for what she did. A couple of good decisions do not make up for a multitude of bad ones.

Which brings me to Klaus. I wasn't sold on sober, germaphobe Klaus to begin with. I thought it was just a little bit too out of character. But I'll take that any day than what happened to him this season. And to his credit, his hypochondria after losing his powers at least made sense. But he'd made so much progress, not just on his sobriety but on embracing his powers rather than being afraid. (Also, he and Allison being codependent on each other like that was not healthy).

This season made Ben, as a character, pretty much pointless. From the beginning, it seemed like his death was supposed to bring the Academy together, narratively speaking. It was his "purpose" to die and become a sort of martyr to his siblings (I mean, it didn't work, so even then, Ben kinda died unnecessarily). But in reality, his death wasn't a teachable moment, it was just murder. And without Ben, the story still would have ended the same way. Any of the children born from the marigold could have brought about the cleanse, it didn't necessarily HAVE to be Ben. And with the number of timelines there were, it was probably inevitable that it would happen in at least one of them. They all died pointlessly, but Ben's deaths were especially pointless.

Viktor was about the only character that DID have some development. He finally stood up to his father and received at least some validation for his mistreatment as a kid. Not that it ended up mattering because his relationship with his siblings was practically non-existent at this point. All he'd ever wanted was to be a part of the team, and yet apparently made no effort in six years to see his siblings and actually be a part of the family. It makes no sense for his character.

I hate that Lila was a damsel in distress for most of this season. She's a grown woman who we know is fully capable of standing up for herself, but it felt like she was reduced to just her role in the family. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with being a mother or a wife, but that seemed to be ALL her character was this season, when we know she's more than that. The one thing she got to herself was taken away from her coz it hurt "poor Diego's feelings 🥺". Grow up 🙄. And I am not touching the other thing with a ten foot barge pole.

Now, obviously, there's Five. People have already talked about how his character was completely butchered this season. No, Five of the past would not have given up so easily. Despite the jabs and the squabbling, Five loved his family. He fought hard to get back to them when he was stranded. After a struggle like that, why the fuck WOULD he stop fighting to keep his family together?

I'm not saying all of these characters had to be good, outstanding citizens by the end of the show. But they should have at least had a journey from season one. Instead, they either went backwards or in circles. And in the end, none of it mattered anyway.

This season was so fucking stupid. It completely undermined the rest of the story. What was the point in literally anything that happened in the previous seasons if it was just leading up to all of it being erased? This is some, "and it was all a dream" bullshit, and I'm not here for it.

[literallyjustforlurking]

The Princesses of Sparta

In the Odessy Penelope is the princess of Sparta and has two sisters, Clytemnestra and Helen. We've all heard of Helen of Troy/Helen of Sparta from the Trojan war, most beatiful woman alive, the face that launched a thousand ships who married Menelaus and Clytemnestra married Agamemnon, who insulted Artemis and then killed their daughter in order to get good winds.

Now where am I going with this? While I feel like P!Percy deserves their sisters back.

Now who should be the sisters?

Helen compilcates things, becuase at first I wanted to say Piper but (even though I am a Valgrace shipper, espically with what we have going on with Epic!Calypso) it feels weird to have Jason dating his aunt. Which means while I think it would be cool for Reyna to be a princess (and I don't think that he and Reyna were dating before the Lost Hero?) I can't do that. (Did make another post on who Reyna and Hylla are, here.)

So who would make good princess

Rachel is Helen and Thalia is Clytemnestra.

Thalia is dealing with the fact that her little brother is her little sister's and her cousins son. Also her little sister used to be a man. And her little sister is her brother-in-law. And her cousin is her sister. And her little brother is her nephew. Thalia has given up on ever understanding her family tree now if children can just pop out nowhere with parents a year older than them.

This would complicate relationships even more but at least Jason's not kissing his aunt.

And that way Penelope's sister (Thalia) gets together with one of Penelope's spartan handmaidens (Reyna).

And since Rachel is the oracle she can't be controlled by Aphrodite's magic the same way Helen was with Paris (I always read her story as a forced abduction or at least Aphrodite using some sort of love magic on her) and that's how Apollo finds out about the reicarnations.

Also it's my personal headcannon that when Rachel gets visions of the future she also gets a vision of the persons past if they've been reincarnated.

And since Thalia joined the hunt she can't be forced into a marriage with a horrible man who will kill her daughter.

This also complicates the relationships between H!Rachel, C!Thalia and P!Percy all of whom are now siblings.

I also personally think the because he dissapeared for twenty years and left Penelope alone to fend off suitors and run a kingdom Helen and Clytemnestra don't really like Odysseus which would add even more layers to Thalia and Annabeth's relationship.

(Plus Rachel has red hair and Helen in most documents also has red or copper hair, I know that the physical stuff doesn't really matter for reincarnation but I still thought it was cool!)

Not entirely sure how the reveals are gonna happen for C!Thalia and H!Rachel, but I think Rachel's will happen pretty soon after Percy meets her, while Thalia's will happen either directly after O!Annabeth falls off the cliff or during their quest after Bianca dies and it reminds C!Thalia to much of the death of her daughter. Another inoccent woman sacrificed to soothe the wrath of a god.

Just realized Clytemnestra and Helen are half sisters and Penelope is their cousin but whatever it still counts

[katyspersonal]

Hi there, I hope you don’t mind the random question but in your mind which fanbase would you say is worse, Elden Ring or Bloodborne in terms of annoying fans. I used to think Bloodborne fans could be bad but holy shit ER fans are something else when it comes to lore discussions. As someone who is pretty active in lore talk with both games do you find one side to be more exhausting to deal with than the other? Obviously feel free not to answer this if you think it might start drama

Honestly? I can't hate Bloodborne fandom enough.

Bloodborne was my first Fromsoft game and one keeping me hostage in terms of fixation for over three years, like I said! And yes, it has incredibly bad, toxic people in it - Maria fans who kept slandering Gehrman despite all the info against their takes, honestly believed there is anything problematic with Gehrmaria, had mental breakdown if anyone dared to see Maria as bi or straight despite her not having canon sexuality, believed that the whole story is either about man bad woman good OR was incredibly misogynist, no between. Close minded, toxic people who would deliberately bait anger and pain with placing their hate in the tags and then play victims when those hurt fans snapped back. Oh, I hate them, and revealing that Gehrman's "creepiness" and "misogyny" was completely and fully translation mistake, as well as pointing out how comes why nothing is wrong with how Doll is dressed with facts, is forever my most valid contribution to the fandom. More so than my ugly childlike fanart or convoluted theories could ever be. But, not THIS is why Bloodborne fandom is worse in my opinion.

Elden Ring fandom introduced not one but SEVERAL annoying and exhausting topics to deal with! I "affectionately" titled especially rabid Malenia and Miquella fans 'Twin Cultists' because this is exactly what their behavior is and have always been! Funny enough, a person who got mad at me for this one was someone who got alienated on Discord server for Miquella fans because owners started to insist that only their headcanons are valid AND admitted to me on feeling unsafe for not shipping Finlenia. I am dead serious! Malenia fans are strikingly similar to Maria pseudofeminist fans in toxicity, Miquella fans are like if you removed all likeable traits of Leda and replaced them with even MORE of undying vitriol for anyone who dares to interpret him as anything but perfect pure radiant sunshine. Mohg triggered a pretty awful discourse between those who insisted he was rapist molester whatever and if you interpret it differently you are insensitive and media-illiterate victimblamer and people who defended him "becoming the very thing they sworn to destroy" as well as also exhibiting cult-like thought control in their circles (they know who they are -_-).

But the DLC has changed things a bit, right? Some Twin Cultists are still spilling vitriol, except now they also claim that writers are bad, not only fans that disagree with them! Still, blessed, deserved vindication finally arrived! But what about others, whose situation never changed? Vitriol towards Godrick is ABSURD. You know how common fandoms L is that they judge and hate female character for something, but when male character did the exact same thing it is humored or justified? Godrick is this, minus the gender difference, yet everyone who points out his actual characteristics and the hypocrisy of his haters gets ridiculed. You thought that his fans would flock together to support each others? No, turns out that pocket are loosers who think people who don't headcanon him as trans are childish and ridiculous and loathe cishet Elden Ring fans in general. Fia and D are caught in the weird discourse loop where one is always simplified and idealized and another is demonized to Hell and beyond, when they both are strongly caught in religious brainwashing of sorts but also are sympathetic in their own right. Ranni's fans and haters both do not know the term of Machiavellian (aka "Ends justify the means" philosophy). She is the worst most evil character in the setting over what crimes she committed in order to protect the world from the problem of potentially anyone being able to grab the laws of nature itself and shape them according to their bigotries and preferences, OR she is a perfect innocent fighter against oppression and people who dislike her Just Hate Women TM. And of course we cannot forget the one above them all! The radiant, omnipresent, eternal!...

Marika truly brings out the worst of discussions! She has been before SOTE, but you YEARN for pre-SOTE times if you hate OR love her! Not because things changed, but because now discussion can't be avoided. She is THE Elden Ring character who is only ever demonized and idealized. Before SOTE, she was only ever just a tyrant who loves genocide OR simply a puppet of Greater Will (or rather Two Fingers claiming to speak for it as it turned out) who never meant to do that shit and finally heroically rebelled. After SOTE... hahaha, oh boy... we started to deal with the issue of excusing genocide. Her fans will claim into essays and more essays why Hornsent are all fundamentally dangerous race and Marika is merely trying to rid the world of filth that ruins it by sending Messmer. However, demonization didn't quite go away either, and her haters are so angry at writers humanizing her a bit more that they say WRITERS are pro-fascist!

So, why? I've described such horrid discourse, when Bloodborne fandom sounds like it simply has a few bad apples in comparison! What can be worse than Elden Ring fandom, after a description like this? Yeah, you see... Elden Ring fandom is thorn by awful arguments and discourse, it is hostile and dangerous for your mental health if you are invested into fandom beyond just "consuming content" and advertising your art for sale. Yet, it lives. It lives in the same sense as a land torn by earthquakes lives. It lives in the same sense a volcano that won't stop smoking lives. It lives in the same sense sea lives during the storm. But it LIVES.

Bloodborne fandom is a fucking Caelid.

If you question whether I'd be scared of "drama", I assume you are new here and don't know my epic lore. I am not afraid of anything because society made itself clear on what I am for it. In the most condenced way possible, one OF those toxic Maria fans didn't like me thinking for myself too much so they went out of their way to slander me for various -ists and -phobias. Their ableist friend that doesn't take racism seriously joined in. I was a victim of stalking, harassment, slander, witch-hunting and cult-like shunning for over a year, and so was every kind fool who treated me like a human - friend or mutual. I can NOT speak of Bloodborne fandom experience from personal standpoint because obviously it is not an objective experience (though someone who also got unfairly slandered by Maria fans too contacted me, so I question whether it IS a trend..?). Still, it isn't about me or my friends, we are an oddity. Bloodborne fandom for me was just a bunch of gullible, weak sheep who are okay with witch-hunt because letting just a few people get harassed is not worth souring their fandom experience. And I do not wish to turn back or even try to mend anything. I caught my stalker and exposed their crimes, I made everyone who believed they were innocent feel stupid and ashamed, it was all I wanted. I don't wish to "befriend" the fandom afterwards.

YEAH YEAH "THINGS ONCE BROKEN" WHATEVER

But I was still posting and drawing and playing and talking and writing, right? I was still present. So, I was at least observing what was going on. And what truly soured Bloodborne fandom was actually happening afterwards, what was not involving me or any friend or enemy I knew. The worst thing happened, worse for fandom than any amount of discourse. I call it "centralization", for lack of better term.

Bloodborne is a niche fandom, yet it had a sudden zoomers burst. And that led to dynamics of "fandom leaders", and stupid fucking Discord community that are akin to elite club in which if you are not invited you might as well not exist. It ALL became about stupid "web of mutuals" nonsense. It ALL became about some cool kids deciding what will be the ship or the take of the week/month, and soon you'd see NOTHING but this thing posted. Always through the exact same lense, too. Only to then be forgotten, because it was just a trend. Rom x Caryll comes to mind as a FAD of similar vibe. Micolaurence too.

I just hate this. The fandom stopped LIVING. I saw genuinely absurd things happen! Like someone drawing Mariadeline, one of the most popular ships in the fandom, yet they get completely ignored because they've failed to grab a beer at the bar with "leaders" of this ship who "hold" the distribution of that approval and love. Even worse; over a year ago, a very talented, fun, energetic and creative fan of Mensis Trio and Byrgenwerth squad showed up! They were SPAMMING art and writing, and all of that was good! So good that..... all of that barely got over 20 notes, maybe 30. Why? Because, again, you can't just post about blorbos and expect to be liked and approached. You have to get on the "good side" of "holders" of love for characters like Micolash, Laurence and Rom, or else they'll just side-eye you! But imagine this with literally everything else. I have been watching it happen all the time, to people that were not even targets for cult-like shunning by Alfred, Eugene or Anna for associating with me. You keep to yourself, you are shy, you are not on Discord with them, your headcanons are a bit different? Too bad, you may rot, because it is not about you! People look up to a few popular artists with shallow takes and so much creative liberties they might as well make OCs to know whether this or that person should be liked and reblogged, instead of JUST liking and reblogging them!

THIS is why Bloodborne fandom is Caelid. Not for toxicity, but because it is rotten. It used to be far less "organized" when I joined in. There were no trends to define fandomry for next few weeks decided on a party where ignored creators were not invited to. There was not hegemony of certain ships, designs and headcanons. There was no "web of mutuals" and pressure to either assert yourself by the good side or vanish. Everyone were doing their things and coexisting, nobody could determine who flourishes and who rots, diversity of headcanons and interpretations were celebrated. Oh, what's a matter? You really dislike that popular artist who infantilizes Marika and stripes her out of any agency over her actions? Well, so do like 500000 other people! Every popular take is ALSO popular to hate on in Elden Ring fandom! But if you dislike a popular take in Bloodborne then sucks to be you, because diversity of interpretations, opinions, preferences and takes just doesn't exist in it. Not anymore. Unless you "asserted" your novel idea to the "court" on some stupid Discord server and was "approved", of course.

Look. Elden Ring discourse annoys me to no end. I always get my headcanons and interpretations "corrected" in the worst condescending fashion. My friend posted a very well made lore post and got harped on because his take contradicted someone's idol's headcanons (with that idol approving of that harping) and I am still mad. I don't want to post my GEQ takes to be reminded that "aktualy" she is Melina. I dislike seeing claims of Miquella's nonexistent character assassination or Radahn hated just because some sexist Redditors were using him as a mascot. Nonetheless, deep down, I am THANKFUL. Because even really annoying debates end up being entertaining. Because people here TALK about things, REVISIT things, ARGUE about things, CARE about things, HAVE OPINIONS on things. They will annoy you in the comments or reblogs, but they SPEAK to you. No take is so popular that it defines all art and fanfics because every popular take is also popular to hate on. Things are disorganized. No fandom leaders, no elite club ignored blog wasn't invited to, no "web of mutuals" that should get sucked into a vacuum cleaner and never be seen again. Elden Ring fandom is a battlefield, but also free market minus the money.

To be honest, Bloodborne fandom was done for me when based people started to vanish. Fishbowlcarnage deactivated everywhere, Cuddlefish mysteriously disappeared and I worry whether they are even alive to this day, user Molluscock got bullied away... It felt like a bad omen, it happened before my drama, and I've never seen users like this before. Except I have been, but they all are now ignored because of this stupid high school dynamic taking over. Had Elden Ring hyperfixation not happened, I'd probably just end up blocking many Bloodborne accounts and never care for trying to make connections again, just post art and vanish to draw the next one. I did end up blocking some Bloodborne mutuals, after all. After it hit me, what was bothering me so much. Appreciate Elden Ring fandom and it's earthquakes, because shaking earth can't be bigger evil than stagnation. Bloodborne fandom no longer breathes, they are champions of not feeding the sparkles that were meant to become fire hoping they die down, and I hate every looser that benefits from that "system". In Elden Ring, ALL things flourish, whether graceful or malign.

[yallemagne]

Every time I see someone say that Remy was a terrible man whore in TAS and so he has no right to feel hurt when Rogue nearly leaves him in '97 I'm like... when? With whom?

Like?? There was that one time that he almost got married, but he was under duress. Not only was Bella Donna threatening to kill his brother, she put some control ring on him. That's an abusive situation! The only other case I think you could argue (and you would be wrong to) is that one time? On Asteroid M? When Rogue came in to save Gambit and said "of course you'd be running with another woman!" because... he was literally running down a hall with Amelia because they had teamed up to take down Cortez. Nothing romantic there. Rogue was teasing.

Am I just stupid? Am I just bad at reading flirtation? Because, other than Rogue, he doesn't flirt much with other women. I mean... he and Logan have some homoerotic back-and-forths. Is that it? Is Wolverine the Other Woman?

Okay, I just remembered: he did flirt once with a shopkeeper in the first episode, so I suppose he has had more explicitly flirtatious interactions, and I just didn't note them because they never had plot relevance, but is that any different from Rogue playfully flirting with other men? 'Cuz she does! She flirts a lot, but it's not meant to be taken seriously. Rogue just has a flirtatious personality, as does Remy.

I think a few instances of flirting with other people from a couple who both have flirtatious personalities is NOT on the same level as Rogue considering leaving Remy to be Magneto's queen. I understand why she considered it! I fully understand the motivation behind it! I hold no grudge against her! ...I did cheer when she ultimately decided not to.

Some playful flirting that's not meant to go anywhere isn't the same as straight-up leaving. Which Rogue has done once before! In Love In Vain, the Brood uses her childhood sweetheart to lure her in. She wanted to run away with Cody in that episode! Her reason? She tells Remy when he's trying to take her on a date to cheer her up that even a swamp rat deserves a girl he can kiss.

I'm not saying Rogue nearly leaving twice makes her a bad person. She's had a shitty past, and it's easier to fall in with people from that past than to let herself be happy with a new man who is open and honest (and kinda obnoxious) about how head-over-heels he is for her. The vilification of Rogue by some people in the fandom is really nauseating and clearly motivated by misogyny, but the response to it being "actually Gambit is a terrible two-timing whore, so good riddance" is no better. You're acting the damn same.

And like the same people who think Gambit is a terrible partner to Rogue also say "oh, Rogue and Gambit were NEVER together, so Rogue wasn't "cheating" with Magneto" at varying degrees like pointing out they were never Official (true) to claiming Rogue never reciprocated Gambit's feelings (blatantly false)... then how are you saying Gambit is a cheater?

I just think about this because something that has been a breath of fresh air for me about this ship that they haven't had a lot of infidelity scares? It would be such easy drama to have Remy flirt with someone else and Rogue beat the shit out of him for it, but that never happened in TAS or '97. So, I don't understand why people insist that is their dynamic.

If anyone tries to cite comic instances - leave. That obviously does not apply here, do not be purposely obtuse.