#i had forgotten how brutal that fight was

[waitineedaname]

ouuuguughh good dunmeshi episode this week

[in-class-daydreams]

Imagine you're still furious with ex-husband Gojo over his behavior regarding the flowers from your "secret admirer."

You put on a happy face for the Sister School Exchange Event, however. For the sake of sportsmanship (and safety), your son, Sen, is heavily restricted. He's a great asset to his team all the same and the Tokyo team have two of their strongest students ready to intercept him.

"The brat's showing off too much. His form's sloppy," Sukuna says from the seat beside you.

"He's been telling me how the two of you have been doing some brutal conditioning lately," you comment with your eyes fixed on the screen.

Sukuna scoffs. "Not brutal enough, apparently."

And it's that attitude that secured Sukuna's place as your son's favorite teacher a long time ago.

~

Imagine that in-between the major conflicts of the event, you and ex-husband Gojo get to have a longer conversation without your son jumping to your rescue.

For once, Satoru isn't trying to flirt with you. He's watching the image of his son running through the woods battling curses without breaking a sweat. They may have vicious, gut-wrenching fights at times, but one could not deny how in awe Satoru was of his son.

"He's so talented," he murmurs more to himself than you. He leans back in his seat, gaze hidden by his blindfold. "You did a great job," he tells you softly.

You put your hand over his - the first tender contact you've initiated with him in perhaps years.

"So did you," you reply.

"Please. The kid hates me."

"He doesn't see it now, but I know that you did what you thought was best for him." You give his hand a little squeeze. Romance or not, divorce or not, you and Satoru have always understood each other unlike anyone else. You knew he had to choose between being in Sen's life and keeping him safe.

By the time team battles ended, you'd forgotten what you were even mad at him for.

~

Imagine you and ex-husband Gojo proceed with the Sister School Exchange event on good terms.

Which is why you feel so guilty when while Satoru is occupied with catching up with Yuji during the transition between events, your gaze falls on the man you've been avoiding eye-contact with all day.

You see him tapping away on his phone. When he looks up, he smirks and hits send on whatever message he was typing. Heat creeps up your face and you quickly avert your eyes.

A moment later, your phone vibrates. It feels like it's burning a hole in your pocket, but you force yourself to wait a minute so it's not obvious.

After what feels like ages (but is really only about a minute), you allow yourself to check your messages.

[11:27 am] Hope you liked the flowers, beautiful. Rika helped me pick them out <3

~

Edit: Reader and Gojo are approaching their 40’s in this, Sen is 18, Yuta is approaching 30. Just to make that clear.

Click [here] for more of Sen being mean to his dad | Ask stuff about Sen and the fam [here]

[unknownplane]

The Court Jester Part 1

Yandere Batfam x GN Reader

Pt. 2, Pt. 3

"How did this happen?" the man who claimed to be my father asked.

"It started when I was young. My mother was close friends with Bruce Wayne. So when she died, he decided to take me in. Looking back on it now, I can tell it was just so he could have a piece of her even though she was gone. He, like many other men were infatuated with the idea of her and what could happen if they had her. That is how I came along. Someone couldn't keep their hands to themselves. Nobody, but my father knows that they are my father. We have tried finding him before, but there has been no luck.

I was 4 when I was brought to the manor. Bruce, overwhelmed with anguish, couldn't even look at me as I had my mother's features. Alfred showed me around. I even got to meet my new brother Richard, better known as Dick. An accurate nickname because as soon as he met me, he decided he did not want to be around me. That was fine. I was still dealing with the loss of my mother. As time went on, I felt as if I was forgotten. Bruce was busy throwing himself into "work" and he only needed Dicks help. It didn't take me long to figure out who he was. With all the bruises and tension around the house when things got bad in Gotham anyone living in that house could tell he was Batman. He had claimed he didn't want me to get hurt that's why he never asked for help but I knew it was because I looked like mom. I had her (h/c) (h/t) hair and her (e/c) eyes.

A couple of years later, a new boy came into the mix. His name was Jason Todd. He was okay. He didn't really know when to stop, though. I heard a lot of fights between him and Bruce. He talked to me sometimes when we had time. I was in school getting good grades and he was a Robin so we didn't have much time for each other. But then he died, and I had no one again. Even when he did come back, he came back changed he no longer cared for me. He was harsh. Ruined.

Then there was Tim Drake. He was really nice at the beginning, but he got busy and sleep deprived, so I stopped reaching out. I didn't want to take up his time as he had an actual job.

Then Stephanie Brown came, and I realized that there was a pattern. These people were too busy for me. I should stay out of their way and not be a burden as I have proven to be before.

It was like that until Damian came. He was unlike all the other Robins. He was mean and brutal. It was around this time that I started to reach out to the family. I had realized I had severe depression and self esteem issue from being the only one in this family that did not excel at anything. When I reached out, he was the one who but me back in my place. He was the one who told me to stay in the background where I belonged. And I might have if I was still the child that came here unwillingly at 3 years old, but I am no longer that child. I am an adult who has a degree in psychology and has a stable job. So I left.

When I first moved out, the first person I told was my online friend. I had been in contact with him since I was 5. He was like a father to me. He was very happy for me and told me, "You are finally free from that dreadful house!" and I couldn't agree more. I stayed in contact with him over the years, and our bond strengthened.

Then, one day, not even a month after I left the manor, he asked to meet up. I agreed. We met up at an abandoned wearhouse. He had told me he was a wanted man, so I did not mind. When I saw him, my face lit up as did his. We talked about a lot of things that night. One of which was if I wanted to help him in his endeavor. Chaos. And I gladly agreed as I would do anything for him as he was my father.

He soon started training me. Making sure I could deal with pain and know how to fight. The first week was agony, but then we both realized something. No matter how badly I was injured, it never had reproductions as the injuries would heal almost supernaturally. So soon, we started experimenting. Of course, I still felt pain, but anything for my dad. We found that no matter what happened to me, I couldn't die.

Then, I became strong enough to take part in one of his acts. Which leads us to now. Dies that answer your question?" I say, looking into the desperate eyes of The Batman with an elongated smile. Glee shined in my eyes as I finally had his attention.

"But SHHHH dad doesn't want to know your secret identity! Says it would ruin all the fun!" I proclaim. My teeth are fully showing as I giggle.

"What did I do wrong?" Bruce whispers to himself. As if he didn't already know. This was all his fault, and now the last piece he had of (M/N) was out of reach.

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

Hello!! This is my first time writing on Tumbler and just wanted to say Hi. Please let me know if you want this to continue. If it does, updates would probably be slow as I am in college and am using this as an artistic outlet. Thank you so much for reading!!

[brighteuphony]

On the way back from Tea Country with Chakra-poisoned Kakashi tryna "casually" fish for some info before Sakura comes in with the one-hit KO on accident.

So she's got some complicated feelings for Kakashi as well, though they're a lot milder than what she feels about Sasuke.

There's a moment in my AU where Sakura goes through a deep reflection ritual, in which she has to face Inner Sakura -who is representative of all the ugly truths her day-to-day self hasn't been able to face- and come to terms with who she is.

During that time, she's got to face the music.

The music:

Sasuke is the last prodigal son of a clan that was brutally butchered. He's a genius with one of the most powerful dojutsu out there (that he has no idea how to use) and is coming in hot with more baggage than an airport terminal.

Naruto is not normal. She doesn't know what he is (as in-canon, she finds out after the time-skip and the Sakura from above is right on the cusp of Shippuden), but there's nothing normal about a kid who can pull wild orange chakra and who can fight Gaara's tailed beast and come out on top. He's got the personal attention of the Hokage, but the entire village has banded against him for some reason. He's special.

Kakashi is a war veteran turned Jounin and an infamous ANBU captain (I headcanon that some ANBU names are leaked specifically to generate a healthy level of fear/caution among other villages- which is why we know of Itachi/Kakashi/Shisui very publically) and is ALSO the last prodigal son of an old noble clan.

(No way a bookworm like Sakura didn't consume every publically available scroll on Konoha clans).

It doesn't take the big brains to figure out that he got team 7 specifically to help deal with Sasuke's trauma/teach him about the Sharingan, and put a leash on Naruto (and in the future, when she finds out that Madara was able to control the Kyuubi with the Sharingan as well as the knowledge that Kakashi was Minato's student it becomes even clearer why he got the Sasuke/Naruto combo.)

And Sakura? Sakura is a civilian. No clan, no dojutsu, nothing to her name except great chakra control. She's the literal meat in the meat-grinder of the military machine of Konoha, the acceptable sacrifice in a group of otherwise invaluable shinobi. She's just a...girl. (And it doesn't help that she was obsessed with Sasuke instead of training, furthering the gulf between her and Kakashi.)

Kakashi was absolutely not built to handle her- in fact, Kakashi has NO idea how to relate who hasn't gone through a mountain's worth of trauma or someone who hasn't been ingrained in the shinobi-as-a-tool lifestyle, and even then, he's not fully equipped to handle people who have (lmao Sasuke). Not to mention the man is a prodigy- he has no idea how to teach people who have to work hard to get somewhere in life. How do you teach someone if you've never had to 'work hard' to get there yourself?

So, Sakura understands that Kakashi was put in one of the most ridiculous situations of his career- a situation he had NO idea how to handle. She can forgive him for that. BUT, she can't forgive him for not trying his best.

Sakura spent a lot of time coming to terms with the fact that she rushed into the Chidori/Rasengan combo without a single idea of what she would do, but...Kakashi was a big reason for that.

She was HIS responsibility, and he fumbled that bag. Whatever his reasoning, whether it was to 'protect' her, or whether he thought she was worthless, whatever: he should have TRIED.

Kakashi was an adult with resources aplenty. He recognized that she had stellar chakra control but never bothered to teach her genjutsu or direct her to teachers who could pick up the slack.

And after the accident, he abandoned her again. Being forgotten in lieu of Sasuke and Naruto hurt...but she could heal. Being abandoned as some kind of martyr to Kakashi's failures as a teacher? It's gonna take a while for Kakashi to make that up to her...if he can muster the courage to face her.

Sakura finally understands why he preferred the memorial stone to the living. He already failed the dead, and it's easier to wallow in self-flagellation than it is to try and step up for the living.

Sakura stopped being a coward some time ago, and when Kakashi finally does the same, she'll forgive him.

Thank you so much for sticking with this wall of text! And thank you so much anon for the question! Once again, I really appreciate all the kind words people have been throwing my way. <3 <3 <3

[fernthewhimsical]

Hopepunk Primer pt. 2

Philosophy of Hopepunk

I cannot express this better than other people have done before me. So I'll start with an interview Kayti Burt had with several hopepunk authors in 2019.

"What is hopepunk? It depends on who you ask…

Rowland, quoting their essay “One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives,” says: “Hopepunk is a subgenre and a philosophy that ‘says kindness and softness don’t equal weakness, and that, in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.’”

To understand hopepunk as a concept it helps to understand what it stands in contrast to. Grimdark is a fantasy subgenre characterized by bleak settings in which humanity is fundamentally cutthroat, and where no individual or community can stop the world’s inevitable decline. Hopepunk, in contrast, believes that the very act of trying has meaning, that fighting for positive change in and of itself has worth—especially if we do it together." [4]

When Alexandra Rowland was asked on Tumblr to expand on the initial statement she made they elaborated:

"Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world, and truly believing that we can get there if we care about each other as hard as we possibly can, with every drop of power in our little hearts." [5]

I also love the definition of the Tumblr blog @hopepunk-humanity:

"What is Hopepunk?

Wild laughter from ragged throats

Flowers growing choked from crumbling asphalt

A warm bed after a long, hard journey

Your partner’s hand cupped in your own

Bright graffiti on cracked tunnel walls

The chains falling loose to the stone floor

A glint of silver beneath a century of tarnish

A long rain after a blistering wildfire

Just one more step, and then another

A single candle flame joining the stars against the night

A loved ones voice calling your name after hours lost in an unfamiliar place

A hand taking yours, just when you’d given up on reaching out

Smiling, laughing again, when you thought you’d forgotten how

Knowing, despite everything, that humans are inherently good

It’s not simply blind optimism, or naivety. It’s choice. It’s taking the human race by the hand and saying, “I will love you, because I am you”. It’s facing a world dripping with cynicism and fashionable hopelessness and saying, “no, I will not give in”. It’s putting kindness out into the world, knowing you might not get it back, knowing you may be scorned for it, knowing it might not change anything, but with a certainty that kindness is what the world needs the most.

It is choosing hope" [6]

Hopepunk is choosing hope in a world where they want us to have none. It's choosing humanity when they want us to forget we are human. It's choosing community when they would benefit of us staying individuals. It's choosing action and hope when they want us struck down and paralyzed.

Alexandra Rowland emphasizes to not forget the second part of the word: Punk. In another interview with Kayti Burt for Den of Geek they say:

"it’s important to remember that punk is the operative half of the word – punk in the sense of anti-authoritarianism and punching back against oppression." and "The instinct is to make it only about softness and kindness, because those are what we’re most hungry for. We all want to be treated gently. But sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to stand up to a bully on their behalf, and that takes guts and rage." [7]

What is Hopepunk to me?

That spark that is both love and spite that keeps me going. It's seeing the good in humanity, while also acknowledging the harm. It's refusing to lay down and die, refusing the accept the status quo, refusing to believe that this is it.

It's believing in a better world. In kindness. In the inherent sense of community in humanity. It's believing in the power of stories.

It's seeing kindness and hope as an act of Sacred Rebellion. And spreading that kindness and hope is a Vow that I have taken.

It's taken the anger I have against corporations, injustice, bigotry, capitalism, oppression, and letting it fuel the fire within me in a constructive way. It's working to dismantle systems that are oppressive to work towards a more inclusive world. It's pruning the garden of dead weight so new things can grow.

Late stage capitalism wants us all to be docile, to work, not to live. So I will shout my small joys from the rooftops. I will create for the sake of creating. I will practice radical acceptance so that I stand strong above the masses of ads that wants me to hate myself. I will choose to see the good so that I can believe change is possible.

Hopepunk a fire that says "Rage. Rage against those who deserve it. Stand up for those who do not and show them a better world is possible."

[4] Den of Geek - Are you afraid of the darkness: a hopepunk explainer

[5] Alexandra Rowland tumblr post

[6] Hopepunk-humanity - what is hopepunk

[7] Den of Geek - a hopepunk guide: interview with Alexandra Rowland

Part 1: Intro and history

Part 2: Philosophy of Hopepunk

Part 3: How to practice hopepunk and further reading

Part 4: Extra! Hopepunk and magic

[raindotdrop]

🔞 vergil x reader | whole new breed

‧₊˚♡ summary: you were turned into a devil to save your life after a fatal attack. adapting to this new form has been okay⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯until you experience your first heat.

‧₊˚♡ word count: 2.2k

‧₊˚♡ content & warnings: smut | fem reader | piv | heat cycles | fluffy, they're in love | first time writing smut after reading so many hahahah hii

The transformation you underwent from human to devil, it was never meant to happen. You didn't know it could happen.

You were meant to die months ago, but your lover didn't allow that.

It was a brutal mission. While your fellow hunters were panicking, already grieving you⎯it took Vergil minutes to recite an ancient ritual. The man sacrificed his own flesh like it was nothing, then watched you rise from your bloody spot on the ground, ready to rejoin the fight.

He reduced fate to a joke that day, spitting into death's embrace for trying to claim you. Claiming you is his job.

Your devilish transition has been relatively easy. You look the same, sound the same, act the same. Really, the only difference is your strength. Nothing feels heavy or tiring to you anymore, nothing hurts.


Except for one thing.

Does it hurt? You aren't sure. It's... distracting, if you had to describe it. Day by day, you've been feeling more feverish. Needy, lonely, grumpy, dripping. You've forgotten the names of everyone else in your life because Vergil is dominating your foggy thoughts.

He's been working for days straight now, leaving you to worsen in your shared bed. Normally, he answers your every demon-related question and tends to you, but he's gone.

Without him present, the mere thought of him leaves you humping whatever smells like him the most. His pillow is drenched in your fluids, his clothes held up to your nose as you orgasm.

An obscene amount of slick pours from between your legs at all times, to the point where you've ditched bottoms. Your nipples are too sensitive to be covered, too. If it's fabric and not your fingers then it hurts.

Something is definitely wrong, but you don't care about all that human side versus demon side junk. You want Vergil. You don't want this frenzy to end on its own, you want him to come home and fuck it out of you.

On his side of the bed, everything is soaked. You're pathetically attempting to finger yourself at different angles and speeds because you're praying you can replicate the way he does it. Laying flat on the sheets is how you've chased your past few highs, any other position is too much of a chore.

His scent is growing stronger, your fingers pump in and out as you're buried face down in a pair of his boxers. The musk is so powerful all of a sudden, it's as if he's there. You're cumming from the intensified smell alone, shaking harder than you have in hours. Nobody warned you about the sensitivity your senses would develop.

Before you even lift your head from the bed, you're blindly reaching out for another piece of clothing to destroy. Someone grabs your wrist before you can.

With a jolt, you look up, and none other than Vergil is looking down at you. He seems to be studying you moreso than anything else.

"So I was off. I predicted your cycle would strike next week, not now..." he muses aloud, but you barely understand him. Despite Vergil being the one to grab your wrist, you've turned the tides so you're clinging onto him instead, both hands gripping him. Almost in disbelief, as if letting go means he'll vanish.

You roll onto your back using his arm as an anchor, revealing your glistening breasts to him. You're trying to tug him down onto you to no avail, whining rather than greeting him. You blink up at him, as he observes the way you leak like a waterfall from his proximity.

"Beautiful," that word kills you inside. You keep yanking at his arm, animalistically, your demonic side obscures every single word you've learned. "I would have relieved you days ago, had I known. Well, I⎯⎯"

"Vergil!" you cry out in frustration, the only word on your tongue.

Pity flashes on his features when he sees how much discomfort you must be in. Vergil had taken up extra work so he could free up his schedule during your first heat. It pains him to see his incorrect calculations lead to this.

Of course, it makes his pants feel tight and fills him with almost as much desire as you (if that's possible), but he wishes he could have guided you through every single step with care, not be invisible while your heat worsened. You must have been so confused...

"Vergil, please!" you snap him from his thoughts. Propped up on your elbows now, your eyes are watering. Sobbing, almost, and you're sucking on his fingers.

Every cell in your body craves him so much, it feels like you're going to explode. The confusion you felt from your heat's onslaught is long gone, replaced with a 'this is so right' feeling the moment Vergil entered the room.

His wet fingers pop from your mouth and stroke your cheek, coating you in your saliva. The affection in that gesture is your saving grace, you know he's going to please you from that touch alone.

"Alright. I won't keep you waiting." he says, his tone is more gravelly now that he's fully realized what he's going to do. This was unexpected, but he isn't objecting whatsoever.

Your body is so sensitive from the amount of climaxes you've inflicted on yourself, that when Vergil begins to shrug his coat off, you can't tell if you actually just orgasmed from the sight or not. The pulses around your body intensify as he reveals his bare arms to you. Do you want to watch him strip, or are you so impatient you want him to just fucking take you already with his clothes barely hanging on? It's unclear. You begin to paw at his thighs, trying to shred the fabric off.

"Eager little thing..." he coos, swatting your hands away so he can undress with no obstacles. He's stripping faster than ever before, but to you, it feels like he's moving in slow motion. Every second that he's not inside of you feels like a thousand years of emptiness. "I'm here now, don't worry." Despite his reassurances, he's the one who's worried, hoping you aren't in any pain.

Once his cock springs out, leaking precum from the feral sight enticing him, you lunge at it. Instantly, the whole length is wrapped around your lips. You're too distracted to properly suck him off, shaky hands touching him with no rhyme or reason.

Vergil chuckles. "Now, this isn't about me," he says, knotting his fingers in your hair so he can pull your mouth off. You put up quite a fight, common sense clouded by desire. Your mouth isn't the hole that's begging for him, it's just the nearest one, so it reaches in without thinking.

"We have time for that another day." The force he had to apply, it has you tumble backwards on the bed. Gasping on your back, you're already kicking at the air, aching to be close again. Drool stains your chin because you just tasted him after imagining it for so long and your body is screaming for seconds.

You see him sitting at the foot of the bed, fully bare. The sheets beneath him are coated in your release. His precum joins the mix as he rakes over your figure, mind racing with thoughts of how he can tame you when you're like this. It's a challenge that leaves his cock straining in the air.

He sternly says your name right before you try crawling back, and you freeze.

"Lay back."

The authority in his tone gets through to you, so you rest your back on the damp pillows. It takes every ounce of self control not to clamber over to him, but you know he's a man who should be listened to.

"Good girl." You twitch. He notices. "I'll fix this. Allow me,"

Relaxing in this state is impossible, but as you lean backward, the shaking in your body eases up. He kneels in front of your quivering form, still searching for any signs of pain, knowing how long your heat was left unchecked.

Your devil side is shrieking at you to touch him, but your human side finally triumphs over it, laying back so he can ravage you. Stilling yourself, breaths steadying...

An experimental hand of Vergil's rubs at your folds and all that progress is undone. You arch into the mass of pillows behind you, whimpering out, "Vergil.. please, more..!"

"I have to see if you're ready." his stern tone remains, guiding you through this the way he always intended to.

He gathers up slick, feeling you up. Obviously, you're wet enough for him to fold you over and pound you right there, but he still has to confirm for himself. Your comfort matters so much to him, even like this. Once he realizes the extent of your wetness, the fact your pussy has been getting stuffed all day, something primal ignites within him.

"I am... please, I'm so.." your begging doesn't even make sense, but the sweet sound of it nearly has Vergil trip over his words, betraying the composed way he presents himself.

"Yes, you're ready. The things you must have done before I arrived..." he trails off, having to stop himself because that imagery is dangerous territory. "You'll have to show me, next cycle."

His toned arms position themselves near your neck, a snug embrace that you nuzzle into. He wants to hold you if he's going to ruthlessly breed you, never letting you forget how much he loves you.

If only he knew that every moment you're alive is a personal reminder of his devotion, whether he's there or not. His ritual, his sacrifice, his refusal to let you die is why you're here. His love for you transcends biology and reality itself. Human or devil, you're his.

His tip smacks at your entrance and it sends you spiralling. His eyes are fixed on your face, so it takes some positioning to find your hole. He's a demon too⎯the way your face is coated in tears, slick, plus a mixture of his spit and yours, drives him absolutely wild and he has to inhale your scent just like you did with his boxers.

"So beautiful," he echoes his previous words as he buries himself to the hilt, your walls all but absorbing him. The tears of joy that stream down your cheeks are kissed away by his busy lips. You begin to utter out a 'please', which he swallows right up. "No need to beg, I'll give you everything."

He kisses you like a man starved, fucking you hard into the mattress. His upper and lower halves work in tandem to make up for lost time, whispering praises and consuming you.

He doesn't have to hold back anymore with your newfound demonic endurance. To say he's drilling you is an understatement. Everything feels shaky but so right. The sensitivity of your heat-riddled body already has you clenching and cumming around him. Less than a minute in, and you're not ashamed. You're already trying to embrace the next one.

"Let it out," he grunts into your jaw, peppering kisses to it to mask his own sounds. He wants to focus on you, not him. Vergil tells himself you'll receive five climaxes minimum before he comes close to his, but you're making it difficult for him. "Let it all out, that's it... let me care for you, my vixen."

One arm holds you close, but the other has a more important role down at your clit. It rubs circles into the nub, and you're fluttering around his cock again. You feel his length twitch uncontrollably in response, on the verge of emptying himself inside you.

Vergil knows he can't actually impregnate you unless in his devil trigger form. He spent time researching how this moment will unfold for you.

"You'll be safe," is how he expresses this to you, unable to hold back any longer.

You're breathless when your walls are splattered with his seed. He spurts and spurts with no sign of stopping⎯your heat absolutely impacts the one you mate with, you discover.

As you're filled, he pulls himself out so the stream of cum can reach your torso as well. Your stomach leading up to your breasts is coated, then your expressive face. If a body part exists, it's marked by him. Vergil's grunts grow louder than your lustful cries for one singular second before he bites your neck to muffle them.

The fire inside of you feels quenched for a few seconds, like you can finally resume your daily life, before it snaps right back to being unbearable.

You rub yourself against Vergil's weeping cock, silently begging for another round. It's not enough. Will anything be enough? You don't see an ending to this rut, just an urgent dream of Vergil stuffing you again. His cum trickling out isn't a finality, it's lubrication for the rest of the night.

Picking up on your unrest, he repositions his hips with ease. "You and I will be here a while," there's another nip to your neck to accompany the rocking of his hips, "best to get comfortable."

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.

Word count: 4,400 words.

Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.

This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.

You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.

Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.

But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.

His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.

Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.

The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.

Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.

Say something. 

You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.

Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you. 

"What the hell were you thinking?!" 

The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.

One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.

"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"

You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.

"��No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…” 

One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.

You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.

“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"

You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.

"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"

One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.

Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.

"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"

You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.

And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.

How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.

How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!

How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.

But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.

When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.

"Yeah. I don't know either." 

There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.

"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.

"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself. 

"But I'll have some cake," he concedes. 

Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.

You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.

Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.

You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.

"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."

The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set. 

You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"

"No."

You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.

He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."

You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.

"Who are you?"

His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"

Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him

"You're not the Spiderman I know of."

He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.

God, who eats cake so angrily?

"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause. 

He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.

"Why do you keep saving me?"

"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."

Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude. 

This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.

Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak. 

You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.

"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.

His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.

"I don't."

Liar.

"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.

This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.

"Can I have another slice?"

You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.

With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.

Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.

"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong." 

He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways. 

He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination. 

"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.

Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.

"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"

"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."

He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter. 

"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"

“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!" 

You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.

"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"

Is he serious?

"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap. 

And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.

"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"

Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.

"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head. 

"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.

Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.

"You're drunk? How–"

"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.

"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.

At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.

"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.

There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.

With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.

You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.

Why is he so goddamned stubborn? 

You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.

Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.

There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.

"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."

He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely. 

Whoa.

You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.

Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest. 

“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out. 

You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.

You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.

Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.

You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.

This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.

Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.

How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.

Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.

It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.

From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.

Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.

You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.

What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.

Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.��� Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.

Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.

That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.

Warm.

He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.

You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.

He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.  

Now that  he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl. 

He looks... soft, somehow.

There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you. 

The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.

"Nena," he says quietly.

Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.

"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.

At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side. 

“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.  

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest. 

Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.

"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."

The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.

You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller. 

"It's okay," you say. 

What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.

You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.

"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”

"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.

Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!

Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.

Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[oatmealdoodles]

My messy thoughts on the new episode

(spoilers for Ghostf**kers)

tldr I LOVED this one the animation saw POPING OFF the writing was great, it was well paced, everything. I just wanted to ramble so here i am talking to no one:

Ok right off the bat i had to pause this like 7 times in the first five minutes because the beginning of this is just packed with insane jokes, glass to see they havent forgotten about being a comedy show

It’s so sad to see Blitzo in this state, especially that it’s been over a month. Like look at this guy he is GOING THROUGH IT.

also this was uncalled for how can you do me like this?

ok like my one problem i don’t like this little Scooby-doo reference with old people. I just skipped it and lost nothing, i don’t know why this is here.

the fight between Blitzo and Millie in the vents was also really well done im so glad Millie is putting up boundaries on dealing with everybody elses Bullshit.

I also don’t hear anyone talking about this but Vivinie Williams (Millie’s VA) did so well in this. Like all the voice acting in this show is peak but I’ve only really heard praise for Brendon and Bryce. Their argument here specifically, the fury in her voice was so well done, bravo.

JESUS CHRIST THEY DID NOT NEED TO GO THIS HARD this scene has been stuck in my head for the past two days, Brandon killed it in he recording booth, the animation is also just so VICERAL. Also the way the fire starts from his hands because he blames himself for it, like Viv went too far with this one. That was not ok.

Bitzo’s panic attack was also done so well. Little detail but i love that when Blitzo screams “Don’t touch me!”, Millie respects this and doesnt, instead comforting him with words. They only touch when he’s calm and ready. Love that.

Bro i was NOT expecting a flashback on how Millie met Blitz, also Millies design slays so hard

the way I gasped.

I also didn’t realize how much I needed an episode focusing on these twos friendship until now. Like FINALLY a Millie episode that doesn’t suck!

Little thing i realized but notice how Blitzo doesn’t make a sex joke at this. Blitzo. Not making a provocative joke. Really just goes to show how UNCOMFORTABLE and SCARED he is. I physically recoil every time I see this it’s gross

Those flashback scenes were also just so brutal. Like chaining his horns so he’s FORCED to watch is so psychotic I can’t.

its kinda sad that Blitzo’s whole motivation for doing this is to distract himself from his feelings, when that’s what he’s literally forced to confront by Ronaldo.

Love a possession story. I can really appreciate how Millie does not believe Ronaldo for a second, she knows that Blitzo would never think that of her and she trusts him enough to be confident in it. Nice subversion, you go girl.

This was so needlessly brutal and funny, they really went all out with this one

Yeah I think that’s all I wanted to day, just again i loved this one and it was definantly worth the multiple-month wait. Though my Hyperfixation has mostly died im hopeful that it will resurrect soon. We’ll have to wait and see.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hero and healer Villian are married. Villian doesn't want hero to go on dangerous mission, hero goes anyway and Villian due to their anger says NEVER COME BACK HERE AGAIN. hero makes a small mistake on mission and is brutally whipped by their superiors but Villian has no idea. They meet at a gala where things get hot. And when Villian touches hero's back just slightly, that is when they feel it. And hero thinks Villian doesn't care at all what happened to them.

Bonus: Villian's healing hurts even more than getting hurt, and there's no way they're letting their partner go without healing them first.

"Please," the villain said, no, begged between kisses. "Please don't leave me ever again. I refuse to let go of you."

"I thought you were mad at me," the hero said. They sat up on the villain's hips and searched for a way to get under the villain's clothes with eager fingers. "I thought you hated me."

"God, no. I was worried. I was so worried." The villain was (thankfully) nearly done with taking off the hero's clothes. They couldn't fight this burning, that scorching feeling in their chest and this horrible longing they had been feeling for the past week. One week without the hero was, indeed, torture. "I am so sorry for everything. I will make it up to you, I promise."

They pulled the hero against their chest and kissed them, losing themselves on the hero's lips.

Hell, this was their spouse. This was their hero. The sheer thought of being without them was devastating. It was something unspeakable, something blasphemous. At times, the villain felt like they couldn't breathe without them. As if they could only live when they shared a breath with them.

They had found the couch in an abandoned room. Or better, the hero had known about it and lured the villain away from the gala. Once the villain had seen them, their senses had zeroed in on them, completely discarding everything else around them. Their plans, their schemes - all of it was forgotten.

Utterly satisfied, the villain closed their eyes as their hands were ghosting over the hero's clothed back. The warmth, the smell, the love. It was too good to be true. The villain had spent their last nights shaking and freaking out. Rest had not come easily to them. Some time around four in the morning, they had been too exhausted to stay awake.

When the hero hadn't come back, they had been sure they had been killed. It was a miracle to feel them on top of them now.

And the villain wouldn't take their hands off them for a long, long time.

"I love you," the villain whispered against their spouse's neck. "Let's go home."

"I need you first," the hero said. They took the villain's hand that was on their back and moved it further down until the villain grinned.

"Is that so? Do you want me down here?" Their eyes dropped to the hero's lips but something seemed to be off.

The villain knew their spouse's preferences, they knew everything about them and although they appreciated the hero's advances towards them, it was too quick.

Usually, the hero was a talkative person. Someone who wouldn't leave a conflict hanging in mid-air. But today, they had basically thrown themselves at the villain. They were holding onto them as if the villain was the last thing between them and sweet hell.

It was concerning.

"How are you?" the villain asked softly but the hero only replied with rough kisses that seemed more like a cry for help than desire. The villain pushed their spouse away gently. "Hey, how are you?"

"I'm okay, baby."

"What happened?"

"My phone died and I had to work..." the hero said. They thought about something. "It was a longer mission, I'm really sorry."

With a hand on the villain's chest, they pushed them back into the couch and leaned in for another kiss.

But the villain was sort of an expert when it came to lying. Although the villain wanted them, although they really wanted them, the hero’s wellbeing was the most important thing in the world. They knew their spouse hated it. The crying, the cursing — they hated being healed and to some degree, the villain was sure they hated the villain’s powers, too.

Admittedly, the villain hadn’t been a very nice person in the past. Most of the time they'd torture information out of people. Opening wounds and healing them had been one of their many tactics. They couldn’t even tell if they were ashamed of their actions.

"I'm sorry," the villain said. "I'm sorry we fought. I was concerned and angry and...I shouldn't have said those things to you. Whatever happens, we can face it together."

The hero didn't seem that eager anymore. Instead, the villain was pretty sure they could see how glassy their eyes were.

The villain moved their hand slightly. They didn’t need words to understand their hero.

"Can I?" they asked as their hand ghosted over the hero's back once again. The hero looked away. "I know you're scared."

"Please don't be mad."

"You know me better than that," the villain responded. They took the hero's hand and pressed it against their chest. "I need to heal you if you're injured."

"I missed you," the hero said, suddenly heartbroken. "I missed you so much."

They looked like they were about to cry and the villain's heart shattered just as much.

"Is it that bad?" they asked carefully and the hero only nodded as teardrops streamed down their face.

The villain mumbled something close to "oh, honey" and wiped the tears away. Something inside them cracked. Seeing their hero this broken, this vulnerable, was surprising. No villain had ever managed to break them like this.

"Mind if we switch positions?" the villain asked. Their brain was trying to work out who was behind all of this.

Who would do this to their hero?

Other villains knew not to mess with them.

"I don’t want to," the hero said.

"Baby, you’d have to hold yourself up the entire time," the villain said.

"I don't want you to look at it." The villain tried to reach for the bandages under the hero’s clothes with their fingers, just to get a vague idea of what they were dealing with.

"Why not?"

"I think you’d start crying too."

The villain stared at them, eyes wide. And eventually, after five more minutes, both of them knew the hero was right.

[ashessonfire]

Hi, I just gotta say I really love your stories and how detailed and eloquent your writing is.How about a Kaz Brekker x reader angst where a heist gone wrong results to Kaz (temporarily) losing his memory and reverting back to old Kaz, who is not in a relationship with reader, and he keeps pushing the reader away 'til reader gives up 'cause of something Kaz said or a scenario where they think Kaz is better without them♡♡♡thank you for listening HAHAHAHA

'Forgotten' - Kaz Brekker x Reader

Prompt - Kaz Brekker's plans rarely fail, but what happens when a heist goes incredibly wrong, and the Bastard of the Barrel forgets you completely? - Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader (established relationship) - Warnings: Depictions of violence, gunshots, Kaz's trauma / memories, Kaz being an asshole but not really his fault??? ANGST ANGST ANGST Part two found here! A/N: Thank you all so much for the amount of support and love i am getting for my first few posts! I will definitely write a part two if you want it, its a massive cliffhanger but would be WAY too long to do it in one go. JUST PURE ANGST IM SORRY T-T

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Kaz’s plans often fell victim to unseen circumstances, however, small hinderances to his meticulously planned out schemes rarely affected the outcome. Yet even Kaz himself had to admit, that this plan had gone spectacularly wrong.

From incorrect blueprints for the building, to four times the number of armed guards than initially expected, all the group could do was try and escape relatively unharmed. The crows were splintered into six breathless individuals, winding their way through narrow streets to try and loosen their attackers’ grips. Sprays of bullets and the glints of knives rushed past each one of them, only narrowly missing their targets.

That was until Kaz felt a searing pain in his leg, a sudden slash just under the back of his knee, sending fire trailing throughout his body. He groaned deeply, internally damning the attacker for not only striking his target, but also managing to hit Kaz on his already bad leg. The pain from the wound caused it to buckle, giving him a clear path straight towards the glistening cobblestone of Ketterdam’s streets.

Before he could fully feel the impact, a hand tightly gripped the roots of his hair, pulling his face parallel to the grinning pursuer, evidently pleased with his achievement of apprehending the Bastard of the Barrel.

Before Kaz could use his cane to fight back, it was violently ripped from his grasp, another set of hands clutching his own behind his back, rendering him completely immobile. Suddenly, the knife was yanked out of his leg, earning a surprised growl from Kaz, his leg leaking onto the stone beneath him a deep ruby shade.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m afraid to say I am more than a little underwhelmed, Dirtyhands,” The leader of the group sneered, earning a howl of laughter from his gang, who seemed to be forming from the shadows of the abandoned street, emerging in staggering numbers.

Despite his predicament, a thought flashed through his mind, calming his increasingly alarmed state. “Perhaps they abandoned the others in favour of catching me,” Kaz silently contemplated, feeling a light sense of relief at the possibility his crew would make it back to the slat alive.

Especially you.

However, the relief was knocked out of him as swiftly as it came, along with all the air in his chest.  A brutal kick sent him reeling backwards into the chest of the man behind, followed by a series of punches which Kaz was defenceless against. The assault continued, blood pouring into his eyes from an open wound on his forehead, blinding him to the onslaught of attacks that followed, as he rapidly tried blinking to wash away the crimson from his vision.

The ambush subsided, giving him enough time to throw his head back and remove some of the steadily flowing substance from his sight. Murmurs sounded around him, but Kaz couldn’t decipher what was being stated, the ringing from the punches obscuring the sound around him, leaving him underwater, drowning in his own blood.

Despite Kaz’s senses becoming increasingly obstructed, a flare of panic welled up within him, as he spotted something brassy glinting through the sheet of red, catching the light from the street lanterns surrounding them. The unknown object began its descent towards him, the glint becoming a beam which shone through the curtain of crimson, until it was just close enough for Kaz to make out the flash of a crow’s eye, and the curve of a beak.

“How ironic,” Kaz thought to himself, “Being killed by my own cane.”

The scarlet curtain closed on Kaz, the blow ending the performance the gang was putting on, leaving their victim in a world full of darkness, the feeling of the waves washing over him and pulling him deeper into the abyss.

The last thing he heard was the sound of a voice.

 Jordie’s?

The concern that radiated from the sound brought him back to memories of the farm, where Kaz would climb too far up a willow’s branches, and his brother would have to call him down. Or perhaps when they had arrived in Ketterdam and Kaz had thought it comedic to hide in a dimly lit street, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in its gloom.

However, as Kaz slipped deeper into the ocean, the voice getting further away with each of his slowing heartbeats, a tinge of warmth hit his chest, signalling that this wasn’t Jordie.

 It was you.

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Your adrenaline had served you well, since shortly after you were separated from the crows, familiar edges of buildings and glints of neighboring signs entered your vision. Using this to your advantage, you utilized your familiarity of the area to hide, slipping into the shadows, melting into the gloom of Ketterdam's alleys. Soon, all five of your pursuers had bullets lodged in their throats unable to pinpoint where they were being shot from. Each fatal blow perfectly central just as Jesper had taught you.

Whilst your mind began to settle at the lack of immediate threat, something burred within your core pulled on your heartstrings, pointing your unsettling fear towards Kaz.

You had taken great care to note which routes the other crows had disappeared down, for insurance if they did not return to the slat within the agreed time. However, as you fled, your heart had plummeted at the sight of at least ten men chasing down your boyfriend.

Before your mind could register your actions, you were sprinting back in the direction you had come, weaving through the bodies littering your path. You quickly reached the alley Kaz had fled down, and you bolted through the streets you estimated Kaz would take.

As he was your boyfriend, you had become accustomed to imagining what he would do, or how he would act in certain situations, helping you decode his behaviour when he barricaded himself from you on troublesome days.

The sound of bone cracking and pained grunts pulled you away from your thoughts, turning a sharp corner just in time to see the head of Kaz’s precious cane colliding with his temple, the light visibly fading from his eyes due to the blow.

Rage swept through you, controlling your actions as your mind failed to synchronise with your body. Rushing forward, you shot wildly, achieving at least three separate screams from the men before you. Before the others were made fully aware of your presence, you had a serrated knife plunging into a further two, leaving fatal wounds which would slowly bring about their demise. Once every one of group were flooding the streets with their blood, your gaze shifted to Kaz.

Lying in a growing pool of blood, your boyfriend’s face was swollen, covered in deep gashes that littered his sharp features. The dim light from the lanterns overhead cast murky shadows over the wounds, highlighting the gruesome fate Kaz had endured. From somewhere far in the distance, you heard your voice screaming his name, begging for him to wake up, at some point you had even rushed over to him and began caressing his fractured face to wake him.

Allowing a deep inhale of Ketterdam’s air, you collected yourself, imagining that Kaz were conscious and scolding you for your slow reactions and the ‘weakness’ you were portraying. Laying your head against his frigid chest, you held your own breath, only releasing the growing tension when a faint heartbeat pounded against your ear.

Silently apologising for your next actions, you hooked both of Kaz’s arms underneath your own and used all your force to haul him back to the Slat.

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For several days following the attack, the group had come to a collective conclusion that their boss was severely concussed, so much so that he was barely conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.

Throughout the harrowing days, you never left his side, constantly aiding his body in a frail attempt to bring him back to the conscious realm, and to you.

The crows stopped by often to assist you, compelled to keep at least one half of the pair in a decent condition, Nina bringing hot food, Inej wiping down your face with a warm cloth, and Jesper or Wylan keeping you company for an hour or so, brightening the mood wit =h jokes or stories.

Time seemed almost to cease its movements, with even the smallest of things, like the rain rolling down the frosted glass in Kaz’s room, or the flickering of the candles illuminating the slat, appearing sluggish to you.

That was, only until Kaz woke up.

A bout of coughs awoke you from a light sleep, sending alarm bells ringing through your head, echoing off the walls and overwhelming you. Upon seeing the straining eyes blinking against the intensity of the candlelight, the roar swiftly subsided.

“Kaz,” you breathed out, barely audible to both you and him.

You gently reached out to feel the heat from his forehead, an action not dissimilar to the gentle brushes of his locks you would often settle on when he was too engrossed in scheming to provide you attention. However, your movements were stopped dead in their tracks when a voice sliced through the air.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kaz seethed.

Although his voice was hoarse from his absence over the last few days, a clear threat laid deeply within his sentence, piercing your chest with a thousand knives. “Kaz, I’m just checking your temperature, my love,” you offered gently, praying to the Saints that whatever malice behind your partners eyes was due to his condition, and not a genuine fury.

Instead of removing the knives from your heart, he twisted them painfully, glaring directly at you as he warned lowly, “I am not sure how long I have been out for, but I severely doubt it would be enough time for a word like ‘love’ to be directed towards me. Especially by the likes of you. Go and get Nina, you are of no use to me.”

Your breath hitched painfully in your throat, blocking the air trying to travel both in and out, glittering eyes locked directly with his as your mind struggled to process the disgust that laced his voice. Your body battled as it tried to force another ‘Kaz’ out into the world, but he intruded before the sound escaped.

“Leave now, or I will dismiss you for insubordination. Go,” Kaz stated, bitterness being the only discernible emotion portraying through his words, his chest filling with an emotion so strong he couldn’t name it, deciding to settle on disgust. Your eyes welled up, clouding your vision as you cautiously left the room, shock coursing through your body and stiffening your every movement, causing shivers to wrack your body as your blood froze to ice.

Your mind seemed to leave your body, taking little note of going to Nina and sending her up to Kaz, or the other crows fawning over your broken state, clearly panicking further when your only form of response was a stiff silence. It seemed safer to hide behind glossy eyes and blank looks, than to decipher what had caused Kaz’s reaction.

It was only an hour later when Nina came downstairs, shaking you out of your daze with words that did a far more agonizing job than Kaz’s knives would.

She downright shot you point blank in the heart.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, it seems like the blow has affected his memory. I can’t tell the severity yet, but it seems that he has no recollection of you two as, well you know. ‘You two,’” Nina bit out, voice cracking as her heart shattered for you, who now stood shaking before the group, the slightest breeze threatening to barrel you over.

You dismissed them with a fractured smile, barring yourself within the confines of your room, knives drawing blood within your heart, twisting excruciatingly each time a shuffle or a creak would sound from the room above yours.

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Your perseverance impressed not only the rest of the crows, but yourself too. You didn’t allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for long, determined to regain Kaz’s memory despite his protests and frustration with you. You had already molded a loving relationship with the deadliest man in Ketterdam, you figured that you would be able to withstand doing it once more.

Enduring the blade-like words was the simplest part, however it was the emotion behind them that faltered you each time you were faced with him. He always his behind a face of insults or harsh syllables, but you had decoded their meanings long ago, the sentiment behind each radiating through in a way in which only you could detect.

As he recovered, you remained vigilant to his every need, bringing him herbal tea infused with medicine or offering fresh bandages to change when the blood seeped through the last.

Each encounter ended with tears streaming drearily down your face, matching the raindrops that hit against the pains of the slat, each impact slamming against your heart. As you persisted, the feeling Kaz felt towards you grew, the emotion intensifying with each glimpse at you.

He couldn't stand it.

Rage bubbled within him at your attempts at kindness, the insults increasing in harshness and malice each time you dared to provoke him.

Yet you bounced back, offering him delicate smiles, compassionate gestures, and kind words. However Kaz couldn't bear it any longer, the weight in his chest obscuring his breathing and brooding for too long, consuming him from the inside out.

Despite his unbroken hatred that radiated towards you, he seemed to gradually be regaining his memories, allowing Jesper's jokes or Nina's teasing to go as far as they would before the accident. It caused you great anguish, and shamefully jealousy, at his return to every one of his crows.

But you.

The door to his office was given a light few taps, before Kaz permitted you entry, knowing from the weight of the knocks it had to be you. Although the others seemed far more wary of him than usual, there was something almost gentle about how you acted towards him, making it easier for Kaz to single you out from the rest.

You entered with a stack of papers, a vast collection of work that had accumulated whilst he regained his health. Biting back his usual snarky insults and remarks dripping in poison, Kaz watched you intently, deadly intentions practically radiating from his gaze.

Setting down the pile, you stepped back silently, too exhausted to bear the weight of another one of his lashings, each word cutting you and leaving you bleed out, not dissimilarly to how you found him that night.

The silence in his office was impenetrable, the air becoming impossible to breath through the tension that radiated between you, with only one of you being able to decipher what it truly was. Your mind was so focused on the intake of air, you almost missed the hand that extended towards you, the closest he had allowed you since his memory had stolen you from him.

Clutched in his grasp was a simple white letter, signatures coating the outside of the envelope, and something folded, protruding from within the packet itself.

The silence became deafening, the pounding of your heart like a bird trapped in a cage infinitely too small for its prisoner, crashing into the walls in an attempt to escape. As your hand made contact with the offering, Kaz spoke in a tone you had never heard before.

He simply stated, "From tomorrow, at four bells, you will be gone. A job in Ravka requires someone of your skillset, so you will go. If you fail to comply then you will no longer be welcomed here. I have tolerated your incessant troubling for long enough, you have no true place here until you finally realize how burdensome you truly are."

Your heart stopped.

The air around you liquified, slowly filling your lungs with fluid and choking you, drowning you silently as Kaz looked on with an indifferent scowl, an eyebrow raised in question at your astonishment.

The tears streamed, your body screaming for air, for comfort, for him. But it couldn't seem to attain any one of them, instead pushing all its strength into forming the the right words to pierce Kaz Brekker's impenetrable façade.

"You still don't remember?" you coughed out, "After the incident who was it who rushed back to you, dragged your half-dead body across the Barrel and into the slat. Who stayed by your side until they were forced to leave each night? Do you not have any recollection, not of the memories, but of how you felt for me? Surely I didn't mean that little to you," your voice wavered heavily whilst you gasped out the final line.

The tears formed rugged streams across your cheeks, glinting in the dim candlelight from Kaz's desk, highlighting the pain you had hidden from him for weeks. It was now his turn to be stunned, the words echoing around his mind but not seeming to form into coherent meanings.

Despite Kaz's astonishment at your outburst, it wasn't enough.

Wasn't enough for him to stop you from walking away, or enough to whisper your name louder in confusion and uncertainty as your form dissolved into the hallway .

Surely this was what he was supposed to do?

Yet deep inside his plagued heart your words resounded, filling Kaz with a sense of dread, the waves that usually consumed him began to swell, drowning him in his seat just as he had done to you earlier.

He was certain on one thing, that the gaping pain in his chest which he had presumed was disgust, or perhaps even hatred, had not disappeared. Had not lightened as he had prayed it would if you just vanished.

No. Instead it had intensified into something that swallowed him whole, dragging him further into the bitter ocean than ever before, waves crashing fiercely above his head.

The emotion consumed him as his breathing deepened, heart both simultaneously stopping and racing into oblivion, as it finally dawned on him. Somewhere within that feeling a small spark remained glowing, something that felt warm and familiar which he had repressed.

Something that resembled care, or affection, or...

Love.

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Tag list: @animalistic00 @whos6claire

Click here for part two <3

[unordinary-diary]

Thinking about how Blyke is actually insanely strong, even by the standards of his world, yet he gets his ass kicked for the entire story.

From episode one...

To the first actual fight he’s ever been in... (ch. 15) [Edit: second actual fight]

... to the approximate middle of the story... (ch. 197)

... Up through the very latest chapter as of me writing this— (ch. 345)

— Blyke repeatedly gets pummeled.

Over,

and over,

and over,

and over.

It’s really no wonder he gets insecure about it.

I mean, these screenshots were all taken from different fights. The amount of fights he’s won, on screen, without backup is... once or twice against Zeke, once against Gou (Agwin’s Jack from turf wars), and once as a vigilante solo act. That’s four, max. There could be more that I’ve forgotten, but I’ve read this series so many times and I really can’t think of any. (No, I don’t count firing a warning shots to get people to behave as “winning a fight”.)

compared to all the fights he’s been outmatched in? You’ve got Rein from turf wars, Volcan, John, John, John, Lennon from his vigilante solo stunt, John again, the fight in the Rowden amusement park, the attack on Rowden hill, Ember, and now the authorities in general. Possibly more that I forgot. That’s 11. He didn’t necessarily lose all those fights, but they’re fights where he was way out of his depth and/or would’ve lost without backup.

Anyway, point is: Blyke is no stranger to getting his ass kicked. In particular, he is no stranger to getting kicked while he’s already down.

In fact, I’m gonna take an example from the turf wars match in chapter 15: Blyke has already lost the fight with Rein, yet Arlo hangs him out to dry. Arlo is the one who’s supposed to call him back to get healed, yet he just smiles while the others look at him expectantly, and Blyke gets more and more injured. Even Rein is questioning it.

I could and honestly probably will do a whole analysis on just chapter 15, but eventually Seraphina calls him back for healing. The way Blyke was treated in that scene was kinda heartbreaking.

GOD chapter 15 is my favorite episode but it leaves me with so many questions grrr I wanna talk about it but that’s another entry.

Putting that aside, Blyke is very protective, and compassionate to the plight of others when he’s aware of it. After he sees the situation in Branish, he is immediately, rightfully pissed about the way society is. It opens his eyes to a world he hasn’t experienced, and it reframes how he thinks of John (still a “cripple” at the time).

To the actual point of this diary entry (other than rambling about Blyke, that is), John is another character who gets repeatedly kicked while he’s down. I don’t think I need screenshots to prove that. However, in my current reread of the series, I recently came across a certain panel that I do wish I had a screenshot of. It’s either Blyke or Seraphina who asks John “Why are you always kicking people while they’re down?” And John responds: “Because everyone kicked me when I was down!” And I think that’s a vivid contrast with Blyke, who has been kicked while he’s down, and chooses to protect people who are weaker than him. In particular, I want to point out that in order to protect them, Blyke is willing and actively chooses to get beaten quite brutally.

Mind you, this ^ is to protect people who he barely knows. He and Sera aren’t close, and the others are practically strangers.

It’s pretty much the inverse reaction. John says “Others kicked me while I was down, so I’ll do the same on everyone else tenfold.” Blyke says “I was kicked while I was down, and goddammit I will keep getting kicked if it means other people don’t have to.”

It’s such a cool parallel, and the fact that when John was getting kicked, Blyke was trying to help, but when Blyke was getting kicked, John was doing the kicking adds so many layers to it.

[floralpascal]

Something To Live For

Summary: A quiet morning with you shows Ghost the possibility of the life he could have with you - a life he never thought would be his.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 649

Rating: Mature (Series is 18+ only though, mdni!)

Warnings: talk of death, secret relationship, Ghost finally experiencing happiness

A/N: This man deserves some happiness, so here it is. While I love to write Ghost agonizing over his feelings, exploring how he is when he fully embraces them is my absolute favorite

Illicit Indulgences Series Masterlist

There were a lot of things Ghost thought he would never have. 

And you? You were every single one of them. 

For so long, all that existed in Ghost’s life was the brutal reality of war. He gave almost every second of his time to his job. There wasn’t room for someone else in the picture. He barely had the time or the trust to invest in someone unknown. Even if someone gained his trust and was willing to put up with him being gone most of the time, it was too dangerous for them. The people in Ghost’s life always seemed to be put in the line of fire because of him. It was easier to avoid it altogether. 

Besides, he wasn’t delusional. He knew that his chances of surviving to old age in this line of business were slim-to-none. Hell, he was lucky to have even made it this far. His life was on borrowed time. For as grim as it was, he had made peace with that. 

Examining the way the pale golden light of the morning spilled across your features, Simon ran a finger down your spine. You slept like this often now, your body laying on top of his with your warm cheek pressed to his broad shoulder, your arms wrapped around his middle as if you were afraid he would slip away from you. In this position, he could feel the rhythm of your breath carrying his anxieties away with the rise and fall of your chest. Your face was always so soft as you slept against him, the weight of the life you both lived lifted in this state. 

Like this, with your warm bare skin pressed to his and your legs woven together, Simon could hardly tell where he ended and you began. To be honest, he loved the feeling. The world was no longer simply filled with threats and danger, it was filled with the warm and soft embrace of safety.

In a couple hours, he would get up and make you breakfast. He would sit with you at your table as you ate, admiring the rare carefree slump of your shoulders as you leaned your arms against the wooden surface. He would hide a smile behind his morning tea as you contemplated your schedule for the day. He would wrap his arms around you on the couch, listening to the light ring of your laugh at some dumb joke he made about the show you were watching.

Every moment was a glimpse of the life he could have one day. They were glimpses of a life with you, away from all the violence and death. A carefree life. A loving life. 

In the past, he never let himself even consider having something like this. It was unthinkable - something meant for a man who led a much different life than Ghost did. 

Yet, here he laid in your bedroom in your house for the millionth time, his mask long forgotten on your bedroom floor. He didn’t need it here. Not with you. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t even want it. For the first time in a long time, he was just Simon. Your Simon. 

That was something to live for. This - a lazy morning in your bed with you, without a care for the chaos of the outside world - was something to live for. 

Ghosting the tip of his thumb along the soft skin of your back, he made a silent promise to you: he would live. The life he thought he would never have? He would live to have it with you. He would fight for it, claw his way back from the grave if he had to. Whatever he had to do to keep you safe in his arms, he would do it.

Because you were the best thing to live for.

[illubean]

After reading the mother figure fic an idea spawned in my head,

What if in a difficult situation she sees him get hurt in battle and her sweet persona completely switches off, going into a murder rage mode

And she's actually a terrifying person that kills the enemy in cold-blood and brutally

And then after all of that she rushes over to him to make sure he's okay and not too injured and her usual caring persona switches back on

A Mother's Wrath

Characters: Killua Zoldyck Type: Short Oneshot, Fem!reader (or anyone comfortable with being seen as a mother)

I tagged this for potential spoilers but idk if there really is any??? but there just in case

Warnings: canon typical violence, potential spoilers for Chimera Ant Arc

This was bad.

This was REALLY bad.

Somehow, after storming off from the main group after getting frustrated, Killua had found himself surrounded by Chimera Ants. No one really understood what he was upset about, and at this point he had forgotten it completely. He had been fighting for so long, already having used Godspeed and now he was tired.

No matter what he did, there we're just too many of them. There were around 5 of them left after he had taken out countless others.

Was this really how he was going to die?

Before either Killua or the ants could strike, a silhouette flashed by as an ant's head rolled to the floor.

What the..?

Killua stared dumbfounded at the scene in front of him. You had appeared out of nowhere, disposing of the ants brutally and extremely quick. By the end of it, Chimera Ant parts were scattered across the ground.

In a state of shock and with his tiredness now settling in, Killua fell back onto the ground and propped himself up on his hands to look at you. You stood unmoving for a moment, breathing deeply, covered in the blood of the enemy. You turned slowly to look at the boy, your cold, hardened eyes returning to the soft and caring ones Killua was familiar with.

You rushed to his side to check for any injuries. After not finding anything serious, you grabbed the boy's face and made him look at you.

"Don't do anything so reckless ever again, you understand me?"

A guilty look spread across his face as he nodded at you, leaning into your embrace. You pulled him into a hug, one hand stroking his hair as the young boy wrapped his arms around you to grip the back of your shirt.

""m sorry," he trembled.

Killua was never one to be very emotionally vulnerable, but before you had showed up he was scared.

Scared he would die.

Scared he'd never see his friends again.

Scared to upset you.

Killua has been in many life threatening situations, but there was something about this in particular that set him over the edge. Maybe it was because now he had people to care for him. People who made him feel safe.

People like you.

You silently comforted the crying boy in your arms, assuring him you'd always be there. This was the closest thing Killua had felt to motherly love. He appreciated you greatly for that, even if he doesn't know how to say it.

After a few moments, you hoisted him onto your back, sensing how tired he was.

"C'mon Killua. Lets get back to the others."

[celestoria]

Genshin Impact (Taylor’s Version)

Tags: SFW with semi-angst Characters: Scaramouche, Zhongli, Kaeya, Lyney

Scaramouche (The Way I Loved You)

I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain // it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name // So in love that I acted insane // And that's the way I loved you // Breaking down and coming undone // It's a roller coaster kind of rush // And I never knew I could feel that much // And that's the way I loved you.

Loving you was so frustrating…yet so addicting.

Scaramouche had a complicated way of showing his feelings towards other people and always rubbed them the wrong way. However, you didn’t give up.

You noticed how the same lips that mumbled disdainful complaints were the same ones that would kiss you so passionately under the pale moonlight. His hands that would brutally throw a fight when needed are the same ones that would hold you delicately as he leads you to a secret spot only the two of you know.

Sure, there are times when you wouldn’t meet eye to eye, but in the end, no word would mean as much to him compared to the first time you told him you'll never leave him. Scaramouche felt so alive since he fell in love with you and he would never trade it for the world.

Zhongli (Wildest Dreams)

Say you'll remember me // Standing in a nice dress // Staring at the sunset, babe // Red lips and rosy cheeks // Say you'll see me again // Even if it's just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha // Wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha

Times of old may be memories of the past but those moments shall never be forgotten.

How long has it been since he last saw you? A month? A decade? Centuries? It all feels the same when you’ve lived for 5000 years.

Still, he can’t bear to forget every bit of you, even if it pains him to reminisce about the days you called him yours. He loved how your hair flowed with the wind the first day you met each other during a busy day at the harbor, the distinct scent of your favorite perfume that could easily make his head turn, and even that beautiful shade of red that often smudged on the side of his neck whenever you were going out.

Sometimes your ghost haunts him in his dreams, but alas it was just a figment of his imagination playing what could have been if life was a little bit kinder to the both of you. But if everything is just one Samsara cycle playing over and over again, he promises to love every one of them until Teyvat and Celestia itself ceases.

Kaeya (Cruel Summer)

I'm drunk in the back of the car // And I cried like a baby coming home from the bar (oh) // Said, "I'm fine, " but it wasn't true // I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you // And I snuck in through the garden gate // Every night that summer just to seal my fate (oh) // And I screamed for whatever it's worth // "I love you, " ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

Everyone has their fair share of secrets, and Kaeya was no exception.

But he kept them buried where no one would find them. Like the last time he opened up about his deepest, darkest secret to someone he trusted, Kaeya fears you’ll push him away once he finally comes undone in front of you.

However, it was such a pain to keep things like that. Always yearning for you but never having you. Brave is the kindest word you can call a fool, so call him the most foolish man on earth when he poured his heart confessing to you how much his heart aches for you like it's his guilty pleasure.

He was ready for rejection to kick him in the guts like a horse, but instead, he was meat with your flushed cheeks and warm smile. To him, he felt like he was confessing shame, but to you, it was the few words you always wanted him to say.

The weight of pining finally fell off his shoulders, freed with the knowledge you always felt the same way for him. Kaeya’s thankful that even though luck often refused to be on his side, it gave him this small chance to find something sweet to make everything seem a little less cruel.

Lyney (Today was a Fairytale)

But can you feel this magic in the air? // It must have been the way you kissed me // Fell in love when I saw you standing there // It must have been the way // Today was a fairytale

To him, loving you felt like a romance novel, always making his heart flutter like the wings of doves flying out of his hat. It must have been love at first sight, the way your enthusiastic, wide-eyed smile became enthralled with his street performances as you stood amongst the crowd.

How lucky he is that fate allowed him to have someone always by his side. Though he was the magician between the two of you, you were always the one taking his breath with whatever you had to offer.

You seem to know how to make his gloomy days a little bright with a bright smile, how to make the simplest gifts feel like the grandest gestures with him, and how to make real life feel like a fairytale that he thought would only be possible in children’s books. The sun always seems to be burning on his cheeks whenever you try to kiss him.

Even though he knows every magic trick there is, how in the world he managed to pull such a beautiful person like you will always remain a mystery to him. That must be destiny’s own little magic, he guessed — always finding a way to let two people tied with a red string of faith find each other in a chaotic mess of a world.

[archerygun]

Caeneus’ positivity is done so well in Kaos and I need to talk about it again. Sorry.

Caeneus is meant to represent the concept of living life for yourself and y’know, to its fullest and all, despite the gods. We get a bit of that with his transition but it’s reflected best in his attitude.

Caeneus isn’t an optimist, he isn’t innocent or naive, he’s sarcastic and dry frequently and his life experiences are nothing short of depressing and brutal. But he stays positive about everything, not because he thinks things will get better because god do they not, he stays positive for himself. Caeneus stays positive because it’s better to enjoy your shitty miserable life despite what it’s trying to put you through than to be miserable all the time. And I love this so so much.

There’s a lot to be said for how him and Riddy are opposites there - had a life where nothing much happened and he died forgotten with barely any positive experiences but still lived his short boring life to the fullest vs had a life full of excitement and adventure that she wasted most of being miserable.

I just think this is a refreshing take on positive characters because the poor man is clearly fighting tooth and nail to remain cheery. Like it’s not quite an act but it’s clearly an active decision he’s making. It’s such an interesting take on a character who represents the idea of living life to its fullest.

(Plus y’know the theme comes full circle with him being able to renew souls. I love him so much you can pry his arc from my cold dead hands).

[veronicaleighauthor]

In Defense of Amy March

A couple weeks ago, I did a re-read of “Little Women.” It had been a couple of years since I picked it up and I was in the mood for some Alcott. Oh, and the March family. I’ve been deeply attached to the story since I was about fourteen. Jo March was the heroine after my own heart. There was one character though, I could never warm to. That was Amy March. I really couldn’t stand her. She burned Jo’s manuscript and got that trip to Europe, and she was just so snobby and selfish. Right? I mean, that’s how she’s portrayed in most adaptations. Jo has to toil and suffer while Amy gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. During this re-read I decided to pay attention to the youngest March sister and see if I was justified in my dislike of her.

“It’s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up,” said Amy thoughtfully.

When the story opens, Amy is a kid. She’s twelve and the baby of the family. Mr. March is serving as a chaplain at war and Marmee works outside the home. Older sisters Meg is a governess, Jo is a companion, and Beth is the homemaker. Amy goes to school and deals with much of what most kids deal with. She struggles with her lessons, she is teased for being poor, she tries to sneak pickled limes in to eat them. Amy is on the receiving end of her teacher, Mr. Davis’s brutality when he discovers she has limes and raps her hand. She is self-conscious about her nose. She has to wear everyone’s hand-me-downs. She is determined to be a proper lady, she is artistic, and she tries to improve her vocabulary. Amy takes parts in her sisters’ theatricals, though doesn’t want to go to the extremes that Jo goes to, and avoids bruising herself.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, ‘My nose.’ 

Amy and Jo often disagree with one another. One evening, when Jo and Meg plans to go out to the theater with their new friend Laurie, Amy is determined to join them. She and Jo go round and round, but Amy is bluntly told she isn’t wanted and it would be an intrusion for her to be there (my words, not the actual dialogue). While Jo is away, Amy burns a manuscript her sister has been working on. A fight ensues and though Amy tries to make up for what she did, Jo won’t forgive her. She tries once more to spend time with Jo, when her sister and Laurie are skating at the local pond, and nearly drowns as she crashes through the ice. Her live is saved and she and Jo reconcile. Jo forgives the girl and though Amy knew she was doing wrong when she destroyed the manuscript, maybe it’s time we as readers (myself included) forgive her too.

Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

When Beth falls ill with scarlet fever, Amy is determined to stay at home with her family, risking her own health and wellbeing. Laurie manages to convince her to go to Aunt March’s, where uncertain of what the future may bring, she makes a will of her own in case she dies. Aunt March takes a liking to Amy and from then on, she is the older woman’s companion. Once Beth is well, Amy is allowed to come home, in time for her father to return home from the war and to see her older sister Meg engaged to John Brooke.

The next time we see Amy, it is three years later and she has grown into the proper young lady she always aspired to be. She dresses well, pays calls, dabbles in various forms of artwork, donates her time and energy to charity booths. Somehow, we as readers belittle this, when this was common way of life for ladies in the 19th century. Consider Marian Brooke, of The Gilded Age TV show, who embraces her own femininity and lives and thrives in New York society. Amy March is doing the same thing – while Jo breaks many of the societal rules, Amy wants to be part of that world. This is best demonstrated in Part Two, when Amy and Jo pay calls at various friends’ and relatives’ homes. Amy does her utmost to help Jo, but Jo (and don’t get me wrong, I love my girl Jo) is downright rude, improper, immature, and sloppy. Amy, on the other hand, is well-mannered, her appearance is neat, she is respectful, and she shows an interest in her hosts. This leaves an impression on Aunt Carol, who is planning a trip to Europe. She originally planned to invite Jo, but the visit shows her Amy would be a better candidate to take to Europe.

“You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That’s not my way.”

You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentle-woman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how.

So, Amy didn’t steal Jo’s trip to Europe. She was true to herself and a wealthy relative rewarded her for it. She accompanies Aunt Carol and her family on their tour of Europe. This was another common practice in the 19th century. Family or friends would take a young lady along, to see the sights and with any luck, make a match there (think “The Portrait of a Lady,” by Henry James). Amy enjoys herself there, meeting new people, wearing the fashions of the time, learning about art and the countries she visits. The original plan of her life is that she becomes a successful, famous artist. In that way, she’s equally ambitious to Jo. However, while in Europe, she comes to accept her own limitations. Amy understands she has talent, but she doesn’t have genius. At least not compared to the greats or her contemporaries. She comes to terms with this; she will always love art and be artistic, but she must be practical now.

Very few occupations were open to women of that era, especially in the social circles Amy moved in. Teaching or being a governess would have been acceptable – many ladies of genteel and respectable families worked as governesses. Meg worked as a governess. But the pay wasn’t great and it would be a step down for a socially conscious young woman. The only way to secure her future was to marry well. By today’s standards, and many readers of “Little Women” it’s considered mercenary for Amy to think of marrying for money. However, again, think of The Gilded Age show, where some of the characters did or do want to marry for financial security – Agnes van Rhijn and her son Oscar van Rhijn.

Amy herself states: “I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don’t mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg didn’t, Jo won’t, Beth can’t yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round.”

If Amy marries say Fred Vaugn, one of her suitors, she intends to help her family and those around her. It isn’t a bad plan…but it isn’t the right plan for her. After spending some time with Laurie, who she met up with in Europe, she understands she can’t marry just for money. Marmee and Father didn’t raise her that way and it wouldn’t be enough for her. Love, respect, admiration, and friendship must be part of the equation. The more time she spends with Laurie, she slowly falls in love with him. However, Amy isn’t pleased with Laurie’s behavior as of late. If she had really wanted to marry for money, she could have ignored his vices and set her cap at him. He once loved Jo and after nursing a broken heart, he meanders around Europe spending his grandfather’s money, wasting time, and not living up to his full potential. It is Amy who inspires him to become the best version of himself…and it is Amy he truly falls in love with. According to the book, Amy didn’t steal Laurie from Jo, because he never truly belonged to her.

“I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.”

Amy and Laurie both find their way, they marry, and after the tragedy of losing Beth, they return home. They find their happy ending together.

So was Amy selfish, shallow, prissy, or evil? Nope. No more than the rest of us. She was a young woman who found her place in the world. Her definition of happiness was different than Jo’s, but it doesn’t make her any less of a heroine.

What do you think? Do you like Amy March?