#defensive and i was like ‘those are their names!!’

[jobean12-blog]

Defenseless in Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: You've been friends with Sam for a while and you've trained with him here and there but never really got to the point where you feel you could properly defend yourself and when you ask him to teach you self-defense his new job as Captain America makes him a little less available so he directs you to his friend Bucky.

Author's Note: I always loved the thought of Bucky teaching us to be badass and even though he's lethal he's gentle and patient and wonderful! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of fluff and flirty things and tension and a minor (totally fine) injury, soft Bucky

 “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Sam raises a brow, setting his hands on his hips.

Bucky remains quiet with a shake of his head.

“She doesn’t want to take a class. Says it makes her uncomfortable and she would rather train one on one with someone she trusts.”

“Then you do it,” Bucky sighs.

“I can’t.”

Bucky pins Sam with an incredulous glare.

“I’m kinda busy at the moment,” Sam explains with a lopsided smirk. “You know…Captain America and all.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he mindlessly stirs the spoon in his coffee.

“How do you know I won’t make her uncomfortable?”

The words are quietly spoken, and Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on the dark liquid in front of him.

“Buck,” Sam says softly. “I told her I was going to ask you to do it and that I trust you completely.”

Bucky looks up to meet Sam’s eyes.

“She was fine with it. She said, ‘if you trust him then I do too.’”

He’s tall, with tousled dark hair and a strong jaw covered with dark stubble. He stands and waits, his arms crossed over his torso in a way that makes the muscles in his chest and forearms shift deliciously. And his eyes…his eyes are a shade of blue that rivals the ocean. They’re gorgeous-like the rest of him.

Taking a deep breath, you remove yourself from the hidden shadows just outside the gym door and grab the handle.

His head snaps in your direction, his gaze turning fully on you and making your heart skip a beat.

He says your name; his voice is low and gravelly, and it skates down your spine with a tingle. You nod and say hello.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand out there.”

You suck in a breath and your lips remain parted.

“First lesson,” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, “always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Right,” you manage to say as you step inside and let the door shut.

An hour later, after stretching and taking the time to talk through any jitters you’re standing in front of Bucky in your best defensive stance.

“That’s really the best you’ve got?” he says, his tone neither mocking or malicious.

“I’m more dangerous than you think,” you bluster.

The corners of his mouth rise into a challenging smirk.

You hate how beautiful he is. It’s a distraction and if you really want to learn you’re going to have to steel yourself against it.

He wiggles his fingers in your direction, and you pause.

“Shouldn’t you be attacking me first?” you ask. “Isn’t that why I need to learn to defend myself…you know self-defense.”

“I just want to see what I’m working with here,” he replies, keeping those perfect lips titled upward.

You let out a long exhale and rush toward him, barely able to register what happens before you’re wrapped in his arms, your back pressed tightly to his chest. You struggle in his grip, moving against him to try and loosen his hold.

He goes still and you swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he let’s you go.

You spin and face him again, breathing heavily and not from exertion. This time he moves toward you, and holy shit he’s fast. You try to swipe his feet out from under him in a move that he artfully dodges and captures your arm. The earth spins and you brace for the impact of your back smacking the mat but instead all you feel is the strength of his arms behind you as he holds you up and slowly lets you sink down. He leans down so his face is only inches from yours, “you’re strong,” he whispers, “but you’re gonna need more finesse.”

You huff in response, but he releases you and stands, offering you a hand. “We’re not done yet. We’ve barely gotten started.”

He tugs you to your feet, then twists your arm behind your back and yanks you against his hard chest, pinning your joined hands before you even catch your balance.

“Shit,” you snap, trying to steady your breathing.

He releases your hand and steps back and you whirl, going for a punch to his throat. He knocks your hand aside easily.

“Good,” he says with a smile, deflecting your next blow without even breaking a sweat. “Going for the throat is always a good option as long as it’s exposed.”

You kick out again, mostly from frustration, and he captures your leg, this time, holding it for a second before dropping it to the mat with a frown. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.”

Your frustration turns to fury, and you glare at him, noting the way he stands there with loose arms, rocking back on his heels.

“You’re not even trying,” you grit out.

His lips curve into a smile and this time you don’t think, you just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees. He goes down hard, and you pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is- they still need to breathe.

Instead of going for your arms, he twists, grabbing a hold of the backs of your thighs so you lose your leverage and your bodies careen into a roll. Of course, he lands on top.

His forearm rests against your throat and his hips have you pinned; your legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between your thighs. Your body becomes so acutely aware of him that he’s all you can feel. Your breath catches and your body warms.

“Where did you learn that move?” he asks with an approving smile.

Your chin lifts. “Sam taught me a few things here and there.”

“If your opponent is bigger you need to stop going for moves that will expose you,” he explains, keeping you pressed to the mat with his weight. “A rib shot would work just fine.” He gently pulls your hand free and drags your fingertips down his side. Then he guides your hands around his back. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle too.”

You swallow hard, refusing to let your mind wander to other things that are a good fit in this position.

He leads your hands to his waist and you’re sure you feel the muscles of his abdominals tense under your touch. “There’s weakness here too. Three easy places to strike.”

You stare at him, your fingers still pressed against his shirt and feeling the hardness beneath.

“You hear me doll?”

You nod.

“This looks promising,” Sam says with a mischievous tone.

You’re suddenly reminded of your surroundings and the realization of your current entanglement with Bucky makes your skin heat.

“Sam!” you say as you try and get out from under Bucky.

Bucky presses up from the mat a few inches and then slides your hand away from his side, slowly, inch by inch.

“That’s it?” you ask, surprised at the disappointment you feel.

“I hate to break it up, but I need Bucky,” Sam says.

Bucky pushes up all the way, removing his weight from your body and offering you another hand. You don’t take it this time and rise from the mat with ease. His approving smile makes you feel warm all the way down to your toes.

Sam’s smile is wide and knowing but you ignore it, focusing on Bucky.

“I’ll be right there Wilson,” Bucky says, the short dismissal enough to get Sam to give you two privacy.

“You did well,” Bucky says, filling the space in front of you.

Your head drops and you scoff, kicking at some invisible object on the mat. Warm, strong fingers press gently under your chin and raise your face until your eyes lock with ocean blue.

“You did,” he says again.

“Thanks,” you whisper, mourning the loss of his fingers when he drops his hand.

“I’ll be more organized next time…if you want to do this again.”

“I do,” you answer quickly. “I want to feel safe. And strong.”

Bucky nods. “You will doll.”

The next week you’re back at the gym, feeling more confident and even more comfortable. After your first session you and Bucky exchanged phone numbers, the text messages flowing easily between you the past few days. This time you open the door without hesitation and find Bucky leaning against the far wall, cutting the pieces off a plum with a knife. His eyes lift and lock with yours just as he opens his mouth to pop a bite in.

Your entire body tingles.

He didn’t lie when he said he’d be more prepared and organized for this session. He works you through some stretches and a warmup and then takes you through several take downs step by step, each one building on the next. You’re moving faster and even getting a few hits in here and there. The confidence fuels you and coupled with some adrenaline you really push yourself, pressing Bucky to work you harder.

He does but when you try something new, something he wasn’t anticipating, you end up ramming your ribs into his metal forearm. It’s completely by accident but knocks the wind out of you nonetheless and you fall to your knees to catch your breath.

“Shit doll,” Bucky says, falling down next to you and grabbing your shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

You wheeze out an “I’m ok,” and when you look up to reassure him, the lines of worry etched into his features make it even harder to breathe.

“Let me see,” he says, the panic in his eyes softening your own before he looks down at your side.

“I’m fine,” you say.

His focus snaps back to your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It hurts,” you admit after a stuttered inhale.

“Let me see,” he says again.

“Is that a request or a demand?” you ask, trying to sound teasing.

“You pick as long as I can check to see how bad it is.”

You swallow, then nod, reaching for the hem of your shirt. He stops you with a soft hand and then with surprising gentleness his fingers skim your bare skin as he slowly lifts your shirt. You suppress a shiver, locking your muscles so you don’t melt against him.

“Sorry if my hands are cold,” he says, clearing his throat as more of your skin is exposed.

Your eyes meet and warmth flutters in your stomach. He drops his eyes and inspects your side, gentle fingers stroking your ribs before they prod carefully.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a bruise doll. I really am sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong and thanks for checking.”

He drags your shirt back down, letting his knuckles graze you skin in the process. He waits for you to stand, watching you closely and letting out a relieved exhale when he notices your breathing is more even.

Your eyes widen when he drops to his knees in front of you. “Your shoe is untied.”

“Oh.”

Your hands twitch at your sides, his long, soft strands of hair at the perfect level for you to run your fingers through.

“Thank you.”

He gives you a real smile, not a cocky smirk or a teasing tilt to his lips. A real, honest, heart-stopping smile that you’re anything but immune to.

“It’s the least I could do after…that.”

“Not your fault Bucky,” you assure him again. “It happened by complete accident.”

Bucky texts you at least forty-seven times over the next week, constantly checking in and asking about your ribs. But you’re still surprised when the day before you’re next session he calls, asking if you want to meet for breakfast beforehand.

“This place has the best coffee. And muffins. And scones,” he says as he holds the door open for you.

You laugh and walk through, instantly soothed by the smell of coffee beans and baked goods. “And you know this because you’ve tried them all of course.”

“Of course,” he says while rubbing his stomach.

Your eyes track the movement and you’re positive you can see ridges of muscles beneath his shirt. It takes all your concentration to tear your gaze away and focus on the menu. After ordering your drinks and two of everything baked you head for your seats.

You try it all and let Bucky eat the rest, marveling at how he packs it away and doesn’t even seem fazed.

“I wish I could eat like that and look like you.”

The comment comes out before you can stop it, and your eyes widen slightly when they meet his narrowed ones.

“You look perfect,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eat whatever you want. You’re gonna need the energy today.”

He gives you one of his signature teasing smirks and you stand. “Bring it on Barnes!”

The walk to the gym is short but the weather is warm, and you can feel a light sheen of sweat coating the back of your neck. The hot coffee you’re drinking doesn’t help either but it’s too good to not finish.

He holds the door open for you and then walks in, sipping his coffee as he goes. You bend over to retrieve something from your bag, and he takes a misstep, his focus on your ass instead of where he’s going.

With a tumble forward his coffee follows suit, his momentum forcing the liquid out of the cup and onto his shirt. He catches himself before he looks like a complete fool, but the damage is done. His shirt is soaked through on the front with the last of his coffee.

“AH shit,” he sighs, pulling the wet material from his stomach.

“What happened?” you ask, your brows furrowed as you turn toward him. “Did you trip?”

“Um…yeah, something like that,” he says. “I have to change.”

He reaches behind his back and starts to lift his shirt, slowly revealing tanned skin that’s all sharp lines and barely restrained power. You’ve seen shirtless men before. Many times. But never Bucky Barnes. You’d start counting his ab muscles if the rest of him wasn’t just as good to look at. Your mouth waters when he turns around and you see the muscled expanse of his back. Even the gold and gray metal plates of his arm move beautifully as he searches for a new shirt.

“Sam usually keeps some stuff stashed in here,” Bucky says.

You think you heard what he said but you’re shamelessly wondering how his skin would feel under your fingertips, how your body would react to having every ounce of him on top of you, over you…in…”

The slam of the small storage door draws your attention downward, and you shake your head to snap out of it.

“Ready?” he asks, a new shirt securely in place.

You walk to the mat and wait.

“Are you sure you’re not still in any pain…?”

“Bucky,” you sigh. “I’m really ok. I have been for days. I appreciate your concern but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be able to work through pain sometimes. I don’t think anyone who attacks me will care if I’m injured…”

“You’re right,” he says, pride shining in his eyes. “Let’s go…but first…”

You watch with rapt admiration as he pulls several hidden knives free, his smile growing when he takes the last one out from his boot.

“I want you to learn how to use a weapon. You can carry it with you…just in case.”

He hands you the blade and you hold it in your open palm, noticing the weight of it and how the handle seems just right.

“Wow,” is all you can think to say.

“I had it made for you,” he explains. “Most blades are made for men…you know, big hands, long fingers.”

As if to drive his point home he splays his hand in front of you, showing off just how big and long they can be.

“Right,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to say…thank you Bucky.”

He smiles again. ���Now let me teach you how to use it.”

Before you can prepare or react he has you on your back, his weight settled between your thighs. It takes all your willpower not to reach up and brush the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You didn’t even give me a heads up,” you whisper, leaning up slightly and letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He jerks up, and the heat in his gaze makes you all too aware of everywhere your bodies are touching.

“You know…” he says, his eyes glittering, “distraction is a great way to do some damage.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Are you distracted?” you murmur.

Before he can answer you use a move he taught you and roll him on to his back.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you sing song.

His eyes meet yours under the fluorescent lights of the gym before dropping to your lips. His metal arm slides up your back, but not in a way to remove you, it’s slow and purposeful for a completely different reason. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your clothing, your skin unbearably hot.

When you shudder in his arms his smile is like a caress and his free hand moves to your cheek, brushing across your skin.

“You have incredibly soft skin,” he murmurs. “I’ve been aching to feel it again since I checked your ribs.”

The admission makes you suck in a breath, and he studies you with an intensity that makes you sway closer. His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones and his heated gaze moves to your mouth. Hands flexing, he draws you forward a few inches before he stops.

“I…” he starts, groaning when your tongue traces your lower lip.

“Bucky.” His name comes out like a whispered plea and it’s all he needs to close the distance. He was just out of reach and now his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent. He cradles the back of your head, trapping you against him as he lays on the mat and you feel every hard line of his body. You clutch the material of his shirt at his chest, parting your lips when he angles your head for a deeper kiss.

“Fuck baby,” he moans, and the sound makes you ravenous. Your hands lift to his hair and it’s just as soft as imagined, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

His hips tilt upward, and you gasp at the friction but it’s not enough and in a move that rivals all the others you’ve seen him do he flips you onto your back, the impact so soft you gasp into his mouth. You surrender completely, going pliant beneath him as he claims every line and curve of your mouth with a reckless edge that makes your body sing. He breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth across your jaw, your neck, whispering words of praise as he explores every inch of your skin his lips can find.

The sound of the gym door startles you enough to pull away, but your eyes never leave Bucky’s and when you hear Sam’s voice you let out a giggle.

“You look like you’re…defending yourself well,” Sam says from above you.

“Your timing sucks,” Bucky sighs. “And she could have totally handed me my ass right now if she wanted to.” He smiles down at you with a wink.

Sam pulls Bucky away once again but before he leaves he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth then one to your lips, lingering until Sam starts shouting from the doorway. Later that night you get a text from Bucky-‘I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.’

You read the words over and over again as your body continuously reminds you exactly what it feels like to have his mouth on yours. Your stomach flutters and you actually press a flattened palm against it, hoping to calm the eruption of butterflies.

After washing up and throwing on some pjs you’re just about to spend the rest of your night watching something streaming on Netflix when you hear a knock at your apartment door. You check the time. It’s late and you’re not expecting anyone…maybe it’s your neighbor?

Standing on your tippy toes you check the peep hole and barely stifle your gasp of surprise.

“I’m glad you checked to see who it was first,” Bucky says when you swing the door open. “That’s part of smart self-defense.”

You stare at his face, then the flowers in his hand, then back at his face.

“Is it too late? Were you asleep?”

His eyes fill with worry but before you let him fret too long you grab his free hand and drag him into your apartment, slamming the door shut and pushing him against it. Without a word you kiss him, softly at first, just a brush of your lips, but he instantly takes over, resting the flowers on the small table by the door and taking you in his arms, spinning you and caging you with your back to the door.

“You always get the upper hand,” you smile against his lips.

“Better get used to it,” he teases, resting his metal hand next to your head as he leans back in, letting his eyes do a warm sweep of your body from head to toe.

“You look magnificent,” he murmurs.

“I’m in my pajamas.” Your reply comes out breathless.

His fingers drops to your shoulder, tracing the soft curve before ghosting down your arm and sliding to where the hem of your tank sits just above your shorts.

“Magnificent,” he repeats, slipping one finger under the material to touch your skin. “And So. Fucking. Soft.”  

“Bucky,” you whisper.

“I know doll,” he says, “but I need to take my time…I want to get my hands and mouth on every inch of you.”

[razorblade180]

Let’s talk about this for a moment. This formation is devious and I feel bad for the monsters. Keep in mind, Jean got her vision after handling an invasion. Just thought that should be said.

The monsters coming in from the side entrance have to get past Eula, and if they manage to do that they run into Lisa “The Purple Witch” Minci and her wolf god trained student. IF those creatures survive they have two choices:

They run towards the world’s strongest maid that’s trying to make a name for herself, or towards who I’m assuming is Sucrose; who is right next to the alchemy table to make whatever she has to.

The monsters coming in from the bridge are facing the man who can throw a phoenix and his brother with the perfect move to not only protect his brother, but make him stronger. All of that while two archer can snipe from both sides of the wall, but call out incoming enemies.

A hillichurl that survives then faces two more arches that are positioned where they work daily. One is a small feline huntsman around balconies while the other is a pro adventurer that can fly or send out her familiar to cover her blind spots.

Now let’s say various types of churls break that line of defense. I would not be shocked if the two question marks together end up being the traveler if Klee. You know she’s not sitting this out but needs a guardian. If it isn’t us then maybe Dhalia. Then there’s the lone question mark. I am so confident it’s Bennett. Just him, the monster, and the bad luck they have to deal with. Nobody else around to get hurt and he’s no pushover.

Now the lucky monsters that made it through all that defense are getting funneled up towards the god on his religious sniper’s nest who’s probably been firing assist shots to every group in front of him. The closer they get, the more likely to escape his eyesight and run towards Jean “Overachiever” Gunnhilder and Mona “i foretold your arrival” Megistus running devious defense with healing!

THEN the final obstacle is the woman of the church that makes it her job to go out every night and kill said monsters while the hydro deaconess is keeping that cryo assassin healthy along with any other knight.

Varka didn’t bat an eye taking half the troops on an expedition because invading Mondstadt with citizens like them around is an awful idea. Noelle is chilling by herself and it makes sense! She’s not the one who needs help!

[kayywaiii]

Helping Hand ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

{deaf!bakugou x fem!reader} ♪‧₊˚

summary : you manage to get bakugou to attend the UA spring festival, but not without coming to new discoveries about his hearing

word count : 3.2k

warnings : HEAVY cursing (its bakugou lol) slight angst, sunshine x grumpy lowkey (reader is sunshine) calm bakugou agenda, lowkey ooc, fell first AND harder, honestly just like a drabble bc theres like no solid resolution, fluff

authors notes ! struggled with this specific one for NO GOOD REASONN (other than the fact that I unfortunately have finals) lowkey isnt really finished but I wanted to get something out so i hope u enjoy !!

Bakugou Katsuki hated asking for help.

His life completely operated on self-preservation, opting for earlier bedtimes and training times in order to avoid those loud-mouthed extras who constantly nagged him for support. 

“Do you need help with that?”

“Is that too heavy, can I get the other side?”

“Do you want to tutor with me?”

Their morale– though he knew they meant well– only pushed him to work harder on his own, shedding away from their kind smiles and cleverly disguised words. He felt their questions weigh down on him, not keen on the sense of pity they implied. Did he seem like he needed their fuckin’ help? Bakugou Katsuki didn’t make it to the top with help. He did it on his own and there wasn't a thing he couldn’t figure out by himself. 

Except for you.

He couldn’t put his finger on you… on the way his chest throbs when you’re near. The way you give him a big smile even when he calls you names or pushes you too hard during class combat training. The way you seem to lull him into contentment with just a touch to his shoulder or hand, or perhaps it's when you share your lunch when he forgets his in the heap of chaos between classes and hero work. It’s like the bright, beaming light of sun rays making its way into his gaze and his only line of defense is his hand raised high over his face. And it’s when he catches himself thinking about you while brushing his teeth that he realizes he is well and truly fucked. He thought about the domesticality of it all, like when you’d sleep over at his and wake up cursing because you were late for your first class. When he watched in the bathroom mirror, wishing he could see you like that every morning. 

Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t in denial, he understood that he was in love with you, he hadn’t doubted that. Still he both hated and loved the feeling. The searching for you in crowds or the classroom or doing your notes for you when you were sick. He loved to see your face but hated to be the one to seek it out. Did loving you make him weaker? Weren’t you just another distraction in the climb to the top? Another trivial matter that’d pass with time, if only he didn’t poke the fire?

He hadn’t known what to do, especially when it felt like his heart was about to explode when you were near. But this was nothing compared to what he deals with on a day to day. If he could handle being a hero in training, he could handle this one by himself too. 

When the Spring festival came around he couldn’t help but say yes. He’d known you’d be there and that was reason enough for him. Even though his friends endlessly teased him, trying to coerce him into something that sat too tight in the neck and gut. Instead he wore his black tee, skull print front and center on the chest, the one he liked– despite Mina’s disapproving pout. 

The festival itself was filled with streamers and balloons and crazy lights of blue, green and pink flashing in his peripheral. Food vendors lined the outside walkways of UA and sakura petals laid scattered across the brick floor. Crowds of hundreds of people littered the street shopping and gaming and listening to student performances. Night fell over the campus while he searched for you, still hot from the hoots of romantic encouragement from his friends. Loud noises of cheers and song drifted throughout as he cut through the crowds and Bakugou grunted in discomfort. How did he let you talk him into this shit?

Thud! 

There you were, in this sea of people, bumping straight into him and knocking the wind straight out of his chest. You must’ve been walking pretty quickly because the impact almost knocks you straight to the ground. Bakugou’s large, scarred hands go to your shoulders to balance you, his grip tight and he took in how pretty you looked in that dress. And fuck, did you look beautiful. More than he’d ever thought, causing him to clear his throat and look away from you, lest he say something he’d regret later. You who stared right into his eyes, hoping he’d look in yours. He was damned. How the hell did he let you talk him into this shit?

It’d been hard– and in the middle of an intense training session– but you’d managed to convince Bakugou to show up to the UA annual Spring Festival. You weren’t sure you heard him correctly at first, his head turned away from you and a quiet mumble left his lips. 

“Fine.” He’d grumbled under his breath and you’d perked up at the sound. 

Hm?” You furrowed your brows in confusion, unsure if the words you’d thought left his mouth actually left him. 

“I said I’ll go, damnit.” He spat, before he swept you off your feet with a quick kick and onto the bright blue mat below. You’d persuaded him to actually leave his dorm room for once under the pretense of a school festival, but what you really wanted to do was see the fireworks with him. The perfect explosions intertwined with colors of varying hue fascinated you, the mixture bursting against the milky black sky reminding you of your friendship. And so, you were determined to look your absolute best for the occasion, clad in a dress borrowed from Ochaco and covering an already blushing face in even more blush. But despite all this, you insisted you did not have a thing for Katsuki Bakugou. Even when Mina and Kamanari made a bet to see who’d make a move first, you firmly explained your non-feelings for the blonde. 

Yes, you liked training with him, he was a good challenge. And yes, you enjoyed hanging out with him outside of school, he was okay company. And sometimes… maybe your face heated up when he’d ruffle your hair or prod between your eyebrows. But you asserted it didn't– doesn’t– mean anything, only that you’d gone particularly hard in a spar, or that it was kind of hot that day. You absolutely, positively did not like Katsuki Bakugou.

“Watch where you’re going, bastard.” He muttered, half-heartedly. “Could’ve knocked you down.” You grinned, a breeze of light content going through your body as you watched him. His eyes spoke of amusement and his usual scowl replaced itself with a playful smile. Even someone as not-in-love-with-Katsuki-Bakugou as you could admit how pretty he looked bathed under the pink and green spring lights, his ash blonde hair a natural mural of colors.

“Knocked me down? You wish.” You tease, smoothing down your skirt. His eyes trained on you, your words only making his smile wider.

“Oh, I wish, huh? How about practice last week, you smug asshole?” He prods between your eyebrows, a short laugh coming from him. You grin at his laughter, the ability to make him do anything but sneer a foreign concept for all but a few.

“I was distracted and it will never happen again.” You retort, your hands perched on your hips in stubborn challenge.

“Sure it won’t.” He grunted. Bakugou hesitated before drawing in a breath and slipping his hands from your shoulders down to your waist, feeling the embroidered details at the midriff. “Is– this…dress new?” He stumbled through his words, feeling a rising heat in his neck and jaw.

“It’s Ochaco’s,” You reply, pulling up at the skirt and looking over it, a soft smile on your face. “Does it look okay on me?” Your voice tightens and lowers, as you pick at the skin around your nails.

“Hm?” He scowled, clearly frustrated with something. “Do I look okay in it?” You spoke a little louder, clearer– bringing yourself higher and trying to match his height.

“You look perfect.” He suddenly rushes through his words, eyes widening like he’d let his own thoughts get the better of him. “I just mean– it just seems like a spring kind of dress.” He remarked, referring to the yellow and pink flower details running along the waist and chest of the frock.

You all but snorted at his demeanor, your lips softening and sliding your fingers to touch his black band tee. “You can just compliment me, Kats. It’s not a crime.” A mocking smile crosses your face and a resolute frown on the blonde’s.

“Tch. You– look okay, alright?” He spoke, a clear red coating his nose and cheeks. You’d thought it might be a trick of the light. There was no way he was blushing, least of all because of you. But was there? Was there a possibility he’d been thinking of you just as much as you had him?

Pops of color suddenly graced the sky, exploding into bits of dust and debris. You softly gasped and turned from him to watch them for a moment, the street now relatively empty from on-lookers moving to the hill. It was perfect, the mixture of yellow and pink explosions off from afar the most beautiful thing, the most perfect symbol. It’s only when you hear a wince behind you that you whip your head back in concern, Bakugou’s hands leaving your waist and shooting up to his ears where he held them firmly. He let out a grunt of discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut. 

You only stared at him for a simple moment before grabbing his hand and leading him away from the clamor. You cut through the trickle of people snacking at vendors and winning games, onto the lawn of the school and up the brick pathway leading up to the main entrance. You cursed, messing with your keycard before finally pushing open the large wooden door.

He let you lead without complaint, focused on blocking out the noise above and keeping his eyes trained on you. 

He needed your help.

It was the first time he’d admit it, squeezing your hand in solidarity as you climbed the stairs of the UA dorm rooms. His ears rang, the now muffled fireworks a lost memory as he watched you– so determined to help him that he’d just let it happen, surrendering any dying protest deep in his chest. He desperately wanted your assistance, wanted to share your lunch when he forgot his or have you patch him up after a rough fight. He wanted you to hug him when he was tired, talk to him about your day while he cooked for the both of you. He wanted you, more than he ever thought imaginable. And he couldn’t bring himself to be angry about that, though he was curious. 

You turned to him in the hallway of your dorms, taking his other hand and bringing him a soft, sympathetic smile. If it was anyone else he’d probably yell at them for their pity, talk himself up arrogantly, throw an explosion their way. But it was you, you who never pitied him over anything. And you knew he was strong anyway, so what was it? It wasn't unbridled sympathy you felt, so why did you stick your neck out for him each time? 

“The fireworks right?” You spoke slowly, gesturing a firework popping in your hand. Bakugou nodded, giving you a tight lipped smile, or at least what he knew how to give. “Yeah,” He croaked, red eyes searching yours in desperation. “That’s it.” Your face softened into a guilty frown, your gaze avoiding his. “I’m sorry, Kats.” You grimaced, playing with your fingertips. “I wanted us to see the fireworks–”

“Don’t make this about you, bastard.” He muttered, crossing his arms. “It’s— Jesus, it’s fine, you didn’t know.”

A soft silence fell over you both, save for the muffled pops of fireworks outside the window adjacent to you. It left him in his quandary, unsure how to act alone with you. Did he touch you? Would you want that? Would that be weird? For someone who always seemed so angry and in the mood to yell, he stayed so quiet today, sullen almost. “Are you okay?” You asked, keeping your words clear as you spoke.

“I’m fine. You don’t have–to ask every five seconds.” His words cut through the air, though they were soft, almost a mutter. “I mean– I just want to make sure you’re alright. Why didn’t you tell anyone your ears have been hurting?” You murmured, resting a hand on his crossed arms. 

You watched his jaw tick with tension, dragging his eyes away from your face as another silence rested against the walls of the hallway. Against the pictures from freshman year and the lists of to-dos you knew most of your roommates never got to. “I know you don’t need or want my help but– I just can’t bring myself not to.” You explained. “So– let me help you for my sake.”

Bakugou lets out a breath of air and cards a hand through his hair, face warming in subtle red. 

His gaze finally flicks to yours again and he can’t seem to regret the decision more.

“You’re just so— so fuckin’ sweet, you know that?” He scowled, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. “So peachy, I just can’t seem to keep up anymore.” Your eyes widened, surprise and clear confusion crossed your face as you dropped your fingers from his forearm. “Peachy?” A smile graces your lips and he scoffs. “You know what I damn mean, asshole.” His sneer deepens, bringing a hand to brush a stray hair away from your face. He pauses for a moment, his soft sigh fanning against your cheeks.

“I don’t know how to reciprocate it– and I damn sure don’t want to owe you anything.” The blonde furrowed his brows, concentrated on your hair and absolutely nothing else. You blink and let out a loud laugh, throwing your head back in raw amusement. His face morphs into one of discomfort, swallowing in embarrassment. Your breath finally manages to catch itself as you wipe tears from your pink face. “You don’t owe me anything, Kats. I help you because I want to– because it just feels right. ” You’re practically hopping on the tips of your toes, the emptiness of the hallway surrounding you making you bolder and the noises of cheers and pops lowering your inhibitions. “And not just ‘cause I'm a hero in training, okay? Because I really care about you.”

You give him an earnest smile and his breath catches in his throat when he realizes he can’t hide it anymore. He can’t hide his love for you, he can’t hide how much he wants to tug you in and kiss you breathless. Show you how strong he really is when he’s sweeping you off your feet. 

“Y/N?” He mutters, slipping his hand under the nape of your neck gingerly. 

“Mhm?” You hum, looking up at him through your lashes and nodding enthusiastically.

“I’m in love with you.”

A shock runs through your heart, breath now lost from your lungs. It thumps even louder now and it seemed like you could feel the beat in the floorboards. 

“Oh.” You manage to squeak, choking through most of it and your face warming. It was just the spring heat, you told yourself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and fuck it’s probably all wrong, but– there it is… all out on the table and… I just want you to help me.”

A long silence comes as you figure out how to even begin to respond to that. “I– I want to help you, Kats– honest, I do… but I don’t know how… in this situation.” You swallow. He watches you, face ruddy in exasperation or affection. It feels like your heart has never beat faster and yet you felt a tug in your chest, a yearning you’ve never understood. You’d felt it when you’d hang out or spar, your mind never quite letting him leave your thoughts. And you realized, face warming: You did have a crush on Katsuki Bakugou. A sense so strong that it felt unjustified to call it something so menial as a crush.

“How about dinner?” He manages, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. A silence crosses through the room as you bring yourself to. Your face feels like it’s on fire when you’re looking at him, like a bright explosion glittering your world. He looks so nervous, yet so resolute like he was trying to hide his regret of telling you this way. Your silence seems to make him sweat, eyes widening in barely concealed panic. “It’s no, isn’t it? It’s fine– it’s no, fuck–”

“No, no– I mean…yes–! I want to go to dinner with you, Katsuki.” You rushed, playing with your nails and nodding. “I’d love to go to dinner with you.” You clarify, clearing your throat. “If… that’s okay.” 

“...Okay.” He grins to himself, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets. 

“Okay.” You parrot, giving him a soft smile and brushing out your skirt.

[thewalrusespublicist]

Paul and Linda Interview from Hellllllll

@slenderfire-blog as the patron saint of good sources sent me this interview and I thought I would write it up as it gives a worrying insight into the famed idyllic marriage and Paul’s mental state at the time.

Reader, it was not idyllic and he was not doing well.

Disclaimer: For context, this interview is in his Broadstreet era aka the grief/midlife crisis/I cant have a meltdown if I’m making a film period. I fully believe that Paul was having an extended emotional crisis/breakdown post John's death/successive unresolved and badly handled traumas. (As I was saying to @slenderfire-blog, let's just say if he feels like crying every damn day about John in 2021, imagine how it was in 1985.) So yeah Paul is having a time and I look forward to McCartney Vol 3. for potential confirmation and illumination on this.

At the same time JESUS FUCK PAUL THIS IS TERRIBLE.

Like so bad, bad to the point I now feel like contemporaneous Peter Cox account is 1000% more credible as this is essentially the PR version of what he said. So let's get into the greatest hits:

The happy, definitely-not-in-trouble couple

They do seem to adore each others company, be locked in with each other and Paul does rely on her a lot for support and approval:

As they talk, Paul constantly squeezes Linda’s arm reassuringly, strokes her hand or looks to her for approval or agreement whenever he makes a point. The two are inclined to talk at once or to finish each other’s sentences. At times, the link is so tight, they seem almost like different aspects of one person.

Though at the same time they both describe the relationship as 'rather volatile' and full of arguments where they go and sulk in different rooms. They lightly play it off but then Linda says a bit too seriously that shes usually the one who gives in first :/.

Paul built the house they live in and are sort of obsessed with cosplaying living the 'peasant' lifestyle with no help save one housekeeper Rose who is from Paul's bachelor days and the occasional babysitter (as far as I'm aware this is true).

The marrying thing in 68 was so intense he even asked lil HEATHER to marry him what the hellllll (of course he wasn't serious but it does feel like another way of indirectly pressuring Linda to commit). He also kept asking Linda until she gave in.

Random swipe in the baby name department at Zowie Bowie, lmao not friends with the Bowies then (good thing Duncan Jones happens to agree).

They romanticise the bickering and volatility as being like passionate young lovers

“My parents were married for 25 years and they were like young lovers,” says Linda. “Paul’s parents were the same. If you’re lucky, you get that in life. You see, those are the kinds of things that matter to me—not the diamond necklace.”

Paul:

Paul is clearly not okay and seems to be regressing by trying to recapture his childhood through his current situation. Throughout the interview Paul keeps going back to his parents marriage and his childhood as the ideal frame of reference. This is pretty standard but Paul takes it to the extreme of this meaning no friends, family only and the wife do all of the labour.

This (save the misogyny) is a far cry from his 60s revolutionary kick but I can see how this happened in the wake of the Beatles split, the trauma and complex grief from John's death and the press. In response and defense to the criticism and hurt, Paul seems to have retreated wholly within himself and his family sphere and is coercing Linda into fulfilling the role of the wife within that. Take for example, his portrayal of the housework and why Linda should like to do it:

“Linda really doesn’t like housework,” Paul explains, “because when she grew up, her family had maids and she wasn’t taught to do anything. But it’s something I’ve tried to tell Linda about because in the kind of family I’m from, housework is considered a pleasure—the smell of ironing and the laundry. Where I’m from, once a week, the women would sort of get the laundry out and smell the washing and feel it and see it and iron it all, and they’d be chatting or listening to the radio. It was like a peasant thing. It was an event, like treading on the grapes.

It's bonkers and infuriating and at first I was like I DONT KNOW PAUL IF YOU WANT THE PLEASURE OF SMELLING DETERGENT SO BAD YOU CAN DO THE BLOODY LAUNDRY. But then you realise how Paul connects it with comfort, especially with comfort after a bereavement:

“Growing up in Liverpool, that was always there for me. Even after my mum died, my aunties came around religiously every week and cooked and cleaned the house and did the laundry and provided that kind of atmosphere for us.”

It's romanticising the poverty he grew up in but also signifies to me how much it's a coping mechanism. He wants Linda to do the laundry and have that idealised maternal domestic atmosphere as in his head if you have that then you can carry on even in the face of cataclysmic loss.

Denny Lane's comments about Linda being like a mother to Paul feel really pertinent here. Reading all this has kind of reinforced to me this idea I've had for a while that Linda's maternal attributes was one of the foundational pillars of Paul's attraction to her and an essential part of their marriage. In another interview I'll post another time, he says they never went on holiday without the kids, with them taking tiny Heather on their honeymoon. It wasn't just tours, the kids really did go everywhere with them when they could and they made sure the children's bedrooms were just next door to theirs so they could be there all the time. It's great, wonderful parenting but also with the genesis of their relationship it's really hard not to see Linda and the promised family as the replacement to fill the hole from the Beatles. Not saying that he didn't go on to adore them and them be the pinnacle joy of his life but yh ... once you see it it's hard not to unsee. (Also the thing I've always been too scared to say/wild speculation again I don't know these people ... but I think they would have always had these problems until Paul actually reckoned with his mothers death/other traumas.)

Thinking about it all as well, it must be so hard to essentially cosplay the culture and background you grew up in with wealth and class separating you from everything you used to intimately know

Aggressive optimist Paul telling a very different story here (is he more honest here, more depressed, or maybe somewhere in the middle?)

“I’ve got all these contingency plans. I tend to look at the worst side of things. I’ll say, ‘If they turn us down, we’re going to do this.’ If anything hurts me, I want to fight it—so it doesn’t hurt me again.”

Nothing to add just ... ouch.

Reinforcement of John refusing to let Paul hold Sean because Paul 'didn't know him' ... which yh that is some bullshit its a baby. Paul goes onto mention how John wasn't great with babies as he had no experience whilst he had and somehow makes it borderline a competition lmao.

HALFWAY THROUGH I REALISED THIS WAS THE INFAMOUS PLAYGIRL 'JOHN SAID JEALOUS GUY WAS ABOUT ME' INTERVIEW. I NEVER REALISED LINDA WAS THERE.

Not him essentially saying 'in hindsight maybe Linda needed a lot of lessons' for Wings and admitting he just wanted her there. They both seem to accept it as something that wasn't fair to expect of Linda with no training.

He does this embarrassed little giggle like 'oh I may be a chauvinist YES YES YOU ARE SORT YOURSELF OUT.

Linda ohh my GOD Linda girl

She has rings around her eyes from exhaustion

Gets up at 7am to do the breakfast every morning despite going to bed late

Said she didn’t want to get married again initially as she had been controlled by men all her life until then

Says her kids are her best friends and that she never had a friend until she moved to Arizona later on (this is interesting to me that both Paul and Linda both saw themselves as 'loners' in childhood even though interviews from people in Paul's childhood repeat that he was popular. Maybe this was a narrative in their marriage or maybe Paul always felt internally lonely).

Qualifier here: I also don't think the best friend thing is true, there are a few people that pop up over the years who say they were very close to Linda and one did a lovely interview with Paul post Linda's death. I think the whole 'family is all you need schtick was part cope and part PR.

From apparent tradition Paul says that he doesen't tell her how much he's worth and their money situation as 'his dad didn't tell his mum' (even though his mum was integral to financially supporting the family may I remind you Paul). Linda girl listen I can make you happy I can give you a good life and treat you to nice things come with me Linda-

Theres one point where Linda PANICS because Paul mentions the supposed socialist uprising potentially taking all their money because HE WON'T TELL HER WHAT THE FINANCIALS LOOK LIKE. THIS FUCKER (also socialists Paul you're a northern liberal get a grip you class traitor)

They both romanticise living frugally with Linda not buying any nice fancy things ... its hard not to remember Peter Cox's account of Linda asking to borrow money when reading this :(((((

Linda's idea of a luxury holiday is not having to cook and clean and she can have fun :( Paul then interjects with 'yh that's great for a bit but not all the time as isn't it nice to have the family all in the kitchen!!' I'm sure Linda would agree if you actually helped Paul.

In summation: he needs help and a slap, she deserves a statue but would probably prefer a sit-down. Thank god there’s a lot to suggest that Paul has improved massively when it comes to his view on women and labour (wouldn’t have married a working businesswoman if they hadn’t) but this is still a difficult window into how things were in the 80s and the life that campaigners like Yoko were fighting against.

[liobi]

More word sketches for @thedeerus 's Time is Running AU(t), now featuring 100% more family reunion cookouts with the world's most wanted parents.

Title; vague reflections

[DISTANT PAST]

“Your powers are such bullshit.” Ifrit said after watching Akivili stick their hand directly into a campfire to retrieve a fumbled toy before it could be completely taken by the flames. They handed it back to a little girl with purple hair and braids who thanked them quietly, pretending that it was the doll speaking instead. “You can travel instantly to anywhere you’ve been before, you aren’t hurt by anything there that doesn’t explicitly mean you harm, and you can speak whatever languages you need to? And you can share it with those who are traveling with you??”

“Ifrit, can you not swear in front of our kids?” Nanook looked up from the camping ground’s grill to glare at the man. 

Your brother spoke up. “It's okay, we already know bullshit!”

“And a lot more worse ones! But Akivili doesn't want us to say anything about those because then Nanook might start thinking it's even more of a bad idea to travel with them than it already is.” You chimed in.

Your “cousins” Caterina and Akash started laughing as Akivili tried to look anywhere but Nanook now that their glare was falling on Akivili instead of Ifrit. 

“I have a compulsion to travel with people, you know this, I can't help it.” Akivili tried to defend themself from the glare. “And obviously who I can travel with is limited, especially since my Nameless are doing their best to blend in. So when I travel with the kids to help desperate people in very bad situations, sometimes these people have some… creative language choices.”

“And I remember them all! In all of their languages even after Aki stops letting us understand them.” You bragged shamelessly. With an almost artful grace at deepening resentment between parents you forged onwards. “My favorites are Лох, sohai, and cazzo!”

“Stelle, baby, Aki is very proud of your ability to remember all the different languages you hear but Nanook is very mad at me right now and you aren’t helping.” Akivili said, their words starting to get lost under Ifrit’s laughter. “Ifrit I swear to god…”

The man made entirely of fire and a skull stopped laughing. “Actually, I am going to be going by Duke Inferno from now on. I'm more of a public figure these days and need a title with a bit more gravitas.”

“Uncle Ifrit?” Your brother walked by having at some point picked up Dubra, the girl with the doll, like she was a stray cat he had found. 

In his defense, the look Dubra was giving you was identical to every stray cat he ever picked up. A bit of annoyance, a teaspoon of terror, and an entire boatload of confusion. Help me, she seemed to say with her eyes. 

As always when your brother did something stupid, you instead chose to enjoy the show. “Duke is usually a dog’s name, do you want to be a dog?”

Duke Inferno, the man who had just been accused of wanting to be a dog, was taken aback. Before he could refute the absurd claim, his son piped up. “Shut up, Caelus! So what if our dad wants to be a dog?” Akash made a show of crossing his arms in front of his chest with a “harumph!”

“Yeah!” Caterina chimed in. “Dogs are awesome!”

“Dogs always do their best to make sure that no one takes their puppies away.” Dubra said, looking so pathetic that you were at last compelled to come and pry her out of Caelus’s absentminded grasp.

Constance, the wisest among you all at twelve years old, a whole two years older than you, hid her laughter behind her hand. You wondered if she did anything special to be as pretty as she was. “Don’t worry Father, we would still love you even if you were a dog.”

“Duke Inferno, if you are wanting to change your appearance there are a great many offerings available for purchase in this day and age.” a cheery feminine voice chirped from behind you. 

You turned to see a foxian woman standing there, arms full of a variety of meats and veggies all perfectly suited to be grilled. It was Miss Tingyun! “Lan sends their regards but is unable to attend personally. They did however make sure to send me along with plenty of late New Year’s money.”

Indeed, under the mountain of meat and veggies were several red envelopes which you knew were stuffed with a frankly alarming amount of money to give a child. You hadn’t even spent all of last year’s money yet. 

After Akivili thanked Tingyun and took the food supplies, she went around handing out the envelopes to each of the excited children, several going unclaimed for the children that had not yet made it or were not able to attend the Aeon’s banquet for one reason or another.

When Miss Tingyun finally stopped in front of you, you saw someone else. “Phantylia?” 

The foxian woman’s mannerisms shifted. Her voice fell deeper and seemed to come from around her instead of from her mouth. Her eyes gained a sinister quality. “Now that’s a surprise, I thought I was perfect. What gave me away?”

“You were perfect, but your time doesn’t match. Yours is older and heavier than Miss Tingyun’s.” 

Phantylia clicked her tongue as she handed you your envelope. “Well, there’s no helping that one I suppose.”

“Does Lan know, or is their choice of sending you a coincidence?” Akivili asked, returning having finished unloading the meat and veggies.

“They don’t know, but them sending me wasn’t by chance.” Phantylia put the rest of the envelopes in Tingyun’s bag to await the arrival of more eligible children. “I’ve been making sure to impress upon them the importance of presenting a united front to Oversight, so when anything like this comes up I’m the first one they generally think of. Yaoshi just happened to have recently made some awful creature at the bottom of the ocean and felt compelled to tell Lan about it. Can any of you convince them to Stop Doing That?”

“If keeping our compulsions in check were that simple, I wouldn’t have handed out as many stellarons as I have, and Akivili probably wouldn’t have fixed the internet as fast as they did.” Nanook said, finally coming over to join the group. They gave Duke Inferno a look and he went and made himself useful over by the grill. 

“It seems like the compulsions are reduced in the second wave similarly to the reductions in overall power level, but we don’t know how much children of first wave parents will fare.” Nanook looked at you with a complicated expression.

“We don’t even know if the twins are first wave or not.” Akivili stroked your hair and you leaned into their leg. You realized at some point Caelus had come and pulled Dubra out of your grasp without your notice, because he was now running around chasing her older siblings carrying the absolutely miserable looking girl the whole time.

“Because they were conceived before you two awakened, but born after.” Phantylia said simply. 

“They have some neuroses, sure, but we don’t know if that’s because they’re our kids or if they’re part of the first wave.”

“If I sit on a rock that’s really really old I get a headache and then pass out.” You supplied helpfully. “And Caelus ran into a lady when we were walking down the street and started crying because she was gonna get hit by a car and die the next week.”

The conversation continued on, talking about waves and compulsions, and something about calamity math but at that point you were bored and ran off to play with the other kids. In these dreams you wonder if your memories are really that vague, or if someone is keeping something from you. 

You have a very good memory, after all.

.

.

.

.

[RECENT PAST]

“Your powers are such bullshit.” Silver Wolf grumbled from her nest of computers in her garage. Firefly and Blade were in the driveway trying to get Silver Wolf’s old motorhome running as it was old enough that even her powers didn’t work on it. 

“You’ve got no records in any database whatsoever, and then bang, you and your brother show up when you’re sixteen, they make a guess that you’ve got some fairly strong sixth wave powers, you can make temporary doppelgangers and your brother can do short range teleportation, and leave it at that.”

Both Stelles nodded, feeding each other chips. 

“But now you’re telling me that you’ve been scamming the IPC’s intelligence network the entire time and your power is actually controlling time?”

“Exactly.” They said in unison.

“I’ve met bricks smarter than you, how did you keep this a secret?!”

“Kafka, time?” the present Stelle asked.

“One hundred and six seconds.”

“I’d love to stay and finish this conversation but I’ve got to go so I can keep up the funniest running gag in the history of humankind.” Past Stelle said, trading seats with her future. “Ciao!”

If anyone else in the room could feel the flow and pressure of time, their ears would have popped as one of the Stelles vanished from existence. Silver Wolf was getting a migraine for an entirely different reason. “You’re breaking every law of physics for the stupidest gag I’ve ever seen.”

“Well I’m glad I didn’t hear that before I leapt through time, it would have killed my motivation to do the bit!” 

“You can also…” Silver Wolf checked the sloppily written post-it note Stelle had handed her. “Walk away from getting hit by a car free of injury, as well as move both completely silently and invisibly… Because of time manipulation…”

“Oh, I forgot to write that I can also heal-” Stelle stopped talking when she saw the look Silver Wolf was giving her. “I mean… yes, exactly, that’s the extent of all my powers and I’m not just saying that so I can come back and give you more information when you don’t look like you’re in literal pain.”

Silver Wolf chose to ignore that. “Listening to you talk about your powers is like listening to someone who controls water but claims they primarily blow things up in a giant ball of fire because water is actually flammable.”

“But… that is how you should fight if you control water, right? Just heat it up a little and rip it apart and you've got a really nasty explosion.” Stelle was confused why something that seemed so obvious to her was unthinkable to Silver Wolf.

“Who has been teaching you about powers, Nanook??” 

“Who’s Nanook?”

“Who's… Kafka, is she being serious?” Silver Wolf turned her incredulous gaze back to Stelle. “Ruin’s author, the supreme executioner, ruler of the Lords Ravager, the cursed wish granter, is any of this sounding familiar to you? They made the Stellarons, the things this group is dedicated to hunting down?”

“Ah, right, this.” Kafka sighed.

“Oh! I know all about the Stellarons, they first appeared roughly 70 years ago, they can actually grant wishes but in a subversive cursed way, and Oversight had exclusive rights to use them and did so frequently until the Belabog disaster which froze an entire continent and caused a world wide food shortage.” 

Stelle took a deep breath before she continued. “It's theorized that they grant wishes by distorting and reversing causality without completely breaking it via the calamity offset equation. A lesser known fact is that it's possible to almost entirely remove unexpected negative side effects by narrowing specific aspects of the wish in scope and explicitly including some drawbacks in the wish itself.”

Silver Wolf stared in shock. “I'm pretty sure half of that was information that nobody knows or is so secret it's kept on physical documents in a Faraday cage.” She was absolutely getting a migraine. “I've never heard of some of that stuff and I'm the best hacker in the world. Kafka, what the fuck?”

Kafka gave Stelle an affectionate scratch on the head. “Our Stelle here is an unexpected treasure trove of information you can't find anywhere else, and no, I don't know where she gets it from. The only thing is, she can't remember anything about Nanook for longer than ten minutes, and her childhood is a complete mystery.”

“Those are some really weird limitations.” 

“I've been trying to find a workaround, but it seems like the only way past it is if she's with her brother, and he’s missing sometime in the future.”

“Can you two stop talking about me like I'm not sitting right between you?” Stelle looked back and forth feeling like an abandoned dog. “It's really mean.” 

“She's my big mystery box,” Kafka smiled then returned to her gentle scratches for Stelle. Stelle pouted for a bit before she finally gave in and leaned into Kafka’s hand. “Elio says as long as we stick to his scripts, Stelle here will eventually come face to face with Nanook and find all that she's lost.”

“That's the other thing. I know I joined a week ago, but I still haven't come to terms with the fact that our boss is a talking cat.”

.

.

.

.

[PRESENT DAY, PRESENT TIME]

“Your powers are such bullshit.” March 7th said unprompted one day. 

Stelle wasn't sure where this came from, she was doing her mandated community service hours and wasn't even slacking off. She'd already collected three full bags of trash. They were at some memorial park or other. This one had a monument to remember all the victims that had died to a dragon attack that had apparently appeared there out of nowhere.  “Any particular reason you've decided to attack me?”

“Watching you pick up trash reminded me of your second escape.” March shuddered at the memory. “They made me watch the security footage, you know. It was traumatizing.”

“Oh yeah!” Stelle laughed at the memory. “That was a good one. It really hurt though, and it was messier than I thought it was gonna be.”

“You cut off your hand to get out of the bracelet!” 

“I put it back on!” Stelle was a little offended that a little dismemberment was all it took to traumatize a correctional facility staff member. Then again, this was the ‘talk to people before you have to put them down’ facility, not the ‘lobotomize them immediately’ one. “There wasn't even any mess left! Besides, you can bring ice sculptures to life and make them talk, yours feel like they're pretty bullshit too.”

“Whatever. You're done with your hours, let's just go.” March said, taking in the sights with a deep stretch. No obvious massive pieces of trash were left so there wasn't a need to extend their stay, but Stelle’s eyes were locked onto the memorial across the park. March looked over and then back to Stelle in confusion. There was nothing there. “You okay?

Blade was there. A different Blade. He was there, halfway disemboweled, and he was dying but March didn't see it. Stelle watched her old friend slowly push his intestines back into his body before some unseen healing force not entirely his own began to knit him back together. “I think my eyes are tired.” The phantom Blade looked like he was having a conversation with an unseen partner. “I might actually be getting sick.”

“Well, don't sneeze on me. My ‘bullshit’ powers don't include healing”

The ride back to the correctional facility was silent. Sure, Stelle had started seeing and hearing things that weren't there lately, flashes of a blond man around Welt, the mirage of an older, colder looking version of Dan Heng around Dan Heng, a flower of crystal ice surrounding March, and the images of a shorter person with two braids so thick they could be mistaken for exaggerated rabbit ears occasionally around Himeko. 

But this was the first time she'd seen someone she'd known. She didn't know what it meant, she’d barely even begun to process it when they arrived back at the facility. There were far more people in the entrance corridor than Stelle was used to, and she jumped with a start when March slapped her palm to her forehead. “That's right, we were getting a new resident today.”

Stelle saw the name “Dan Shu” on intake paperwork as March maneuvered them both through who must have been the escort team. People in lounge suits and tang suits filled the corridor, each of them in three different phone calls and yelling at each other at the same time. The poor blue haired receptionist boy looked like he was at his wit’s end.

“Exscuse us, pardon- coming through please!” At first March holding onto Stelle’s arm served as a reminder of how little trust she currently had as she was brought into the lobby. Now though, Stelle had become the lone pillar of support that kept March from being bowled over and trampled on by a bunch of irate middle managers.

There was a tiny clack sound from a folding fan snapping shut. At once, every single suit in the lobby went still and silent. A wordless order had been given and no one had dared ignore it. 

“Thank you.” A cheery, feminine voice said, ringing clear as a bell in the now silent lobby. The sea of suits parted, finally giving March room to regain her footing, as a brunette foxian woman in a qipao approached them. 

“I'm terribly sorry for the commotion. You must be Miss March and Miss Stelle. My name is Tingyun, it's a pleasure to meet both of you!”

Stelle wasn't looking at the woman. She was looking at the ghostly echoes of herself and Caelus clinging to the woman who stared back at her. They couldn't have been older than nine or ten. Little Caelus opened his mouth.

“****** can we go to the food fair with *********? *** said we had to ask you before they would answer.” 

With every word her little, little brother said, Stelle’s vision swam. Her mouth felt hot and wet, her nose was bleeding she realized. March was saying something, Tingyun too, but she couldn't hear or understand them. Little Stelle opened her mouth, her eyes were more vibrant somehow. Like the cancer that twisted and freed the world from its order and flaws.

“Please, ******? Caelus and I won't let go of each other's hands the whooooole time. If we did, I wouldn't be any better than a fucking moron who let her brother get eaten by the future. Then she let her new family die so badly they didn't even find any bodies. Now she’s all alone and too scared to let anyone else get close. She'd be better off dead.”

“I think I should take a nap.” Stelle said as she dropped like a sack of potatoes.

[swappedandtrapped]

Swapping Research - Part 2

Read part 1 here

The first shower was the worst. Marcus stood frozen in Tyler's bathroom, avoiding the mirror, peeling off unfamiliar workout clothes from an unfamiliar sweaty body. The smell, a mix of cheap deodorant and Tyler's sweat, was inescapable. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he stepped under the water, trying to ignore the strange dimensions of his new form. Longer legs, broader shoulders, muscles that shifted differently beneath the skin.

Impossible not to touch, though. Impossible not to feel. Every movement reminded him he was piloting someone else's flesh. Soaping Tyler's body almost felt like touching someone else with all that thick hair and unfamiliar mass.

After, he studied Tyler's face in the mirror (the slight chip in the front tooth, the stubble that grew…). He tried a smile and flinched at how wrong it looked, how the expressions didn't match the musculature.

He wanted to believe that from looking behind Tyler's eyes you could still tell it was Marcus in the pilot seat. But those eye resembled nothing other than Tyler's Brown eyes.

His phone, Tyler's phone, buzzed with notifications. Basketball practice in an hour. A text from someone named Jas with just a winky face. Three missed calls from "Dad."

"Shit," Marcus muttered, the curse sounding natural in Tyler's voice. His own parents emailed weekly for updates. Tyler's father seemed to be calling multiple times daily.

The phone rang again. Dad.

"Hey," Marcus answered cautiously.

"You watch the Gonzaga vid I sent? Their defense has that weak spot on the baseline when they double-team. You need to exploit that tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah. I saw that."

"Don't 'uh yeah' me. This is your future, Tyler. Those scouts won't come back if you play like you did last time."

Marcus held the phone away from his ear, understanding blooming about Tyler's desperate academic measures.

"I'll work on it," Marcus said.

A heavy sigh. "Just don't throw away everything we've built."

---

In Organic Chemistry, Marcus was caught off-guard when he saw Tyler sitting at his desk. Realizing what he needs to do, he sat at Tyler's assigned desk, hyperaware of how differently people treated this body. Girls smiled, guys nodded in recognition. The professor barely glanced at him. The invisibility Marcus had as a serious student was replaced by a strange social spotlight that felt simultaneously flattering and exhausting.

The professor started the exam. Marcus began working through complex molecular mechanisms with ease. Tyler's hand felt clumsy gripping the pencil, but the knowledge remained intact, for now. He finished early and noticed people glancing at him with surprise.

Outside after the test, a teammate clapped him on the shoulder. "Yo, Reeves, we're grabbing lunch before practice. You coming?"

The old Marcus would have declined, retreated to the library. But something in Tyler's body responded differently. A pull toward social connection, a need for movement and interaction rather than quiet study.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "I'll come."

---

Later on, Tyler sat in Marcus's Advanced Physiology class, experiencing an entirely different reality. For the first time in his life, the professor's words didn't scramble in his mind. He took notes, each letter staying exactly where he placed it on the page. He raised his hand to answer questions, the information flowing effortlessly.

The professor stopped him after class. "Excellent contributions today, Marcus. That connection was insightful."

Tyler felt a rush of pleasure he never knew he could have. "Thank you, sir."

In the library afterward, Tyler opened Marcus's planner and studied the color-coded schedule. Med school interview prep sessions. Study blocks. A family video call on Sunday. He ran his fingers over the neat handwriting, experiencing the peculiar sensation of being organized from the outside in, rather than constantly fighting his own brain.

He took out his phone, Marcus's phone, and called Alex.

"Any adverse effects?" she answered without greeting.

"It's incredible," Tyler whispered. "I can read anything. First try. No reversals, no swimming words. Alex, I never knew it could be like this."

"The transfer is temporary," she reminded him. "Don't get too attached."

Tyler touched the textbook in front of him, the words remaining stable on the page. "Yeah," he said. "Temporary."

He hung up and noticed Marcus had scheduled a meeting with his academic advisor for tomorrow. Tyler had his own advisor meeting—one that would determine his academic probation status.

After a moment's hesitation, he rescheduled both to a later date.

---

Basketball practice was a nightmare. Marcus had played casually in high school, but navigating a collegiate practice in Tyler's body was like being thrown into a professional orchestration with no knowledge of the music.

"Reeves! Where's your head today?" Coach Barrett shouted when Marcus missed an obvious pass. "Run it again!"

The team's offensive sequence required multiple cuts and screens that Marcus couldn't anticipate. Tyler's body knew where to go. He could feel the muscle memory trying to take over. But his conscious mind couldn't surrender control.

Most disturbing was the pain in Tyler's right knee, a persistent ache that worsened with each cut and jump. In the locker room afterward, Marcus discovered a carefully hidden brace and prescription anti-inflammatories in Tyler's bag.

Tyler had never mentioned any injury.

---

Three days had passed. Marcus paced Tyler's apartment, anxiety building. The 24-hour deadline had come and gone with Tyler making excuses: Alex needed more data, one more day would help their understanding, the neural pathways needed to stabilize.

Worse than the delay was how Marcus's sense of self had begun to blur. He'd catch himself speaking with Tyler's inflections, laughing at jokes he normally wouldn't understand, craving foods Tyler's body was accustomed to. Last night he'd dreamed in Tyler's memories—fractured images of a childhood basketball court and a father shouting at him.

His phone buzzed. A text from Alex: Meet at lab at 7.

When Marcus arrived, Tyler was already there, wearing Marcus's body like he'd been born to it. The sight still caused a visceral wrongness, watching his body move with someone else's mannerisms.

"You missed another check-in," Marcus said. "And you canceled my medical school interview prep session."

"Rescheduled," Tyler corrected, sitting with a straight-backed posture Marcus recognized as his own. "This was more important. Alex is seeing unprecedented neural adaptation. Our minds are actually reshaping our borrowed brains."

"That's not comforting," Marcus snapped. "We had an agreement. Twenty-four hours."

"I needed more time," Tyler said quietly. "You don't understand what this is like for me."

"And my interview? It's in four days."

"I'll handle it."

"You'll—" Marcus stared. "No. Absolutely not. We're switching back. Now."

Tyler exchanged a look with Alex. Something passed between them that sent a chill through Marcus.

"What did you do?" Marcus demanded.

Tyler sighed. "I asked Alex to modify the procedure."

"Modify how?"

"The reversal process is more complex than anticipated," Alex interjected, not meeting his eyes. "The neural pathways have begun permanent adaptation."

"Permanent?" Panic surged through Marcus, his heart—Tyler's heart—hammering. "That wasn't the deal. You promised twenty-four hours!"

"I was drowning," Tyler said, Marcus's voice cracking with emotion. "Every day. Words jumbling, professors thinking I'm stupid or lazy. Do you know what it's like to have the answers trapped in your head while everyone looks at you like you're worthless?"

"So you're stealing my life? My future?"

"I'm borrowing it," Tyler insisted. "Just until after the semester. Then we'll figure something out."

Marcus looked between them, realization dawning. "You never intended to switch back, did you?"

The silence was his answer.

[mswyrr]

In a literary sense, I consider killing Lenore Dove Baird basically the final moral line crossed in Coriolanus' corruption arc. It connects to several important things. First, Collins has him sincerely liking and caring about little Maude Ivory, Lenore Dove's mother, when they were both kids. She has him find out about Maude Ivory's mental health issues due to Lucy Gray's Games and then lovingly give her a gift of sweets to "get some happy in her head" (tbosas 422). Using the Covey phrase and participating in what the older kids/adults of the Covey are trying to do to help Maude Ivory. It's not a coincidence that he kills Lenore Dove with poison sweets. What was once love has turned to poison, a gift that was affirming of life has become death because the giver has so changed in the decades of terrible choices that have passed.

Second, family used to mean everything to him as a child. Both the name and love for the people. In SOTR, he kills the last Baird -- Lucy Gray's niece, Maude Ivory's daughter, and the name itself -- and destroys the family he might have joined. We know from the main series that it's after SOTR that he and Tigris have their full split from each other too. He becomes someone who cannot be family to the person who loved him most and who he once loved deeply.

The granddaughter in the films somewhat complicates this -- but in the books there's a reading that he makes himself incapable of that kind of sincere familial love. There's no wife or kids mentioned in STOR, even if they exist. We only hear about his "work wife"/twisted mother figure and partner for 15 years minimum in creating more and more sadistic Games, Gaul (stor, 190). And Collins writes him as someone with *no heir*. No futurity -- Gaul was able to create an heir for herself by turning a teen into a "mutt," a Frankenstein's monster, but he's not even able to do that by the end. He's symbolically non-generative, infertile (obligatory Fisher King reference here). That's huge for someone who was so driven by family and legacy.

Third, there's the visual symbolism. Those damn angelic curls! He's in his late 50s and he still has them, albeit in a highly fake and controlled way. "His head dips slightly and a lacquered silvery blond curl falls onto his forehead" (sotr, 86). He's sort of the rotten image of the boy he once was -- the boy who gave Maude Ivory those sweets sincerely. By the time we see him again in the main series, he's defined visually by being snakelike.

Last but not least - the forest is a teenager having a breakdown. It's not something he couldn't have turned away from, on to a better path. That is an opinion that fire cannot burn from me. But Lenore Dove is an adult killing the niece of the girl he loved. Destroying what remains of her *family.* Her blood. It's like killing Lucy Gray again - for real and certain this time. No breakdown, no mystery and hallucinations. No delusions of it being self defense. With intent and premeditated. (And kudos to the casting of Lenore Dove - Whitney Peak looks so much like Rachel Zegler!). Putting his foot to the floor and gunning it over that final line in his corruption arc.

And then just to zoom out a bit to my pov on all of this -- I think, in the subtle magic realism going on, Haymitch literally laying Louella's death at his feet was a kind of prophetic moment. A call to see what all of this really is. Which he responds to by taking his poison of choice (actual poison) to silence his mind, the way Haymitch would use alcohol to silence his mind. I feel like opportunities to see what he was doing came like that, again and again. Which is why he repeated the (otherwise stupid) cycle of poisoning himself to kill others again and again.

As a vision of what corruption and evil actually ARE, I love it. It's so hopeful! So many moments to see what you're doing, so many chances to stop.

And I do think keeping his word to not lie to Katniss--and specifically telling her the truth about Coin--is -- not a moment of turning away (I think the last chance at that passes in SOTR but you could argue otherwise), but another example of how hopeful this story can be about people. One tiny shred of the boy who cared so much about honor was left and something good could be made of that by Katniss' choice. Lucy Gray was right and Gaul was wrong. There is "a natural goodness built into human beings" and we do all, on some level, sense when "you’ve stepped across the line into evil" (tbosas 496). And going against it is a lifetime of hard work, choice after choice after choice after choice, burying the person you might have been and the better world you could have been part of alive. And a hell of a lot of other people too.

It's a lie that some people are just "born evil" because their brains aren't neurotypical. It's, in particular, a lie fascists have used to justify the mass murder of mentally ill people. So - you'll forgive me for throwing that shit out in the trash where it belongs! That's not what Collins is saying.

And it's a lie that good people are just effortlessly good. It's a lie that's incredibly dangerous--especially as the cost of following our own inner goodness becomes higher and higher: that's what tyrants and fascists *do*--because it leaves people ill equipped to deal with going through impossible, painful things, being broken and damaged and tainted and still choosing good. It makes the stakes unclear.

It would have been better, by far, to die of exposure in the wilderness at 18 holding Lucy Gray's hand than to return to Gaul and become what Coriolanus became. It would have been an appalling thing, an obscene tragedy, for two children to die like that just because they loved each other and didn't want to participate in evil. And it's understandable why teen Coriolanus has a breakdown, unable to face the very real possibility of it. But it would have been better. Because the other option was a living death, with everything that was once alive inside rotting and turned to poison.

[fleeting-infatuation]

hanging out with the karasuno crows!!

karasuno crew hcs—established friendship w/ them all

basically hcs with reader and just really anything that comes to mind with them. there’s not a lot because im too fucking stupid to make those up. oh, and yeah, I haven’t finished haikyuu so some of my analyses might be shallow cause I haven’t watched it all. sorry!

❥・・ ┈┈┈┈┈‪༚༅༚˳ . ୨୧ . ˳༚༅༚┈┈┈┈ ・・❥

ೀ kageyama is suga’s favorite underclassmen. i mean, he likes them all, but he honestly sees himself in tobio. he just shows that by bugging him whenever he’s bored.

ೀ you, tsuki, and yamaguchi all bully the others. but please, can we be real for a second? yamaguchi is not a fucking softie or whatever cringey uwu boy you make him out to be. yall saw him laughing and doing nothing when tsuki was being the cunt ass bitch he is. he’s like the biggest idgafer, imo.

ೀ you three also desperately make fun of nishinoya for being short. yamaguchi is actually surprisingly tall. tsukishima be the type of person to tell noya he was short cause his parents had a quickie.

ೀ daichi is the only one who actually knows how to drive. i know they prolly don’t need it, seeing as they live in the countryside and everything is in like walking distance, but i just think he’d know how. curb his biggest opp tho.

ೀthey all did a hear me out cake. asahi was put on it at least four times, understandably. you guys can guess who put him on there. both tanaka and nishinoya put ennoshita too.

ೀ ukai and takeda have hooked up when they got drunk once. they fucked in bar’s bathroom. that’s the headcanon.

ೀ suga is shit at remembering names. i don’t know if it’s actually canon, cause the messages near the outros suga said he called asahi ‘ashley’ for the first six months knowing him because he couldn’t remember his name. I just think that would apply to him trying to remember everyone else’s names. well, during his first year at karasuno. it got better as time went on.

ೀ i also wanted to mention how similar ennoshita and tsuki are. we both see them washing their face after matches, the shiratorizawa for tsuki and wakuwan for ennoshita. they both think they aren’t good enough, that they’re inferior. and while tsukishima strived for perfection in his blocking, ennoshita was a substitute for daichi, but in the end, couldn’t compensate for what was lost, even if they won the match. both the shiratorizawa and wakuwan matches were won, but tsukishima failed to meet his words fully and ennoshita never met up to daichi’s level, never met up to a true substitute that had the teams back. ennoshita looks up to nishinoya and daichi after the wakuwan match because they were the backbone of their defense. those matches were turning points for them.

ೀ please more representation of my favorite benchwarmer trio—baldy 2.0, daichi but masochistic (ennoshita, i remember that panel), and another one of the blonde boyz. yall sleep on them so much it pmo.

ೀ narita was the first guy to shave his head. i always thought he had some luscious, long hair straight from a pantene commercial before he turned into mr.clean. tanaka was the next one to. the both of them have a pact to shave their heads the same day every year. they also tried to act as each other as a prank. yeah,, it did not work cause they were shit at acting.

ೀ also, another narita hc that nobody talks about. he was put in the same place during the shiratorizawa match that ennoshita was in for the wakuwan match. and yet, in the anime, there’s no sense that narita has been put under both mental and physical pressure. he isn’t tsukishima in the slightest. he can’t readblock, he can’t stop spikes completely, he can’t replace presence that tsukishima had on the team, both shiratorizawa and karasuno, the wall that was always there. the very least we get on this is when narita is subbed back out for tsukishima and the few words that were with ukai. instead of focusing on something similar to ennoshita’s feelings, they used that pressure and applied to the team. of course, that was true. but that just undermined narita’s character. he was most literally a chip to recognize what the others were going through. there was so much potential in building up narita’s character, even if he’s just background filler. there could’ve been a connection between him and ennoshita with just a few words spoken between them. there could’ve been a real spark that made their silly little interactions in the back worth so much more. because they were both given shoes that were too big that they had to fill out, but were overshadowed by the big return of daichi and tsukishima back on the court.

ೀ kinoshita knows how to play guitar. whenever he’s bored or zoning out, he finds himself in the habit of pretending to place his fingers on the strings of like an imaginary guitar to practice notes. it’s like the equivalent of someone tapping their fingers on the table to imagine themself pressing the keys of a piano. does that make sense or do I sound insane? if you’ve watched alien stage, it’s the thing that till does in the flashbacks prolly during weige or his ep.

ೀ tsukishima has some hearing loss. he’s has his headphones literally stuck to his head, and i know damn well that music is fucking blasting, resounding in his eardrums. the world could end, and his only reaction would be lifting up his headphones and saying ‘what?’ with a blank fucking face.

ೀ hinata is almost as a nervous wreck as yachi and asahi. on the court, he doesn’t get that embarrassed. it leaves as fast it comes. but off it? he has those moments engraved in his mind. whenever he remembers then, all he can do is yell ‘FUCK’ very loudly in sheer mortification at the thought.

ೀ asahi likes bitter coffee. i always assumed he wasn’t a morning person, and he downs a cup of coffee without anything, no creamer, not milk, just straight to wake himself up. it was an acquired taste for him until he found out was tea was.

ೀ noya and tanaka crush up smarties and snorts them. from my own experience, i actually saw one of my friends eat smarties then somehow breathe out the dust like it was smoke. that type of shit would happen to them ngl.

ೀ actually canon, but ukai literally gets flirted with all the time?? well, kinda. but we’re not gonna ignore that the first ep of s4 was literally that the ilumni giving donations to the vbc were actively trying to set ukai up w/ somebody. like hellurrr? they’re so reall for that tho. i would try to get a piece of him too.

ೀ art is yachi’s love language. she first fell in love with it when she saw her mom write a little doodle on a note meant for her coworker. she was pretty young, and she did know her mother was a graphic designer. but she didn’t know why. it was what mom did, so she would do the same. seeing that though, made her realize how much there was to convey—dedication, passion, love. it’s not that she’s can’t put out her emotions, she’s gotten so used to put it on paper. anyway, i ship yachi’s mom with her coworker. i thought he was yachi’s dad at first before i read the wiki…

❥・・ ┈┈┈┈┈‪༚༅༚˳ . ୨୧ . ˳༚༅༚┈┈┈┈ ・・❥

i didn’t proofread it so,, here’s it will be a ten can of ass that is indecipherable. i know i missed a few characters but im not busting my poosaay tryna write more. uhhh, lemme know if yall want actual hcs with reader.

bye. ┈─★

[millyondollarbaby]

Just saw your rules thing and HOLY SHIT YOURE SO REAL ON THE "he's yandere because he LOVES you" TYPA SHIT LIKE IM SO SICK AN TIRED ON SEEING "he chained you up because you were being naughty" LIKE UGHHH GIVE ME A YANDERE WHOSE WORLD WOULD FALL APART THE MOMENT YOU START EYEING SOMEONE ELSE!!! GIVE ME PATHETIC MEN THAT WOULD ABSOLUTELY DO ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE!!!

Okay enough of my bullshit, can I still request??

Heh....Yandere prince (who is the heir to the throne) who is untouchable (figuratively and literally) by anyone falls inlove with a bounty hunter who he was tasked to kill? Like the scenario would be like:

•Prince was tasked by the king to slay a bounty hunter cause someone from the court died from their hands

•Prince (now disguised as an assassin) tries but fails, leading him very wounded

•Bounty hunter!reader sees him in his state and decides to nurse him back to health (they don't know he's a prince btw)

•Prince wakes up, grows wary of reader patching him up, but he quickly became Mr. Nice guy because he has plans on how to kill them

•all of his plans fail, and most of those plans lead him to getting injured, therefore extending his stay (much to the reader's amusement and his dismay)

•months turn to years, the kingdom is distraught over the crowned prince going missing, meanwhile the prince has grown to love the reader and is CONVINCED that they are married (delusional much??? Also reader does NOT know about this, they just assume that their Friend is way more clingy than usual)

Additional info: due to him being a prince, he prefers to stay indoors so that no one could take him away from his beloved❤ (he would burn the world and then kills himself if he were to be gone from them for more than 7 hours (he'll never hurt them, he'll rather kill himself than do that))

The ending is SUPER up to you!!! (Though I prefer it angst....though I am not sure if you do that) and can the gender of the reader be unspecified and they go by they/them? If no, then can the reader be female? (muscular females ohdodjdojdk)

Tysm for this opportunity to request for pathetic men❤❤ sorry for my rambling

The Crowned Prince is Dead.

(Not proofread. Will go back at some point)

That’s what the posters say now. The bounty’s been lifted. The court’s gone quiet. The palace is in mourning.

They buried an empty casket.

“Ash.”

That’s what you call him, the man you found bleeding on your doorstep two winters ago. He was half-dead, torn up, muttering nonsense in a voice meant for velvet robes and palace marble—not the woods. You didn’t ask questions. Just dragged him inside, stitched him up, and gave him soup.

You had no idea he was royalty. A crown prince. A sword sent from the king’s own hand to slay you.

Your name had reached the court after a noble’s blood stained your bounty ledger. Self-defense, really, but the nobles don’t care for context. They wanted a spectacle. A hunter hung at dawn. So they sent their perfect boy in a black cloak and a false name.

But he failed. Because when he saw you—not your reputation, not the price on your head, you—he hesitated. And in that hesitation, he was wounded. Left crawling, broken, slipping out of the castle’s grip and into yours.

And now you share a life.

Days slipped into weeks. Weeks melted into months, like snow thawing into riverwater.

Ash wove himself into your life so quietly, so seamlessly, that you hardly noticed it happening.

He began gathering firewood before you could ask, stacking it neatly by the door every morning, the scent of pine and sap clinging to him when he slipped back inside. He mended your torn clothes with clumsy stitches, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to match thread to fabric. When you hummed old songs by the hearth, he listened with a kind of aching reverence, as if every note stitched him more tightly to this place, to you.

You teased him sometimes. Called him clingy when he hovered too close. Poked his side when he pouted in that wounded, boyish way that made you laugh. He would flush a violent red, stumbling over excuses, and you’d ruffle his hair without thinking, amused by his bashfulness.

Ash never protested. He only followed you more faithfully, his gaze tracking you with a devotion so profound it was almost prayer.

You thought he was just lonely. You assume he’s just… odd.

You thought—maybe—he was grateful for kindness after too many brutal winters alone.

You never realized what he truly believed.

In Ash’s mind, there were no blurred lines, no tentative half-steps. In his mind, you were already his spouse.

You were the sun he orbited, the river he would drown in gladly.

When you laughed, he thanked gods he didn’t believe in. When you touched him, even in jest, he memorized it, sealed it under his skin like an oath. Every night, when you slept, he sat awake in the dark, whispering prayers to whatever spirits might listen:

"Let me stay. Let me stay. Let me stay."

You didn’t know. You didn’t know that he had already killed for you—the strangers who had wandered too close, the bounty hunters still searching for your head, the royal scouts sent to reclaim their prince.

You didn’t know how ruthlessly he protected the fragile, stolen life he had built around you. How much blood had already been spilled in the name of your quiet, domestic peace.

But he never hurts you. He would never. He’d tear himself open before letting harm come near you. You are his divinity. His purpose. The axis on which his world spins.

All you saw was a boy with burnt hands and wide eyes, smiling too softly by your fire.

You have no idea he’s in love with you. You have no idea he’s convinced that this is marriage. That the gods dropped him at your door because you were meant to be his. That his entire being is now tethered to you.

And then one day, you disappear.

Just a short hunt. You leave a note. You’ll be back by dusk.

But the sun dips low and you don’t return.

Ash is calm for the first hour. Then the second. Then he starts pacing. By midnight, he’s wrecked the house. By morning, he’s on his knees in the forest, screaming your name.

He thinks someone took you. He thinks the palace finally found you. Or worse—you left him.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn’t eat. He patrols the woods like a cursed thing. His body withers. His eyes go hollow.

And then, finally—you come back.

Your hunt took longer than expected. You got trapped in a storm. You arrive soaked, shivering, cursing the weather and laughing like nothing happened.

You find him in the doorway. Knees bloodied. Face gaunt. Eyes wild.

“Where were you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question—it’s a confession.

You tell him. You smile. You reach for him like always.

But he flinches.

“I thought you left me.”

You frown. “Ash…”

“I was going to kill myself.”

Your blood runs cold. “What?”

“I was going to do it,” he says, smiling, like he’s proud. Like he passed some test. “But I didn’t. Because I knew you’d come home. You always come home.”

You stare at him.

And something shifts.

Now you know, you understand. Understand all those nights he looked at you a little too long, a touch that lasted longer than needed. Now you understand why he always seemed on his toes when you mentioned leaving. He couldn't handle it. He can't.

Will write a part two? i just couldn't structure it all in here.

[vivalas-vega]

fine line / part six

these chapters are so short I decided to give you both right now - everything aches right now but there is a moment to breathe coming soon!!! I'm currently working on part eight, chapters are gonna get a little longer from here so don't expect these super frequent drops of multiple chapters lol - it'll eventually taper into one/two a week (maybe) as always please let me know what you think, comments and reblogs make my day!

fine line / mcu x reader / part six

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 1.1k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

part six: the passage of ice

No one ever told you what year it was. Sometimes not even the month. Time wasn’t measured in numbers anymore; it was measured in bruises, mission briefings, the distance between stasis and violence. Names, places, years… they didn’t matter. Not for you. You were told what to do, and when, and nothing more. That was the point. A weapon didn’t need to know where it was forged, only where it was aimed.

Your first freeze came after a mission in the mountains. You’d bled through three layers of clothing and killed six men with a broken blade. You didn’t remember what for. Only the snow, and the sharp, dragging pain in your thigh. The room they dragged you back to was sterile and buzzing, the lights too white. The technician didn’t even look at you as he pressed something sharp into your arm. 

You still had blood under your nails when the cold took you. Not like the kind you used to carry beneath your ribs—this was older. Sadder. It was chemical, clinical. The kind of cold designed not to numb, but to erase.

You woke up screaming. You always did, at first. The scream wasn’t even fear. It was instinct, raw and animal. Your body’s last defense, like it was trying to shake loose the ice still clinging to your spine. But over time, even that was taken from you.

Eventually, you stopped waking up at all.

The cold reached deeper the next time. It knew where to find you.

There were missions, some you remember, most you didn’t. A ballroom in Berlin. The glint of a blade tucked beneath your sleeve. The sound of a voice calling you by an alias—not your name. You didn’t have one of those anymore. Just a codename. Something something that fit inside a file folder. Something handed to you, not chosen.

You remembered rain on cobblestone, blood soaking through silk. The look in a man’s eyes just before you silenced him. Not recognition of you, but of death. That was all you ever were: a signal that the end had come.

They trained it into you, how to vanish in plain sight. How to shift your weight without sound. How to kill with your hands, your knees, the heel of a boot. How to move like smoke and leave nothing behind but the aftermath.

They told you when to eat. When to sleep. When to breathe.

Once, a mission didn’t go quite to plan. You had your target cornered in the gilded hallway of some Eastern embassy, your knife already raised. The order was clear: eliminate. But something in the set of his mouth, the slope of his shoulders, made your grip falter. Just a fraction of a second. A flicker of… something. Not memory. Not yet. Just familiarity. It didn’t last. But it was long enough. They punished hesitation. 

So they froze you again.

When you weren’t being used, you were stored. Like a weapon on a shelf, boxed and labeled in code. Sometimes you thought you dreamed in there, in the dark behind your eyes. You thought you saw flickers. A red scarf twisting in the wind. The smell of coffee. A laugh, warm and easy, yours maybe, or someone else’s. A high, reedy cry in the distance. A hallway. A door. The sound of heels retreating.

Then you’d wake—strapped to a slab, the taste of metal and blood thick on your tongue. Restraints tight around your wrists like they expected you to snap.

You were always restrained. Always treated like a bomb, seconds from detonation.

They reprogrammed you between missions. When you looked too long at your reflection. When you moved too slowly. When your hands shook after you killed. When your eyes lingered on someone’s face just a little too long. Even a question was enough.

Even silence, if it was the wrong kind.

So they broke you again. And again. Until every kind of silence sounded right.

You learned ten languages and forgot them all.

You learned to laugh at the right time in cocktail conversations. How to sip a drink and blend in. How to tear out someone’s throat with your teeth if the blade failed. You learned how to memorize blueprints in thirty seconds flat. How to seduce. How to disappear.

You learned the limits of the human body—and then learned you no longer had any.

You ran missions on four continents. They said it was a year. Maybe it was five. Maybe it was ten. Maybe it was always the same one.

A man once screamed your name—his voice high and cracked with panic—but you didn’t recognize it. Was it your name? One they gave you? Or one they’d forgotten? Maybe he hadn’t said anything at all.

One handler liked to leave you books. Said it made you easier to manage. You never read them. Not really. But you liked the weight of them in your hands. The feel of paper, the soft sound it made when it turned. You liked that the words stayed where they were, even if you didn’t.

Once, you opened a collection of Russian poetry and stared at a single line until the letters blurred:

Ты была не ты.

You were not you.

You shut the book. You didn’t open another.

The last time they thawed you, your body was covered in scars you didn’t remember earning.

Some were old—faded into the into your skin, only noticeable if you were looking. You rarely did. Others were still angry and red, raised like fresh warnings. One technician frowned at your file, muttering something about tissue mismatch. The numbers didn’t line up. You wondered which version of you he expected. Which scan. Which ghost.

You didn’t ask.

You didn’t speak at all.

They gave you a target.

And you moved.

You were quiet now. Efficient. Beautiful and brutal in the way all perfected things were. You were a legend whispered in corridors. Caution scrawled in margins. You were someone else’s worst nightmare.

But somewhere—buried deep in the part of you the machines couldn’t reach—there was still a hum.

A heartbeat. Familiar. Just beneath your ear.

You didn’t know where it came from, or who it belonged to. Often, it was drowned out by something else… a sound behind the wall. A woman crying. Distant and quiet, like she knew no one was listening. You never saw her. Never asked. But in the haze of thawing fluid and metal restraints, sometimes it sounded like she was calling for something small.

And later—when the cold came back, and the world slipped sideways again—you swore you dreamed of chickens.

You didn’t know why.

prev / next

[malka-lisitsa]

This whole time he'd been neutral with her. Not defensive, not overly angry for her. It was the neutrality that kept her talking. The way he didn't make her feel responsible for him crashing out with anger for something he couldnt do anything about.

His apology. His honesty.

"The rest is just..... Eventually in the 1600's after I'd lost several people that mattered to me.... I changed my name from Katerina Petrova to Katherine Pierce. Killed off the girl I was, and made the choice to become someone harder. Who could do what she had to do. Katerina wouldn't have survived." She shook her head.

Too many emotions in such a short time like a whirlwind she just couldn't find something to grab onto.

Then he said it.

I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

Maybe it was all the emotions, maybe it was the intoxicating feeling of being HEARD, or the bottle of liquor they drank together....

But hearing those words, the way he said he wouldn't leave her...

Katherine couldn't help but lean over and kiss him. Just a soft kiss to test the waters. If he didnt return it she'd back off.... but if he did? She knew she'd fall into that pit trap of needing to connect to him. Something to temper the vulnerability. A shared trauma between them. Something to ease the suffering....

She almost felt safe.

Damon listened, the tips of his fingers still idly picking at the skin around his nail, but his gaze never wavered from her. The bitterness in her voice wasn’t something he flinched from—it was something he understood. All too well. That sharp edge in her tone rang true in his bones. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer any cheap sympathy. He just let her talk.

As she described the cabin, Rose, the panic, the desperation, his jaw tightened slightly, but he kept it in check, eyes flickering between the fire and her face.

And when she said it—how she killed herself— Damon’s fingers stilled. The casual shrug she tried to pin to the end of it didn’t hide the weight of the words. It never could. He exhaled slowly through his nose, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Turning by suicide. By choice. Not because she was reckless, but because she was cornered. Because she knew that death was the only thing Klaus couldn’t use against her.

His gaze dropped to her hands, the slight tremble she couldn’t quite hide, the way her voice cracked just a little even when she tried to barrel through it. The silence between them now wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, it was earned. He could picture it—her, all alone, fumbling through a newborn hunger with no guidance, no one to steady her hand. Just a scared, furious girl trying to survive a world that wanted her dead.

“You know...” He said after a moment, voice low and rough. “For a long time, I thought you were just... unstoppable. Untouchable. Like nothing ever really got to you.” He huffed out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. His thumb tapped lightly against his knee, a restless tic he didn’t bother to hide.

“Guess that was the point, huh?” He muttered, eyes dragging from the fire back to her face. “Make everyone think you were stone, so no one could see you bleeding.” There wasn’t judgment in his voice. No anger. Just something quieter. A different kind of understanding.

He leaned his head back against the couch again, studying the ceiling like maybe it would give him the right words. It didn’t. So he just spoke plain. “I’m not good at this shit. You know that.” He flicked his gaze back to her, mouth tugging into the ghost of a smirk. “Listening. Sitting still. Caring.” The smirk faded as quickly as it came, leaving something more raw behind.

“But I’m here, Katherine. I’m not going anywhere.”

[yourfaveisanavatar]

Mr Krupp from Captain Underpants is marked by The Spiral and The Stranger!!

mr krupp from captain underpants is marked by the spiral and the stranger!

[wardensantoineandevka]

every time anyone that's even slightly critical of C3 calmly writes a post that's longer than 750 words in an attempt to unpack what they feel is not working in the campaign or what's happening in the fandom, there's a rash of its defenders going "why are the haters always writing these long posts all the time, we don't need anyone to be writing novels, why is the post so long. it's so ridiculous that anyone is writing essays."

personally, especially if I was trying to position myself as having intelligent and complex opinions and capable of paying attention to episodes that are five hours long on a weekly basis, I would not admit I thought 1.5k words was dissertation length.

it's especially funny because many of the same people keep stamping their feet that critics never explain their perspectives or stances, then they're mockingly dismissive when doing so doesn't fit into a tweet.

not to make it sound grave, but it's anti-intellectual, it's simplistic. above all: it's juvenile, childish, asking to be treated as a child. wah, so silly anyone could possibly have a meaningful thought that requires enough space it doesn't fit on my phone screen at once.

[emilywaters]

Mind control mercy, like think charmspeak from heroes of olympus. Very siren like powers, but she's not a hero, she just uses it to make her life more convenient until she meets the warriors

Super strengh cochise

Im thinking some kind of flexibility power for cowgirl, think elasti girl (is that her name) from incredibles

Whoever said hawkeye no powers swan is so right

Maybe something defensive for fox? Like those plasma energy things that violet from incredibles had (bcs a defensive fighter running into the frontlines as a meele fighter in her last attemp to protect her family)

Or laser eyes bcs I think they're cool

Shapshifter cleon bcs i think she would have a very versetile power. Maybe she can copy powers but they are much weaker and have the same drawbacks?

Completely down with invisibility rembrandt

Bonus - mind reader/empath cyrus and masai with clone-ability

Also sully with like fire but it's like not very strong but he thinks he's hot shit (pun intended) (also makes the molotov scene that much funnier)

Superhero au where Ajax has super speed. She would be the most annoying speedster of all time. She makes Cleon record all their mission briefs ahead of time so she can watch them at 5x speed. She can run faster than a car but shes always late anyways because she has time blindness. She's getting distracted in the middle of fights because she remembered Rembrandt wanted her to buy prussian blue paint while she was out. Cleon keeps insisting she actually learn to fight from Swan because she can't just keep relying on her speed to win but she disagrees. ("What if theres another speedster" "wdym im the fastest speedster there is. Source: trust me bro.") the calorie intake has got to be insane. No snacks are safe.

[thief-of-eggs]

Oh wow! The commenter from earlier escalated! Folks- here is a perfect example of what NOT to comment on AO3 works :))

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

The Heart of a Jedi

It is a common belief in the galaxy that the Jedi are not permitted to love. Silently, some people mourn the children given to the Jedi, believing they will be brainwashed to hide their emotions and be unable to love. Disdainfully, some parents who don't wish to give their children to the Order claim that their children will never know love if they are taken in by the Order.

But love is a word with many connotations. How can a Jedi affirm or deny such accusations when they may be working with widely different definitions of the same word? When beings can mean any number of disparate emotions, many compatible with their way or life and many others contradictions of their code, values and vows?

The Jedi do not claim love is forbidden to them. How could they, with what love means to them? Saying love is allowed is misleading, and saying it's encouraged severely understates how important love is to them.

Love is essential, central to a Jedi's life. One cannot be a Jedi if they are devoid of love.

The Jedi do not claim that love is forbidden to them, as they share an ideal of kindness and compassion for all forms of life.

How could they strive towards this without love, as they understand it? Not affection, necessarily, for a Jedi must be compassionate even towards those they dislike. Rather, a deep respect for life, an attempt to understand it and its connections, and an endless drive to reduce suffering where they can.

That, to a Jedi, is love.

A Jedi must love everybody. They love the starving, the abused and the slaves of the galaxy, because they need their help. They love pirates, slavers, and corrupt politicians, when they dislike and want to stop them.

They even love the Sith.

But for many beings in the galaxy, that is not enough. For many beings in the galaxy, that is not love. And as long as the Jedi reject the cruel thing the galaxy calls love, that grasps and steals and demands to own, long as the Jedi accept the inevitability of death, the futility of holding on to what is not meant to be held, there will be those that call the Jedi loveless.

How sad, a Jedi would say, to be unable to conceive love without cruelty.