#i don't like it when people take my words about vengeance and use them for their own

[tanddiscord]

I dunno.

I absolutely do think we need to make leftist spaces more friendly towards cishet men in general. It can be tough, in a lot of circles, to not become hostile towards people I generally agree with, because they always make me the boogie man.

For people less reflected, I can absolutely see that pushing people away. It's pushed me away from several spaces, and there are still spaces I frequent where I often feel excluded and uncomfortable.

There are absolute problems, and they need to be addressed, but the angle can't just be "some white cishet men are fascists, therefore saying 'kill all men' is okay" which is what happens a lot in some spaces.

But it also can't be "Not all men are bad, so let's do nothing".

We need to approach things with a mindset of "how can we stop and work against the social changes we see happening?"

And some of that boils down to giving people what they find in dangerous rhetorics and systems, without them. Community, a sense of belonging, a sense of safety, and understanding.

I am not saying that individuals need to, when face to face with a fascist, be nice to them.

But I am saying that, if, at the first sign of fascist rhetoric in someone, everyone shuns them, it could be that the result of that is that they'll quickly become more like those that still talk to them: Fascists.

And that holds doubly true when they didn't show those things in the first place.

Ofc it is a balancing act. Its tough, and its never on the individuals on the left to fight the institutions on the right.

But we can't just deal with it with hostility.

Also, it's clearly not just a "white men" problem.

45% of women voted for Trump.

That is less than half, and less than the percentage of men that voted for him.

But 45% is still a lot. A huge amount.

If it had been 0%, like some people online seem to pretend, he would never have won.

We need to hold those woman just as accountable as we hold the men. We need conversations to be balanced, and better than that of our opponents.

Leftism is a humanitarian project, and to work for that, we need to include all of humanity. We're trying to make a better world for everyone here, not inflict vengeance upon the sons for the sins of the fathers. At least that is my approach and goal.

Being nicer to men in a leftist, online setting, IS important. We can't afford to, and should not want to, alienate half the population.

But being nicer to men does not mean "be nice to the specific men that have done you personally wrong" it means "Be nice to the men that haven't done you wrong, do not allow yourself to assume they will hurt you if given a chance" (though ofc, everyone, men, women and otherwise, should take appropriate precautions to keep themselves safe, when meeting men, women, and otherwise. Going on first dates in a public area, while having a friend that has promised to check in on you at 10pm, is not not being nice. It's just being safe, and that is always allowed).

It doesn't mean to not say "My ex was a pig". It does mean to not say "all men are pigs, just look at my ex".

We have to hold ourselves to high standards. Not just because that is the path to victory, though it is, but more importantly, because it's the path to a victory that means anything.

If we do not hold ourselves to high standards, what does a victory mean? If we just replace one harmful society with another, what was won?

Being mindful of language and word choice does not just mean using 'they' when we don't know someone's pronouns. It also means using 'that man' instead of 'men' when talking about a pig.

I get it can be frustrating to cater to the people that make your life hell. But you're not catering to them. You're catering to the rest of them. The men that already hate women, that are already fascists, that are already the enemy, do not care that you do not like them. If anything, they wear it like a badge of honour.

But the others, the ones that want to, strongly, or just barely, to be your ally, or for really, anyone but the worst, to let them know that there is a place for them where they can get love and respect(as human beings), without having to hate and disrespect others.

It's a bit like that comic on body-shaming I can't find right now. Where the person you're trying to be mean to doesn't care, but the people who happen to share that feature get sad.

(but yes, of course, its not like being nice to men will solve everything, there's other work to do too, but we can't ignore it just because its not a magical solve it all)

I get the good intentions behind it, but something feels off about responding to the observation that white cishet men are becoming radicalized towards racism and misogyny with "maybe you should have been nicer to the men"

[error84]

You should post more about steel vengeance if you want to

SEE it's never about the "want." because of course i want to . that's the love of my life literally light at the end of it all. i love that roller coaster more than words will ever rver ever be able to express (at least my own because im rlly bad atthst!!)

but the paranoia gets me. bad

[benedictscanvas]

pretty boy, pretty girl - jamie tartt x reader

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

a/n: okay yes. it has been six months. which is actually mad to me, but there we are - whoops! i've been off following my dream and wrote this while procrastinating an assignment, so this is by no means a return!! honestly i was just itching to write it, but i don't know how much time i have for more - enjoy nevertheless <3

warnings: just a little bit of suggestion towards the end, reader is referred to as 'pretty girl' as the title implies amongst other pet names, quite a lot of swearing (some things don't change)

---

“Hi love.”

Jamie barely murmurs it as he walks past you, can’t help himself but to drag a palm along your back, one shoulder blade to the other, as he goes. 

He knows he’s bold sometimes, but he swears it’s instinct. He glances back to see whether your expression holds any discomfort, but all he finds is your grin, a tiny wave. He continues on his path towards the canteen, knowing that your corridor conversation with Rebecca is probably important.

Somewhere between here and there, he decides to get your lunch, your usual, and sits alone on a table until you appear.

You do, three and a half minutes later. As soon as he sees you, the irrepressible urge to make you grin again is back with a vengeance. He waves you over to his table with a gesture to the food he’s got for you and- there it is again.

If he was a slightly smarter man, maybe he’d consider why all it took was the sight of him to draw your lips upwards, set your eyes alight.

“Thought I’d save y’ from the queue,” he speaks, still soft, in a tone he feels he only uses with you. You match his unnecessary low volume.

“Thanks, angel,” you say easily, and you must not see his stomach doing flips, “Too good to me, you are.”

“Shut up,” he deflects, wonders if you can see him fluster at your nickname for him, “Are you still coming tonight?”

You groan. He frowns, and you quickly correct.

“Sorry. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, you sound proper convinced, an’ all.”

You chuckle, taking a bite out of your sandwich and taking a pause to chew. Jamie eats too, content to let you think before you speak. It was slowly teaching him to do the same.

“I’m just boring, Jamie. My favourite people are all under this roof, but usually they’re sober, you know?”

He often forgets you don’t really drink. Your friendship (however sour that word feels in relation to you) usually confined to these halls, to the pitch, to various football stadiums up and down the country. When they all get a chance to let loose, you’re very quick with the excuses, but he’s believed them blindly until this moment.

“Shit, y’ don’t drink, right? I can’t imagine that’s much fun in a club. I won’t tell anyone if you happen to come down with an illness or somethin’ this afternoon.”

You’re grinning at him again, all bright and sunny. It’s downright infectious, so Jamie nudges your foot with his on purpose and then apologises like it’s an accident.

“You’re alright,” you reassure, “I will join tonight. Even if it just proves to myself I’m not missing out on anything. Maybe Colin’s not as bad a drunk as I’ve been led to believe.”

Jamie winces.

“No, he is pretty bad,” he admits and then finally comes up with something to make you more comfortable, “Hey, what about this? I won’t drink either and we can spend the evening laughin’ at everyone else.”

You poke his hand and he tries not to drop his crisp packet.

“It’s everyone’s ‘relax and recharge’ night, Ted said. We both know you relax much easier with a few drinks in you. And I’d never judge anyone for that, I really hope it doesn’t come across like I’m judging any-“

“It doesn’t, sweetness,” he cuts in, “But actually, I’ll relax better if I’m one hundred percent positive that you’re relaxing too. What better way than judgin’ everyone else, together like?”

You purse your lips thoughtfully, mid-chew. He feels like he’s holding his breath, like he’s underwater and you’re in charge of the oxygen tank.

“Well, see how you feel when we’re there. It sounds lovely but only if you’re still up for it when we’re right next to a bar,” you say, still unconvinced. He wants to convince you fully, but he can’t decide if he should argue with you or kiss you silly before you speak again, “Hey, if not, I’ll buy you a drink?”

“Pretty sure that’s my line, love.”

“I said it, I meant it. Girls can buy drinks for pretty boys, you know.”

He thinks you might have removed his oxygen tank now. There’s some cruelty in that sentence but you don’t know you’re wielding it. He wills himself to flirt back even though it’ll only make him feel sick.

“Okay, pretty girl. One passionfruit J2O, please.”

Another grin. He’s so fucking fucked.

---

He’s been waiting for you for around forty minutes. He doesn’t know if that’s the normal amount of time you take to get ready, even if he wishes he knew, so he just waits, leaning against his car.

After fifty, he decides there’s no harm in just checking you’re alright and haven’t slipped on a sparkly floor that an evening cleaner has done a number on.

You mentioned going to the kit room to get changed, and he meets Will on his way there.

“Hey mate, you seen Y/N?”

Will looks paler than he’s ever been. Guilty. Jamie narrows his eyes and waits.

“Kit room.”

It’s all that Will says. When Jamie doesn’t walk off immediately, still waiting for an explanation for Will’s strange demeanour, Will turns around and legs it all the way down the corridor, turns left at the end and never returns.

Jamie shakes his head and continues in the direction of the kit room. The closer he gets, the more he hears. Muffled banging, shouting. He picks up the pace.

“Y/N? Love?”

“Jamie! Jamie, in here!”

Your voice floats out from the kit room and he hurries over. Still very confused, Jamie turns the door handle and finds the door won’t budge, however hard he shoves his shoulder against it.

“It’s locked, babe. Did you lock it?”

He hears your exasperated sigh and feels a little embarrassed.

“No I didn’t bleeding lock it! Well, I did, when I was getting changed, but then when I unlocked it my side it had been locked from the outside.”

Jamie struggled to put the dots together. Had Will locked you in? Judging by the running, he had… and he’d done it on purpose. A spark of anger shot down Jamie’s spine but he tried to convince himself there must be a reason.

Before he could, there was a hand on his on the door, pulling him away. It was being unlocked by another hand and then he was being shoved inside, hard enough to stumble against one of the benches. A piece of paper was thrown at his face and Jamie groaned as he heard the lock click back in place.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he stood up fully, more dazed than angry now as he stared at the locked door.

“Jesus, Jamie, are you alright? Who the fuck was that?”

“I dunno,” he says, staring at the door as if it might have answers. Your hand on his face wakes him up, his eyes shifting to yours where you look him over with concern.

“You’re alright, though?”

You ask it like you need the answer, and Jamie needs you to stop trailing a finger along his hairline either way.

“Fine, love,” he assures you, patting the juncture between your shoulder and neck gently until your hands drop to your sides. Then he raises his voice, and he’s not really talking to you anymore, “Whoever’s locked us in here as some kind of joke won’t be fuckin’ alright though!”

No answer. He picks up the small piece of paper from the floor and reads it in his head.

Tell her, you prick.

He’s actually going to hit Roy with his car. Lightly, definitely not enough to damage him, but enough to really, really piss him off.

This was all some ridiculous attempt to make him tell you how he felt about you? Absolutely not. Never. He wouldn’t be coerced into something so delicate, so important.

“What’s it say?”

You’re peering over the top of the paper, but he folds it in two before you can read anything. His chuckle comes out strained.

“It says: Get fucking pranked. Must be Roy, he’s probably scared Will into helpin’ him, the fucker. I’m afraid it’s payback for putting all his socks on the ceiling last week, babe, an’ you’ve been caught in the middle.”

You pause, staring at your shoes. For some reason, you look far more forlorn than the situation calls for, but it’s gone before he can think about it further.

“On the ceiling?”

He nods and you giggle. It’s only as you step away from him in your laughter that he realises how close you had been. He should’ve savoured it.

It’s also only as you step away that Jamie finally gets a glimpse of your outfit and nearly reaches out to the nearby bench for strength. He’s never seen you in a v-neck anything before, let alone a dress, and he thinks it might do him in.

“You look good,” he says lamely, then tries again, “Great. Fan-fuckin’-tastic, I mean.”

“I like that last one,” you smile, ducking your head. He thinks, or rather hopes, you’re a little flustered, “Fan-fuckin’-tastic happens to be what I was going for.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, words gone as soon as he’d found them. And now he was staring. Shit.

“I like your suit,” you say, maybe breathless yourself. It must be his ears. You reach up as if you might fiddle with his lapel but just point towards it before your hand drops again. You practically fall down onto the bench you’re both stood beside and he follows, ever obedient, “Shame no one else will ever see it. How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”

The suit isn’t for anyone except you. That’s what he’d say if he had any stupid bravery. He’s an awful coward, he thinks.

“Until Roy gets bored or Keeley finds out I reckon,” Jamie guesses, “Y’ wanna play I-spy?”

You sigh, but when he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, you’re grinning your silly, lovely grin again.

“I spy with my little eye…”

---

It is around 11pm, when Jamie has not long fallen asleep against the jacket he had scrunched behind his head, that he feels your hand on his ankle. He can tell, as he wakes without opening his eyes, that you’re not trying to rouse him. The touch is light, feathery. Maybe an accident.

No, not an accident. It wouldn’t have lasted this long, and your thumb is drawing absentminded circles into his ankle bone. You think he’s asleep and you’ve reached out to hold him anyway.

He opens his eyes but doesn’t move. His legs are stretched out on the bench in front of him and you sit upright next his sock-clad feet, one hand on his bare ankle. You’re staring at a piece of paper so intently he wonders what could possibly be so interesting.

“This doesn’t say get fucking pranked, Jamie,” you murmur, and his hand flies to his jacket pocket. It must have fallen out when he slumped into a slumber. He’s sat up in a blink, watching the hand that had been so soothing, fall back at your side suddenly.

“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“No, don’t,” you insist, still staring at the piece of paper. Instead of whirling on him for answers, you reach calmly into one of the boot cubbies beside your head and pull out a piece of paper from one of the boots. You chuck it at him without looking.

He unfolds it with careful, if shaky, hands.

Tell him, you silly shit.

It takes him an absurdly long time to understand what the hell this second piece of paper means. Later, when the two of you look back on this moment (and you do so often), you’ll wonder how he could have been so dense and he’ll spin you a line about how too good to be true it all felt. But in the moment, he has no lines and no words, until your hand lands heavy on his knee this time.

“Jamie,” you say softly, through a grin that is so different from your usual that he could pass out. It’s so beautiful and so strikingly lovesick that he thinks he might actually be sick, “What do you have to tell me?”

“What?”

He feels dumber than he’s ever felt. But your hand is still on his knee and now you’re shuffling closer to him on the bench.

“What do you have to tell me?” you repeat, then you poke his chest playfully as you add, “You prick.”

He still looks confused, so you clearly decide the best way to catch him up is to kiss him.

You pull away after a moment, a moment of pure heaven, because clearly you don't want to kiss him fully until he's all clued in.

"Come on, pretty boy," you say, teasing, "Figure it out. I was going to buy you a passionfruit J2O. It's the sign of all signs."

He should be laughing at your joke, but all he really wants to do is kiss you again. And again.

Maybe again.

"Oh pretty girl," he says, and he feels the rumble of his low tone in his chest. He places a hand on your face, fingers itching at your hairline, "I'll tell you anything ya wanna hear, I swear. Anythin'."

He hears your breath hitch, but he feels it too, where the meat of his palm is covering your neck.

"Anything?" you answer back, "I could have a lot of fun with this."

You scrunch up your brow like you're thinking and he's so stupidly in love with you that he just tells you. Too-soon be damned.

"Smooth talker," you laugh, giddy, and you kiss him again. And it's so good that he doesn't even remember you didn't say it back until hours later.

(at which point, you say it back so many times and in so many ways, Jamie is certain that he's the luckiest man in the world. he might not hit Roy with his car after all)

[nightmarist]

Some Zevlor Things —

EDIT 12/2/23: Added a few more things

A fellow Tiefling Hellrider, Tilses, is with him in the caves acting as his bodyguard. He sometimes calls her Tilly.

There is one bedroll in the caves shoved off in the far corner with a book titled "The Devil You Know: An Autobiography" - not sure if it's his personal writing or if he's reading it, either way it adds to the flavor of his of his tiefling pride (and/or anguish).

It reads:

Have you ever had a god change your blood? It is a horrifying thing, even for those who may desire it. Yet few tieflings wished for Asmodeus to claim their bodies, only be given no choice in the matter. It is not as if we were well-loved before the archdevil's gambit. Our people have always struggled against the notion of 'devilkin', as if a single drop of infernal ichor inescapably corrupts. How amusing, when so many others willingly sell their souls to fiends, yet their culture as a whole escapes the blame. By what method can we redeem ourselves, when the crime is not ours? I would drive a blade into every warlock that aided Asmodeus' damned ritual, but personal vengeance cannot undo the will of a god, much less one as slippery as the Lord of Lies. When every passerby thinks you a thief and heretic, it is deeply tempting to become one. (cut off) The only thing that has stopped me is knowing Asmodeus wants nothing more than for all of us to fall from grace.

Around the his table are Invasion Plans for Elturgard, Traveler's Guide to Baldur's Gate, Traveler's Guide to the Sword Coast Vol IV: The Risen Road (which aligns when he tells you earlier there are gnolls on the road), and "Front and Center: a Thespian's Memoir" that reads:

"... in fact, the greatest joy of my life hasn't been acting, but becoming. When you choose a character to play, you don't just wear a mask - you take a little bit of their soul for your own. Whoever you are in your heart of hearts, if only by the faintest note."

Zevlor aside I think this is a sweet quote for the player and player character relationship <3

Dialogue in the Caves:

Zevlor: I Hardly need a bodyguard, Tilses. This isn't Avernus. Tilses: No sir. At least the monsters there looked like monsters.

—

Tilses: Commander— Zevlor: Just Zevlor, Tilly. We're civilians now, remember? Tilses: With respect, sir — being a Hellrider is for life. They can't take — Zevlor: They can, and did. Avernus changed things — best we get used to that. Tilses: ... Yes, Zevlor

—

Tilses: The Watch or the Flaming Fist? Zevlor: Pardon? Tilses: When we get to Baldur's Gate. Where are we enlisting? Zevlor: I'm done soldiering, Tilly. I'd like a clean start. But go with the Watch. You're too honest to be a mercenary.

—

Zevlor: No word from the scouts, yet? Tilses: No sir. But if there's a clear path past the goblins, they'll find it. Zevlor: Yes, of course.

ITEMS —

in the Chest there is a bronze goblet, 46 gold, and a battle-worn blade. On his person he has his gloves (Hellrider's Pride), an apple, a camp supply pack, and the key to his chest.

The blade says:

A fine by well-used sword. It seemed to have once belonged to a holy order, but the indication of rank and patron deity at the hilt have recently been filed down.

The gloves' flavor text says:

A waft of sulphur emanates from this proudly-kept piece.

Celebration at the Camp:

"I should be out there, talking with them. In... Just a moment, maybe." "Is this everyone? Our numbers have grown so few..." "No more. I can't afford to lose any more of them." "No. Let them have fun. I'll be ruining it come morning anyway."

Mindfayer Colony:

Things he mumbles in the Pod:

The pod will show you his memories of Elturel:

After saving Zevlor, I forced myself to pick the "mean" options just to see how it goes.

If you tell him its his fault tieflings were imprisoned in moonrise, he says:

If you tell him "Do yo have a right to ask?" when he asks about the tieflings:

He doesn't argue with any of your remarks except one, when he says "For a moment I welcomed it" and you tell him "For a moment until you realized your reward would be a tadpole" he corrects you:

If you tell him if he wanted power he should live up to his own ideal:

If you tell him to get out of your sight:

When you tell him it's not his fault he was enthralled:

If you tell him "Fine. Good luck, Zevlor."

If you say you could use another blade in the fight to come:

At the Netherbrain:

(smiling <3)

"The journey has been brutal, but I stand here a Hellrider once more, and I would die a proud man if I died this day."

I know it's a Soldier thing to be proud to die for a cause but it still makes me worry for him given his background so far <:]

If you click on him, he has two unvoiced lines:

if you pickpocket him at this point, he'll have the same items on him as before (in this save he has a carrot instead of an apple for me).

His stats at this time: (Steeped in Bliss is from one of my items)

Post Game (Patch 5)

I don't know if there are other permutations of this letter, yet, but this is what I received:

I hope my penmanship has improved somewhat in the past months. When I first stumbled into this city, I shook so badly that I could scarcely hold the soup the priests pressed into my hands - let alone write and thank you as you deserve. It is only when the city itself began to shake that I felt my hands grow still. Along with the other veterans sheltering at the temple - discards of Elturel's 'unworthy' legions - I watched that monstrosity rise over the city. We felt no fear. Only anger. Disgust. Purpose - and with it, power. I do not know what oath we cling to now, or how long it will last - but we shall use it to ensure that this city will not suffer as Elturel did. Whether it wants us or not. It is more than thanks alone I owe. No words can make amends for what I did to my people, but that is as it should be. More come to the temple every day to aid in the relief efforts, and if I am permitted to work alongside them, then I am content. Come and see us, when you can. Zevlor

It's interesting — if not bitterswet, tragic, and inspiring — to hear that Zevlor and other Paladins regained their Oaths via pure, stubborn devotion to saving people when it began to look as bad as Elturel.

[fandomsimagined]

Don't Go Dark - Kaz Brekker x Reader

Title: Don't Go Dark

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Female!Reader

Summary: Kaz Brekker realizes that he has feelings for his healer.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: What you could expect from Six of Crows

A/N: This is my first time writing for Kaz, so if it's out of character, I apologize. I kind of gave up and phoned it in at the end so if you can tell, I'm sorry. Very loosely inspired by the song Don't Go Dark by Bleachers.

For most of his life, Kaz Brekker called the Barrel home–despite the fact that there was really nothing homey about it–and there was one thing that he knew for certain about the dreadful place: that it always had a tendency to contort even the purest of things into something nasty. No one was good-natured for the sake of it. If someone was kind, it was usually a ploy, as he very well knew. That was one of his first lessons in survival. Love was a weakness that oftentimes had disastrous consequences. The only thing to come from the Barrel was carnage. The currency was blood, and he’d paid his share and then some with his own, and with others. Only the most ruthless and ungodly people prospered, and prosper he did. 

Believe it or not, he did remember the short life he had before the Barrel. He remembered his father and their farm, and he remembered after his father died when Jordie sold the farm with the promise that they would find fortune in Ketterdam. That was when he’d learned the most valuable lesson that there was to learn. That the only person he could truly count on was himself. To love nothing and trust no one. If he loved nothing, then there was nothing to be used against him. Nothing that anyone could take from him. It got lonely, but it had kept him alive for this long, a feat not many accomplished, so that was how he lived. 

She was different. She didn’t live under the same guise of violence as the rest of Ketterdam. She didn’t have the same mentality: that things can always–and most likely will–get worse. She didn’t hold grudges. Not like Kaz did. Kaz was fueled by vengeance and spite. He took whatever was thrown at him in stride with the knowledge that he would find vindication by dealing a much harsher punishment. 

The winter chill bit to the bone, an unfortunate truth for Kaz especially, whose bones were already not in well-working order. His limp was more pronounced as he made his way to his office (formerly Haskell’s). The Dregs were still bustling about, doing Saints knows what, but none would bother him. It was late, the state of his face was less pristine than when he’d left, and his permanent scowl was even more noticeable than usual. No, they would leave him be.

The meeting with the Razorgulls had gone as well as he’d expected, which was not well at all. They weren’t too happy to see him, still holding a grudge over Pekka Rollins’ quite unfortunate downfall. They’d landed a couple of punches, but he always had the upper hand, and they were smart enough when it was over to abandon Fifth Harbor entirely.

His office door was slightly ajar, something that didn’t bode well. He knew that the healer would be waiting for him, but she was never so careless to leave the door open, as there were quite a few documents and collectibles that he preferred to keep away from the other Dregs. 

He pushed the rickety door open and immediately he could feel that something was off. She was sitting in the extra wooden chair that he kept there (mostly for her and Jesper since he rarely gave anyone else the privilege to stay in his office for long periods). He sat in his desk chair, his gloved fingers thumbing through the papers that he’d left. Nothing important, just something to keep him occupied. 

Kaz Brekker noticed everything; meaning that Kaz Brekker noticed her trembling hands, though she tried to disguise it by keeping them folded in her lap. He noticed her red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks that she’d tried to hide, and he noticed that she was jumpier than usual. Something had happened, that much was obvious, but he wouldn’t push. If she wanted to talk, she would, otherwise, it was none of his concern. Though, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anger at the mere idea of anything happening to her.

“Again? Kaz, you really should be more careful.” It was no surprise that she was born a healer. It was quite literally in her nature to be caring. She was born to fix things. 

“Why? If I were to die tomorrow, all of Ketterdam would breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe even cheers to the occasion,” Kaz scoffed. It sounded grim, but it meant that he was good at what he did, so he saw it as an honor of sorts. He was in control.

“I wouldn’t.” She frowned. She moved to stand above him, getting leverage so she could properly heal his face. Her lips were pursed in concentration as her fingers hovered over a gash on his cheek. It was a strange feeling. It was like he could feel the skin stitching back together as she worked. It was like an itch. “I quite like having you around.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” Kaz raised his eyebrows, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “What are you getting at? A raise?” 

“Oh please, why would I even bother trying to flatter you?” She rolled her eyes. “Not when I know all I have to do is compliment Jesper’s hat, give him a few kruge to gamble away, and he’ll talk you into whatever I want.”

“And here I thought that you were too soft for the Barrel.” Kaz smirked. 

“I’m serious, what are you going to do if I’m not around to fix you up?” 

He thought about the statement carefully. The implication of the words. That was the confirmation he needed to push for further information. She’d opened the door. “Are you planning on going somewhere?” Maybe that’s why she was acting so strange. She seemed like the type to get all weepy about leaving. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea himself. It would be harrowing work trying to find a new healer. Especially a trustworthy one, but he wouldn’t stop her if that’s what she wanted. He just wouldn’t pretend to be happy about either.

“No!” She exclaimed quickly. “No, of course not.” Her quick response and furrowed brow were a relief. She wasn’t planning on leaving him. Not yet, anyway. 

“Well, if you’re not planning on leaving, then I suppose I don’t have to worry about it then, do I?” Kaz spoke bluntly, though he supposed if she listened close enough, she would hear the twinge of satisfaction hidden beneath. It was selfish. Ketterdam was a grim place, but he didn’t want her to leave. She made it a little less grim. 

Her fingers moved eloquently, drifting over his broken nose, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her palm. It did him well not to think about how close she was to him. It would probably send him into fight-or-flight mode if he did. 

He winced as he felt the bone setting back into place. It was nothing that hadn’t happened before, though he wasn’t sure that he would ever get used to the damn itch that plagued the area as she was working her magic. That wasn’t what bothered him, though. What bothered him was that she hadn’t spoken again, something that was quite unlike her. Normally she would be scolding him or telling him all about whatever had happened at the Crow Club that afternoon. No, she hadn’t spoken and she hadn’t provided any elaboration to her previous statement. 

“Is everything alright?” He pressed further. If it was anyone else, he would’ve left it be. A problem for another day, but this wasn’t anyone else. 

“No… I mean…” She started and paused, turning to face the wall to her side as if avoiding looking at him. He was relieved that she wasn’t planning on leaving the Dregs just yet, but there was something bothering her and he couldn’t deny being slightly concerned about what it was. Had something happened at the club while he was gone? Surely one of the others downstairs would have mentioned something to him when he walked in if it had. But, there was no way to be sure. 

She turned back to face him, taking a shaky breath as if trying to figure out what to say. “This afternoon while I was on my way to the club, a man grabbed me. Put a knife to my throat and said that if I didn’t give him all of my kruge, then he would slit my throat, watch me bleed out, and then take it all anyways. It wasn’t even much, just seventeen, but he was willing to kill me for it.” He clenched his jaw as she recounted the story. He wouldn’t interrupt, but he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t already plotting on what he would do when he found the bastard. She reached up to fiddle with the necklace chain that she always wore, but it was missing. He’d taken her locket too.

“I was sure he would kill me even if I gave it to him, I saw his face for Saints’ sake, but I just… It made me think about if something had happened to me, then who would be here to make sure that you didn’t get yourself killed? I mean, you’ve almost done it several times with me here and I’m one of the best healers in Kerch, not to pat myself on the back or anything…” She was one of the best healers in Kerch. That was why he’d recruited her in the first place, and that was why she was under his protection. Though, he thought that she might’ve been exaggerating. He was pretty sure, he only almost died twice, and only once was his fault. 

“Who was it?” Kaz said through gritted teeth. It was unlikely that it was anyone from a rival gang. It wasn’t a secret that she was associated with the Dregs and they weren’t stupid. Pulling a stunt like that would start a war, especially since it was in Fifth Harbor. That was his territory. No, the only one that bold would be the Dime Lions, but they would’ve killed her to send a message. This was probably some random person off of the street if he had to guess. Looking for a quick buck, so they thought why not steal it? What they didn’t know was that they’d stolen it from the wrong woman. 

“Kaz-”

“Who was it?” He repeated. 

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, that I might not be here next time you decide to go and get yourself all bloodied up, and what if it’s more serious next time?” He didn’t like the way that she was talking so casually about the prospect of dying. Like it was inevitable, and she was making her final arrangements before she went. 

“Listen to me carefully. Nothing’s going to happen to you because I won’t let it.” It was a statement not a question. He would make sure to get the message across that not only was she associated with the Dregs, but she was under the protection of Dirtyhands himself, and he would make sure to send a very clear warning as to what would happen should anyone get the bright idea to lay a finger on his crew again. 

“You’re not always going to be there to protect me, Kaz. We all know it’s only a matter of time. People like me don’t make it very long  here. I’m not strong, or smart, or resourceful enough…” Her eyes were glassy, trying to hold back the tears that were forming in her eyes. He was confused. None of those things could have been farther from the truth. She may have been soft, sure, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t smart or strong. She had to be strong to have put up with him for so long. He wasn’t known to be the most facile person in the world. 

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” Kaz’s voice was gravelly. It was rough. In fact, he’d often heard it described as the voice of a demon, or the devil himself. There was nothing soothing about it, yet he saw her shoulders slump in what seemed to be relief. That even though the Saints had never looked out for her, he would. 

She didn’t say anything else. Neither did he. That was that. There was nothing left to be said. He didn’t make promises that he didn’t intend to keep. He lied, he stole, he killed, but he didn’t break his promises. And there wasn’t a promise that he ever intended to keep more than that one. 

She silently worked on mending the split on his cheek. The Razorgulls had gotten a couple of good shots in. More than he thought, and he was starting to feel it, though he wouldn’t for long. 

“Stay at the Slat tonight.” He finally broke the silence. She didn’t live far, but clearly she wasn’t safe and he couldn’t have that.

“What?” She shot him a puzzled look. It was seemingly out of the blue, and he didn’t exactly give much room for any discussion. 

“I want you to stay at the Slat tonight. It’s late, you shouldn’t walk home in the dark.” 

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

Kaz perused the selection at Alwynn’s pawn shop. When he’d noticed that her necklace had been stolen, he knew that it had probably ended up in a pawn shop somewhere. No one stole jewelry off of ladies on the street to wear. No, clearly he needed money. 

He’d expected to have to go to more than one shop to find any relevant information, but no. It was almost too easy. He’d spotted the necklace on a display in  the front of the store. He recognized it immediately. The dainty gold chain could’ve easily been confused, but the locket that dangled from it, couldn’t be. 

“Mr. Brekker, I didn’t think of you as the jewelry type,” Alwynn gave a short laugh. 

“Well, Alwynn, there are quite a few things you don’t know about me.” 

“That, I’m sure of.”

“How much did you buy it for?” Kaz inquired.

“Bought it for twenty-five. Selling it for forty-two.” Kaz wasn’t surprised. Alwynn had always been a crook. 

“Who brought it in?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Merchant-client privilege, I’m sure you understand.” Alwynn appeared nervous now. Good.

“I’ll pay double the price.”

Alwynn thought for a moment. “His name’s Griffin. He came in yesterday afternoon. He’s been staying in the alley beside Burke’s.” 

“Thank you, Alwynn. It’s been a pleasure as always.” He was well aware that he probably could’ve stolen the necklace or threatened him without spending the kruge, but he decided to, for once, pick his battles. He slid over the proper amount of kruge before making his way to the door.

Kaz found Griffin exactly where Alwynn said he would be.He’d clearly been staying there, the pile of rags on the ground and empty bottles were scattered beside them. He almost felt sorry for him. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Kaz approached Griffin, making his presence known. The man, probably around twenty or so, must have been at least a little intelligent, because his expression was a mixture of fear and confusion. 

“Good evening Griffin,” Kaz crooned. “You know, I heard from a close source of mine that you met a lady around this area yesterday afternoon.” 

“I meet a lot of ladies around here.” Griffin scoffed.

“Well, this particular lady said that you threatened her. Stole her money and a necklace. Surely you would remember that. Unless, you make a habit out of stealing from women. Do you?”

“What?” 

“Do you only target women to  pay for your alcohol addiction, or was this particular lady just a special case?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sputtered. 

“How much did you take?” Kaz growled, ignoring the obvious lie that had escaped from his mouth. He didn’t need an answer. He already knew. 17 kruge and her necklace (which he’d gotten thirty-five for at the shop), but he wanted to hear him admit it. 

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even if Kaz didn’t already know he was lying, it wouldn’t have been hard to tell. The sweat beading at his forehead, the way his eyes darted, the fact that he had around fifty-two kruge worth of bottles at his feet. It was too easy. 

“This wouldn’t happen to jog your memory would it?” Kaz held the chain out. Griffin’s face went pale. It was as if all of the color had simply vanished. “So, I’ll ask again: how much did you take?” 

“Not a lot, just seventeen kruge, and I’ll-”

“You’ll pay it back. In fact, you’re going to pay back the seventeen that you stole, the eighty-four I had to pay to buy the necklace back from the crook you sold it to, and an extra thirty kruge for making me get out in this dreadful cold to track down you and this necklace.” Kaz felt it to be a fair trade. For him at least. 

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Well, I suggest that you find it before the week is out. Paid in full, and after that, I don’t want to see you back in Fifth Harbor again, and if I do, I’ll make sure that you end up at the bottom of the Harbor.” He turned to walk back towards the street, but he turned back before he got there. He swung his cane, hard, at Griffin’s right hand–his dominant one–earning a howl of pain. “Next time you decide to steal jewelry from a woman on the street, I would suggest selling it to a shop that’s not only a few feet away from where you’re staying.” 

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

“What’s this?” She looked puzzled at the pouch of kruge that he’d dropped on the table in front of her. Kaz didn’t answer, and realization flooded over her face. “Kaz…” she gave him a stern look. “You didn’t kill him, did you? I would feel really guilty if you killed him.”

“Relax, I didn’t kill him.” Kaz scowled. “But, he won’t be bothering you or anyone else around Fifth Harbor anymore.”

“That really makes it sound like you killed him…”

“I did not kill him. I simply reminded him that it’s not very polite to threaten women.” Kaz rolled his eyes. “Besides, if I’d killed him, I wouldn’t have gotten this back, would I?” He draped the gold chain over his gloved fingers. It was beside the point that he’d found the necklace before he’d found Griffin, and that he could’ve easily gotten it back had he killed him. She didn’t need to know that. 

“You got my locket back?” She gasped in disbelief. She took the chain, eyes wide. “How? Wait…” she paused. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll have you know that you’re missing out on quite the lovely story, then,” Kaz teased. 

“I’m sure. I think it’ll be far lovelier if I never find out, though.” She chuckled. “Because something tells me it involved some of your more extreme measures.”

“Not extreme enough if you ask me. He got to keep all of his fingers. You know if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’re making me soft.”

“Thank you.” She offered him a gracious smile. 

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

Kaz had never been one to fear others. He was fairly confident in his ability to fight his way out of a skirmish, should one come up, so why would he? He’d fought off far more men than the three in front of him on his own. What could he have to fear?

He had never been afraid, but all it took was a few goddamn words and his blood turned to ice. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to that healer of yours, wouldn’t it?” A threat. A barely subtle attempt at one. In any other case, he probably would’ve laughed it off. Come up with some witty response. He didn’t have it in him. What if it wasn’t a bluff?

“If you touch her, I swear to you, I’ll gut you,” Kaz snarled. It wasn’t the smartest move. Now, there was no doubt that he cared. That they could use her against him. 

“The Bastard of the Barrel does have a heart, eh?” Rowell sneered. His last encounter with the Razorgulls hadn’t ended as smoothly as he’d hoped. They’d gone searching on him. Trying to find–well he supposed they did–find leverage. They’d finally found Kaz Brekker’s weakness. 

The words echoed through Kaz’s head. “Rowell, if you touch her, I can always pay a visit to Broad Street. I seem to recall that’s where your wife and daughter are? If I find out any of your men touched my healer, I’ll put a bullet in their heads myself.” He was good for it. Rowell knew it. He had never been above killing, and that was when he didn’t have something to lose. 

Rowell’s face contorted in alarm. Kaz knew where his family was. Kaz had just as much leverage as he did. The only difference was Kaz was far more ruthless than Rowell ever imagined. 

“You may think you’ve found my weakness, Rowell, and maybe you have, but you should know by now that I don’t respond well to threats. If you’re going to do something, do it. Otherwise don’t waste my time and your breath just telling me about it.” With that, Kaz began his trek back to the Slat. For the first time in quite a long time, he was scared. They could very well call his bluff. By this point, Rowell could have already gotten to her by now. He’d spent so much of his time focusing on protecting her from the Barrel, that he’d forgotten that association with Kaz Brekker was the biggest threat of all. 

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

It had been weeks since Rowell’s threat. He hadn’t taken it lightly. He didn’t think Rowell was brave enough to do anything, but if he’d noticed, it was only a matter of time before others would too, if they hadn’t already. 

He’d decided to keep his distance. That was the only way he knew how to keep her safe. Kaz Brekker was the most feared man in the Barrel because he had nothing to lose. If it came out that he did in fact care for anything… well he had a lot of enemies that would waste no time doing everything in their power to take it from him. 

He’d been avoiding her altogether. She was hurt. He knew that. It was better for her to be hurt than dead. 

He was making his way up the stairs to his study, ready to shut himself for the night to plan for the upcoming job he’d secured. It was nothing big, probably him, Jesper, and a couple of the newer recruits for the Dregs. Test their loyalty before anything major. 

He saw her near the bar talking to Jesper, laughing at something he’d said. He swiftly turned away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Xavier (ironically one of the new recruits he was planning to take) grab at her waist. He was quite intoxicated, slurring a remark that he couldn’t hear, but was almost certainly derogatory. She politely pushed him aside, muttering a soft ‘no thank you’, but Xavier wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

Kaz didn’t even have time to think, really. He didn’t have to think. It was instinct. He ignored the pain in his leg and crossed the room. He’d never been the biggest fan of Xavier, so he didn’t feel too guilty about the punch that landed on the boy’s jaw. His knuckles throbbed from the contact, but he ignored it. When Xavier offered to try and return the blow, Kaz dodged the jab and cracked his cane over his back. 

“This is a respectable establishment, and that means when a woman says ‘no’ that’s the end of the discussion.” 

Kaz avoided her gaze, and made his way up to his study, but he was followed. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Kaz muttered, sitting in his chair, finally resting his leg. 

“You’ve spent weeks acting like I don’t exist, and now you’re getting in bar fights to defend me? And what? You’re just going to go back to ignoring me?” She was hardly a confrontational person, so Kaz knew that she was angry by the sudden outburst. “I don’t get it. What did I do to make you decide that you hate me?” 

Surely she didn’t really believe that he hated her. “I don’t hate you.” He still didn’t look up. 

“So, what is it then?” She was blinking back tears. He felt guilty, a feeling that he didn’t even know he was capable of. 

“You seriously don’t get it?”

“No, I don’t get it!” She shouted. 

“I care about you!” He blurted. “Far more than I should.” His confession earned a scoff. “You don’t believe me?”

She raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t believe you. Why would I?”

“Why? What would I possibly have to gain from lying to you about that?”

“I don’t know, but I never know anything with you!” 

“Fine, if you don’t believe me, then go. If you think I’m lying then why are you still here?” He didn’t believe that she didn’t believe him. She wasn’t stupid. He knew she wasn’t. 

“I just want to know why! Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I already told you the truth, so what do you want from me?” Kaz suddenly felt defensive. “I care about you, and people noticed. Rowell threatened you straight to my face, and I realized that if people thought that you meant anything to me, then they’d come after you. They’d kill you to get to me, and that can’t happen.” 

“So, it was that easy then? You got scared that someone was going to come after me so you decided to just stop caring? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“That is not what I said. What I said was that if they thought that you were important to me, they would come for you. I never said that meant I stopped caring.” Kaz huffed. “This is the only way that I can be sure you’re safe.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I have a stake in this too?” She was letting the tears fall freely now. “I don’t care who comes after me.”

“I can’t lose you.” Kaz shook his head. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I can’t guarantee that people won’t come for you. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I haven’t exactly made a good reputation my priority.” Kaz attempted a joke, but really it served more as a warning. A glimpse into what being close to him would entail, which would mean always looking over your shoulder. 

“Believe it or not, I have actually caught on to that part…” She let out a soft chuckle. 

He reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair out of her face. He took the opportunity to rest his gloved hand on her cheek. He felt his body tense. His hand fell. Flashes of the nightmare that he’d endured. Jordie’s cold grey skin. The smell of waterlogged rotten flesh. It was as if he was back in the harbor. Surrounded by nothing but death and decay. 

She seemed to notice his ordeal. Concern flashed through her eyes. “Are you feeling alright, Kaz?” He’d never told her about his brother. He’d never told anyone, really. As far as he was concerned, Kaz Rietveld had died in that harbor, but that wasn’t all true. If it had, he wouldn’t be damn near hyperventilating because he’d touched her. It was stupid. He was stupid. He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. She probably thought he’d lost his mind.

“I think you need to rest,” she suggested. “I’ll run downstairs and grab you some water, I’ll be right-” 

“No.” His voice came out hoarse. 

“Kaz, you look like you’re about to pass out, I think you should drink something.” 

“I want you to stay.” He sounded needy like a child and he hated it, but he also meant every word. “Please stay.” He grabbed her hand. Only this time, it was easier. He wasn’t thinking about death and despair. He wasn’t thinking about Jordie. He was thinking about her. 

[sillygoofyqueer]

Time for some thoughts on the heavenly aspects of heavenly crow demons!

I've gathered from readings various xianxia works that demon kind (Mó Zú, 魔族) and 'heart demons' (Xīn Mó, 心魔) are both called Mó (魔) because the two are intertwined. Demons are either 1) beings that succumbed to their own heart demons, 2) physical manifestations of the heart demons of individuals or people generally, 3) cosmic entities that foster heart demons in other people, or 4) decedents of other demons formed via the former methods. In other words, you don't get a demon without some sort of heart demon being associated with them!

In SVSSS, Heavenly Demons are very explicitly of the first category! They were heavenly beings, but "fell to depravity" and became demons, with the Zuiyin (罪印, Mark of Sin) being a physical manifestation of their fall from the heavens.

When Binghe's seal was broken, he was overcome with bloodlust and the "desire to inflict savage cruelty," which along with all their blood related powers, seems to indicate the major heart demon his Heavenly Demon bloodline suffers from is specifically bloodlust. I'd hazard a guess that a tendency towards anger, and perhaps the need for vengeance, may be manifestations of that heart demon too (succumbing to anger certainly makes Binghe's mark glow brighter and spread).

Thinking about the ex-Jinwu Heavenly Demon Crows, their particular heart demon should be related to vanity, pride, and carelessness. Depending on how you interpret the myth, they almost burned the world to ashes just to mess around, and perhaps be admired, so it seems fitting!

Based on this, Heavenly Demon Crows have a strong tendency towards luxury, pampering, and playing around. If they're trapped somewhere stuffy and boring, are forced to perform menial labors, or are in a sorry state where they don't get to show off their fine garments (or plumage) and sparkly jewelry to be admired, they tend to get quite irritated about it.

Speaking of jewelry, since Heavenly Demon Crows used to be pure gold, their current mostly 'drab' black appearance with only gold feather tips and a slightly gold sheen, is quite tragic to them. It contributes to their grand desire to cover themselves in glitter and gold to make up it!

Luckily for Shen Yuan, he unknowingly snags himself a man who will be thrilled to spoil him rotten, take him to interesting places, and cover him in all the gold and fine silks he could ever want!

First of all, the level of thought you've put into demons is admirable and I will never be able to think of anything else when I'm thinking about demons. Woarh...so many kinds of demons - all so fascinating...So, heavenly demons as once heavenly beings, which is just wild to think about - and the Zuiyin information!! I'm not afraid to admit that I'm very hopeless when it comes to things into this, so this is all information that I am chewing on quite gently THE VANITY, PRIDE AND CARELESSNESS SIN LINKING TO THE CROW DEMONS YES YES YES!!! The idea of Shen Yuan slowly falling for these typicalities within his bloodline, it's so so silly, the idea that he just randomly walks into his little nest home and realises that he's SURROUNDED by gold and glitter and shiny shit, and he's just like "....ohhhh. OHHHHHH-" I love the idea of a huffy Shen Yuan doing something to help out the locals (he loves helping the local villages, even if he hates doing work), and a couple of crows watching as he lugs along a cart of dirt and quietly bemoans the fact that anything shiny he has is thoroughly caked with dirt - he may be helpful, but he likes to be shiny :(( BINGHE GIVING HIM LITERALLY EVERYTHING HE COULD EVER WANT - He so much as LOOKS at something? It's immediately his. Immediately. I love this. I wish I could say more but this speaks for itself. (Check the crowyuan au tag on my Tumblr for more!! I'll probably answer a couple more asks about it tomorrow because I'm only on half a day of learning and I've got a few more interesting asks to blab about!! :D)

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hello! I have seen this question debated many times and I wanted to know your take on it cause I find your theories very compelling. Do you think harry should've been in Slytherin? Does he have what it "takes" to be a Slytherin? Is it because of voldemort's soul in him that lead the sorting hat to even suggest he could be in Slytherin? I know this is not one question but I would like to know your opinion on this topic in general!

First of all, thank you for the kind words! 😊

As for the questions, well, you've asked more than one question, but this ask kinda gives me a good reason to talk about how Harry isn't some golden Gryffindor. He actually has some anger issues and he most definitely has what it "takes" for Slytherin.

I'll start with the last question and then go backward, actually.

Did the hat consider Slytherin house just because of the Horcrux?

I don't think so.

I mean, Harry is incredibly clever, magically powerful, and has a cunning streak a mile wide all on his own. I'd actually go as far as to say he's more cunning, ruthless, and resourceful than many of the Slytherins we see in the books. So his own traits definitely are in line with a Slytherin sorting, Horcrux or no Horcrux.

We can try and discern if the Horcrux has an effect on Harry's personality then, and if its influence is seen like that. I'd say that I don't think so either.

Tom and Harry, while they have their similarities, are very different people. They both have a bad temper (although they react to anger differently), but Harry has low self-esteem whereas Tom thinks he is the best (while still hating himself). They're both stubborn, but Tom is much more obsessive than Harry in pursuit of his goals. Harry cares for justice and isn't willing to hurt innocents, Tom doesn't really care about any of that he cares for efficiency. If the Horcrux was influencing Harry's personality, I'd expect to see more similarities between them that go deeper than that.

So, I don't think the hat only offered Slytherin because of the Horcrux. Harry is a Slytherin in his own right.

Does Harry have what it "takes" for Slytherin?

So, I honestly got really excited at the sight of this sentence. See I love Harry, that's no secret. But one of the things I love about him is that he isn't the perfect noble hero. He can be angry, and cruel and ruthless. But he has a sense of justice, he wouldn't wish harm on someone innocent, but someone who did harm to him, or was mean to him or someone he cares for... then Harry can be terrifying when he wants to be.

So, now I'm going to go through some (I have so many more examples of this, and the examples here are mostly books 1-5 since that's what I had on hand) of my collection of quotes showing Harry Potter's vindictiveness and anger.

Harry's response to "have a good summer" at the end of his first year:

“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer.…

(PS, page 221)

This is Harry's (very justified) vindictiveness we see towards the Dursleys many times in the books. He uses the idea of magic to scare them and is gleeful at the thought of Dudley's fear. Harry is very much chill with vengeance.

“…He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

(PoA, page 435)

Same as above, just Sirius Black as the threat instead of magic.

Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to look as though he was too worried.

(GoF, page 25)

Harry can and does lie and conceal information, even from people he trusts (like Sirius) if he thinks it'll be better not to tell them something. Whether that is for his own image or for what they would think.

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. “We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —” “Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him. “We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —” Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. “Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye.

(CoS, page 259)

And he clearly can lie well, even at 12.

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know — my godfather.” He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.

...

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then — “Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy . . . this stupid . . . this World Cup thing.

(GoF, page 33)

Again, vindictiveness and manipulation of Vernon through fear. Not only that, but Harry can keep his calm and keep his face blank even at 14 for the sake of getting something he wants.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron. . . .” “Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” “You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry — both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?” Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” “Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning away.

(GoF, page 204)

Harry has a bark (all of the above quotes are Harry having a bark). He can and does shoot back as good as he gets.

Harry isn't all bark though, he's got a bit. Harry's anger is palpable and so very real and I love seeing it:

just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters. “COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!” But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon. “She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. “She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.”  He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. “I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”

(PoA, page 30)

Again, Harry has his vindictive strike. (Obviously, Marge had it coming, but that's also what Harry is thinking).

A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill.

(PoA, page 339)

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly, but his wand hand quite steady.

(PoA, page 341)

Harry, at 13, was fully willing to kill who he believed led to his parents' deaths. And more:

So what if he had to kill the cat too? It was in league with Black. . . . If it was prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t Harry’s business. . . .

(PoA, page 342)

He's willing to kill Hermione's cat if it stands in his way.

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty. He hadn’t done it. His nerve had failed him. Black was going to be handed back to the dementors.

(PoA, page 343)

Harry Potter, at 13, laments that he didn't have the nerve to kill Sirius himself. He thinks he should've killed himself. He sees it as a failure that justice would be served by someone other than him.

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him. . . . If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse . . . he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. . . .

(GoF, page 300)

Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing “We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter ” as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight.

(GoF, page 347)

The above quotes are both situations Harry was willing and wishing to curse people. Even Crucio Snape. He's not as noble and righteous and golden as many fans and characters in the books make him out to be...

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking Harry. . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand . . . let them try . . . He’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell —

(OotP, page 11)

And sometimes, Harry wishes for an excuse to fight. An excuse to take his anger out on someone. (He has a lot of anger in him)

Smirking all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leaned across Harry and seized the largest bowtruckle. “Maybe,” said Malfoy in an undertone, so that only Harry could hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got himself badly injured.” “Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” said Harry out of the side of his mouth.

(OotP, page 260)

He's threatening and witty.

“Oh no,” said Hermione, quaking so badly that her knees gave way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he [Gwamp] might kill them [the centaurs] all. . . .” “I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” said Harry bitterly.

(OotP, page 759)

And when it comes to people he doesn't consider innocent, or ones he doesn't care for, even if they never harmed him, Harry is still vindictive. The centaurs mistreated Firenze and Hagrid, so Harry doesn't really care if Gwamp kills them all.

That being said, he is more concerned about Sirius in the above scene.

And he can and does cast unforgivables easily by the later books:

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed “Crucio!” Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had — she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the golden fountain again — her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor.

(OotP, page 809)

Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak, pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the first time in his life, “Imperio!” A curious sensation shot down Harry’s arm, a feeling of tingling, warmth that seemed to flow from his mind, down the sinews and veins connecting him to the wand and the curse it had just cast. The goblin took Bellatrix’s wand, examined it closely, and then said, “Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!”

(DH, pages 152-453)

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!” The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. “I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, “you need to really mean it.”

(DH, page 502)

So, I think Harry definitely has what it takes. He's clever, he can be ruthless, and he's capable of lying and hiding secrets when he feels it's the best option. He can hide his emotions when he really needs to, even if he rarely does. Actually, only in book 6, Harry starts sharing everything with Ron and Hermione on Dumbledore’s advice. Up to that point, he kept quite a bit to himself. And when someone wrongs him, he can and often will swing back.

And last but not least, should he have been in Slytherin?

So, this is an interesting question, because "should" can have two meanings.

1. Should've for the story — as in what is best for the narrative.

2. Should've for the character — in universe, which house the sorting hat should've picked.

So, for the first one, my answer is no. Gryffindor was the right choice for Harry for the narrative of the books as they are. Gryffindor is essentially the opposite of Slytherin and represents a choice more than just the traits and values the house represents. It represents Harry's choice even though he could've been a Slytherin he chose Gryffindor. And it's a constant choice with every heroic act. (personally, I'm not the biggest fan of equating school houses with morality, but it's effective in creating a clear narrative)

And while not all Slytherins are evil and not all Gryffindors are good, a Slytherin Harry Potter would've resulted in a very different story than what we have. So, for the story we ended up getting to happen the way it did, yes, Harry needed to be a Gryffindor.

For the second, maybe. Personally, I believe people (even if they aren't hatstalls) have more than one house they can fit into. Harry is both a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, and neither of them is more wrong or right for him as a person. I think deciding which one of them is best for him is up to a coin flip (and when in his life the question is asked).

He can be ruthless and cunning like a Slytherin. Selfless and courageous like a Gryffindor. He values justice like a Gryffindor. But he also has the selective loyalty of Slytherin to their own.

Point is, there isn't really a "should", because both suit him and he would’ve done well in both. Do I think Slytherin Harry is an incredibly fun concept to consider? Yes. Did I read way too many fics with this premise and would read more? Yes. Do I think he might've fit into Slytherin better than Gryffindor? Well, not necessarily.

Harry is much quieter than most in Gryffindor, but I think the constant scheming and image-keeping in Slytherin would be exhausting to him. He just doesn't care about all the gossip and politicalizing (something that occasionally leaves him out of the loop also in Gryffindor). So, again, both suit him about equally. The difference is that we get a very different story depending on his house.

[eyesofbong]

A Chrollo x F!Hunter Reader Fic | Summary

Best advised to be read in dark mode. AO3 link coming soon!

★ 18+ MDNI WARNINGS: descriptive murder, burning of corpses, torture?, arson, slight implication of attempted suicide, gore, blood, violence, strong mentions of sexual abuse towards children including human trafficking, implied kidnapping, perversion of innocence, predators, CP, and implied rape. (NO I DO NOT ENDORSE THE ABUSE OF CHILDREN. it is only briefly mentioned since it is disgusting to keep the story realistic and strictly used as awareness since this is actual problems in the real world they don't just kidnap children. I WILL NEVER! write about non-con with underage characters or children, rape, and assault.) ★

☆ word count. 8.9k (sheeeesh had to hold back on somethings)

✥ Chapter Summary: Lost in the shadows of your despair, haunted by memories of the children you once saved, you find yourself drifting further from your purpose. But when a call from Chairman Netero breaks the silence, you're pulled back into a world you thought you'd left behind, drawn into the unknown for one last round — for the sake of saving a young man from making the same mistakes you did. ✥

The church was still, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candles. You remained in the pew, feigning prayer, while your mind wrestled with turbulent thoughts.

But before you found yourself here, in this quiet sanctuary, there was a journey—a path that led you back to the world you had once left behind.

“You can’t save them all.”

The words echoed in your mind—a truth you had grappled with for most of your life. So why was it so hard to accept that cruel reality? Why did you live your life the way you did? Most people would argue that they wish they had your power and skills. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t comprehend the burden that came with such strength.

Why would anyone want to carry that weight for so long?

Power is a double-edged sword. If you aren’t corrupted by it, you’re crushed beneath its weight. How easy it is to destroy rather than create.

You often wondered why Netero had chosen you that day. What did he see first—the helpless child who had lost everything or the Hunter who would grow into his greatest soldier?

You trailed behind the men, each step leading you deeper into the belly of this vile place. They had no idea you were not one of them, no clue that every word you spoke and every move you made was part of a carefully laid trap. The air around you was thick with malice, a foul concoction of despair, fear, and predatory intent.

Since taking the head of your family’s killer, there has been a void in your heart—one you filled with vengeance.

But now, you had a new purpose: to use your power to hunt down the worst of humanity, like this network of mafia traffickers.

Suddenly, your senses sharpened. You heard it—a soft, muffled cry—the children.

The group leader, a man with greasy hair and a twisted grin, laughed. “You hear them, little rascals?” he sneered, gesturing ahead with a perverse pride. “Got a fresh batch of chicklings just yesterday. Innocent, full of life... worth a lot more in certain markets, if you catch my drift..."

A wave of revulsion swept over you, but you kept your face steady, fighting internally the burning in your throat.

Sick bastards. That’s all they were to you. There was nothing more vile than preying upon children, tearing away their innocence, and selling their pain.

Once, you had believed killing was always wrong. But when faced with monsters like these, death seemed like the only solution.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, right, Mistress?” The leader’s voice was thick with expectation, his beady eyes studying you for any sign of weakness.

You met his gaze with a cold, calculated, calm one. “The price is no problem, but I’ll need to see the ‘quality’ of the children you speak of to ensure they’re worth it,” you replied, playing along with his sick game. He grinned, his yellowed teeth bared like a predator sensing victory.

“Of course, my lady, right this way,” he said, gesturing for you to follow him up a rickety flight of stairs.

As you ascended, you noticed the tapes scattered on the floor—stacks of them carefully labeled and arranged. Your heart sank at the sight. You knew exactly what they were: recordings of abuse. Child pornography is waiting to be sold and distributed. Evidence of what these children had endured and what they were being forced to relive in the most horrific way possible.

Images of small, terrified faces pinned to the walls, some in tears, others with expressions frozen in fear, burned into your mind. You forced yourself to keep moving, to keep your eyes forward, your face blank. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to lash out, but you had to stay focused. You had to see this through.

When you reached the top, he led you to a door and pushed it open with a creak. Inside, the children were huddled together, wide-eyed and trembling. At the front stood a small boy with big gray eyes—"The runt." of the group. His clothes were torn, dirt smeared on his cheeks, but there was something in his gaze—a spark of defiance that hadn’t yet been snuffed out. The other children seemed to hover protectively around him, even in their weakened states.

“Well, what do you think of these little lambs?” the leader asked, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Aren’t they precious?”

You glanced at the children, your heart aching. For a split second, your gaze softened when you saw the small, porcelain-skinned boy, his eyes locked onto yours. He seemed to sense something in you, something different. You took a slow, steady breath, and without moving your lips, you mouthed, “I’m here to help.”

The boy’s grip on the bars loosened slightly. Hope flickered in his big gray eyes. You could feel the children’s fear and desperation mingling with a fragile thread of trust. They were so small, so fragile, yet somehow still fighting.

“They are precious,” you murmured, your voice taking on a steely edge. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

The men’s laughter faltered. They sensed the shift, but too late. You moved swiftly, raising your hand. A wall of stone shot up from the ground, separating the children from their captors. Panic spread among the men as they scrambled for their weapons, but you were already moving.

With a flick of your wrist, a vine extended from the stone wall, and in its grip, a sword was handed to you. The blade flashed, slicing through the air. In one swift motion, you severed their hands before they could draw their guns. Blood spattered against the walls, and the men screamed.

“You crazy bi—” one of them began, but his voice was cut off as you grabbed his face. Nen flames flared from your palm, melting his skin. His screams turned to a hideous, gurgling cry as you slammed him against the wall, against a picture of him touching one of the children.

“My flames are nothing compared to the ones you’ll face for eternity,” you said, your voice cold and unwavering.

"THE DEVIL! YOU'RE THE DEVIL!" he shrieked, his voice cracking in terror.

“YOU’LL GO TO HELL TOO!” another screamed.

You tilted your head slightly, unbothered. “I know,” you replied calmly. “And I’ll be right there with you... to make sure you suffer.”

With a final, furious surge of nen, you let the flames consume him, his body twitching as the fire took hold. One by one, the men fell, their screams swallowed by the inferno of your rage.

The air thickened with the stench of burning flesh, but all you felt was a calm, cold satisfaction. You took a deep breath, letting the fire die down, leaving only smoldering ashes behind.

The floor was now slick with blood, staining everything it touched. You closed your eyes and focused, drawing on your nen, the energy that flowed through your very being. You felt a ripple within yourself, a gathering of moisture in your veins, pulling towards your fingertips. With a single thought, you summoned it forth.

20%

A small, shimmering blob of water began to form, hovering just above your palm. It glistened with a faint blue hue, infused with your nen—your life force flowing through it. The water was more than liquid; it was an extension of your will, a manifestation of the purity and cleansing you desired.

You moved your hand slowly, and the blob expanded, reaching toward the crimson stains that pooled on the floor. It touched the blood, and a strange, almost serene reaction occurred. The nen-infused water seemed to drink up the blood, absorbing it into its depths, turning it from a crystalline blue to a dark, murky red. It quivered and shifted, gathering every last drop, until the floor was clean.

Once it was done, you flicked your wrist, and the blood-tainted water dissipated into steam, evaporating into the air. The scent of iron and smoke faded, leaving behind only the faintest whisper of moisture.

You turned to the vine still hanging from the wall. “Take the corpses to another room,” you said softly. “I don’t want the children to see this.”

The vine extended, wrapping around the charred remains and dragging them away, leaving the room clear. You watched it go, feeling a pang of sorrow in your chest. “I’m sorry, Mother,” you whispered, “but someone has to purge the evil, right?”

The vine nodded as if in understanding and vanished into the shadows.

With the room now clear, you lowered the stone wall, allowing the children to see. They were still huddled together, wide-eyed, trembling, but there was a new light in their eyes—a glimmer of hope.

You kneeled, using a tiny flame to illuminate the room gently. “You’re safe now,” you said softly, your voice switching to a delicate tone.

The small, marble-eyed boy stepped forward. His hand slipped into yours, his grip surprisingly strong for his size. “You back came for us?” he whispered, his voice shaking but resolute.

You nodded, squeezing his hand gently, a warm smile breaking through your hardened expression. “Always.”

The children began to move toward you, timid at first, then with growing confidence, their small hands reaching out, seeking comfort. For now, at least, they were safe.

And you would make sure it stayed that way.

It was mostly your funding that kept the orphanages in Meteor City from crumbling. Your money was funneled into the broken, forgotten corners of the city where children like Chrollo and his friends sought refuge. You couldn’t always be there, but when you were, you made it count—your presence, your touch, your attention. That was the difference, wasn’t it? You had to put your wealth somewhere, after all—unlike Ging or Pariston, whose fortunes seemed to disappear into the wind, chasing their whims. For you, though, Meteor City had become an escape, a place to atone for the things you couldn’t control.

But it was more than duty, wasn’t it?

Chrollo had bonded to you in a way that you hadn’t expected. The other children admired you, but he worshiped you. His innocence clung to you, unsettling and infectious, dragging you into a world where, for brief moments, you almost believed you could be more than just a Hunter. That you could be someone who stayed.

It was one of those quiet, unguarded moments when you found yourself in Meteor City again, his small, frail body curled up against yours on his bed, his head tucked beneath your chin as if he could melt into your very being. His face pressed into your chest, and his small hands clung to your shirt as if you were his entire world.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice soft, pleading. His wide gray eyes blinked up at you, still so full of that childlike adoration that made your chest tighten painfully. He didn’t understand—how could he? He was too young, too innocent.

You combed your fingers through his shaggy, jet-black hair, pretending it didn’t hurt to hear him ask. Pretending it didn’t make you feel like you were betraying something inside yourself. The glow from the window—the familiar golden light of dawn—signaled your impending departure. Mother Nature, it seemed, always knew when it was time to pull you away. You would have to leave again. You always left.

But not yet.

“Okay,” you whispered, the lie slipping from your lips like it always did. “I’ll stay.” You tucked his head back against your chest, hoping to drown his fears in the safety of your embrace. He felt so small compared to you, so fragile. You held him tighter, but no matter how tightly you cradled him, you knew it wouldn’t be enough. You couldn’t stay.

He sighed, his words soft and filled with frustration. “I wish you were just a normal girl. Not the Great Hunter. They always take you away from me.”

The weight of his words crushed your chest. You swallowed hard, burying the guilt and sorrow that always surfaced in these moments. He was just a boy, after all—a boy who didn’t know what it meant to live a life like yours. His love was simple, innocent, and untainted by the reality that you could never be what he wanted you to be.

He sighed again, his voice thick with sleep. “It’s not fair. You’re just a kid like me, but it’s like... you’re not. You’re stronger, taller... you have magic. You’re not afraid of anything.” His sleepy eyes blinked up at you, half-lidded, his gaze lingering on your face as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling asleep. “You’re so cool, Y/N.”

You forced a smile, your heart aching with every word. How could he say these things so easily, not knowing the storm they stirred within you? You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be feeling this pull toward him, this unbearable conflict between duty and something else—something darker, something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I want to be strong like you,” he continued, his voice fading as sleep began to pull him under. “Then I’ll be the one to save you.”

You let out a chuckle, though it felt hollow. “Oh really? I can’t wait to see you try.” Your voice was soft and gentle, as if you could keep him safe from the weight of your feelings. But even as you spoke, your gaze lingered on his longer than it should have. The way his eyes—those innocent gray eyes—held yours made something inside you crack. You didn’t want to look away.

And yet, you had to.

As Chrollo yawned, his body slowly relaxing into the warmth of your embrace, your heart clenched in that familiar, bittersweet way. You knew what was coming next—the moment when he would fall asleep, and you’d have to leave. You always left. He knew it too, even if he didn’t say it. His eyes fought against the sleep pulling him under as if staying awake would keep you there just a little longer.

You should go. You needed to go. But instead, you held him close, brushing your thumb along his cheek, tracing the outline of his pale face. He murmured something so soft, so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your heart shattered.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t respond. How could you? What could you say to that? You weren’t supposed to feel this way. You weren’t supposed to let it hurt. And yet, his innocent words cut deeper than any wound you had ever known.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you cradled his face in your hands, letting the silence fill the space between you. Your mind and heart were at war, clashing violently as you tried to convince yourself that you felt nothing for this boy—nothing beyond duty, beyond the role you were meant to play.

But his words lingered. His love lingered. And it was killing you.

Only you could carry this burden. You had to ensure that you were the last shepherd, even if you were just a broken saint now.

And when he called, you would answer, no matter how much time had passed since that harrowing incident.

Isaac Netero’s familiar contact flashed onto your phone just as you returned to your quiet estate. The grand home, surrounded by vast lands, had become your sanctuary—where time seemed to stand still. Bamboo trees swayed in the wind, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite hear, and the rustle of leaves was like a lullaby to your broken spirit. This land, untouched and isolated, had become your refuge. Here, you could pretend the world had forgotten you, just as you had tried to ignore it.

You rarely needed to leave; everything you required, you grew with your own hands. The earth was rich and forgiving; the bamboo was tall and kind, your only companions, as well as the critters that inhabited the land, your only solace. They tried to aid in healing your scars, though they only made the loss more bearable. They connected you to reality, keeping you grounded and pulling you back from the edge whenever you felt yourself slipping away. They depended on you as much as you did on them. 

But even Mother Nature, with all her quiet persistence, couldn’t fill the gaping void left by your loss. She could only make the emptiness more bearable, less suffocating.

You had given in to the silence, but she hadn’t given up on you. Yet the moment Netero’s contact appeared, the corpse of your heart couldn’t help but beat with a retired purpose you knew you could no longer fulfill.

Still, your hands, worn and deft, quickly picked up the phone, bringing it to your ear.

“Y/N L/N. Think you have a chance to talk, my dear?”

His familiar, softened gruff voice was a reminder of how time had aged him, even though he had left you with so many unanswered questions. He was still your father in many ways.

But you were now Netero’s little fallen general.

“I’m here,” you replied, your voice a ghost of itself, as if unused to forming words meant for anyone else. “It's good to hear your voice. I would ask, How have you been?”

“I am well, Father,” you cut in, a weary undertone threading through your words. “Trying to keep the ground from swallowing me whole.”

A heavy silence fell between you, a shared history that neither of you wanted to address hanging thick in the air. Netero sighed, his voice dipping into a tone you had not heard in years—gentle, almost pleading. 

“Y/N…”

You remained silent, unyielding, waiting for him to continue.

“Listen to me, just this once,” he started, but you interrupted again, sharper this time, like a blade cutting through the fog.

“My nen is gone, Isaac," you said, each word deliberate and hard. "There’s nothing more to that story. There is no Master of the Hunters anymore.”

The silence that followed was colder, heavier. You could almost hear him wince at the use of his first name, a name you rarely called him. You knew it hurt him—that it stripped away the façade he liked to wear around you.

He hesitated, then took a deep breath, his voice laced with quiet desperation. “I'm not asking for her to listen to me,” he said carefully. “I'm asking for you, Y/N.”

Your gaze drifted to the bamboo outside, watching the stalks bend and sway in the wind. There was a part of you that wanted to hang up, to let the silence consume you once more, but another part—a faint, barely alive spark—kept you on the line.

“There is a young man,” Netero continued, “who is the spitting reincarnation of you."

Your chest tightened, the ache spreading like a slow poison through your veins. You swallowed, but it felt like shards of glass in your throat.

Netero’s voice softened, almost as if he were trying to soothe a frightened child. “I know I pushed you to retire early, and for that, I am sorry,” he confessed, his words heavy with regret. “I couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen if the wrong people found out you had lost your nen. But this boy—he needs someone who can show him the way. Someone who can give him a chance to choose a different path. A scent he can follow.”

He paused, the weight of his words settling into the air between you. “None of us can do that.”

A flicker of frustration sparked within you, threatening to crack the numbness you had wrapped around yourself like armor. You closed your eyes, the familiar heaviness of duty pressing against your chest. "Why... why do you always drag me back, Isaac?" you murmured, your voice almost devoid of emotion, a whisper lost in the wind.

“Because,” he replied softly, his voice steady but filled with quiet insistence, “you lost your nen, but you didn’t lose everything. I couldn’t save you from your fate... but you can save him before he makes the same mistake.”

For a moment, the world outside seemed to be still. The bamboo stopped swaying, the wind held its breath, and even the critters paused their quiet movements. Everything waited for you to decide whether you would let yourself be pulled back into the life you had tried so hard to leave behind.

A slow exhale escaped your lips, and your grip tightened around the phone. Maybe it wasn’t about saving yourself. Maybe it was about saving someone else—just one more time.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally whispered, knowing you were already halfway convinced.

Netero's sigh of relief was almost inaudible, but you felt it—a soft echo in your chest. "That's all I ask," he said gently. "Just think about it."

And with that, the call ended, leaving you standing alone in the quiet of your sanctuary, the wind picking up again, the bamboo swaying once more.

For the first time in a long time, you felt the stirrings of something beyond emptiness—a faint, fragile thing that might have been hope.

You let yourself fall back against the mat, feeling the familiar, frayed edges pressing into your back. Your phone lay loosely in your grip, screen dark, but its weight still anchored you to the moment. You stared blankly at the stone pond before you, the water still and silent under the overcast sky. But inside, that gnawing feeling had grown stronger, louder, and more insistent. The doubt and emptiness you had tried so hard to bury now surged to the surface like a wave, threatening to swallow you whole.

Then you saw her—the familiar, ethereal form rising from the pond—"Mother," your nen-made spirit, tilting her head at you, trying to read the emotions you kept so tightly locked away. Her shape shimmered and wavered, the liquid surface of her body catching the dim light, reflecting a thousand tiny, dancing fragments of your surroundings.

“You’re cruel...” you muttered, not bothering to lift your head. You didn’t need to see her to know she was there, watching you with a concern you could not bear. The water spirit hovered closer, her presence radiating a gentle insistence. A wave of water reached out, almost like a hand, and as she moved, droplets broke away and splattered onto your face. The cool water trickled down your skin, obliging you to finally look up and meet her gaze.

Her expression was unreadable, but the tension in her form, the way her edges seemed to blur and tremble, told you everything. She was worried. She is always worried. Especially when you have attempted to end your suffering...

Seeing her like that... It only made the ache worse. It plagued you and gnawed at you like an open wound. You hated it. You hated feeling like this—so useless, so empty. Once, you had been so certain of your place in the world, so sure of your purpose. You had moved like a blade through the darkness, cutting down every evil in your path. You had saved countless lives and fought battles that others had deemed impossible. You mattered.

And now... now it felt like all of that was gone. Stripped away the moment your nen vanished. When it had left you, it had taken everything with it. Your sense of self, your purpose, your reason for being—it had all crumbled to dust, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

"Quit it," you muttered, your voice low and tired. "I'm not in the mood."

But Mother didn’t listen. She never did. Instead, she moved closer, her form rippling like a soft wave, the water elongating until it seemed to reach across the space between you. With a sudden, playful motion, she curled around your feet, a cold grip tightening around your ankles. Before you could protest, she yanked you off the mat, dragging you across the ground.

“Really?” You groaned, exasperation flaring. You knew what she was doing. She was trying to wake you up, to stir something inside you. “Cut it out, Mother.”

She didn’t respond. The water around your ankles tightened, and with another tug, she lifted you upside down, your hair falling toward the ground. The blood rushed to your head, and you blinked, momentarily disoriented. For a moment, you dangled there like a rag doll over the pond, your feet held aloft by a watery tendril.

You found yourself staring directly into her face—or what passed for a face—her liquid eyes focused intently on you, unblinking, unwavering. She was demanding your attention, forcing you to look at her to confront whatever was buried deep inside. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the gentle slosh of water moving with every slight motion.

“I said quit it,” you repeated, a hint of irritation in your voice. But she didn’t budge. Her expression seemed almost stern. The water droplets that made up her body shivered slightly, as if she were speaking a language only you could understand.

Mother’s form shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her head tilted again, and for a second, she almost seemed to frown. The water that held you up began to twist and turn, slowly spinning you in the air as if examining you from every angle. Her touch was cold, but there was something else there—something gentle, almost comforting, beneath the chill. She wouldn’t let you hide from this. She wouldn’t let you sink back into the darkness you’d been wallowing in for so long.

“Quit it, Mother,” you muttered, voice strained, but there was no real fight in your tone. You were too exhausted to fight her, too tired to do much more than dangle there, your heart heavy and your purpose frayed.

Mother, ever persistent, moved the water around you in a swirl, as if shaping something from the depths of her core. You felt a coldness, a thin sheet of water sliding up to your face, and then you saw it—your reflection mirrored perfectly in the water.

But Mother didn’t stop there. Slowly, deliberately, she turned the reflection around.

Your eyes widened as you caught sight of your own back and your skin. The large, red Hunter symbol emblazoned between your shoulder blades, stark against your flesh, with the L/N family symbols woven underneath, bearing the phrase that had once given you strength:

"No child left behind." 

The words, so familiar, stared back at you with a cruel clarity. Your vow, your creed. The promise you had whispered to yourself a thousand times over, in the darkest nights, in the quiet moments of despair. The very words you had once tattooed onto your skin were like armor against the world.

Your breath caught in your throat. You tried to look away, but Mother twisted the mirror slightly, making sure you couldn’t escape it.

The reminder was as sharp as a blade, cutting through your excuses and your self-pity.

You were The Great Hunter, not because of the nen you wielded, but because of the promise you had made. Because of the innocent you had sworn to protect.

Mother watched, her watery eyes soft but firm, refusing to release you until the weight of that reflection settled back into your bones.

You sighed, a long, tired exhale, and for a moment, just a moment, you allowed yourself to feel the ache of that old purpose stirring within you.

She stared back, unyielding. Her watery surface rippled slightly, as if in response to your unspoken thoughts, and you felt a tear prick at the corner of your eye. A tear you quickly blink away. The silence stretched on, filled with everything you weren't saying—filled with all the things she knew you didn’t want to admit.

You sighed, feeling the fight leave you, your shoulders slumping. “Fine. Fine, you win,” you said quietly, feeling defeated, but in a way that almost felt like relief. She had always been there to stop you from corrupting yourself, always pushing you, always forcing you to face the things you wanted to ignore. And now, as much as you hated to admit it, you needed her to do it again.

You felt her release your ankles, and for a moment, you simply stood there, breathing, your heartbeat slowing, the cool air biting at your skin. She hovered closer, her watery hand reaching out as if to touch your face, but she hesitated, just a fraction of an inch away. You stared into her eyes, feeling something inside you break loose like a dam giving way.

You hated this... You hated feeling like you were nothing. Like you were just a vessel for the person you used to be.

Your Nen was gone, but you were still here. That gnawing, insatiable need to matter, to make a difference, was still there, burning quietly beneath the surface.

You took a breath, your fingers tightening around the phone still in your hand. "Alright," you whispered, almost to yourself. "Alright, I'll do it."

Mother seemed to shimmer, her form brightening slightly as if she were smiling. Her droplets swirled around you, a gentle, swirling dance of liquid light like she was encouraging you, cheering you on.

Your thumb moved over the phone screen, almost of its own accord, and you found Netero’s name again, hesitating for just a heartbeat before you pressed the call button. The phone rang once, twice, and then his voice came through—calm but expectant as if he had known you would call back.

“Y/N?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, steeling yourself, and then spoke, your voice steady. “Where is he?”

You stepped off the airship, choosing to take a more grounded approach this time. It had been so long since you walked among society; today, you wanted to feel the earth beneath your feet and hear the noise of life all around you. Normally, you would have flown in on Khan, your Seraphrid—a creature resembling a winged horse, only larger and more formidable, a loyal companion since your youth. But today felt different.

As expected, Khan had already beaten you here. His sleek, black form stood tall among the trees, his six powerful legs moving with an elegance that defied his size. His head was turned in your direction, and the two long, string-like antennae that served as his natural bridle extended, sensing your presence. They wrapped around your arm, their touch gentle but firm, syncing with the veins on the underside of your wrist. The bond was immediate, an ancient connection that required no words.

With a familiar pull, you mounted him, his raised hoof serving as a stepping stool, an unspoken offer only the two of you understood. You clicked your tongue softly, a signal you’d always used, and he responded with a low, rumbling neigh that resonated through your bones.

Khan didn’t need instructions. He read your intentions through the link you shared, feeling the subtle shifts in your thoughts and emotions. He began to trot into the dense forest, guided by your thoughts alone, the rhythm of his steps matching the cadence of your heartbeat.

Netero had informed you that the young man, the one you were to meet, was training in these woods. He had given you the young man’s contact information, though he had been elusive with any real details. When you had pressed for more information, Netero had only chuckled, his words tinged with mystery: “You’ll see...”

Typical of him to leave you to uncover the truth on your own, to dig up the bone yourself, like always. As Khan weaved through the thick underbrush, you found yourself wondering about this boy. What was it about him that had made Netero reach out to you after all this time? What was so special that it warranted pulling you back into this world?

The dense forest began to thin, opening into a sun-dappled clearing. Khan slowed to a gentle canter, his antennae twitching as if sensing something ahead. You felt it too—a presence, quiet yet intense, like a heartbeat echoing through the trees.

This had to be the place. As you dismounted, Khan’s gaze remained fixed forward, his body tense and alert. You patted his side, reassuring him, and he relaxed slightly, though his eyes never wavered from whatever lay beyond the clearing.

You took a deep breath, feeling the familiar stir of curiosity and something deeper—something that felt like the whisper of purpose reigniting within you. Stepping forward, you moved into the clearing, ready to meet the young man Netero had sent you to find, ready to face whatever awaited you on the other side.

You dismounted slowly, your feet sinking into the damp earth as the coolness of the soil crept up through your boots, grounding you in the present moment. The clearing before you stretched wide, dappled sunlight breaking through the thick canopy above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of moss and earth, a living, breathing presence around you. Khan stood tall beside you, his powerful form coiled with restrained energy, his antennae twitching in tune with the undercurrent of tension that rippled from you like a stone dropped in water.

Ahead, the low murmur of voices reached your ears, punctuated by the rhythmic clack of wood striking wood and the sharp rustle of leaves disturbed by quick, deliberate movements. You moved forward slowly, cautiously, each step bringing the sounds into sharper clarity. As you reached the edge of the clearing, you paused, taking in the scene before you.

Two figures moved with practiced grace, their forms entwined in a dance of combat, their bodies speaking a language of strength and discipline. One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, had a presence that radiated intensity and control—Izunavi, a hunter you had known from years ago. His sharp, unwavering gaze and the calm precision of his movements marked him as a hunter, one who had taught countless others the art of survival.

But it was the boy who drew your attention.

He was younger than you had imagined, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo, his eyes narrowed in concentration, a fierce determination burning in their depths. His posture was taut, muscles coiled and ready, every motion calculated and precise as he mirrored Izunavi’s steps, his gaze never faltering, never leaving his mentor for even a heartbeat. His body moved with the grace of a predator, but there was a tension there—a rawness, a desperation that was almost painful to watch.

So this was Kurapika.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was like staring into a ghost, a specter of who you had once been—a younger self, with that same consuming fire, that same drive, that same reckless need to prove something to a world that had never shown mercy. You recognized the look in his eyes immediately. You had seen it in your reflection, in the faces of those you had saved and those you had failed. The beast of burden lay heavy in his gaze, the weight of vengeance familiar darkness that seemed to clutch at his very soul.

He was still a child. Just as you had been—a child thrust into a world too cruel and too vast, carrying a burden too heavy for shoulders so young. You lingered in the shadows, your heart tightening in your chest, a sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Finally, you decided to step forward, your presence pressing through the air like a ripple in still water.

Izunavi’s movements stilled. He sensed you first, his eyes flickering toward you, his expression a mask of calm neutrality, though you saw the faint recognition behind his eyes. His stance eased, a subtle acknowledgment. Kurapika followed his gaze, turning to face you, and the intensity of his scrutiny hit you like a blow—a look so piercing it seemed to strip away layers, searching, demanding answers before he even spoke.

“Master,” Izunavi greeted, his tone respectful but carrying a hint of something harder beneath. "Netero told me you might be dropping by."

"Y/N," you corrected, voice soft but firm. Each syllable felt heavy in your mouth, burdened by the memories of your past. You inclined your head slightly, stepping fully into the clearing, moving with purpose, though a knot tightened in your stomach. "It’s been a while, Izunavi," you said, your voice sounding almost foreign to your ears. "I see you’ve taken on another pupil."

Izunavi nodded. "One with a special kind of determination," he replied, a note of pride softening his otherwise stern demeanor. He glanced at Kurapika, who stood like a coiled spring, ready to snap. "Kurapika, this is Y/N L/N—once known as Master Hunter, The Great Hunter, the Hound of the Hunters… too many names to count."

Kurapika’s eyes widened slightly at the sound of your name. Recognition flickered across his features—his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something darker. You could almost see the thoughts racing behind his gaze, the questions forming, and the curiosity and anger mingling in a storm of emotion.

Netero had left you a note from the first examiner of the 287th Hunter Exam: "Kurapika Kurta said he wishes to become a Hunter to exact revenge on the Phantom Troupe and seek aid from the Master Hunter." The Phantom Troupe, a name you had only heard in passing, a whisper of a threat, a gang too small to matter back then. But now, seeing Kurapika’s face, you realize how much had changed and how much you had missed.

“Where were you that day?” Kurapika’s voice was low but steady, each word laced with a simmering rage that seemed barely contained. "I read stories about you... Master Hunter, the one who made crime vanish like mist before the sun. When my people were slaughtered, I didn’t fear, because I knew—you would come. You would hunt them down for me."

The pain in his voice was like a knife twisting in your chest. “I waited years for you! Held onto that hope until I had no choice but to become the hunter I needed.”

His voice cracked, but the fury within it did not waver. "You let them walk this earth after what they did to me... to my people." His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, his breath ragged. And then you saw it—the flash of scarlet behind his gray contacts, the burning rage of his clan's curse, the anger and grief all mixed into one volatile storm.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard against it. The weight of his accusation bore down on you like a physical force. In your absence, the world had shifted and twisted, and you had been powerless to stop it. You had lost your Nen that day, the day you had lost everything.

That’s why you weren’t there.

The same beast of burden now latched onto him had once latched onto you. You had failed him, and his words cut deep into whatever was left of your fractured soul. If only you had known... If only you had hunted them when they were small, a mere whisper of a threat. If only…

But you hadn’t. And now you were facing the result of that failure.

Your silence hung heavy in the air. You felt the burn in your eyes, the sting in your throat, and the weight of every decision and every choice you had made that led to this moment. There was nothing you could say to erase the pain in his eyes—the sense of betrayal that seemed to radiate from him like heat.

Kurapika's expression hardened, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I need justice,” he said, his voice colder now, like a blade drawn against a stone.

You drew a deep breath, fighting against the rising tide of emotion within you. “Justice is a fine line, Kurapika,” you replied quietly, meeting his gaze with a steady resolve. “And revenge can blur it until you don’t know which side you’re on.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury and something deeper—something fragile and almost broken. He turned away, shoulders tense, his footsteps heavy, as if carrying the weight of the world on his back. A part of you wanted to reach out, to stop him, to pull him back from the edge. But you knew better than to force it. He had to find his way, just as you had.

“Kurap-” Izunavi began, his voice edged with concern, but you raised a hand, silencing him. Your eyes remained on Kurapika’s retreating form, watching as he disappeared into the trees, swallowed by the shadows.

“Let him go,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. "I’ll talk to him later... once he’s cooled off."

Izunavi hesitated but finally nodded, trusting your judgment. You stared into the forest where Kurapika had vanished, the weight of his words still heavy on your heart. You knew that if he continued on this path, it would lead only to more pain and more loss. You weren’t sure you could bear to watch someone else descend into the same darkness that had swallowed you whole.

You had to try for his sake and yours.

“How far is he in his Nen?” you asked, breaking the stillness. Izunavi turned, his expression solemn.

“He's a determined, quick learner, but he’s already made those terrible vows for his Nen ability. It’s been five months since he started, and he’s planning something for September 1st.”

Next month, you thought. Not much time. “Is it related to the Troupe?”

“Positive.” Izunavi’s response was immediate; his voice edged with tension.

You sighed deeply, feeling the familiar heaviness in your chest. Another lost child, another soul standing at a precipice. The memory of the children from Meteor City flickered in your mind—those small, eager faces filled with both mischief and hope. Even now, you could remember the way they looked up to you, their eyes wide with wonder and something more—something like belief.

Chrollo, Feitan, Phinks—all those troublemakers who had once felt like yours in some way despite being the same age. You had often wondered where they were now, how life had treated them, and if they had stayed on the path you had hoped for them. Maybe, when all of this was over, you’d find them again. Just to see. Just to know.

Izunavi’s voice pulled you back. “His vows are monstrous, Y/N. I don’t know what he sacrificed, but his chains are still out of control. He’s powerful, but he can’t command them yet.”

“Chains?” You repeated, an eyebrow arching in surprise. “That’s his ability?”

Izunavi nodded gravely. “Yes. He wants to bind the spiders to hell with them.”

A small, amused laugh slipped past your lips, as that did sound like something he would say. Then your expression turned serious. “Izunavi… I’ve lost my Nen. If I decide to teach this boy, will you be my eyes?”

Izunavi blinked, momentarily stunned, but he quickly nodded, his gaze steady and filled with a new understanding. “I will,” he promised softly. “But... are you ready for this?”

You took a breath, the weight of your own words settling within you. “I wasn’t Netero’s best hunter just because of my Nen.”

You could still feel Nen, even Mother’s Nen whenever she came to you, like a whisper at the back of your mind, a gentle reminder of the power that once flowed through you like a river. You hadn’t lost your instincts—if anything, losing your Nen had sharpened them. It was like losing a sense and gaining another. You could feel things now, in ways that other Nen users couldn’t—like sensing the shift in the air before a storm.

Izunavi hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice a little softer, a little more unsure. “Y/N, you can do it? Teach him? With your Nen gone…?”

You looked at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “I can.”

Izunavi seemed to consider your words, then nodded again, more firmly this time. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll be your eyes.”

Your gaze drifted toward the direction where Kurapika had stormed off, your thoughts tangled with the past and the present. You knew the path he was on—you had been there yourself once. And you didn’t want Kurapika to stain his hands as you had stained yours, even if it was for what you believed was “good.”

If you could help him find another way—if you could keep his hands clean, you would. You were willing to stain yours all over again for the sake of keeping him from the blood that had already marked too many lives.

You had to operate in his shadow. Teaching Kurapika while also trying to beat him to the Phantom Troupe would be no easy task—especially if you had to do it behind his back. There was still so much you didn’t know. The years you spent disconnected from society left gaps in your knowledge. You couldn’t deny it, and the thought made you clench your fist. At least you could still rely on the physical strength of the L/N bloodline—but even that might not be enough. What if the Phantom Troupe’s Nen abilities were stronger than you anticipated? If they were all together, no matter how much experience you had, they could easily overwhelm you by sheer numbers.

What if you couldn’t protect Kurapika? The thought sent a shiver up your spine.

This was a mess just waiting to explode.

Izunavi watched you quietly, sensing the shift in your mood, the old scars being reopened, and the new purpose forming in your heart. You felt the stirrings of a familiar resolve—a quiet, burning fire that refused to go out.

“Let’s start now,” you said, meeting Izunavi’s gaze with a calm but determined look. “We have until September 1st. I won’t let him fall.”

You followed Kurapika as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. Shadows lengthened, and the woods grew quieter, the sounds of the day's creatures giving way to the night’s. You had given him time—enough time, you hoped—for his anger to cool and for his heart to steady. But you knew that the embers of rage didn’t die so easily; they could smolder for a long, long time.

You found him near the lake, sitting against a tree with his knees pulled up, his blonde hair catching the last rays of sunlight like threads of gold. He stared blankly ahead, lost in thought, his face a mask of quiet resolve. You watched him for a moment from a distance, letting your presence be felt without imposing yourself. You knew words wouldn’t be enough—not yet, not for a boy with a fresh wound.

Slowly, you made your way toward him, moving carefully and deliberately, leaving space for him to turn you away if he chose. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t push you away either. That, in itself, was something. You took a seat beside him, leaving enough distance between the two of you to let him feel unpressured but close enough that your presence was felt. You let the silence stretch, understanding that sometimes it was the only thing that could truly speak.

After a while, you finally broke the silence, your voice soft, almost tentative. "You want to hunt the Troupe, right?"

Kurapika didn’t move at first, his eyes still fixed on the water. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but resolved. “I don’t have a choice.”

The words hung between you, heavy with finality. You have heard that before, spoken in different ways by different people. It was always the same. A choice made in desperation, when the soul felt trapped by the past, by the need to correct something that could never truly be fixed.

“You always have a choice,” you replied softly, your tone neither reprimanding nor coddling. It was simply a statement of fact.

Kurapika shifted, his hands tightening around his knees. “Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to them.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, studying the lines of tension etched across his young face. He was still so young—too young for this kind of rage to live so deeply inside him. But rage wasn’t something that cared for age, wisdom, or even reason. You knew that better than anyone.

“They took everything from me,” he continued, his voice harder now, laced with bitterness. “Everything. My family, my home, my future. I can’t just let that go!”

You exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh that was lost in the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. “Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting,” you said gently. “It doesn’t mean forgiving either. But this path you’re walking... It’s not just about revenge anymore. It’s about who you become at the end of it.”

Kurapika’s eyes flicked toward you then, sharp and wary like he was expecting a lecture he’d heard a thousand times before. But you weren’t here to preach.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you clarified, your gaze still on the water, the gentle waves reflecting the dying light. “I know that’s not an option for you. But you need to be careful, Kurapika. Rage has a way of consuming everything in its path. It’ll burn through you if you’re not careful. Until there’s nothing left of the person you used to be.”

He was silent for a moment, absorbing your words. The tension in his body hadn’t lessened, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps. Or maybe it was understanding.

“I can control it,” he said, his voice quieter now, but the determination in it was unmistakable. “I have to.”

You nodded slightly, acknowledging his resolve. “Control is important. But you also need balance. Power without purpose is dangerous, even to yourself.”

Kurapika frowned, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Purpose? My purpose is to kill them.”

You turned to face him fully then, your eyes locking onto his. “And after that? What happens when they’re gone? What’s left for you?”

The question caught him off guard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, the hard façade he had built around himself seemed to crack, and you saw the lost boy beneath. A boy who had lost everything and didn’t know how to live without his hatred to guide him.

“That’s why I’m here,” you continued, your voice softening. “I’ve walked this path before. I know where it leads. If you’re not careful, you’ll reach the end of it and find that nothing is waiting for you on the other side. Nothing but emptiness.”

Kurapika’s hands slowly unclenched, his fingers tracing the edge of his sleeves as if grounding himself in the present moment. He didn’t say anything, but you could see the conflict in his eyes.

You reached out then, gently placing your hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. “I’m not saying this to stop you,” you said, your voice low, almost a whisper. “But I am saying you need to think about what comes next. After the bloodshed. After the vengeance. What will you be left with?”

Kurapika lowered his head, the weight of your words sinking in. The silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t filled with tension. It was a moment of quiet reflection.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, his voice barely audible.

You gave a small nod, squeezing his shoulder lightly before pulling your hand back. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know yet. Just... don’t lose yourself in the process.”

For a long moment, Kurapika didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the ground, deep in thought. When he finally looked up, there was a new clarity in his eyes, though the fire still burned there, too. He wasn’t ready to let go of his vengeance, but at least now he was starting to see the danger in letting it consume him completely.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than before.

You nodded again, satisfied for now. It was a start. He would need time to fully understand what you meant, but at least the seed had been planted. And as much as you wanted to protect him from the pain of the path he was walking, you knew he had to walk it for himself. All you could do was guide him along the way.

As the last traces of daylight disappeared from the sky, you stood up, brushing the dirt from your pants. “Come on,” you said, offering him a hand. “Let’s head back before it gets too dark.”

Kurapika hesitated for a moment before accepting your hand, pulling himself up to his feet. He stood beside you, his gaze lingering on the horizon for just a moment longer before he nodded, turning to follow you back toward the camp.

As you walked side by side, the soft sounds of the night surrounding you, you couldn’t help but glance at him, the weight of the future heavy between you both.

The journey was far from over...

© eyesofbong. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize my work. If you see this content on any account that is not mine, please report it. My work is only available on this platform and on AO3 under the name @eyesofbong

[sammy-is-not-smiley]

Let It Hurt (Pt 2)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader (afab)

Summary: Steve has been your best friend for years despite his douchery in early high school. You would tell him anything... well, anything except for the fact that you've been feeling his physical pain since elementary school. The way he finds out is less than ideal. But he's been keeping secrets of his own...

Word Count: 5.2k (I went nuts lol)

Warnings/Tags: Soulmate au (kinda), language, no use of (y/n), depictions of severe pain, depictions of torture, injuries mentioned, crying, kind of a breakdown, angst, a period is mentioned so reader is afab, set in season 3, soulmates to lovers, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort (yes there's eventually comfort this time, I promise)

A/N: GOOD GOD Y'ALL I did not expect the last one to absolutely blow up. I've gained like an extra 100 followers from all this so thank you so much. I wouldn't have written something so loved if I hadn't gotten a request. If you have an idea you wanna entrust me to write, don't hesitate to jump in my asks! I love hearing from people. (p.s. angst is my favorite to write) Now here's your part 2!

Part 1: Right Here!

You awoke to echoes of screaming. You didn't want to open your eyes, the light in the room behind your eyelids was already making your head throb with a vengeance.

"Help!! Someone, help!" Robin's desperate voice rang out, the sound bouncing off the walls and judding into your skull. It was then you realized you were sat up, straps compressing your legs, arms, and chest. You were bound even more than before.

"Hey, would you stop yellin'?" You heard Steve's voice grumble behind you.

It took you a moment to register it was him, but when you did, a small light of hope lit up in your chest. You lifted your head up slightly, trying to take in a breath. The pain in your head stemmed down your neck now. In fact, it encapsulated your entire skull.

"Steve! Oh my god," Robin exclaimed, still a bit too loud for your taste.

"Steve?" You croaked out.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, you're both awake," She chuckled slightly, simply out of disbelief. "Both awake. Um, are- are you okay?"

You shook your head no as if she could see from where she sat behind you.

Steve took in a breath. "My ears are ringing, I can't really breathe, and my eye feels like it's about to pop out of my skull…"

"That checks out," You muttered, not intending for anyone to hear. Nobody seemed to.

"But you know, apart from that… I'm doing pretty good." He finished, his nose sounding stuffy. They really liked hitting his nose.

Robin let out a breath. "Alright, well, the good news is they're calling a doctor for you both."

There was a moment of silence before Steve registered her words. "Both?" You felt him turn slightly in your direction. "They hurt you?"

"No," You quickly replied.

"Wait, I thought-"

"Robin, shush," You snapped too loud, making your head throb again.

It was silent once more as Robin connected the dots. Steve didn't know, and you didn't want him to know. "Right, no, I meant… I meant just for you Steve."

"They didn't hurt me," You tried to reinforce. "Robin's just… tired."

"Oh." He uttered, clearly confused.

"Hey, guys," Robin changed the subject. "I have an idea. Steve, you see that table to your right?"

You felt Steve turn his head to your side.

"No, your other right."

"Oh," Steve looked the other way. Apparently the table was behind where you sat.

"You see those scissors?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think if we moved at the same time, we could move over there, I could maybe kick the table, and knock them into my lap."

You snorted, turning your head in her direction. "They left scissors in here with us?"

"What morons," Steve laughed. He was definitely letting on that he was doing better than he felt.

At the count of three, you all scooched in unison, Steve and Robin to their side, you backwards. Just as you finally were seeing some light at the end of the tunnel, only a mere few feet from the table, you all over shot your momentum. All together as a unit, the chairs slid out from under you and you all fell to the floor with a hefty clank of the chairs.

At first you groaned, but then a grin slowly spread across your face. "Shit," You giggled with no choice but to look up at the ceiling as you laid on your back. This was all insane. Absolutely insane.

Robin was obviously feeling the same as she began giggling as well. She shook under you, small squeaks bubbling from her.

"You- You guys okay?" Steve asked, clearly not gathering what could be so funny to you both.

"This is fucking ridiculous," You half suppressed a laugh.

You felt Robin nodding. "I can't believe I'm gonna die in a secret Russian base in a sailor costume." You could hear the smile on her face, jovial despite the situation. The comment only made you laugh harder.

Just as your giggles died down, the door burst open once again and men flooded the room. Your giddy moods were cut short, instantly replaced with terror. Over you now stood a man in uniform, obviously some sort of high ranking official, probably the man in charge. He towered over you, shaking his head and tutting.

"You wake up too, eh? Good," He smirked, looking over the predicament you three had gotten yourselves into. "Where did you think you were going?"

He gestured with his hand, motioning the men in the room to lift you all back upright in your chairs.

"P-please-" You nearly whimpered when sat back up, nothing on your mind but to simply beg. What for, you weren't sure yet, but you were scared and desperate.

"Let us try again," The man said, ignoring your plea. Slowly, he circled around you all, like a predator observing prey, before making it back around to Steve.

Your eyes followed the man as he brought his hand up and thumbed Steve's busted lip. Not only did it elicit a wince from Steve, but you as well.

Your stomach dropped as soon as it happened, making you quickly turn your head away from the man hoping he didn't notice. However, the tingling on your neck told you he had, and he was staring right at you.

"Don't touch him," You breathed. It came out a lot less menacing than you intended.

The man hummed, standing up straight again and murmured something in Russian to one of the men. You watched as the guard walked over to Steve, grabbing him by the hair and raising a fist.

"Wait, stop!" You jolted, fighting against your restraints.

Steve struggled as well, gritting his teeth. "No, no, no, no-"

"Shush!" The general yelled, driving a spike of pain into your skull. He leaned down in front of you, eyes squinted, analyzing you for a moment. Then a question. "Who do you work for?"

"Scoops Ahoy," You responded like it was obvious.

Without hesitation, the guard over Steve delivered a swift blow to the eye socket. You yelped in pain as Steve groaned, now being held up by his hair. You on the other hand were allowed to drop your head, once again tasked with withstanding the pain.

Your breath stuttered in your throat. "Please, s-stop, it… It hurts…"

The general tilted his head, then grasped your chin roughly, tilting your head up and tilting from side to side as he examined you. There were no notable injuries on your person. Other than squinting the same eye as Steve's bruised one, not a scratch was on you. You wanted to kick yourself when you realized he took notice of it, glancing between you and Steve.

His brow was together in thought as he once again gave a command you didn't understand.

Another punch to Steve's jaw made you flinch in the general's hand, pitifully letting out a sob.

Another command, another punch, right into Steve's aching ribs.

If not for the straps holding you upright, you would have once again doubled over. Instead you only moved slightly against the mans hand, your abdomen visibly tensing.

"Stop! Stop it, you bastards!" Robin screamed, however to no avail as she was promptly ignored.

The general let you go as you silently suffered again, standing upright and smiling down at you. "Very interesting…"

The men scattered around the room as soon as another command was uttered from the man's mouth. Hands surrounded you all as the men tugged and removed the straps holding you as a unit only to strap you down again, individually in each of your chairs this time. They pushed Robin into the corner of the room, then grabbed Steve and slid him in front of you to face you. Only then did you see the extent of his wounds. Dried blood smeared on his face from an obvious nose bleed, uniform stained red, his eye a deep shade of purple and nearly swollen shut. Anger bubbled over inside you at the sight, making you finally find your voice.

"Don't touch him, he's had enough!"

The general simply smiled at you as he pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket, then circled around behind you.

The last thing you saw was Steve, worry written all over his face. Then you were shrouded in darkness as the handkerchief was pulled over your eyes, secured at the back of your head.

"What are you doing?" Steve panted as he watched. "Don't you dare hurt her, I swear, if you do anything to her-"

"Oh, not to worry," The man behind you interrupted dismissively. You could hear his footsteps walking around you back to Steve. Your teeth began to chatter as your adrenaline was surely hitting its peak now.

What did they not want you to see?

"We will not hurt her. Only you will."

"What-"

"Just sit. Watch your friend carefully, hm?"

It was silent for a moment before there were footsteps again, then Steve burst to life. "What is that? Wait, no, stop, get that away- Agh!"

Pain instantly webbed over two of your fingers as if they were slowly being crushed by a tool. You fought your restraints and flexed the hand in question, small whimpers emitting from you helplessly.

The pain gradually got worse as Steve yelled and begged, as did you. Then it steadied to a single ongoing pain. "Stop-" A cry slipped from you.

"Where is the pain, little one?" The man called over to you.

You shook your head, mostly in confusion, but the man interpreted it as resistance.

The pain fluctuated, making you lurch. "Agh- Th-the hand! His fingers, the first two fingers," You sobbed in defeat. "Stop, stop, please stop, make it stop…"

The pain was relieved then, if only enough to assure you they weren't going to break Steve's fingers. The ache of a bruise would remain and you flexed your hand again as if it would help. You still let out a sigh of relief.

Light stung your eyes when the blindfold was pulled off, now soaked with tears. When your eyes adjusted, you looked up to meet the half swollen gaze of Steve. Realization, hurt, sympathy, horror, all of it was draped over his face like a thick veil as he stared back at you. You looked down and saw the red impressions on his fingers from whatever had been clamped down on them. Next to him stood a man in white, a metal tool held in his hand.

The general stood there, holding Steve's head up by the hair to watch you. The man's grin was borderline psychotic. "Congratulations, you were correct."

You closed your eyes and lowered your head, teeth still chattering. The jolly expression on the official's face told you he planned on using this new information completely against you. Especially the longer you overstayed your welcome.

The man in power looked over to the man in the white overcoat, the man you assumed was supposed to be the doctor Robin mentioned. Another command in Russian, and the doctor walked to the table behind you. You couldn't bring yourself to look up at anyone, especially Steve.

"Now, try telling the truth this time, yes?" The general asserted as he wandered his eyes over each one of you. They pulled Robin up next to you both again. "It will make your visit with Doctor Zharkov less painful."

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Your body swayed slightly before you let yourself lean back onto the side of the ambulance, watching the smoke rise. The mighty Starcourt was completely destroyed. Destroyed by a-… Well, you had yet to fully comprehend what it was and the events that had even transpired. All you were able to understand clearly was that you were alive, along with a couple adults, a group of middle schoolers, and your co-workers…. Could you technically call them co-workers now? Maybe just leaving it to friends was safer to say.

Your stomach was still a little queasy from whatever drug that doctor had injected you with, and your muscles ached from overexertion. Your eyes were so heavy they felt swollen, yet you knew if you laid down, sleep wouldn't come to you easily. Watching the last remaining flames and the smoke ahead of you was mesmerizing. Like you were sleeping with your eyes open.

The moment was broken as your face twitched a little in pain. Steve must have accidentally scratched his stitches again.

You hadn't looked at him since you all threw up in the bathrooms together. In fact, once you were sober, you had walked out claiming to need another drink of water from the fountain. After that, events happened so quickly you could hardly keep up. You were grateful at the time to have had something to distract you both with. Even now you were trying to distract yourself.

Bringing your hand up to your face you rubbed your forehead, a headache still refusing to leave you and Steve be. You'd come to accept that the pain probably wouldn't subside for a while.

Robin rounded the ambulance, wrapped in a security blanket. Her eyes were still red and it was clear she needed sleep as badly as you. Yet there you both were, still up and running.

"Hey… They look over you already?" Her voice was more gravely than usual, most likely from all the yelling she had done while you all were held hostage.

You nodded, still gazing at the wrecked mall. "Other than a couple bruises, I'm fine."

"Mm-hm," She hummed, clearly unconvinced.

"What?"

She rested her shoulder on the ambulance, leaning in closer. "Look… I don't fully understand a lot of what's happened, but I do think you need to talk to Steve. At least before we go home."

You sighed begrudgingly. You knew that was probably what you should do, yet all you wanted to do was hide from him. "What would I even say, Rob?" You mumbled.

She snorted then, causing you to look at her. "Dude, all you'd probably have to say to him is 'hi' before he'd do all the talking. He always has shit to talk about."

It was your turn to snort. "Yeah, sure…" You sniffled then, guilt blossoming in your chest. "It's… It's because of me they hurt him more…"

"Yeah… I-I mean no!" She caught herself, making you smile. "That all was just…. It was…. A lot. What was all that? With the Russians I mean, and the blindfold?"

By this point, and with everything you had gone through together, you thought Robin could handle what you've kept to yourself for so long. After all, your empathy with Steve was by far the tamest secret of the night.

You let your head rest back on the ambulance and closed your eyes. "I've been able to feel his pain ever since I was a kid," You let out in a breath.

When it was silent for longer than you liked, you looked to her worriedly. She was simply staring at you, looking as though she were thinking.

"You can feel his pain? Like, all of it?"

You nodded. "Physical, yeah."

It took her a moment more, hugging herself in the blanket as she thought. "That…. Makes sense actually." She snapped her fingers and pointed. "That's why they did that stuff, they tested you!"

You nodded, a shadow of gloom over your brow.

"And that's…. Why you passed out. Because he passed out."

Another nod.

"And he doesn't know, does he?"

You couldn't help but give a grin then, not one of joy, but more out of nihilism. "Of course not."

"And why, exactly?"

"I don't know, I just…. Got into the habit of keeping it from him. I think in general I was just scared. Scared I would scare him away or make life harder somehow." You hugged yourself, finding it hard to look at even Robin now. "I couldn't lose him… or bear him not believing me."

Robin began giggling, catching you off guard.

"What?"

She shook her head, dragging a hand down her tired face in exasperation. "I seriously doubt he would do any of that, especially after tonight. Also, you weren't in the bathroom when he talked about you."

"Talked about me?"

"Mm-hm," She nodded. "You're not the only one keeping secrets."

Your eyes widened and you pushed yourself off the ambulance. "The hell does that mean?"

"Nope, no more," She put her hands up defensively, "I wash my hands of this, I'm not enabling you any further."

"Oh, come on, Rob-"

"No! The only way you'll get more is if you talk to him yourself," She smirked. "Or do I have to actually drag you over there?" Her thumb thrown over her shoulder, she pointed to Steve in the neighboring ambulance, speaking with the paramedic. For the first time you looked past her to gaze at Steve, his shoulders sagged as he had an arm wrapped around his abdomen. You could feel the bruised ribs he was cradling.

You looked back at Robin, giving her a small pout. She returned it, although much more sarcastically. Simultaneously, you both broke out in smiles and giggles.

"You're a dick," You said, shaking your head.

"Only when you guys are idiots."

You rolled your eyes, turning to glance at Steve again. This time you caught him already looking at you, swollen eye and all. He raised his hand ever so slightly to offer a tiny wave, as if he were scared he would drive you away again.

You gave a tiny wave back.

"Fine," You muttered, walking past Robin and making your way over to him, eyes trained in the ground.

From this angle, the police car lights flickered blue and red over Steve's face, almost hiding the fact he was covered in purple bruises. Slowly you slipped next to him, sitting on the bumper between the open doors. Loose gravel crunched under your feet on the asphalt.

"Hi…"

"Hey…"

A shiver ran up your spine, but you weren't sure if it was from the breeze or your nerves.

"So, uh, Robin said I should talk to you."

He nodded, a single strand of grimy hair bouncing to his forehead. "Yeah, she told me to talk to you too."

You blew a puff of air out of your nose in a laugh. "Was that when you wouldn't stop talking about me in the bathrooms?"

Steve let out a laugh then, scratching the back of his head. "She told you what I said, huh?"

"Nah. Only that you said stuff. She left me on a cliffhanger just to get me to come over and talk to you," You dryly chuckled.

"Hm," He replied, "So you were kind of ignoring me after we got out."

You grimaced, looking down at your beat up shoes. "Yeah… Look, I'm sorry, I really didn't wan-"

"Why didn't you tell me?" He interjected, turning to look right at you.

"... Tell you...?"

He scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "That you can feel this," He lifted his arm and pinched it.

Your hand balled into a fist at the pain and you looked away. Why were you still so scared? Why did you still feel so shameful about all of this?

"You figured that out, huh?"

Steve shifted himself closer, close enough now that your shoulders were touching. "I'm not upset, okay? I just…" He sighed. "It's all so crazy. How long have you been able to feel it— When I hurt?"

You chuckled lightly. "A while. Since like elementary school."

"Shit," His hand reached out and grasped yours. "Look, if I had known, I would've-"

"I know-"

"No, you don't," He turned himself to you, bare knee bumping yours. "You really don't know. You don't know how much I would have done differently. How much more I would've cared, how I would have treated you better, how I would have… How I would have stood up to my dad somehow…" He paused, then cleared his throat. "I wouldn't have thrown myself into fights as much if I knew you were out there feeling everything, thinking you couldn't say a thing about it. If I had known, I would've realized you understood me more than literally anyone I've ever met."

You could feel your nose begin to tingle, a clear warning of tears threatening to bubble up. You pursed your lips, not trusting yourself to reply.

Steve scooched even closer, his knee now pulled up and resting behind your back, his other on the ground. He smelled of sweat, smoke, and blood, yet somehow a small wisp of his cologne still lingered. It all mixed together into a scent that would only ever remind you of this night.

His warm hand left yours to delicately glide up your opposing cheek. You sniffed as he pulled your face to turn and look at him.

"If you had told me, I would have told you that I've felt things too."

Your brow softened when your eyes went round, your heart sinking to your stomach. "Things?"

His face went downcast for a moment, as if in some sort of regret. "Remember when you dislocated your wrist in 3rd grade? And I went and got help?"

You nodded. You remembered the teacher had come to help you after Steve ran off, but then he didn't come back. The next time you saw him wasn't until school the next day. You had been upset that he hadn't come back with the teacher to help or even come over to your house to see if you were okay after school. He had apologized when you went off on him, but that was all. As kids, it was easy to just forgive and move on. Play the next game of tag.

"You were pissed at me… I ran and hid from you because I felt it too." He scratched his chin, looking off at the demolished mall. "That was the first time. It freaked me the hell out. I felt when it happened, and I felt when they popped it back in a few hours later at the hospital. I could tell when you bumped it wrong or strained it. I could feel it all." He looked you dead in the eyes then. "And everything after that."

You shook your head, your brow laden with confusion as you put your hand over his on your face. "You never said anything either…"

He smiled softly and shrugged. "I didn't think you had to know. To be honest, I thought it was all just some weird hallucination or something."

Your expression shifted into one of disapproval.

"Oh don't you even," His smile grew at you, "You're just as guilty for not telling me."

"Yeah, I…. I know… I'm sorry," You muttered, the wounds scattered over his face taunting you again. While only a few hits had been delivered upon the discovery that Russian general had made about you, all of the injuries hurt the same. Both physically and otherwise. "I guess we all have our secrets."

Steve moved his other hand to cradle your face fully, his face moving closer to nearly rest his forehead on yours. While smiling only a second before, his eyes were now filled with something more serious. Something you had never seen directed at you before. It made your attention on him freeze and heat rise to the back of your neck.

"Well, while we're confessing secrets… Can I let one more slip?"

You couldn't tear your eyes away from his, which you quickly noticed kept darting down to your lips. Was he really doing this?

"You… have another?" You squeaked, voice barely audible.

He nodded. "If you'll let me show you?"

You dumbly nodded back, your mouth slightly agape and eyes as round as a couple of full moons.

He leaned in, finally resting his forehead onto yours, one of his hands sliding down to the nape of your neck. When your noses bumped he turned his head slightly, fitting your faces together like a puzzle. His breath brushed over your lips, puzzle pieces almost completely flush.

A jolt went through you like electricity by a single thought. "Wait-" You pushed him back slightly at the chest.

His eyes shot open, gazing at you in anticipation.

You didn't continue, only stared at him a moment, trying to get a handle on the speeding thoughts swirling your mind. Your pause was just long enough to watch sorrow cover his features.

"I read it wrong, didn't I?" The hand on your neck slid down to your shoulder in dismay, the weight of it heavy.

"No… No! God no, I just…. There's…." You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think. "You don't… Have to do that… if you dont really want to."

He tilted his head. "Who says I don't want to?"

You shook your head, biting your lip nervously. "You don't have to be close and sweet like that just because you feel bad for me." The tingling returned, tears now visibly welling.

Steve leaned back further, far enough to be able to start analyzing you. His eyes darted around, trying to pick apart what you had just said. "Because I feel ba-?… You think I want this just to make it up to you somehow?" He challenged, his thumb stroking your cheek in an attempt to possibly keep you calm.

Alas, a tear still escaped and dripped down your face. "Yeah you don't have to get with me like that just because you feel bad for a few fights, okay? I'm not upset that you-"

"That's not why," He deadpanned.

"Huh?"

"That's not why I want to kiss you."

The tears froze, as did the internalized denial of the situation at the utterance of those words.

I want to kiss you.

"I mean, it's part of it," He admitted, "The whole pain thing I mean. But I don't want this because I pity you or anything or because I feel bad for getting beat up. I mean sure, I never want you to feel that again, but… You have to know those aren't the only reasons, right?"

All you could do was stare back down at your lap, fighting the additional tears threatening to spill and flood the whole parking lot.

"Shit, you really don't…" He muttered, letting the hand on your cheek slide upwards into the roots of your hair. "You're so much more than just that empathy to me. Really, you are, you hear me?"

You sniffled, once again squeezing your eyes shut causing a round of tears to fall down at rapid fire. Steve caught all of them with a gentle brush.

"Seriously, you're one of the funniest people I've ever met. You have the prettiest eyelashes, the most adorable laugh, and you're hell of a lot smarter than I am," He lightly joked, reaching down to grab your hand once more. "You've helped me be better, forgave me when I didn't deserve it, and let me rant to you about whatever shit would piss me off. And you care so much about Henderson and his nerd friends. My life would be so sucky without you... even if I do have to feel your god awful period cramps." He snickered. "I want you in it more for as long as possible. I want you closer."

Despite the joke, your body shuddered in a frame wracking sob. The emotions were now pouring out from you in violent waves. The tears weren't just from Steve, it was buildup from the whole damned night. A dam of hurt, fear, sorrow, anxiety, disappointment, horror, regret, sadness, and pain had been building up over the course of hours and hours. Suddenly, this was the pressure that made everything come flooding out… and you couldn't stop it.

"Oh, babe," Steve cooed, his soft hand hooking your neck and pulling your face into his chest. The pet name sparked something inside you, but it was quickly engulfed by the absolute tornado of intensity ripping you apart from the inside.

Steve couldn't feel your emotions, true, but he could feel how hard you bit your lip trying to stifle any noise that tried to escape. He could feel your body shudder in his clutch. He could feel the wet tears you rubbed into his shirt. And he could feel his heart breaking, not because he was hurt by you— hurt that you thought he would do such a thing to you out of guilt. No, it was because you had genuinely thought he couldn't love you like that. He could see the denial in your face, the false belief you must have come to adopt over time.

Steve waited patiently for you to calm, rubbing your back and resting his cheek on the top of your head. Your lungs began aching with each breath, your throat was going dry and burning. Eventually your choppy inhales slowed and your whimpers began to cease. Deep breaths became easier to take in and the blur in your vision cleared. When you came back to the moment at hand, you realized you had brought your legs up off the ground and to your chest, leaning against the warm body beside you. In a ball, Steve had wrapped around you like a shell, rocking you ever so slightly.

Your body shook again, this time in a small laugh. "I should be the one comforting you, you know. You're the one with broken ribs and stitches in your face."

You felt him chuckle against you, the sound rumbling your ear against his chest. He smiled, relieved to hear you joke around again. Tilting his head, he looked down at you trying to see your eyes. They were finally open again.

When you caught his gaze, you stared back up at him in attention, eyes red and nose runny. While you were sure you looked like hell, all he could see was the damp sheen of tears and sweat highlighting his favorite parts of your face.

"Can I please kiss you now?"

You let out a breath as you sat up, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm all gross, though."

He grabbed the back of your neck again and gently yanked your face to his. "Shut up and just let me kiss it better."

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork-"

His lips greeted yours, warm and soothing, the obvious pain of his busted lip cast aside just to feel each other's being. Your chest exploded once again with overwhelming feeling, but this time it was manageable. It was more than manageable, in fact, it was welcome. It was no longer a spark sucked into a gloomy tornado, but a ray of light, casting a sensation of healing rays from your chest outwards. Both of your movements melded together like clay, as did your breaths, creating a back and forth that you had been longing for. It was as if you were charging each other with hope after a night full of negatives and hopelessness. It was like being at home again after being gone for so long.

He was the first to pull away, his hands holding your head with a slight tremble in them. It made your heart swell. He was just as worked up as you.

"Ouch." He said under his breath.

A woozy smile burst over your face, rays of light reaching the surface. You brought your hand up to lightly brush your thumb over his bottom lip. "I think this should heal more before we try that again."

He shook his head, eyes drooped with lovesick admiration. "Let it hurt," He mumbled before leaning in once more, pressing his mouth to yours.

You accepted it with a grateful hum.

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Seriously loved the new people flowing into this blog and the comments you all leave. It means a lot. My confidence is boosted <3 Requests are open!

Tags: @solarbxby @mxcheese @junglecoxk @iheartmyguitars @freezaz123 @love-kurdt @johnricharddeacy @fangeekkk @kategables @thehybridprincesshatedchild @eternallyvenus @wenddsmuks-blog @spideyharrington @basketcaseeeeee @carinacassiopeiae @impossibelle @artsyjazzs @xjessmorley @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @alana4610 @reidsgubbler @let-the-music-take-c0ntrol @mynameismothra @munsonzzgf @biscuitbeater15 (if tags are in red, then it would not let me tag you, I'm sorry 😔)

[romans-empire]

Honestly, I could talk about Lucky Patch for hours. I didn't expect to like their dynamic when I played UTY for the first time, yet here we are.

To be honest, I did not like Flowey prior to Undertale Yellow. To me he was merely a side piece to the overall story of Undertale, I disregarded him and focused on the Dreemurr family which in hindsight does include him, just not in the way that I could comprehend back when I was younger. UTY really helped me in understanding his character and realized just why he was so compelling. Now he's one of my top favorite UTDR characters. I still hate this stupid flower though, I wish the worst for him /j /pos.

And Clover, I did not expect to attach myself to this child so much. Clover's personality is rather hard to get unless you were really looking in between the lines and other easily missed dialogue or in-game narration. Thankfully, I am the kind of player that remembers really small details, especially when it comes dialogue and narration. I do admit that I project to Clover a lot, my fics are a testament to that. However, I did enjoy them as a character and protagonist in their own right, removing all biases will not change that. They are one of my comfort characters and favorite characters of all time.

Combining the two, we get Lucky Patch. I do see why most people I've seen in the fandom might not like this dynamic, it's not for everyone especially if you aren't into peeling off layers upon layers of a character. Though, I am really happy that the Lucky Patch enjoyers are much more present here on Tumblr. If you don't look closely or take things at face value, Lucky Patch is a toxic dynamic built on lies and cruelty. Even when looking further, you cannot deny that aspect. But what makes them compelling is that this dynamic is mostly driven by the characters and their psychology. Especially Flowey's. If you do not understand the character, you will most likely miss the intricacies that make them, them.

Clover and Flowey's relationship span across all timelines and routes, so taking their relationship from one route only is not the way to go. That's the reasoning to the most common complaint I see when it comes to them, most non-Lucky Patch enjoyers only see their relationship from one angle or route. Most of the time, they take it from the vengeance route or neutral. My reply to that is that their relationship develops as the routes change. From vengeance, neutral, to pacifist, their dynamic changes in accordance but you can see why when you look closely at the context being given to us throughout their interactions in each route. At the end, you will understand why Flowey lets Clover go. Why he spew his little speech at the end of the true pacifist end.

In other words, I love these tragic doomed toxic codependent flowers so much and I will commit atrocities to defend them.

[noroi1000]

could i request a gojo x yn where yn is a famous supermodel while gojo is like businessman mafia and she meets him in a part for influential ppl and some rival of gojo attack the party to catch gojo but can't do it and to save y/n gojo takes her with him in a hurry to make sure she's fine ( bro fell in love at first sight while y/n doesn't really care bcs yk very hard to be impressed type of lady ) but a plot twist in this setting sort of is that there has been cases of many murders recently and the serial killer is impossible to catch ( the killer is y/- ok yes u get it but she killed them bcs she ruined her family or sum like that so our baddie is taking revenge ) well this is a dark theme dark romance request so yep ofc there's dark content and no one knows abt y/n's past at all despite her status no matter how hard they try and gojo after taking her makes her stay with him bcs she's one of the few ppl who saw his face so for privacy purposes and gojo barely finds out abt y/n's "dark deeds" when she throws hints playfully ( she's kinda devious morally grey sort of woman ) and idk what to add much more honestly but yea a smexy romantic love story ( SUB GOJO PLEASE 🙏😍😩 ) and gojo brings her a person to kill every year on her bday bcs she feels "stabby" ( mindfuck book series ref if ykyk ) also ofc y/n continues her career as a supermodel bcs 💅🏼👠. as another personal preference don't make y/n younger as it's uncomfy to me so yeah jsjdndbdnfn

whew this was quite a lot

have a good day !

Beautiful Vengeance

cover by @blvckryx my advisor and friend

paring: Mafia boss Gojo x model reader (killer)

words: 4,7k

warnings: murders, violence, guns, some kidnaping, smut (sub Gojo/dom reader)

Your mother always wanted you to have a good life. That's why when you told her you wanted to be a model when you grow up, she supported you as much as she could. To give you what you might need to make your dreams come true.

Your career took off when you were a teenager. When you were 16, you won a modeling contest, and your name made headlines.

And because you took the victory from one person, your life was about to end...

You competing with a girl whose family was more important than yours. You won anyway thanks to your innate charm, which made you stand in the first place and people considered you a beautiful, future model.

Thanks to this, your career could continue to roll and grow. And you couldn't take that chance.

You've worked so hard. You were the pride of your parents.

But your only opponent was a spoiled female dog who after losing to you all she wanted was to get rid of you.

She was the niece of mob boss Q. A man going by the name Q, who made his living by killing people for hire, dealing drugs and weapons. Even human trafficking. His mafia teams were everywhere.

You didn't know about it until you saw a group of people enter your house.

You were in your room then, and you heard screams and sounds of fighting.

As you quickly made your way down to your parents' living room, all you saw was pools of blood covering the soft carpet.

And three people dressed in black with black masks on their faces. In their hands bloody knives that they used to make your parents lie on the floor with open but dead eyes.

You were sad. You were afraid. You lost your parents. You wanted to cry over their loss. They were everything to you. They loved you, you loved them. You could have lived with them 16 years of your life. And now... It's all over.

Or you die and join them. To shorten your suffering.

But something else popped into your mind. To make them suffer.

You could have died at their hands, or you could have gotten revenge for your parents by killing them.

And you want revenge for the destruction of your life...

So you silently walked over to the cupboard until the opponents saw you, and unscrewing the bottle you let the water flow out of the plastic, soaking the entire floor where one of the people was standing.

You smashed a nearby lamp on his head and stabbed him with the sharpened glass at the end. Throwing the damaged item onto the wet floor, you jumped back quickly, letting his body quiver with the current coursing through him.

You hit the other's neck with your elbow, pulling his head back until you heard a crack.

Such easy ways to kill someone...

You've already killed two people with your own hands. Even if the metallic, disgusting smell of blood was nauseating.

Before you were stabbed by the last man, you took the knife from the dead body, and plunged the bloody blade into his chest.

While his body was still moving, he managed to scratch your head with the tip of the knife, just above the ear. Cutting off some of your shiny hair. Making your ear and the side of your neck covered in drops of blood.

The man in front of you writhed in pain as you pushed the knife hilt towards him, holding the knife in it. Stuck in his sternum in the chest.

Even though you saw the fear of death in his eyes, you felt no regret. Even if he cried and looked at you pleadingly, you showed no mercy.

Just like they had no mercy for your parents.

As he fell to the floor, the knife fell out of his chest, staying in your hand. Covering your hands in scarlet liquid.

When he was twitching and moving away with the last strength, you just walked over to him, and sitting on his stomach, you drove the knife into his heart, slowly watching the life fade from his eyes.

You felt your pajamas soaking in warm sticky blood. However, you didn't let go of the blade as you walked over to your parents and hugged them, not caring how dirty and bloody you were. You slowly and gently closed your eyes and left the house. Heading to a place where you know where a girl used to live surrounding herself with people with "Q" marks on their clothes.

There was a calm expression on your face as you walked straight down the runway, focusing on going perfect. The flashes of the flash bouncing off your eyes. The outfit you're wearing looks so good on you. One of the collections of one of the most famous fashion designers has been selected for you. Alternating with two other models, you go out there, showing the clothes on your body for less than a minute. A then you go back to change into your next outfit, and leave when it's your next turn.

It was your job.

You like it. You are a famous model.

And you don't mind that people only look at what your body looks like.

You go to clothes exhibitions, you take part in advertisements for clothes, cosmetics, nail polishes, jewelry. You are the face of many advertisements.

A lot of people who hire you choose you because you're sexy. And there is mystery in you. And your eyes show killer sexiness.

Your pose is flawless, sophisticated.

Everyone who knew you talked about this mystery in photos and videos. Something obtained without photomontage and without any additional make-up.

And Dark Beauty when you're seen in the ads for the blood red collection. Everything from lips to nails was a rich red.

That color just reminded you of what had happened over the years of your life. You don't care as long as no one knows about it.

Besides, your revenge isn't quite complete yet.

When you were 16, you swore revenge on those who hurt your family and you. You are 23 now. You are a famous model that neither the media nor anyone knows the whole truth about.

Nobody knows anything about your childhood, nobody knows anything about your past.

"Our killer only kills those from Q? Pretty good..." the white-haired man muttered, looking at the lists of names killed by one person this month. Three people. He couldn't feel sorry for these people. Each of them had the symbol of the Q family. How could he worry about the death of his enemies?

"Gojo-san, there's going to be a fashion show party soon with Q's boss."

He looked at the man who had spoken to him.

He stood up, adjusting his white shirt, adjusting the collar. He put on a black jacket and black glasses hiding his face.

"I couldn't miss it. Let's get together, guys. Time to bust some Q's heads."

Upon arrival, Gojo sat in a chosen spot next to the raised stage for models.

Soon after, the lights all around went out. The stage was lit.

This made it difficult for them to find their target.

So they decided to wait until the main banquet and party started to catch their enemies then.

Those who hinder his mafia cannot exist. Creating a business is a daily routine for the great "Six Eyes. And when people who have contracts with him are suddenly found dead with a "Q" burned into their skin, he can't sit idly by.

When he watched the fashion show, he thought it was everything he had seen before. All models the same, with fake smiles, with everything to make them even more attractive to the viewer. In none of them, in his opinion, was one whose eyes reflected the soul. And Six Eyes draws attention to human eyes. He knows people's eyes when they show fear or anger. When they show emotion. According to him, there was nothing interesting in the eyes of these women.

Until you came out from behind the curtain, walking calmly ahead. In an elegant black dress.

Your face showed a certain coldness, but warm at the same time. Your eyes were so mysterious.

White hair caught your attention, and you looked at him once.

And then, the mysterious darkness in your eyes made his heart beat faster.

Despite your emanating true model face, coupled with a nice façade, he felt your beauty was deadly. And he liked it very much. Mysterious danger.

A beautiful cat that can scratch her claws at any time. Even to death.

His eyes sparkled behind his glasses as he felt a little blush appear on his cheeks.

It was the first time he fell in love with someone at first sight.

No... It was the first time he truly fell in love. And he didn't want to lose this chance.

That's why he memorized as many details of your face as possible to catch you at the party after the fashion show. Because he sincerely hoped you'd be there.

Even if this party here may be bloody and trashed tonight.

But the moment everyone heard a few shots and one man fell to the floor lifeless, Gojo knew that this was no time for love or fun for him.

After all, he came here to get rid of enemies in an easy way.

And the orders to anyone who came with him said only: "If you see someone from Q, shoot without hesitation. They're definitely here."

All the people panicked and started to run.

And then each of them took out a gun and started shooting at the enemies.

When the white-haired man saw that you were standing behind the curtain on the stage, without a moment's thought he ran ahead, jumped on the platform and pulled you on his shoulder, to sit behind a meter high and shoot to protect you. His goal in sight has already killed three opponents today.

"What're you-?!" You screamed as you pulled away from him.

You already had a plan to approach one of the Q's from behind and slit his throat!

And he interrupted you.

"Don't be afraid, you won't die." He said to you.

You couldn't see his eyes clearly through his glasses. But you know he's not a cop.

You are in the middle of a fight between mafias.

Arrows started raining in your direction and he then quickly pulled you in front of him, making you kneel in front of him, and he lowered your head to his chest as he bent down so they wouldn't shoot him.

As he knelt, leaning forward, you were underneath his body. That's how he protected you.

You don't know why he did it. But you guess there's a deeper meaning to it.

It was the first time anyone protected you. It was nice of him. Because that man didn't even know you. You only looked at each other once during the show. Few minutes ago!

When there were fewer shots in your direction, you crawled out from under his chest, heading around the narrow stage.

And you, too, reached into your thigh and pulled out a folding knife.

Ignoring the screams of the white-haired man behind you and the shots, you kept walking. Until you finally saw a man with a "Q" tattoo on his neck.

You literally felt the knife sharpening in your hand and you quickly walked over to him without making a sound and smashed the knife into his neck. And then to the side of the head.

You quickly pulled away and sheathed the knife to check for blood. Fortunately not.

You were pulled to your feet by the same man who tried to save you right after all the shots had stopped.

You looked at his face without glasses.

You noticed the beauty and unique vigor of the eyes.

You heard another shot.

You looked to the side to see a dark haired man firing a gun at a man who was sitting with his back against the stage to make sure he was dead. With his head on the side. Because of this, no one could see the hole in his temple and neck, which is why he died.

"That's everyone. None of them managed to escape." He said, addressing the white-haired man. "What about her? Shoot? You don't have glasses."

He pointed the barrel of the gun at you.

You'd love to fight. If only that guy's hands weren't on your shoulders.

"She saw my face, huh... It's okay. We're taking her with us." He said with a smile.

"What?!" you shouted pissed off.

"Baby, you couldn't see my face. It's not against the rules of my Mafia. No one except those closest to me has seen my face or knows my real name. According to the rules, I should kill you or lock you up so you don't tell anyone. However, killing you would be a great loss. You're so beautiful and you got me curious... I don't want to kill someone I fell in love with."

"...Hold on!" You screamed as you pushed him, but he only held you tighter.

"Come on. I just have to admit there's something mysterious about your eyes. What you show on stage is not the real you, is it?"

"Fuck off!"

"Aw, honey..." he mumbled sadly.

He started to drag you by the wrist to the car. And even though you kept leaning against you, when the other man helped him to immobilize your arms, you were put in the car and he got in right behind you. The door was closed.

You noticed the black window in front of you, separating you from the driver.

That's good. Maybe you can kill him.

When he looked away for a moment, you put your hand under your dress, pulling your knife from the belt on your thigh, and suddenly jumped into his lap, putting the blade to his throat.

"Hey, baby, this is how you repay me for helping me? Understand that these are the rules we have." He said with a smile, hands raised in front of you.

"I could handle myself." You growled.

"Such a dangerous, beautiful woman. What part is the real you?"

"Who are you?! Someone from Q?!"

"Slow down a bit. Actually, it's like I'm taking you, so I should be the one asking the questions. But okay. I'm Six Eyes. Mafia boss. And when it comes to Q, I'm their biggest adversary."

You wondered if you should trust him. He didn't seem threatening now. Also, there was no Q anywhere here.

Holding the knife to his throat, you hesitated for a moment on what to do.

This caused his hands to quickly pull you down to the seat. His both hands held your wrists while his hips touched your ass as you lay on your stomach.

"If I was from Q, I'd rather kill myself than be there. And besides, everyone from Q would pay no attention to anything. They would just tie you up, rape you, kill you, and then dump your body in a ditch. Did I do that?"

"If you tried, I'd castrate you." You growled.

"Dangerous. I like it. However..." he let go of your wrists and sat in his place, giving you space. "I don't know if you could do something for me. I must admit your ferocity and hostility is strong. But let's say I'm the Mafia boss and you're the model."

"Do not underestimate me..."

"So tell me, (y/n) (l/n), why shouldn't I underestimate you? Tell me something about you. Because you are famous, but your biography is not known by anyone."

You were locked up in the large villa that was his home for several days. Why? Because he didn't want to lock you up in your old garages. He didn't want you gagged and bound while you sat there for who knows how long.

Your relationship was closer because you liked him. However, there was still some tension between the two of you.

Him, the annoying, selfish asshole and egotist who spoke to you the way he wanted to, and always came in when you least expected it.

He was able to come to you in the bathroom while you were taking a bath.

And he joined you.

That's why things became intimate between the two of you quickly, even though you weren't even a couple. You could just be considered friends now.

And you both liked the relationship you already had.

Nothing changed for the next two weeks.

It doesn't matter how many times you hit him with a pan until he finally let you go.

Of course he didn't because he acted like a child after being hit on the head with a pan. He pretended to cry.

You took good care of him and checked him for any head injury. Everything was fine. So you didn't have to worry.

And then he wouldn't let you get out of bed, wanting to make you feel guilty for doing it.

He was lying on your stomach, making you rub and stroke his head because it hurt. And it was your fault.

You apologized to him, and what else were you supposed to do?

It was your revenge for him locking you in here. And for skipping one of the most important performances where you were supposed to show clothes on stage. However, you couldn't complain, because as compensation for your lost money, you received from him a wardrobe worth half a year of your work. Or even more.

If only he was still good at sex, then you wouldn't complain so much. Because your partners were terrible. It's as if they couldn't do anything.

Besides, you've also been given a luxurious house that you have to live with him anyway.

"Come on. I already apologized to you..." you said, running your fingers through his white hair.

"But it hurt..." he said, pretending to cry.

"You don't even have a trace of it. There isn't even a bump on your head."

"But it still hurt...

"You've probably watched the ball through your opponents more than once, right?"

"Not at all..."

"You're in the mafia, Satoru..."

So yes, he told you his real name with the idea that you can't leave him and leave his house anyway. So your names were used by you on a daily basis.

"I've been in the mafia since my mother gave birth to me. I took it from my father... Besides, nobody ever shot me. Because I shot faster and more accurately than they did. When I was 15 I killed a spy who was looking for our weak point in our defense." He laughed, purring as your fingers swirled in his hair.

"So you had a bloody childhood too?"

"I doubt you shot anyone when you were a teenager." He laughed. "How old are you anyway?"

"I'm 23." You replied.

"Same as me! You see? We are made for each other!" He stood up suddenly, looking at you with sparkles in his eyes.

"Apparently you have a headache." You laughed as you saw him quickly lay down on top of you again. "Come on. Come, let me stroke you a little more."

"Which means you had a bloody childhood?"

"Do you really want to know? Don't you prefer that I leave my mysterious eyes?"

"You're smart and cold, or so you think. At fashion shows and commercials, you change it to a mysterious and sensual façade. However, you can care for someone else."

"I hit you with a pan. Is this supposed to be taking care of someone?"

He laughed slightly.

"It was different. Because I don't forbid you to be aggressive. I understand that you hate me. But now you're stroking and hugging me. You wash me while I wash you. We are not such enemies. Can you say we're lovers?"

"I don't know. But when I was 16, I also did something that probably no other model has ever done." You laughed.

He looked at you for a moment, analyzing what you said.

And 7 years ago, almost 10 people were murdered. And from that moment on, the murders of everyone in the Q group and family began. Starting with some of the closest ones from the family of the boss himself.

And these murders continue to this day. The murderer is impossible to catch because no one knows who he is. The gender of this person is unknown. No one knows what his goals are in these murders.

"This knife... You..." He looked at you questioningly.

"I have a knife scar under my hair. And the blood stains are washing off the skin." You said softly. "You can beat me if you know the truth now. If you think I'll be in the way or I shouldn't kill people like them. But remember that if you try, I will try to protect myself."

"You know it doesn't matter to me We may even be partners in crime. Because this is the woman I fell in love with at first sight." He hugged you, holding you tight.

Your actions for revenge are not ridiculed by him. On the contrary. He supports it.

And he promises that everyone from Q will die.

Because he fell in love with mysterious dark eyes. Eyes that from the beginning hid something murderous. So beautiful.

Just like all of you.

Your relationship was like lovers and enemies at the same time.

Or was it more like partners in crime now?

Dark lovers who don't care about the lives of their enemies. You has a mafia boss, the famous Six Eyes, wrapped around your little finger.

You guided him. His heart.

Such a powerful man was so small and sweet to you. So submissive.

That's why you could give that big little boy what he wanted.

You were still riding his cock until you were out of breath that night.

Or rather, his breath.

When you wonder if he's good at sex, you thought he was going to be average.

However, it is different.

He has a big nice dick.

It really stretches you out. It goes so deep. It hits all the best places.

You could barely feel the thin condom against his thick length as your pussy slid over him, lovingly inviting him into your tight warmth every time you lowered your hips.

His arms were bound with the string you found. It felt so good in his muscles.

He couldn't move while you scratched his arms and bit his neck.

You were riding him, making him moan. His hips pushed upward to meet your warmth. Your hand on the back was catching his balls and you were squeezing the skin in your palm. You pinched his thighs. You ran your hands over his lower abdomen, running your fingers along the veins running down his pubic bone.

Your fingernails ran over his chest, occasionally grazing his nipples.

While riding him, you massaged your clitoris to make you come faster. And you smiled as you watched as his head was thrown back as he red-faced moaned at the feeling of your pussy sucking him. His chest heaved rapidly.

His cock twitched inside you.

And then you pulled it out of you, leaving it out in the air. Only with a thin condom on it.

He moaned as your fingers tightened on the base of him, not allowing him to come.

It was his first ruined orgasm you gave him.

And you think he was always driving during sex. He was downstairs now, but he didn't protest. This guy just needed someone to dominate him the right way.

Very slowly and unbearably, you took the condom off him as the precum began to form a transparent puddle in the sperm reservoir.

Leaning down to his red cock, you kissed his head, listening as he moaned, his hips jumping as he felt a sudden touch against a sensitive part of his body.

He was so red and sensitive from a ruined orgasm. It was so cute.

You sat on his hips, and rubbed your pussy against his length, pressing his shaft against his muscular belly.

At the same time, you pulled his face down to your chest, doing something he always did when he saw you shirtless. You put his head in your breasts and he immediately started sucking on your nipples. Feeling the softness of your skin.

Soon after, he started moaning again and you stopped touching his cock again. If he wasn't tied up now, he would grab the length of it and start stroking himself to feel relieved. But alas, his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do and he was at your mercy.

You pressed your fingers against it again. Ensuring not one drop of his cum will come out of his tip. He couldn't come yet.

You want to see him throw his head back and moan when he wants to cum so much.

You sat on his cock when he didn't have a condom on, and he hissed through his teeth at the hot and tight feeling when he had nothing to separate your insides from his sensitive skin.

You grabbed the second condom and ripped open the wrapper. Only then did you get off of him, watching his wet tip drool.

You put the rubber all the way down his length, and then you sat on him again.

Warming his cock until his eyes were glassy and hazy and his face was so red.

As he threw his head back and his shoulders and hips trembled, wanting to start thrusting into you to come, you gave him some mercy.

You started jumping on top of him, smiling as you watched his heavy breathing and closed eyes.

The mighty mafia boss began to moan beneath you. And his ragged moans coupled with light sobs were the cause of his intense orgasm which was a combination of the three he was about to get. His thighs trembled as he came filling the condom inside you, the heat from his fluids pushing his sensitivity to the limit.

As you pulled him out of you, his cock fell soft against his stomach. You took the filled condom off him and tied it, putting the sticky rubber on his abs.

You lay down next to him, untying his hands, letting him pull your body against his.

Your nights together made him unable to resist you. So when you wanted to go back to your dream job, he had to agree.

Two people followed you across the city.

Even if he trusted you not to tell anyone.

He had your secret and you had his.

Little cameras in people's suits let him see what you were doing.

Well, he knew what you would do with those two.

Besides, he didn't feel sorry for them. They were two deserters who ran away from Q to join his mafia.

And he promised you that everyone who is or even was with Q will die.

That's why when he suddenly saw a pool of blood on the other side, he wasn't surprised and didn't even feel sorry for the two people.

Then he saw your face as you held the camera in one hand and your knife in the other.

"Not nice, Six Eyes ~. I don't like being followed. And we'll keep your punishment for that for later, Okay?"

When you said that, he felt a pleasant shiver that passed over his spine. And he couldn't wait for you to come home.

You were his dark queen.

His dark, beautiful queen will have her beautiful vengeance.

Because you will get everything.

Every year, on your birthday, he would take you to one place where the dirty work of killing was often done.

As a surprise, you got one or two high-ranking Q people.

Because his beautiful queen will always get what she wants.

So if you want revenge, you'll get it. In the best way for you.

You are his killer beauty. His deadly love.

[she-whatshername]

Tyrrish Men Headcanons you didn't ask for

Getting ready to post the first chapter of 'Drifted' this week and I've just been headcanoning (is this a word, lol) what Bodhi would be like in a relationship. Knowing he's brothers related to Xaden and a Tyr I think he'd be similar and, in some cases, worse than Xaden haha. I'm listing them out and trying not to give too much away for when I publish 'Drifted' but maybe this will entice you to read it lol

Bodhi in Relationships

Like Xaden, Would 100% have pet names for his S/O, but It would be in Tyrrsih and not the common language. I can absolutely see this man calling you ' my darling' or ' my lover'. We love a sweet with a lil possessive mix man, don't we? Even if you had a 'violence' like nickname, it would still be in Tyrrish.

This man is unbelievably patient. You would set the pace for the relationship; he would be at your sides through any trauma you may have or face. He's really observant of emotional cues and just knows the right thing to say and when. He's the Voice of Reason for the revolution and would probably be your voice of reason too. He is not the person to share reckless ideas with.

Unlike Xaden he's not secretive, but he's boundaried, which may read the same to some, I think differently. I don't see him lying or omitting stuff but would say. "I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. I know that isn't what you want to hear right now."

Would absolutely be about PDA. Unlike Xaden who's more behind closed doors in most cases, Bodhi would be public about it. Discrete, but public. Examples would be standing next to you in Battle Brief and touching shoulders, would give a gift or two in public, or put a hand on your knee if you were sitting next to eachother. I do think if he was around very close friends or people he trusted he may get a little handsy.

Which leads me to, he's an ass man. He would 100% take a pinch or a handful when walking past you but would do with such subliminalness no one would even notice he did it but you. And, because he's a fucking angel, no one would believe you.

I think there is a cultural thing that Tyrrish men are mostly tall, built, handsome and a little egotistical about it (I explore this theory HEAVILY in 'Drifted') so I think he was made aware growing up that he was handsome and is a bit of a charmer. I don't think its to a Xaden Garrick level (literally peacocks in human form), but he knows he fine and uses it to fluster you sometimes.

Also my made up cultural thing about Tyrrish folk is they go HARD for their partners. They are all in, fly or die, you jump I jump etc. Which is why I think that Bodhi's "Who hurt you" moment would be 10 times worse than Xaden. Like, if someone hurt his S/O and he found out...He would display such vengeance it would probably scare Xaden. In fact, he'd probably make sure Bodhi would be the last person to find out his S/O got hurt.

I think Bodhi has equal parts trauma as Xaden does and it comes out in his relationships. So their partner needs to prepare for that.

Just my thoughts, what do y'all think? Also, check out Drifted when its out.

[evilbihan]

As someone who values philosophy and underlying themes of art, I find the duality of fire and ice interesting when applied to characters.

For instance fire is seen as a warm and protective element, but few care to look beyond the warm glow to see the hunger and cruelty of fire. I think this can apply well to characters who wield fire. They can be warm and kind on the surface, but underneath is rage and passion. This can definitely be seen in Kuai Liang. Everyone is drawn to the fire, but doesn't see the burning rage.

Naturally ice is very much the opposite of all this. Ice is frightening and cold. It looks like it doesn't care about anything beyond its cold judgment. Yet people who have almost died of the cold say it lulled them to sleep. It's the only element to take you sweetly in a way. Ice underneath has a deep beauty and kindness in it. With Bi-Han we see him as icy and snappish (heh cold snap), but we also see that his whole motivation is for his clan. Yet the writers don't let us see the kinder side that comes from that dedication and love. It's annoying how they have kept him so flat when ice is such a deep and philosophical thing. (I'm sure my bias is also showing I love ice and winter.)

This is so true and I couldn't have worded it any better myself! Fire is destructive. Fire provides warmth, but no one ever speaks of what it takes in return. Fire is selfish. It consumes. Get too close and it will burn you. Fire knows no mercy. All those things are, in one way or another, also applicable to Kuai Liang. His intention to protect the realm may seem noble, but his vengeful nature is destructive to both himself and those around him. Kuai Liang is selfish and merciless in his pursuit of vengeance.

Ice is indeed in many ways the kinder element. Don't we apply ice to burns and bruises for it to numb our pain? Is it not the ice that selflessly melts and waters the ground we live off? The cold only becomes a threat to those who venture into it too deep. As you already correctly said, Bi-Han cares about his clan and means to protect it. He is only a threat to those who interfere with that goal. His desire to give the Lin Kuei a better future is no less noble than Kuai Liang's, but few can recognize this because ice can seem unfriendly and terrifying, yet the cold shows mercy. And what is Bi-Han if not merciful?

Sub-Zero: Surrender and Shao will show mercy. Mileena: If you believe that, you're a fool.

Sub-Zero: Walk away while you can. Raiden: I'll never give up, never surrender.

Sub-Zero: We have no cause for dispute. Kitana: You aided Shao's attempt to steal the throne!

Some fail to see the beauty and kindness of ice the same way they fail to see the cruelty of fire.

Now, for your final point, I'm afraid I must disagree.

Yet the writers don't let us see the kinder side that comes from that dedication and love.

You are partially right with that statement, but I do think we get to see glimpses of Bi-Han's kindness, such as the examples I provided above (you can find more in this post as well as this one), people just tend to intentionally ignore them for some reason. Bi-Han asks both his brothers if they're unharmed, he expresses regret over Sindel's death, he seems reluctant to fight Kitana... Personally, I think he is a far more complex character than people give him credit for. Could the writing have been better? Absolutely. Is it the writers' fault that Bi-Han is misunderstood? Not entirely. I would mostly blame that on the fandom's media illiteracy.

(As a side note: Ironically, my favorite season is summer and I can handle heat better than I can handle the cold and yet the ice/winter themed character ended up being my favorite.)

[hell-heron]

Show VS books - Theon's choice

So, I was hoping to post this for show VS books day and also to have time to rewatch the show to factcheck my impressions, which was not possible as my streaming service failed me, so I welcome any corrections about what I am writing. (Please no insults or like. Objections to the general concept of comparing an adaptation to its source material or of sharing critical thoughts about things you don't like. I think these are fine and fun things to do, if you disagree, just do not read this lenghty tome).

Still, I wanted to talk about the way Theon's choice between fighting with his family and remaining loyal to Robb is framed in the show, even before taking a very obvious Stark-goggles view the way it did in the following seasons. In my opinion, the show handled the ACOk storyline very movingly with great acting and some great writing, but still fell into the trap of conveying a certain amount of "shouldn't it be a no brainer to pick friend who values you over bio family that hates you?" in ways that in many cases weren't the writing's fault as it was impossible for a TV show to convey the same nuances as the book, but in some other cases might have been avoided. Here's how imho:

Theon swearing fealty to Robb explicitely, everyone's favorite bugbear. Not one I am particularly attached to, because really I think Theon's situation of being sent, while technically a hostage, to negotiate an alliance with his father and being refused remains legally ambiguous and kind of unprecedented whether or not he swears specific words of fealty. If he didn't swear it in the books, did he not effectively do it by arranging an alliance with Robb anyway, even though he couldn't know whether that alliance would really work out, meaning it was always a conditional loyalty? If he did, is it really binding/something he had a choice about? Still, it gives a very different impression to the casual viewer.

General less established worldbuilding on the taboo of kinslaying and taking arms against family which is just inherent to the medium of short-season TV show VS enciclopaedic saga and couldn't really be helped

Not seeing Theon's inner thoughts on the matter of family, another thing which can't be helped, which show his attitude as more nuanced as he's very aware and critical of the toxicity of his father and brothers but still has an expectation of being welcomed. Thus the hint that he remembers being loved and valued as a child even in a broken dysfunctional way and so reasonably expects to be again on his return

Ditto re: Theon's thoughts on the political situation of the islands which he does have an understanding of and feels a sense of duty to improve, mixed with the desire for glory and being a hero to his people

Starting with some things that can be helped: absolutely 0 sense of the Islands as being in a crisis, destroyed, in poverty, or being damaged by Robert and Ned's host or having somewhat substantiated desires of revenge, besides the deaths of Rodrik and Maron.

Actually expanding on this point bc the show chose to not get to any extent into what the relationship between Theon and his brothers was like. In the books, Theon remembers being abused by them and only expresses a desire of revenge when it helps justify himself to his family, developing a frequent theme in the books that vengeance is often very much not a simple and natural feeling but selfish and weaponized. The show understandably doesn't get into this sort of thematic/psychological analysis, so why not use the deaths of Theon's brothers as something that has a bit more weight in his choice? It was not difficult or time consuming to add some comment about their childhood or about mourning them etc, not as difficult as doing some of the other stuff I mention on this list lmao. It would have built more sympathy for him.

Theon is apparently getting no official welcome besides his sister's initiative to seduce him (Its possible Balon sent Yara and Yara independently decided to seduce him, but it meshes kind of weirdly with the way she lets Theon in on his own and then makes her cinematic entrance in the middle of the conversation) in the book, while Theon is unhappy with Aeron due to his desire to have his parents welcome him instead and Aeron's change and attitude to him, he's objectively a perfectly good person to send to fetch the heir, as a close family member and a priest with great authority and respect.

Theon has no one who loves him on the islands, no mother, no Dagmer, no childhood friends he finds he can't quite connect with again, no Wex, no men who choose to remain loyal to him at Winterfell. Wex is particularly interesting because, while some interpret the offering of a disabled bastard squire as a sign of the ironborn noble families's disdain for Theon, I think it's actually a fairly normal feudalistic exchange of favors. After all Theon is asked to take Wex on as a squire as payment for his horse, so certainly with the understanding he's doing the Botleys a solid by giving an opportunity to a boy who would otherwise not be allowed many, and Lord Botley later champions Theon's claim against Euron. So this little detail could have been a helpful shorthand for Theon succeeding in developing some kind of relationships and loyalty on the islands which he could think he might have developed if he had time and proved himself

Theon in the show is given a ship for his diversion raids while Yara gets 30 ships that appear to be the entire deployed force (??), which is a lot more extreme than "Victarion gets the whole fleet, Asha gets 30 ships, Theon gets 8". The book arrangement feels like an insult to Theon but is reasonable for someone who was never a captain before and who's unknown to his father. The show arrangement is a lot more of an open insult that doesn't really allow us to understand Theon's hope to improve his standing.

Probably couldn't have been helped, given the tight timeline of the show, but: book Theon gets a shining military success, though one of modest proportions in his victory against Benfred Tallart's sortie, before he undertakes the mission to Winterfell, which makes the plan seem somewhat less dumb. Also taking Winterfell being his own idea rather than it being pushed by show!Dagmer shouldn't have huge weight in this but it does make his choice seem more motivated (by his own rage and revenge, for his own political aims) and less pathetic

Moving the pivotal execution of ser Rodrik so early after Theon's taking of Winterfell undercuts the slow descent into despair and violence that Theon experiences in the books. We're supposed to think Theon made an irremediably wrong choice when he burned the letter to Robb, rather than having several chances to stop himself on the path to becoming a child murderer which he for various reasons doesn't take.

While Alfie and for once imho the writing as well do a great job of conveying Theon's pain and trauma for what he went through at Winterfell, it was evidently chosen not to focus or even explicitely mention outside the worldbuilding videos (iirc) how Ned would have been expected to execute him and his fear of that. Skipping the Beth parley is obviously a factor in this (which I will never understand, btw, it seems so perfectly made for TV...) , but even the very beautiful emotional moments that were scripted to replace it just focus on other things. The dialogue with Master Luwin for example has Theon associate fear with the walls of Winterfell, in a line so good I frequently forget it wasn't in the books, but still there's a writing choice to center a fear that comes from a sense of intimidation and inferiority towards the people who defeated his family rather than the material reality of being constantly up for execution. That completely recontextualises the situation and his relationship to house Stark

The matter of Theon's men loyalty to him deserves some expansion in general because like... GRRM, for all that we tease him for the "what was Aragorn's tax policy" line, does invest much time and attention in portraying in detail the choices of all his leader characters, their popularity and relationships with their followers. So even Theon whose leadership skills are not very important gets the sketch of a nuanced political situation. We know that Theon leads his men into several missions before Winterfell, that he's able to convince Dagmer to support his plan to take Winterfell and that his men follow him in this high-risk mission, that he punishes them for fighting over plunder and for committing rape, that he has some of them killed and that he executes Northmen to give them a semblance of justice and is haunted by both, that he doesn't feel like they would keep the secret of the murdered boys' identity, that they grow restless and ambivalent during their time in Winterfell but still do their duty, that one of them specifically takes issue morally with him using Beth against her father and wishes they could just have an open battle, that he offers them the chance to surrender rather than die with him and they are reluctant to refuse it but most do it. There was never going to be anything like that in the brief plotline of a minor character, obviously, but needing to simplify, was really "they knock him out and hand him over to the enemy" the best simplification? It was for the theme they wanted to convey, which is that there was a right and a wrong choice obvious from the start and that poor Theon, understandably and tragically, chose wrong.

[lemon-russ]

good news my fever broke and my regular illness of putting Cato in situations returned

this upcoming arc has been haunting my brain since someone?? prob moodymisty?? posted a list of trope-y things Cato would be forced to endure as a body guard, specifically diplomat going to a warm planet with balls and wearing revealing dresses and making him p a n i k. anyone knows the post lemme know it's haunted me forever.

Part 8/ ???

1 :: 2 :: 3 :: 4 :: 5 :: 6 :: 7 :: 7.5 :: 8 :: 9 :: 10

Cato Sicarius x F!Reader

(both POVs today)

CW: Vague alluding to sex, Cato back to being mean

Summary: Ambassador heads off on vacation with Titus, Cato takes it SUPER well and is very normal

word count: 1,720

You try not to pout as you sit on the ship heading out to the planet you were being forced to take a vacation to.

Commander Titus and a couple of lower rank ultramarine's sit across from you, talking politely among themselves. Guilliman has forced you to rest after the scare you gave him on that planet that rebelled.

You sigh a bit. You heard Cato swept through the place in a day with the second company. Titus said he was on a warpath- he always delighted in battle, but this one was a personal vengeance against the people that put them through all the trouble of having to rescue the both of you.

Now you're off to a particularly pleasant agri-world, renown for their fruits and home to hot spring baths and nightly dances. The marines with you weren't thrilled about standing around while you relaxed on warm beaches, but unlike Cato, they would never dare voice it. You were a high ranking diplomat, personal ambassador to Guilliman. Most marines show you a modicum of general respect. Then again most ultramarines were very professional all around. Cato is an outlier in his attitude and disrespect.

Which is nice. It's nice to not be bullied and teased. Nice to not have a whining huffing rain cloud following you. Nice… and a little boring. The two lower rank marines don't talk much, and when they do it’s polite “yes, Ma'am.” And “of course, Lady Ambassador.” Titus was a little better, still reserved, but seemed to at least understand you were looking for conversation, so tried his best.

You smiled at him a bit. “Will you be taking part in any of the activities, Commander?” You ask, desperate for conversation. He smiles politely. “Ah, no, Lady Ambassador. That would mean I'd not be properly guarding you, and, I am here to guard you.” He said apologetically. You sigh. “You mean here to babysit me…” you mumble, putting your head on your hand and looking out the window. Babysit was the word Guilliman used for it, specifically. Calling you a disobedient child when he'd found you sneaking paperwork.

Titus let out a soft chuckle. “I'd never want to imply you were childish, my lady.” He said with a small smile. “I am merely here to ensure a less dramatic trip for you than last time.” you sigh. You were disappointed when Guilliman told you he was removing Cato from your guard. You don't know why you were. He was a huge pain in the ass, a bully, and caused most of the issues. But your mind flashed to him pinning you to that cave wall and you flushed a little. Damn it, Cato. You couldn't get that day out of your head.

He would have just cause you issues here, too. But you had secretly hoped a bit that you'd get to convince him to join you in a hot spring- no, no stop that. Its bad enough you kissed him for some reason. Everything is so complicated with him now. You hate him a little, but you also kinda really like him, and you definitely are attracted to him… and you can't get all these images and memories of him out of your head. He's haunting you and it's making you angry at him by proxy. Stupid Cato.

Titus glances at you a bit while you think. “Lady Ambassador? You look upset, is all well…?” He asks with a small frown. You blush a little, sitting up properly. “Ah, sorry. Just have things on my mind. No need to worry, Commander.” You say, composing yourself. He looks unconvinced. “Ah, I wont pry then, my lady.” He said politely.

Cato would pry, you think. No, that is unfair to Titus. He is very kind, more personable than most other ultramarines too. But he's so… professional. And polite. He sometimes will respond with a light joke if you do so first, or laugh at something. But mostly he just smiles and nods and stands an appropriate distance away. As he should, that's how a bodyguard should act. But you'd gotten used to Cato cracking jokes at your expense, and insulting random passing nobles, and walking right next to you to force you to walk into walls and things. Which is annoying. But at least it was something.

The thunderhawk jolted a little as it began to land, and for a split second your heart skipped a beat and your hand jumped to your harness. You'd been a bit jumpy about flying in small craft since the thunderhawk crash. And much more on top of keeping buckled in.

Commander Titus frowns as you flinch and grab the belt, lifting a hand a little towards you, “Ah- my lady? Are you alright?” He asked politely, confused about what happened. You frown a bit, “oh, yes, sorry. Just, a little spooked by the landing…” you play it off a bit, giving a tight smile. He raises his brow but nods and sits back as the thunderhawk finishes its landing sequence.

The marines help you unload your things and you get off the ship and look at the pretty planet you’ve landed on. Lush tropic greenery, warm breezes, greco-romann looking buildings with lots of open to the air arches. there’s a beach and gentle waves nearby, and you think you hear a waterfall. You try and force yourself to stop thinking about how much work you’ll have back home, but what if Guilliman didn’t understand your file system? did he get those things filed in time- No, stop it, relax.

You sigh, pursing your lips. you take all your unwanted thoughts, worries about work, worries about deadlines, and the stupid thoughts of Cato Sicarius saving you from burning shipwrecks and pinning you to walls- and you file them all away in your mind in your mental LATER pile. You sigh, and try and soak in the warm air. You’ll get to it, in a few days. You were ordered to relax, and you hate not following orders.

___________________________________________________________

Cato paced the training fields, watching some of the newer aspirants to the Ultramarines do drills. They’d all passed trials, and it was one of his responsibilities to keep up on new recruits to the company. He didn’t normally take fresh marines, but he liked to keep an eye out for talented new Astartes. He needed the distraction anyways.

That world had been far to easy to run through, barley taking a day to fall to the impirium. It was meant to calm him, leading the charge, but it was only more infuriating how he had been cornered by people so weak and low tech. He growled to himself, and pulled his un-powered power sword out, practicing his regular drills on the combat dummy. Stupid primitive world. Stupid Titus, gallivanting on that stupid romance planet with the Ambassador- he chopped a chunk of the dummy off- Stupid Ambassador, kissing him randomly and then barely talking to him for two days- another chunk flew off- Stupid, warp-damned woman keeping him up all night, haunting his mind- The dummy shattered into a splintered mess with a hard swing. He growled, then stomped it a few times. Stupid combat dummy that can’t even take him going light on it.

He lets out a frustrated snarl and throws his sword to the ground, running his hands through his hair. What were they doing right now, his throne damned commander and the ambassador? Nothing good could come from them locked away together for days on a planet Guilliman described as “one of the few places left a noble could take a honeymoon.” He bets Titus is being unprofessional- he never knew how to stick to the rules. He bets he's taking her dancing- he's probably stealing a dance with her right now. She always dresses so impractically, and it's warm there, is she wearing something even more revealing? Is Titus eyeing her the way he did?

He heel stomps the dummy once more for good measure, picks up his blade, and storms off toward the Hangar. He has to go fight something, anything. He'll ask around for leads on something to kill and go focus on things that actually matter, like defending the Imperium. And not stupid, vapid women who probably are taking the first chance alone with Titus to give him secret kisses and hide away in corners with, doing emperor knows what in hot spring pools. He's fooling himself thinking he'd be an exception anyways, the way she smiles at everyone who looks at her, she's probably in everyone's beds. Everyone's but his.

He slams his fist on the button to open the hangar doors. One of his men looks up at him and grimaces. “Are we going out again today, sir…?” He asks, and Cato just nods and scowls. “Get everyone together, we're going… going… somewhere- it doesn't matter, just get the men in here!” He snaps. The marine frowns but nods, scrambling up to follow his orders.

He lets out a long, frustrated sigh, gripping his hair a bit as he runs his fingers back through it. If Titus lays a finger on her, he's going to kill him. He doesn't care if that's the worst thing a marine can do, betray a battle brother. Titus would be betraying him first, touching his woman- he stops dead in his tracks.

When did he start thinking of her as his?

Holy golden throne, she's driving him mad and she's not even here. She's broken his mind, flipped some switch he can't find to turn off again. He hates this, he hates her- but by the emperor, he hates the thought of her and Titus doing what he and she had done most. He grits his teeth and smashes his helmet on, stomping onto a thunderhawk. If his men weren't here in 30 seconds he was going without them. He white knuckled the hilt of his power sword.

In his mind he was desperately trying to shove all these feelings and thoughts into the overflowing WEAKNESS box, but there was just nothing rational left to think about. He's hanging on by a thread, and his men now have 20 seconds to be on this ship before he went and tore through some Orks alone.

[katyspersonal]

In today's SoTE progress: ARRRGHHH I am SO goddamn angry!!!! Gfhghmjm But also I am thinking about Messmer and Marika a LOT now.

1) So, I was getting mentally prepared for going to battle Messmer, and decided to visit just one last piece of fort associated with his location!

^ This shield was dropped by a Black Knight Garrew that acted like a boss but was no harder than a regular enemy. He was using a Crucible aspect that gave him chameleon's shooting tongue to attack with and I hoped he'd drop it instead hfhghgj I'm gonna assume it was somewhere in the game and I just missed it for a dumb reason :pensive:

^ A valid reference in case if anyone will want to draw/write certain grim scenes in detail or something like that

2) There was also a fairly well-hidden secret that I felt proud of discovering, but it was just a stronger version of the talisman that makes arrows stronger! And not only I don't use bows, but also it didn't even give lore! Goddamn it Fromsoft reward me with INFORMATION for my explorer's interest!!

3) Okayyyy sooo :/ I was soooo ready to get my ass kicked by Messmer that I kinda dreaded it, but needed to get this over with! Alas, DLC should end sooner or later...

And at first, I did get my ass kicked, sure. But..... ...not only he switched to the second phase halfway through his health bar and not after it was fully reduced like I expected.. but also I adopted OBNOXIOUSLY fast. :/ :/ :/ It didn't take me EVEN 15 MINUTES to fully adapt to him and just get closer and closer with every try. And!! I did kill him? Like are you JOKING. Are you KIDDING me. That was IT? It took me several days and tormenting @fantomette22 for useless tries to finally defeat Rellana, I had to try many strategies and be extremely smart and inventive with her!! I thought if she was so strong, Messmer would have been even WORSE, and yet I am just sitting here like:

Dude yeah no SHIT you needed Rellana to protect you :/ Guess I was not impressed by 18 inches of Messmer the Impaler 😔😔😔

4) Okay but I DID like his voice acting a lot hfhgv I was just sitting there like "stop sounding sexy you dunce, I already decided that I'm going to dislike you!" XD /j

5) His final words were "Mother... Marika... A curse... upon thee..." and.. hell if I know whether he cursed us or her. I am assuming he cursed her since switching to calling your parent by name instead is a kind of strong sentiment. Like defying them their status over you sort of. Besides all the statues of her in Shadow Realm but one being headless. So... yes, interesting.

6) It was not patched out btw! :>

7) Okay actually when I was about to beat Messmer's ass for good I've accidentally found the summon sign for Hornsent NPC! I was not seeing it during the fight, just happened to run into it, and if Igon taught me anything is that such summons are a good idea because they progress the questline. Maybe. So, he gave a dialogue after Messmer was defeated:

"We meet again I see, comrade-in-arms. Upon his end, did you see Messmer's face? Twas sublime - a very tangle of snakes! To think he dared to call us savages. When he himself was most base of all.

To say the least, I am to you indebted. Yet unquenched remains my thirst for revenge. The death of Messmer was merely the start. Now comes the piper to collect from Marika, her offspring, and all the Erdtree's denizens... In vengeance for the flames, my blade I wield... If Miquella's redemption soothes the ache... that throbs within, demanding blessed vengeance... Then I wish not to be by him redeemed."

Sigh... I just can tell that the guy will have to turn on us sooner or later. Honestly, rejection of anything that could help/heal/etc the pain that demands revenge is such a... real reaction? He is a very real character. He straight up doesn't want to stop even after achieving his objective and himself, ironically, fell for the path of punishing every associate including innocent people whose only sin is being "born in this culture". He became like Marika in this regards!

Honestly, this is a very good writing moment! Second favourite after Miyazaki's jab at horrors of believing in "sacred mission" in Crusader's Insignia! (I like the character even more now for very real negative character development, but I just can TELL we'll have to kill him gfhhgg)

8) .... ah, right, I forgot this post about Messmer

Again: hatred like what? Hatred coming from Abyss Serpent? His hatred for Marika? Hatred for all divested of her grace? Hatred for himself? Is this many things? Fromsoft spare me I am too autistic to read hfggjhgjgb

9) This is actually sweet:

So, the snakes were friends all along, and I suppose the counterparts/antagonists to the "evil" serpent within him!

10) *points at this like in the meme* Hey I remember that this bit was mistranslated! XD

It actually says that he did that for his mother's sake, and not by her wish! It makes even more sense with the following sentence, as if HE really wished for no single mfer to look weird at her. No, as if he INSISTED to accept all blame and hatred. Considering he curses her in his dying breath, after all (or at least calls her name which is a bad sign from a child), there must have been such a long build-up of unhealthy relationship between them to it...

He not only wished to keep her away from all fear and hatred that follows, and fulfill her vengeful desires, but also basically said to use him like a punching bag. But if she feared the curse within him in the end, then SHE is to blame that he gave up on any and all hope to be pure, good and loved. Like.. whose fault do you guys think it IS that his self-image centered entirely on being fear and dread, as well as someone to hate? I have an impression that he did want to take the blame and excile for her sake, but also resented that she actually accepted his request to use him. Like.. maybe he didn't even realize that what he, subconsciously, wanted was for her to refuse. I might be speaking from too much personal experience, but sending such mixed signals (requesting something with expectation that the person will refuse) is a sign of bad parenting at least, abuse at most. And knowing Marika's horrid parenting skills... yeeeeah.

Again, really good writing. They are saying so much with so little, as always. Glad that Mister Miyazaki keeps the mark with his stories only being readable if you have at least one PTSD ggbhjghbb

11) I have a bad guess that they did not elaborate on what exactly Abyss Serpent is, otherwise @val-of-the-north would've already spoilered me because we love worldbuilding xd

But seeing how Marika Had a Moment about Giants' Fire all because it's capable of burning the Erdtree, the reason is probably similar. She I with Fire like Gwyn is with darkness: it can end her era, maybe end herself, so it is terrifying.

At the same time, she was trying to love her children, at least at first. She created this eye for Messmer and created a lot of Divine Blessings to ease his burdens in the past. Then there were Omen Twins that she yet named with her initials and at least Godfrey and Godwyn were seeing them, although horned creatures would be her worst nightmare. I feel like the pipeline from this to "children become kings or lords or else you'll only be worthy of sacrifices" + "unwanted bastard in Mausoleum" was a long one. She tried to love even the children that were either a walking hazard or walking PTSD, but failing to overcome fear before Messmer set her down the spiral. God, I can see all of her snapping if Messmer asked too many questions, accidentally acting hostile if he tried to be physically affectionate unable to conceal her fear fast enough... She would not be the type to try again with anyone after casting him aside in the end, but, she would take the passive position of "kids, prove me that you deserve my love because ME putting in effort won't avail anything, apparently". The guilt but one that made a quitter rather than a better person.

12) Also *points like in the meme again*

Yeah, every forge type of the dungeon in Shadow Realm has throwing weapons!!! He adapted!

__________

So yeah this post gotten EMOTIONAL ALL OF A SUDDEN when I expected it to be short. Damn, the girls didn't lie, he IS an interesting character!