#musings ✯[fool hearted hero]

[kikyoupdates]

Rivalry | Bakugou Katsuki x F!Reader 

katsuki catches feelings for his new rival

Bakugou Katsuki has a crush, and he refuses to admit it. 

There’s a girl in his class who drives him absolutely insane. All throughout middle school, he’s had the top grades. His attitude, foul mouth, and appearance may fool people into believing he’s a delinquent—and to some extent, he is—but the truth is that he has a rigid, early bedtime, he does all his homework diligently, he studies at great length for tests, and he’s never missed a single day of class. 

He’s the best student there is. Or rather—he’s just the best in general. 

But this year, everything changed. 

There’s something about you that seems to catch everyone’s eye. You showed up at the beginning of the school year, a new transfer student, and from that moment onward, Katsuki swears his life got flipped upside down. 

You’re gifted. You’ve got the best grades not only in the class, but out of everyone in the whole school. Every time exam scores are posted for others to see, Katsuki is forced to grit his teeth at the sight of your name at the very top, time and time again.

It’s not just your grades, though. You’ve got a powerful Quirk, too. It’s some kind of energy control that allows you to levitate objects, enhance your physical strength, and also defend against attacks. It’s strong and versatile. Perfect for becoming a hero—which is exactly what you plan to be. 

The final nail in the coffin is that you’re also popular. 

Katsuki is used to being the center of attention wherever he goes. He’s used to being complimented for his intellect, his talent, his strength, and the sheer magnitude of his presence. Thanks to everyone praising him to high heaven, ever since he was a kid, his ego has become massively inflated. 

So, when he realizes that people are paying more attention to you than they are to him, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to handle it. 

Katsuki finds himself glaring at you just about constantly. You’ve always got a group of students gathered around you. You’re always smiling and laughing, looking carefree as can be. You’re also the only person in the whole class who doesn’t treat Izuku like dirt—which just pisses him off even more. 

One day, you stop in front of his desk with a bright smile. 

“Here you go, Bakugou,” you say, handing him a cookie. “This is for you.” 

Katsuki looks up at you in disbelief. “Why would I ever want this shit?” 

“I dunno. It was my birthday recently, so I baked cookies to hand out to the class. Don’t you want one? I thought everyone likes cookies.” 

“I would rather die than eat that,” he snarls, and he angrily shoves the cookie back into your hands. 

He’s dramatic as all hell, of course, and that kind of vicious remark would have been more than enough to make anyone feel self-conscious. It was needlessly harsh. He obviously didn’t mean it. Given the option of eating your cookie or dying, he would definitely eat the cookie. 

Not that it really matters, though.

You’re completely unfazed. 

“Damn, I didn’t know you were deathly afraid of cookies,” you muse. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time. What about cupcakes? Are cupcakes safe for you to eat?” 

Katsuki’s entire face turns red. “That’s obviously not what I meant, asshole!” 

“I know,” you giggle, and for some reason, the sound makes Katsuki’s heart skip a beat. “Sorry for teasing. You’re really funny, Bakugou. I like you.” 

He parts his lips to respond, but he’s incapable of forming any words. It feels like whatever he was about to say just died in the back of his throat. All of a sudden, he’s frozen in place, brain running haywire. 

“I like you.” 

You’re making fun of him. You have to be. And why should he even care whether you actually like him or not? He doesn’t give a shit about you. He can’t stand you. You’re the bane of his goddamn existence. 

…fuck. 

That’s what he keeps telling himself, but given how red his face is, it’s sounding harder and harder to believe. 

“I’ll make something else next time,” you beam. “I’m sure one day, I’ll figure out something you like. I’ve noticed you eat spicy food a lot. Maybe I should try making a curry. Ah, but if it’s good, you have to be honest with me, okay? You’re not allowed to lie.” 

Katsuki’s heart does another flip. It’s so stupid. He can’t believe his mind even bothered to read into it, but…

The fact that you know what kind of food he likes means you’ve at least been paying some attention to him, right? 

“I’m going to beat you,” Katsuki blurts. His voice wavers slightly, and he grinds his teeth together in embarrassment, but still, he persists. “On the next round of exams… I’m going to place first. Just you watch.”

Normally, Katsuki can’t stand to lose. He can’t stand the feeling of inferiority. The idea that someone else might be better than him.

And yet, despite his frustration, despite how much he claims you drive him up the wall, he actually doesn’t mind the challenge. It’s exciting. It makes him respect you that much more. 

“We’ll see about that,” you grin—and he’s convinced you have to be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

No doubt about it. 

Something about you just gets his heart racing.

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[trickofheart]

Tags part 2 are we done yet???

[vagabond-umlaut]

hey, where is the pomegranate tree?

unstoppable force, aka kore, aka gojo, meets immovable object, aka hades, aka you— nothing can ever go wrong from this collision, trust me— n-o-t-h-i-n-g.

▸ gojo satoru x fem!reader; hades and persephone retelling [with a twist ;))]; 1.2k wc; stubbornly persuasive gojo; the reader is js so tired and annoyed [and tired]; enemies to lovers vibes[??]; talks of marriage and children; gojo thinks you are a fool, he is the real clown here

▸ pls don't glare at me if there is more than one inaccuracy here, haha. anyways, the header is from pinterest, the divider is by @benkeibear and the characters used ain't mine. pls don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

▸ update: this fic is now part of a series!!! wreaths of asphodel 😊😊

"you shall spend the rest of your days in tears."

you're foolish; woefully so, gojo thinks, carefully observing you from his place on the chaise lounge, smiling while you continue seething, "and there will be no one who can save you. neither a hero nor a god. neither demeter nor zeus. no. one."

"but why do you think i will need saving, my rose?" the endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, the taste sweetening at the way your pretty lips dip into a deeper frown, "you're not a monster, are you?"

"no!" the defensive reply comes in less than a beat. though the words following it sound a tad less bold; it seems as if you're trying to make yourself believe and not scare him.

"i'm someone far fiercer— hades. the goddess of the dead. the queen of the underworld— and the cause for your misery should you choose to vex me any further."

"aw, no," gojo cries, decidedly making a show by slapping a hand over his eyes and faking a sniffle, "why must the only woman i want as my wife see me as an annoyance?"

then lets his hand drop down to the cushion, willing his eyes to well over with pitiful moisture. "as the god of life, i've only ever given and given– be it grains or fruits or vegetables or flowers– without asking anything in return— yet the first and only time i ask..."

he doesn't bother finishing his sentence, choosing to sob to add to the tragic atmosphere— though that doesn't mean he doesn't note the war of emotions on your face:

pity, confusion, anger, again confusion— you're so easy to read, to steer. very foolish, really.

"you'll not like living here," you eventually break the silence hanging within the room. your voice is much softer now; the god wonders if you sing. if you do, the muses will certainly be put to shame... "your days will be spent in utter boredom and gloom and tears–"

"– and no one can come to my aid then: yes, thank you," he interrupts you, more than a little tired, "you've driven the points too well into my head– so much so that i'm surprised there isn't a gaping hole in there, oozing blood and my brains. but why must you think i'll need rescue, huh??"

if a smidge of force escapes into his words, gojo decides not to pay it any mind— though only until he notices the small flinch you give– his insides twist and torment, quite inexplicably, thereafter.

"okay, look," he says, getting up from his slouch to move near you, but stops on catching the warning glint in your eyes.

"first of all, i'm not some damsel in distress being whisked away in a chariot here– i came here by own volition. and i'm offering my mind, body, heart, soul– the special package that i am, in fewer words– to you, by my own volition. why shall i want anyone to rescue me then?"

"besides," he proceeds to add, allowing an easy smirk to form on his face, "you're just the cute little goddess of the dead– not at all scary like your brother used to be; though i guess you try to imitate him in your glares, don't you? sukuna was quite notori—"

"don't you dare utter my brother's name, foul olympian," a quiet growl slashes gojo's comment, sending it plummetting to the ground— and making him understand why you, the inconspicuous, sheltered sister of the vicious former holder of the name 'hades', was given the crown, in the aftermath of your brother's banishment– instead of the several more well-known candidates...

"i apologise," gojo offers in the very next instant, making it as genuine as he can, "i never meant to upset or offend you. i'm sorry if i did."

you just stare at him for a beat, gojo watches, before your shoulders lift then fall in a sigh. the fire burning in your aura abates by a pinch.

sighing once more, you finally break your silence, "It's okay, and um– suppose i too should apologise. you might be an olympian but you're not as foul as them, no. please forgive me for calling you so."

"no problem, my rose," the god is quick to accept your words with a wave of his hand and a beam, further widening when he notices the sliver of smile on your countenance, "but does this mean i appeal to your tastes? i mean, you called me 'not as foul as them', didn't you?? did you just accept my hand in marriage, then???"

"no, i didn't..." your subtle smile disappears swifter than it appeared. a half of gojo's floral crown, quite inexplicably, wilts on the table before. he watches your eyes fall to it, then snap up to meet his.

"do you love me?"

not yet, but he thinks he can. you might be an idiot but you certainly aren't an unlovable idiot— and one voice in his mind murmurs, those precious, innocent looks of yours aren't even the main reasons why...

the god shoots back a languid smile. "if you want to see me in love with you, so be it."

"that's neither 'yes' nor 'no'," you point out, frowning, before vaulting your second query of the evening, "if we get married, do you want to have children?"

it won't be very unfavourable, if you both do... with the vivid colour of your eyes, or the adorable shape of your nose, or the radiance of your skin, or the— "if you want, i shall be happy to assist," he ekes out with a meaningful wink, albeit he doubts how much of it reaches you.

you're very foolish, after all... and no– it's not because of the awkward way he says it– no! not in the slightest! he wasn't fumbling at all!

you wrap the shawl tighter around your shoulders but don't move any further away, gojo notes. the same way he does the slight tint in your cheeks when you roll your eyes with a scoff.

"you're unbelievable, kore. truly, terribly unbelievable." you press the pads of your thumbs over your forehead before releasing it, gaze an unprecedented mark of sharp when it settles on his face.

"is there nothing you want from our union, eh? i refuse to believe you wish to marry me without any demands, as if on a mere whim– but if it is so, i ought to warn you, kore: my answer is and will always be one firm 'no'."

your words mustn't ignite this odd restlessness in him. they certainly mustn't— still, gojo finds his chest tight and the air heavy as he grins back and says, "i only want to be your husband, your majesty... but if that is too much for you right now–"

the stretch on his lips simmers down to something smaller. yet truer.

"i want you to call me by my name. my real name. can you do that, my rose?"

you don't say anything in response for a long while. so long, in fact, it makes the god wonder if you are ever going to reply to his request.

perhaps not, he thinks quite a bit down-spirited when you suddenly turn on your heel and with a swish of your long shawl, stride out the rooms– o-oh.

you stop just as abruptly at the threshold. a complicated grin shining on your face as you twist to look at him over your shoulder then say:

"good night, gojo satoru. pray the ghosts prowling these halls don't eat you up ere dawn."

you're gone not even few feet away from the door, before gojo falls face-first into the bed, the entire room suddenly erupting into thousands of roses in all colors ever seen. [lolol, he is such a loser for you! xD]

▸ masterlist

[redroomreflections]

Meet The Family

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader (Black Reader)

The Loud House Universe

Summary: Natasha meets R's family for the first time

W/c: 7k

"Babe, I have no idea what you are so nervous about." You shook your head. You grabbed onto your luggage as you deboarded the plane. "They're going to love you."

"I don't doubt that," Natasha said as she slipped the sunglasses onto her face. It's not like it's her first time flying economy before. She insisted that the two of you act as normal as a couple. That's what she craved. Normalcy. Someone not into the lights and cameras and the novelty of her being a hero. That is why she was excited to do the typical thing of meeting your family.

"Sure doesn’t seem like it,” you teased, nudging her lightly with your elbow as the two of you made your way through the terminal. Natasha’s calm exterior might fool anyone else, but you caught the subtle way she fiddled with the strap of her carry-on, her usual poise betraying just a hint of unease.

“I’m just... being cautious,” Natasha replied with a smirk, though you could hear the sincerity in her tone. “Your family is important to you. That means they’re important to me.”

Her words warmed your heart even as you rolled your eyes playfully. “That’s sweet, but they’re just regular people, babe. You're not meeting the president. Just eat good food, laugh at my mom's jokes, and pretend we haven't had premarital sex. Which is interesting of a hill to die on for my mom, but..."

Natasha let out a laugh. "I think I can handle that."

"And don't feel intimidated if they ask you many questions about your job," you continued. "I already warned them about keeping the interrogation to a minimum, but my family is the worst when it comes to asking about every little detail."

Natasha stopped, turning towards you with a serious expression. "I am more than prepared for an interrogation. That's my job description."

The two of you continued walking to baggage claim, keeping up with the traffic flow as you talked.

“Okay,” she said suddenly, tilting her head toward you. “Anything I should know before we get there? Any family secrets or rules I should avoid breaking?”

You snorted. “Well, for starters, don’t say you don’t eat pork. My mom might take that as a personal attack on her cooking.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Good to know. What else?”

“Let’s see,” you mused, counting off on your fingers. “Peyton’s going to act like she runs the world because she’s the oldest, Quincy will probably crack a million dad jokes, and Brandon’s baby's mother… well, don’t take it personally if she doesn’t say much. She’s not big on conversation.”

"She's 17, right?" Natasha asked, her eyes widening as you walked through the airport.

"They both are," You nodded. "Everything I've told you about my family before, believe it."

"That's a lot of people," Natasha smiled softly. She'd always been more comfortable being around small groups. The bigger the group, the more uncomfortable she was.

"Yeah," You grinned. "My parents were great at making babies. There's four of us."

"Hmm," Natasha nodded. "Let me guess that's your brother over there with the sign." She gestured with a raise of her chin to the teenaged boy with a toddler in one arm and a sign that read "Welcome back from the Convent."

You burst out laughing as soon as you spotted the sign. "Of course he did," you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief. Natasha chuckled beside you, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

"That's Brandon for you," you confirmed as you adjusted your bag and walked toward him. "Always a comedian."

Brandon caught sight of you as you approached and broke into a grin. "Hey, sis!" he called out, holding the baby with one arm while waving enthusiastically with the other. The baby, a chubby-cheeked little girl with curly hair, looked unimpressed but content in his hold.

"Really, Brandon?" you said, gesturing to the sign as Natasha raised an eyebrow. "A convent? That’s what you went with?"

"What? It’s funny," he replied, shrugging with a smirk. "Gotta keep you humble."

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to hug him while Natasha stood back, observing the interaction with quiet interest. "And what about me screams ‘convent,’ exactly?"

"Law school, late nights studying, no time for fun—sounds like a convent to me," Brandon teased before shifting his attention to Natasha. "So, this must be the famous Natasha. Welcome to the family."

"Oh, we're not..." Natasha's cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she looked at you. "We're not married or anything."

"Yet," He finished with a smile, reaching out to shake her hand. "The way she talks about you, I'd have thought you had already put a ring on it."

"Brandon, stop," You groaned, your cheeks reddening. Natasha looked at you curiously, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"What? It's true. I mean, the whole family's heard all about your girl—"

"Give me my niece. She's getting fussy," You interrupted before he could embarrass you. You and Natasha had been dating for almost a year and a half. She knows practically everything there is to know. But hearing your family's opinion of her made you nervous.

"Fine," Brandon sighed. "You'll have to catch up on all the drama once we're in the car anyway. It's crazy at home."

"Oh? Why's that?" You asked, reaching out to take the toddler in your arms.

"I'll take the bags," He offered to Natasha. He didn't find offense when she declined. He simply kept the conversation going.

"Mom's pissed about Tori," He said, referring to his current girlfriend. "Her parents still won't let her move back home. Also, Peyton and Ross are having some issues. You didn't hear it from me, though. Oh- I parked over here."

He led the three of you to the car, where he opened the trunk and tossed all of your bags in there.

"Hey, that's Gucci," You warned him. "That bag has my laptop."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be careful." He waved you off. "Can you buckle her in?" He asked.

Buckling Willow into her car seat was a feat. It was a new experience that you were excited to have, but she was a wiggler. You were glad to be an aunt and help her dad. You knew Natasha was watching the interaction with interest. Once everyone was seated, Brandon backed the car onto the road and out of the airport parking lot. You were terrified of his driving.

"Mom, let you drive the car," You thought aloud. "That's a first. Peyton and I had to beg her to let us drive practically."

"Well, I'm the baby. I get special privileges," He bragged. "Miss Natasha, you're quiet back there."

"She's fine," You defended her.

"I'm just listening," She replied.

Brandon glanced at Natasha through the rearview mirror as he navigated the freeway. His curiosity was written on his face, and you braced yourself for whatever line of questioning he was about to launch into.

“So,” he started one hand on the wheel and the other drumming lightly on the console. “What’s it like being an Avenger? Do y’all just fight aliens and save the world all day, or is it mostly paperwork?”

Natasha chuckled softly, the sound surprising you a little. She leaned forward just enough to meet Brandon’s gaze in the mirror. “A lot less glamorous than you’d think. Fighting aliens happens occasionally, but it’s mostly meetings, training, and arguing over whose turn it is to clean the kitchen.”

"Wait, you mean to tell me y'all don't have maids or a team to do that stuff?"

"Not for personal stuff, no," Natasha explained.

"And I'm gonna assume there are no benefits, insurance, or anything like that."

"It's government-funded," Natasha said. "So there's plenty of benefits and health insurance."

"Do you get to fly around in a spaceship, or is that reserved for Captain America and Iron Man?"

"There's a jet," Natasha replied.

"Brandon, can we not?" You asked.

"Oh, come on," he protested. "You didn't warn her about the third degree? Besides, it's not like you've seen any action."

"Not directly," You corrected. "But I've watched the news."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to pry. I just want to make sure you're safe. The rest of the fam is going to want to know."

"That's understandable," Natasha said.

"So, what are the chances I'll get a ride in one of those Avengers planes?" He joked.

"Brandon!" You groaned.

"What? Can't blame a guy for dreaming," he laughed. "Okay, I have a real question—do you guys like to hang out? Play cards? Do movie nights? Or is it all business?”

“Depends on the day,” Natasha answered, her voice relaxed. “We’ve had our share of poker nights, but Thor’s terrible at bluffing, and Clint’s too good. Movie nights are better unless someone picks Star Wars. That always ends in arguments about the ‘proper’ order to watch them in.”

“Man, I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall for some of that,” Brandon said, shaking his head. “You ever bring her to the tower?” he asked, jerking his thumb in your direction.

“A few times,” Natasha said, glancing at you with a small smile. “We mostly hang out at her apartment with Karen. She keeps saying she doesn’t want to ‘cramp my style.’”

“Excuse me for wanting to keep a low profile,” you said, feigning indignation. “Unlike you, Brandon, I’m not trying to be best friends with everyone.”

Brandon shot you a look of mock outrage, pressing one hand against his chest.

"You wound me, sister. Truly."

"I'll do worse than that if you don't focus on the road," You warned him.

"Fine, fine." He raised his hands in surrender.

It would be long if the rest of the day would be like Brandon's questioning.

**********

As Brandon hoisted Willow out of her car seat, she babbled happily, grabbing his hair as he balanced her on his hip. “Alright, ladies, this is where I leave you to fend for yourselves,” he said with a teasing grin, holding open the front door with his foot.

“We can manage,” you shot back with a smirk, lugging your bags from the trunk.

“You sure? I can carry the fancy bag,” Brandon said, eyeing your Gucci luggage again.

“Get inside, Brandon,” you said firmly, laughing despite yourself.

Brandon shrugged and disappeared into the house with Willow, leaving you and Natasha standing by the car.

You turned to Natasha, who was sliding her sunglasses off and tucking them into the neckline of her sweater. “Hey,” you said softly, touching her arm. “You good? I know my family can be  a lot.”

"Baby, I'm fine," Natasha said. "Trust me. This is what I do."

"I can't pretend I don't love it when you call me baby." You sighed.

"Well, then maybe I should use it more often," She said. "Also, relax. It's Thanksgiving."

"You're right," You said. "But still, if it gets overwhelming, just let me know."

Natasha nodded, and the two of you headed into the house. As soon as the door opened, the sounds and smells of Thanksgiving Day swarmed around you. Loud, chattering voices, the clatter of dishes, and the mouthwatering scent of roasting turkey filled the house, and you took a moment to close your eyes and soak it in.

"Is that my daughter, I hear?" Your mother's voice rang out from the kitchen.

"Yes, Mama, it's me." You called back. You kicked your shoes off and placed them neatly inside the coat closet. Natasha followed suit.

"Are you the famous girlfriend we've heard so much about?" Your mom asked.

"Yes, ma'am. My name is Natasha."

"Come here, girl, and hug me," your mom ordered, appearing from the kitchen and wiping her hands on a dish towel. "My name's Vivian. It's nice to meet you finally."

Natasha initially hugged Vivian, a bit hesitant, but the older woman’s firm and affectionate embrace quickly put her at ease. “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am,” Natasha said, stepping back with a warm smile. “You have an incredible daughter. I’ve been hearing nothing but great things about you.”

Vivian chuckled, her sharp eyes twinkling as she gave Natasha a once-over. “Well, flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased. “But please, don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old. Vivian or Mama Viv will do just fine.”

“Mama Viv, then,” Natasha said with a slight nod, her voice smooth and respectful.

“Good. Now tell me, Natasha,” Vivian said, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, “what exactly are your intentions with my baby?”

Your eyes widened as you fumbled for words. “Mama!”

Natasha didn’t miss a beat, though. She clasped her hands together, her expression sincere. “To love her, respect her, and make her proud, ma’am—uh, Mama Viv. And to eat as much of your cooking as you’ll let me,” she added with a playful smirk.

Vivian broke into a laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, she’s good,” she said, glancing at you. “I see why you like her. Alright, Natasha, you’re off to a good start. Come help me in the kitchen, and we’ll see if you can hold your own in there.”

Natasha glanced at you for confirmation, and you gave her a subtle nod. She followed Vivian into the kitchen without hesitation. You followed behind, though, at a slower pace. The next few moments were crucial for first impressions.

"I'll warn you, I'm not a great cook," She said.

"That's alright," Vivian said. "I'll put you to work peeling potatoes or something. Wanna see if you'll pull your weight around here."

You smiled, hearing them chat back and forth. It was a good sign. You were sure your mom would find something Natasha could do.

"You made it," Quincy's voice boomed from behind you. He didn't give you time to react before he pulled you into a bear hug. "And you brought Natasha."

"Of course," You laughed.

"Good." He nodded. "I was worried you were going to bail on us. You never come home anymore."

"Don't start, Quincy," You rolled your eyes. "I was home last Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, after not coming home for a whole year," He said. "Introduce me to your girlfriend." He grinned. He was starstruck.

"She's helping Mom cook," You informed him. You both walked into the kitchen and saw Natasha shaking hands with your sister, Peyton. Brandon was at the counter feeding a few strawberries to Willow as his girlfriend Tori sat beside him on her phone. She seemed completely unaware of the world around her.

"So, you're an Avenger," Peyton said, her tone a little skeptical. "I must admit we didn't believe y/n when she said she was dating you."

"Oh really," Natasha said, quirking an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Well, it's not every day a girl claims she's dating the Black Widow," Peyton pointed out.

"Yeah, but y/n isn't exactly the type to make shit up," Quincy interrupted.

"Language, boy," Vivian warned from her place at the stove.

Natasha chuckled, her eyes flickering to Peyton and then to Vivian, who had her back turned to the stove. "Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse," she said, giving Quincy a playful wink.

"See?" Quincy smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Told ya."

Vivian turned from the stove, placing a wooden spoon on the counter. "Alright, enough with the show, everyone. Peyton, get the table set. Quincy, stop trying to embarrass your sister. And you," she pointed at Natasha, "come help me with this cornbread."

Natasha nodded and stepped over to Vivian, who seemed confident in her kitchen. "What can I do?" Natasha asked, her hands instinctively moving to help without waiting for an answer.

"First things first," Vivian said, pushing a bowl of ingredients toward her, "you’re going to stir this batter, but carefully. I like a nice smooth texture for the cornbread."

Natasha rolled up her sleeves, already comfortable in the space. "I’ve got it. I’ll make it the best cornbread you’ve ever had."

Vivian, clearly pleased, gave her a once-over before speaking again. "You’re making good impressions so far, Natasha. Y/n deserves someone who knows their way around the kitchen." She eyed Natasha for a moment, her smile warm. "You do all your cooking, or is someone else handling that?"

"I do a bit of both," Natasha replied, gently mixing the batter. "But I’m always down for new recipes, especially if they come from someone who knows what they’re doing. I'm not a great cook but a fast learner."

"Well, we'll see how you do here," Vivian said.

"I guess I'll start on the pies," You rolled up your sleeves to wash your hands. A perk of flying in on Thanksgiving day was being late to the party. It was a last-minute decision to come home.

"You better be making a chocolate one," Peyton warned.

"Peyton, hush." Vivian shushed her.

"I can't wait to try it," Brandon said, his attention still on his daughter.

"I think the last thing that kid needs is sugar," Peyton teased, poking the little girl's belly. She squealed, kicking her chubby little legs.

"The sugar is the best part," Brandon retorted, kissing his daughter.

"She's getting big," You observed. "Is she talking yet?"

"No," Brandon said. "Not yet. She'll get there eventually. I can't believe she's a year old. Feels like just yesterday she was born."

"Yeah," You nodded. "Hi, Tori." You said to Brandon's girlfriend.

"Hi," She had the decency to look up from her phone.

You sat at the kitchen table, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you glanced at Tori. Finding someone like her who kept to themselves was rare, but you knew it was essential to show interest. "So, Tori, how's school and everything? I mean, besides, you know, trying to avoid getting caught in the middle of this chaotic family," you teased lightly, gesturing around the room.

Tori blinked, clearly surprised by the question, but then she seemed to soften, a hint of relief in her eyes. "Well, school is fine. I've been attending every day. I want to be a nurse," she said, her voice quieter than usual but more animated than you'd seen before. "I’ve always liked the idea of helping people, you know? I’ve been thinking about moving to Louisiana after high school to study. My aunt lives there, and she’s been telling me to come stay with her while I figure things out."

"That’s awesome," you said, genuinely interested. "Is it something you’ve wanted to do for a while?"

"Yeah," she nodded, looking down at her hands briefly. "I’ve always kind of gravitated toward taking care of people. And... I don’t know. Louisiana feels like a place where I could start fresh, away from all the stuff back here." She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Brandon, who was still sitting with Willow. "I just... I think I could do more there. Maybe even learn some things to help me get my life on track."

You nodded thoughtfully, respecting her quiet resolve. "I think you’ll do great."

Brandon, listening in from across the room, chimed in with a knowing smile. "Yeah, we're still figuring it all out. Tori's been thinking about it, but we're also trying to figure out how to ensure Willow stays close to family." His expression softened as he glanced at his daughter. "I’m not sure how I feel about taking her away from everyone... but Tori’s excited, and it’s a big opportunity for her."

Tori shot Brandon a small, appreciative smile, though she didn’t say anything.

You could tell there was a lot of unspoken tension around it. You nodded in understanding. "It's a big decision. But I know Willow’s lucky to have you both looking out for her."

"That's so sweet," Tori said.

"I only have to put the collard greens on," Vivian began. "Natasha, do you eat pork?"

"Yes," Natasha answered.

"Good," Vivian nodded.

"What else can I do, Mama Viv?" Natasha asked.

"You're gonna make the biscuits," Vivian ordered.

"Yes, ma'am." Natasha nodded.

Things were going well. Your mom putting Natasha to work meant she was interested in her, which was a plus in your book.

As Natasha busied herself with biscuit-making under Vivian’s watchful eye, Peyton followed you into one of the bedrooms upstairs. You knew by her closeness she was about to say something. Peyton rarely held back when it came to her opinions.

“So,” she began, her tone casual but pointed, “is this thing with Natasha serious? Or is she just another quest, like Melinda?”

You paused, barely glancing at her, placing your bags in the closet. Peyton had always had a knack for finding the most loaded questions to ask, and this was no exception. You took a breath, willing yourself to stay composed.

“First of all,” you said calmly, “Natasha is not a ‘thing.’ She’s my girlfriend, Peyton. And yeah, we’re serious. Also, Melinda wasn't a quest. We were in a relationship for two years."

Peyton shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just saying. You’ve always had a type, you know? Strong, intense, probably a little emotionally unavailable,” she added with a smirk. “And we all know how that turned out last time.”

You shot her a warning look. “Wow, Peyton. Thank you so much for your insight into my love life. Maybe next time, you can try delivering it without the shade.”

“What? I’m just asking the questions everyone else is thinking,” she said, raising her hands defensively. “I mean, you’ve got a history. Don’t you think it’s fair to wonder how long this one will last?”

"Are you going to start? Dinner is less than three hours away," You sighed. "I came to be with family. You didn't even hug me when I came in the door."

"Because you've been here ten minutes," Peyton argued. "Look, I'm not trying to start anything, y/n. I'm just curious. It's not like we see or talk to you very much."

"Well, I've been busy," You retorted.

"You could've called more," Peyton insisted. "The girls miss you."

"I'm sorry," You shook your head. "Law school has been intense."

Peyton’s eyes flicked to the Gucci bag you’d set neatly by the door, her expression shifting into something slightly amused but undeniably pointed. “That’s a nice bag you’ve got there,” she remarked, her tone light but laced with something else. “Designer, right?”

You bristled, sensing where this was going. “Yeah, it’s a gift,” you replied curtly, refusing to elaborate. You’d learned that giving Peyton more information was like throwing fuel on a fire.

“Must be nice,” she said, her voice slightly more severe. “Meanwhile, Mom’s been stressing over the laundromat. She doesn’t say it outright, but I know things have been tight lately.”

You froze, your jaw tightening. “Peyton—”

“She’s paying your tuition,” Peyton continued, folding her arms. “So, I just think, you know, maybe she deserves to know if you’re spending money on fancy bags.”

“It’s a gift,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “And last I checked, my education was something Mom was proud to support, not some burden she needed you to fight about.”

Peyton shrugged, unfazed by your defensiveness. “I’m not saying it’s a burden. I’m just saying she’s doing a lot. And maybe you could... I don’t know; check in a little more. Be more aware of what’s going on back home.”

“Wow, Peyton. Thanks for the lecture,” you shot back. “I had no idea you were Mom’s financial advisor now.”

“I’m just saying,” Peyton countered. “You’re out there living your life, and we’re holding things down. It wouldn’t hurt to pick up the phone or swing by more often. The girls miss you, Mom misses you, and whether you want to hear it or not, things aren’t easy around here.”

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “Look, I get it, okay? I know I’ve been caught up with school and everything else. But you don’t need to guilt-trip me about it. I’m doing the best I can.”

Peyton’s face softened, if only slightly. “I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, y/n. I just... I worry about Mama, and I worry about you too. You’ve got this shiny new life now, and it’s great, but don’t forget where you came from. That’s all I’m saying.”

You shook your head, annoyance and regret swirling in your gut. Part of you wanted to defend yourself, but another part felt like it was too little, too late. Instead, you breathed and tried to let the frustration melt away. Paying your tuition was something your mother did for each of her children. Quincy had gone to get his mechanical engineering degree and became a product engineer. You're still determining exactly what he does, but he earns an excellent salary. Peyton had gone to college and ultimately dropped out after becoming pregnant with the twins in her junior year. Now it was your turn.

You felt that despite how much your mom wanted you to attend law school, the money was tighter than she'd initially let on. It wasn't that she was stingy. Your mom was the most generous person you knew. But she had her pride. You knew you had to pay her back one day.

"Okay, okay," You said, rubbing your temples. "I've been working a lot. I can take out loans if I have to. Just let me talk to Mom. See what she says."

Peyton didn't look entirely convinced. "If you say so."

"Look, it's been a long trip, and I wanted to see everyone and have a good time," You explained. "Are you going to treat me like this the whole time?"

"No," Peyton rolled her eyes. "We can pretend we're normal and get along for one day."

"Good," You said. "Now, can we please just go hang out with everyone? I didn't come from New York to spend the holiday with you lecturing me."

"I love you, little sister," Peyton said as you began to walk past her. "I apologize for coming across that way."

"I know, Peyton," You sighed.

The two of you walked back downstairs, and you returned to the kitchen to see Natasha holding Willow in her arms. You paused in the doorway, your steps slowing as your gaze landed on Natasha. She held Willow close, her movements careful yet natural, like she’d been doing this forever. Willow babbled happily, one tiny hand clutching at Natasha’s necklace and the other reaching up to pat her cheek. Natasha smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips that you didn’t get to see often.

It was... endearing. Unexpected but endearing.

Natasha had always struck you as someone who thrived in control, her precision and composure unshakeable. But here she was, rocking a squirmy, giggling baby in her arms with a quiet patience that made your chest ache the best way.

She caught you watching, her green eyes meeting yours over Willow’s head. “Hey,” she said softly, a trace of shyness in her voice. “She’s a natural charmer, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice catching just a bit. “She likes you.”

Natasha chuckled, shifting Willow so the baby rested more securely against her shoulder. “I like her too,” she admitted. “But, full disclosure, I have no idea what I’m doing. I think she’s just being nice to me.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “You’re doing fine,” you said, your tone warm. “Better than fine. She doesn’t let just anyone hold her without pitching a fit.”

Willow reached for Natasha’s face again, her little fingers brushing against her cheek. Natasha didn’t flinch, just gently caught the baby’s hand and kissed her tiny palm. The sight was almost too much—tenderness wrapped up in someone so unrelentingly strong.

“Do you want her ?” Natasha asked, her voice light but filled with a bit of hesitation like maybe she didn’t want to let go just yet.

You shook your head, leaning against the counter. “Nah, you’re doing great. Besides, I think she’s already picked a favorite.”

Natasha gave a soft laugh, the sound low and genuine. “Guess I’ll have to live up to it, then.”

Vivian came in a moment later. "Everything's all ready," She said.

"Mom, did you make mac and cheese?" Peyton asked.

"Yes," Vivian nodded. "Your daughter requested it."

"Thanks, Mama," Peyton said.

Vivian glanced at you and Peyton, her eyes narrowing. "Y'all weren't fighting, were you?"

"No, ma'am," You and Peyton said in unison.

"Don't lie," Vivian scolded.

"We're fine," You insisted.

"We can save the arguing after Thanksgiving dinner," Peyton added.

"Alright," Vivian shrugged. "I'm not going to pretend to understand you two."

Natasha glanced between you and your sister, but you did not indicate that you were bothered by what had happened.

"Twins are back," Ross called from the front door as he entered the house with Deyjah and Diamond. All you heard was the pitter-patter of little feet as they kicked off their shoes and ran toward the kitchen.

"There's the troublemakers," You joked, ruffling their heads.

"You're back," Diamond exclaimed, pulling you into a hug.

"I am," You laughed, squeezing her back.

"Did you bring presents?" Deyjah asked, looking up at you expectantly.

"I didn't," You said. "It's not Christmas just yet. Girls, there's someone I want you to meet. This is my girlfriend, Natasha."

Diamond and Deyjah eyed Natasha curiously, their matching gazes assessing her with an unnerving and impressive sharpness.

"Why's your hair red?" Deyjah asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Well, I was born with red hair," Natasha explained. "Just like how y/n was born with dark hair."

"I was born first," Diamond announced proudly, puffing out her chest. "But I don't remember."

"Duh, 'cause you were a baby," Deyjah scoffed.

"Girls," Vivian scolded, "don't be rude. Why don't you go wash up for dinner?"

They did as they were told, rushing off to the bathroom.

"They're pretty cute," Natasha began. "How do you tell them apart?" She directed her question to Peyton.

"There are a few subtle differences," Peyton began. "Diamond has slightly better speech than Deyjah. Deyjah always has some sort of bracelet or necklace on. Though if you look closely, Diamond has a tiny mole on the left side of her neck."

Natasha nodded, seeming satisfied. "So, how old are they?"

"Six," Peyton answered.

"Six," Natasha echoed.

"Yep, six going on sixteen," Peyton joked. "They keep me busy most days."

"I can imagine," Natasha chuckled. "They're smart kids."

"Oh yeah," Peyton grinned. "They're smart."

You couldn't help but smile at Natasha's interest in the twins. She seemed genuinely curious and focused solely on Peyton as she talked about the girls. Seeing someone other than your mom and Brandon engaging with her was refreshing.

"This is my husband, Ross," Peyton introduced.

"Pleasure to meet you," Ross shook Natasha's hand. "Big fan."

"He's a fan," Peyton explained. "He loves all that superhero stuff. I'm not really into it, though."

"I can imagine," Natasha smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Ross."

"Yeah, likewise," he replied, clearly starstruck. "How was the flight?"

"It was alright," You answered. "It's good to be back home."

Indeed it was.

******

The dining room was packed, every seat around the table taken, and a few extra chairs were squeezed in to accommodate the crowd. The smell of collard greens, roasted turkey, and freshly baked cornbread filled the air, mingling with the soft strains of gospel music playing from a speaker in the corner. Laughter and chatter echoed through the room as plates and glasses were passed around.

You sat beside Natasha, her hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the table. She looked calm, but you could tell she was soaking everything in—the voices, the warmth, the energy. She wasn’t used to this world, but she fit into it better than you’d expected.

“Alright, y’all, quiet down!” Vivian’s voice rose above the din, commanding attention. The table settled almost instantly, everyone turning toward her.

She stood at the head of the table, a serene yet authoritative presence. “Before we dig in, we’re going to give thanks,” she said, glancing around the room. “Natasha, since this is your first time joining us, I want you to know how happy we are to have you here. Family is everything to us; today, you’re family too.”

Natasha’s eyes widened slightly, and she gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama Viv. That means a lot.”

"Now, in our household, we start with a prayer before Thanksgiving dinner," Vivian said. "I understand that you may not want to participate."

"No, ma'am," Natasha said.

"Well, okay then," Vivian said. "Now, let's bow our heads."

"Bow our heads, everybody," Vivian instructed, and the room obeyed. You noticed that even Natasha bowed her head a little, though her eyes remained open. "Dear Lord, thank you for bringing our family together today."

Natasha observed the room as the prayer went on. This was like a culture study for her. Experiencing a different family dynamic was intriguing.

"I want to thank you for the food and the company. And I pray that our family continues to stay safe and healthy. Amen."

Everyone lifted their heads and said, "Amen."

"Thank you, Mama," Peyton spoke up.

"Thank you, Mom," Brandon agreed.

"Yeah, thank you, Mama," Your brother, Quincy, said.

"Thanks, Mom," You nodded. The food began to be passed around, with everyone choosing which dishes they wanted and didn't want.

"I don't think we've ever had a guest that didn't participate in the prayer," Peyton commented. "Natasha, you were born in Russia, right?"

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly my thing," Natasha said. "I was born in Russia."

"It's not mine either," you said, hoping to diffuse the tension. "I think we all have ways of being thankful, and it's not anyone else's place to judge."

Peyton gave a slight shrug. "I was just curious. No harm meant."

"I get it," Natasha replied.

"You're welcome here, whether or not you believe in God," Vivian assured. "We're all a little different. It's what makes us interesting."

Natasha flashed Vivian a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you, Mama Viv. I appreciate that."

As everyone dug into their plates, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Silverware scraping against plates filled the air, with only snippets of conversation breaking through the hum of family conversation. Your mom, ever the host, ensured no one went without refills, while your siblings kept things lively with playful banter. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Natasha enjoying the food. Some of the menu options were things she hadn't tasted before. It was endearing and a little heartwarming to see her want things.

"So, Natasha," Brandon leaned forward. "I gotta ask—who is the coolest person you've met?"

"Um..." Natasha's expression shifted into something thoughtful. "Well, I've met many interesting people in my life. I wouldn't say anyone was cooler than the other. Maybe the president?"

Brandon frowned. "I was hoping for someone a little more exciting."

"That is exciting," Quincy said.

"What?" Brandon protested.

"She's Black Widow, and you're asking her about who she's met," Quincy replied. "I want to know her stats. I mean, she's a spy. You must do some pretty cool stunts. What's your training regimen like?"

"Oh, come on," You lowered your fork. "Can we just not talk about work right now?"

"It's okay," Natasha smiled, patting your hand.

"I can answer a few questions," She said.

"Oh yeah," Brandon smirked. "How many push-ups can you do?"

"A lot," Natasha shrugged.

"Do you do chin-ups?" Quincy asked.

"Yes," Natasha said.

"I'd like to challenge you to a push-up contest," Quincy wiped his mouth. "You seem tough, but I bet I could take you."

"I could do the same," Brandon said. "We could all have a contest."

"I'm not going to do a push-up contest," Peyton shook her head. "It's Thanksgiving."

"Fine," Quincy shrugged. "Brandon and I can do it."

"I don't think you guys understand what you're challenging her to," You said. You knew firsthand how athletic Natasha was. Her stamina was out of this world both on and off the field.

"She's an Avenger," You said.

"So," Brandon shrugged.

"She's a trained assassin," You explained.

"I'm sure we could hold our own," Quincy countered.

"No, you can't," You shook your head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Brandon put his hands up. "It sounds like you don't want us to take your girlfriend. Afraid she might fall in love with one of us?"

"I'm right here," Tori pinched Brandon. "Behave."

"Sorry, babe," Brandon muttered.

"No, I'm not worried," You rolled your eyes.

Natasha smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she leaned forward slightly. "Yeah, I think you guys should sit this one out," she said, her voice laced with humor but just enough seriousness to get her point across. "No offense, but I’ve been around some pretty intimidating people. I’m not exactly shaking in my boots here."

Quincy feigned a wounded expression. "Ouch. So, we’re not intimidating enough for you?"

"Not in the slightest," Natasha quipped, her smirk widening.

Brandon chuckled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, fair enough. Guess we’ll stick to arm-wrestling each other and leave the assassin stuff to the pros."

Tori gave Brandon a side-eye but couldn’t help smiling. "Maybe you should worry about behaving before trying to impress Natasha."

You shook your head, unable to keep from laughing. "See? Even Tori knows you two would be hopeless."

Natasha reassured your thigh under the table, leaning in close enough that only you could hear. "I like your family," she murmured softly and sincerely.

You smiled at her, warmth blooming in your chest.

"We like you too," Vivian nodded. “It may be time for these boys to get put in their place.”

"I would like to see it," Peyton muttered.

"After dinner, then," Natasha smiled. "I have one condition if I win."

"What's that?" Quincy asked.

"You guys teach me how to play spades," Natasha suggested.

"Deal," Quincy nodded.

"And if you win, we can take some photos together," Brandon said.

"Fair enough," Natasha said.

"This will be interesting," Vivian commented.

"I know, right," Tori chuckled.

It was settled. Natasha would be challenging your brothers to a push-up contest. She was used to men challenging her to do things. It was in their nature almost.

After the meal, you helped clean up while your siblings gathered in the living room. They were ready for Natasha to kick their asses, and you could barely contain your excitement.

"Willow, you're about to watch your Daddy get beat," You whispered to the toddler.

"Don't count on it," Brandon said. "She won't be so confident when we're finished."

"We'll see," You said, setting the child on the couch.

Ross volunteered to be the referee, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Alright, everyone ready?" he asked, standing over the contestants with exaggerated authority.

Brandon and Quincy dropped to the floor with exaggerated confidence, flexing their arms dramatically to show off. Natasha joined them, calm and focused, her form perfect even before they started.

"Okay," Ross said, his voice booming for no reason. "On my count—one, two, three, go!"

The room filled with exaggerated grunts as your brothers enthusiastically attacked their push-ups, counting out each one loudly. "One, two, three—"

Natasha, meanwhile, moved effortlessly, her breathing even and controlled. You noticed she wasn’t counting out loud, focusing entirely on her form. By the fifteenth push-up, Brandon’s face turned red, and Quincy was already starting to slow down.

“That’s it?” Natasha teased, casually switching to one-handed push-ups without missing a beat.

The room erupted into gasps and laughter. Ross's jaw dropped. "Wait, wait, what?!"

"One hand?" Quincy groaned, struggling to keep his pace. "She’s showing off now."

"Is she even human?" Brandon muttered between labored breaths.

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning against the back of the couch. “Don’t worry, Willow,” you told the toddler watching from her perch. “Your daddy’s about to learn a hard lesson.”

Despite their efforts, Natasha’s movements remained smooth and effortless. Not once did her arms so much as tremble. When Brandon and Quincy finally collapsed in a heap, Natasha was still going strong, with a slight smirk as she pushed through another set.

“Thirty-five… thirty-six…” Ross counted, shaking his head in disbelief.

When she finally stopped, Natasha rose gracefully and brushed herself off as if the entire thing had been a warm-up. "Good effort, boys," she said with a smirk, extending her hand to help Brandon.

"You didn’t even break a sweat!" Quincy protested, sprawled on the floor.

"Maybe next time," Natasha quipped, her tone light but undeniably victorious.

Brandon groaned dramatically, glancing at Willow, who was giggling. "Willow, Daddy did his best," he muttered, defeated.

“She’s my new favorite,” Ross declared, earning laughter from everyone in the room.

You walked over to Natasha, shaking your head with an affectionate smile. “Show-off,” you teased.

She leaned in close enough that only you could hear. “You love it.”

She wasn’t wrong.

**********

Later that night, everyone is tucked into their rooms as you help your mom with the dishes. Natasha had taken an early shower to decompress from such a busy day. She wasn't used to big family affairs like this and needed a moment alone. This gave you time to talk with your mom.

As she washed the dishes, you dried them.

"So, what do you think?" You asked as you placed another place in the cabinet. "Do you like her?"

"She's lovely," Vivian nodded. "You seem happy."

"I am," You confirmed.

"Good," Vivian continued washing the dishes.

"She seems to be fitting in well," You said.

"She is," Vivian said. "She's a sweet girl."

"She is," You agreed.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

"Whoa, Mom," You sputtered. She gave you a knowing look, and you sighed. "Why are you asking?"

"I'm your mother," Vivian said. "It's a valid question. Is she a good partner?"

"Yes, she is," You said.

"She doesn't treat you right; I will come and cut her," Vivian threatened.

"She does treat me right," You insisted.

"Then there shouldn't be a problem with my question," Vivian said.

"She does," You repeated.

"Well, I'm glad," Vivian said.

You nodded, continuing the routine of putting the dishes away.

"So, what's next for you two?"

"Next?" You asked, unsure of what she meant.

"Where do you see the relationship going?" Vivian asked.

"Um," You hadn't thought about it much. "I don't know. We're taking it slow. Just enjoying each other's company."

"But do you think it will be a long-term relationship?" Vivian asked.

"I hope so," You said. "I like her and hope the feeling is mutual."

"Well, if you like her and she likes you, I'm sure it will work out," Vivian said. There was a moment of silence. "I see the way she looks at you. The same way your daddy looked at me."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Vivian smiled. "He always had that twinkle in his eye when he talked about me."

You smiled, finishing the last of the dishes.

"I'm happy for you, baby," Vivian said. "You deserve someone who makes you feel special. Someone who puts a smile on your face."

"I'm glad you approve," You nodded. "She's a good person. I know people have their reservations about her past and..."

"People have their reasons for being judgmental," Vivian said. "You know as well as I do that a lot of the time, people are just scared and misguided."

"Yeah," You nodded.

"Besides, your daddy taught me something important."

"What's that?"

"It doesn't matter where a person came from, just who they are," Vivian answered.

"He taught me the same," You replied.

"I know," Vivian kissed your forehead.

You hugged her, feeling a wave of emotions wash over you.

"Mom," You began.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I miss him," You said.

"So do I," Vivian pulled away. "But, we have to carry on without him."

"You know, Peyton told me how things are going at the laundromat," You began. "If my tuition is too much."

"Baby, you're not giving up school because of me," Vivian said. "The laundromat is fine. We just had a bad few months, is all."

"I'm sure we can figure out a way to increase revenue," You suggested.

"Maybe, but not now," Vivian said. "It'll work itself out. I have a little savings if it comes down to it."

"Well, maybe I can talk to the admissions office," You said. "See about a payment plan or loans."

"We'll figure it out," Vivian reassured. "Don't you worry about it?"

"I'm not worried," You insisted.

"You're a horrible liar," Vivian chuckled. "Now, go check on your girlfriend. It's getting late."

You smiled. "Thanks, mom."

"Anytime," Vivian winked.

******

When you returned to your room, Natasha was out of the shower and curled under the covers. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep and even, suggesting she was already asleep.

You smiled, careful not to wake her, as you changed into a pair of pajamas and brushed your teeth. As you crawled into bed beside her, she stirred slightly, cracking one eye open.

"Sorry," you whispered, draping an arm across her waist. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?" She asked.

"Yeah, it's fine," you reassured, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Okay," She closed her eyes.

You pressed a kiss to her jaw, snuggling closer. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," She replied. "Thanks for bringing me here."

"Of course," You whispered.

You lay in the darkness for a while, listening to her breathing and enjoying the warmth of her body. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, and you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of her arms.

[sehtoast]

Tender Threads ( Homelander x OC )

chapter one: first impressions

chapter directory

summary: holding the heart of a self-proclaimed god is hard work, but someone's gotta do it. who'd have ever thought it would be some nobody, a simple street level hero-branded-vigilante, who would ascend to one of the seven coveted thrones and do just that?

tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

It’s a night like any other in the concrete jungle of New York City.  A streak of red swings through the streets by lines of webbing, eyes peeled for anyone disrupting the peace in his friendly neighborhood.  Well, not his neighborhood exactly.  He was just a vigilante after all.  There’s plenty of fun to pick from, but only one instance could be so special to the city’s one and only Spider-Man– to Benjamin.

It’s not the quippy banter with the thugs breaking into the back of a bodega, nor is it the amusement he gets from webbing each of the fools in one big pile on the ground that makes this night memorable.  It’s the interruption, the anomaly that appears all too silently from the sky.

“And just what do we have here, hm?” 

The bug turns in surprise, steeling himself against the rush of anxiety that shoots through his veins.  This is no ordinary supe here to gripe about him stealing their thunder.  This is a man– a god, perhaps– in a whole ‘nother league. 

Ben would recognize him by voice alone because it was impossible not to hear it at least once a day.  Hell, hide the costume and he’d probably still recognize that face– because it’s everywhere. Billboards, magazines, fucking cereal boxes– you name it, he’s probably there.

Before him stands The Homelander, captain of The Seven, pretty much the face of Vought International.  World’s most powerful supe.

“Oh, y’know.”  He gestures.  “Riffraff doing what they do, and me doing what I do.”

“Nicely done,” Homelander says, professional smile etched into his face like he’d rehearsed this.  “You know, good work like this is why we’ve been nipping at your heels, kiddo.  Really wish you’d stop making us chase you around.”

And there it is.  This was no chance meeting– as if one of the big boys from The Seven would ever be caught dead in an alley in Harlem of all places.  Spidey cocks a brow behind his mask.  Vought must be desperate.

See, he’s been particularly unlucky lately.  

Even before he donned the mantle of Spider-Man, it was never about being in the big leagues.  Benjamin mused upon the idea of it, but he could never find himself truly taken with the idea of selling himself as a hero.  Not only was the mere idea of commercializing his ability to do a unique good revolting, it would strip away one of the only true freedoms he has.  Of course, Vought knew nothing of his reasons– not that they’d care either way– and were ardently pursuing him to fill the now vacant seat formerly belonging to Translucent.

And now, as his luck would have it, they’ve sent their biggest dog to fetch their desired toy.

Benjamin’s sixth sense tells him nothing in the moment.  No hidden danger, no tickling of warnings to bolt.  A goose chase spanning two months finally coming to a titanic head as The fucking Homelander himself holds him not-quite-hostage in an alleyway. 

“You’re still their top pick, you know,” Homelander says, nodding over to the webbed pile of crooks.  “You play by their rules without even being on the team.  A little… sloppy, but effective.  Tell me, how is it you’re going to turn down a spot in the biggest of the big leagues, hm?  You’ve pretty much skipped the line.”  Homelander scuffs the sole of his boot against the ground, kicking a pebble to the side as he meanders closer.  “What, is vigilantism more fun?  You like having all those warrants?  Vought could clear ‘em up.  Get you set straight in the eyes of the law, make you official.  Pay you for your late night troubles…”

Ben bristles as he comes closer.  It’s not the proximity necessarily, it’s… 

It’s like he’s looking straight through the mask.  

Benjamin releases a tight breath.  “My answer isn’t changing.” He says firmly, despite the anxiety cooking in his chest.  He is not a confident man by any stretch.  The most bravado he’ll ever know in his life comes from being Spidey.  Nobody can see him– nobody knows who he is when he’s got the mask on. He can be whoever he wants.  But right now he feels see through.  

Pick your words carefully,  he thinks to himself.

“I’m not a show pony for Vought to extort.”

Don’t cave– do not give him that satisfaction.  It’s what he wants.

He wouldn’t work for Vought.  He’s chosen years of barely scraping by rather than taking a tech job with them as a regular person, why the fuck would he do it as a supe?  What, he’s just supposed to ignore the endless skeletons in their closet?  The pain and suffering, all the people he’s seen online talking about how Vought threw money at them to not sue after some accident or another only to up and disappear?  

Ben idolized heroes for so long.  His powers didn’t manifest until his late teens and he grew up wanting to be just like the superheroes that made the world a better place– until he realized that those types were so few and far between that they might as well not even exist.  All of his childhood heroes were NDAs and settlements, pain and suffering, all covered with media stunts and weak, lazy apologies.  Posters were torn down, action figures tossed in the trash– he moved on and eventually became the hero he wished his idols would've been.

“Show pony? Pfffft,” Homelander laughs, blowing a raspberry.  “Please.  Look at yourself.  Skin tight red and blue suit, leaving messes of webs everywhere you go.  Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you’re already there.”

“They parade you guys around like trophies,” Ben counters, trying to keep the edge off his tone.  “I’m not in this to make money for some rich-fuck shareholders, y’know.”

“And?  See, you told every single agent before me that you were in ‘this’ to make a difference.”

Fuck.

“You know how much fucking range you’d have in The Seven?”  Homelander splays his arms wide as if to show the scale of the world.  Agitation is starting to write itself on his face, leaking free in the twitches of his eye and those rapid blinks.  He clearly didn’t expect to have to work for this.  “You could help anyone anywhere, all you have to do is say yes.”

The worst part?  That’s not technically a lie.  And it’s not not tempting. 

“I’m sure you’ll see reason,”  Homelander smirks, sauntering just the slightest bit closer.  “Benjamin.”

The bug’s heart drops to his gut, eyes going wide and glancing in the direction of the pile of webbed crooks in the hopes they neither heard nor will a last name be following. 

Fuck, fuck– 

They have his name. 

“Don’t–”

“Don’t what?”  Homelander asks innocently, lips curling even sharper.  “You really thought we wouldn’t know who you are?  Pff– hah!  Please.”

Closer and closer, every step feeling like a lifetime.

“I can see through that mask, you know.  Can see how scared you are.” Homelander tuts as he comes within arms reach.  “I can hear the pitter patter of your little heart…”

Ben gulps, breaths coming heavy.

“And…”  Homelander leans forward, voice a whisper. “I’m sure you understand, Mister Colyer, that I could kill you right now…”  A hand falls to rest on Ben’s shoulder, gripping tight.  “I really don’t like being told no.”

Ben’s voice shakes and his knees quake, totally ready to dart as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“I'm… not– I'm not doing it.”

His sixth sense doesn’t stir.

Homelander’s bluffing.  But, really… So is he.

It’s like the world froze.  Time stands still as they stare at one another.  Benjamin can see the anger dancing in Homelander’s eyes, but nothing comes of it.

Not even when the bug backs away and that leather clad hands falls free from his shoulder.

“Look, uh… this was nice, y’know?”

Smooth, Ben.  Smooth.

“But uh, just call me Randy Jackson, because it’s uhm... it's gonna be a no from me, dawg.”�� Terrible time for humor, but something had to break the tension.  “Goodbye, Homelander.” 

And with that, Ben bolts, vaulting up and off the side of a building to propel himself into the night.  

Homelander remains in the alley, still stunned, a piercing ring deafening the world around him.  He lingers, thoughts racing.

Turned down by the bug, huh champ?

Of course, of fucking course there would be some commentary.

“Hey big guy, you gonna let us go?”  

And of course there’s some filth bold enough to interrupt him.

Homelander turns, eye twitching as he scans the pile of mud practically cocooned in webbing.  They expect him to release them.  After all, Spider-Man is a vigilante.  None of his catches are technically official, though there’s usually enough evidence for that fact to be ignored.

“C’mon, you know we ain’t done no harm!  Me and the boys were just walkin’ by is all.”  

The man in question chuckles nervously at him.

Homelander saunters closer, hands behind his back.  He stands over the man, inspecting every little detail.  The growing fear in his eyes, the way he sweats.

Putrid. Echoes the voice in his mind.  Remind them of who they’re talking to. Of the god they disrespect.

He lifts his foot, placing it dead center on the man’s chest.

“No– please, I didn’t–”

He presses down slowly, grin etching onto his face as pleas turn to tight gasps.  The others in the webbing try to scramble, but they can’t escape.

They’re at his mercy.  As they should be.

A crunching sound precedes his favorite part.  Ribs and muscle give way and a loud squelch graces his ears and the ringing– oh the ringing stops. It's serene, knowing what power he holds.  What iron fist he truly has wrapped around the neck of this world.

Attaboy.

To think they’d think him so low as to aid them.  To think they’d get to live after seeing him rejected so brazenly.

Now for the rest.

As he takes care of the others, he wonders just how persuasive he'll need to be with the little spider.  What threads must he pull to get his way?

[lookingfts]

Deleted scene!

I had to cut this scene for Florescent because I just didn't have a place to put it, but please enjoy.

*sexy and murdery snippet below*

Sometimes, Kate felt as though she and Anthony were the one two people in the world. Especially in moments like this, as the sun was setting and their hands were linked together and they talked freely, as two people who were normal and courting and in love might. As if she were still some ordinary girl in the village who had caught Anthony’s eye, and she was letting him sweep her off her feet.

He was good at that – sweeping her off her feet. Often he would make her tea, or read to her, or wake her up with kisses scattered across her face, and Kate would find herself falling in love again, harder and deeper. She kept searching for the bottom of it, but it was not there. An ocean without a floor on which to settle.

The sky was purple and the air was cold, and she tried to recall all the little details of such a moment. The bite of cool air on her skin, the first twinkle of stars above the trees, the gentle stroke of Anthony’s fingers against her own.

Kate thought she had been missing so many things in her life. When was the last time she had enjoyed the sunset, without fretting over whether they would have enough food for the next morning’s breakfast? When was the last time she had noticed the stars without tears in her eyes because everything she did seemed doomed to failure?

He was not the only one who had been dead and come to life, she thought. There was more than one way to die.

Were she not so lost in her musings, she may have noticed the man before his shot narrowly missed Anthony and embedded itself into the tree beside them.

“Get behind me!” Anthony yelled, yanking her by her arm as they took shelter by a tree. They always tried to stay within the boundaries of the castle’s enchantment, but they had wandered too close to the edge. The man was a hunter, by the looks of him, out too late in the woods, lost or simply stupid. He was trembling, fear in his eyes as he prepared to take another shot.

“We will not hurt you!” Kate yelled, ignoring Anthony’s protests. “He is not what he appears. He has been cursed, but he is just a man. A good man.”

“Do not take me for a fool!” the hunter shouted back. “He is a monster, and only a witch would attach herself to such a beast. I should kill you both and return a hero.”

“Leave now and no one needs to be harmed. I swear to you, we are no danger to you.”

Another shot rang out, and Anthony hissed in pain. He clutched his arm where the bullet had grazed, slumping against the tree as blood colored his white shirt. They were too exposed, and the man would not be reasoned with.

Ultimately, it was not a choice, or a burden. Simply a necessity.

As he reloaded, Kate stepped out from her hiding place. “Kathani, do not!” Anthony shouted, but she did not spare him a glance.

Spurred on by Anthony’s pain, she let the darkness flow through her and infect the forest. The man scrambled to aim at her, a bullet through the heart of the witch, but Kate felt no fear.

Euphoria filled her veins as a final shot rang out toward the sky. The hunter was frozen, his eyes rolling back, blood dripping from his clothes onto the cold ground as he took his last weak breaths.

It was a hideous sight, dozens of sharp branches piercing the hunter’s body, stained red. “It is safe,” Kate said calmly when all was quiet. “He is dead.”

Anthony stumbled out between the trees, his eyes wide. “Kathani,” he breathed, rushing toward her, his eyes scanning her form as though she might be the one injured. His hands hovered over her, and her heart swelled at the worry in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I am alright,” Kate assured him, stepping forward into his arms and resting her hand on his jaw. Fear and love and power were mingling in her blood, putting her in a state of intoxication, but her soul felt serene. “Your wound-.”

“I will be fine, my love. I am fine, thanks to you.” Tugging her into his embrace, Anthony clung to her tightly, the same overwhelming emotions coursing through his veins. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do that for me.”

She waited for the guilt and panic to rise, but they did not. Kate felt only relief and need, everything else fading away but his presence, solid and sure. “I am not sorry. I tried to reason with him, but he would not listen.” Pulling back, she kissed him fervently, their breaths mingling in the cool air. “I will always protect you, Anthony. I will kill anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

He stared at her, pupils blown, desperation thickening between them. With a firm hand on her neck, Anthony yanked her toward him, kissing her so deeply that her knees weakened. 

Kate gasped as her back hit a large tree, the bark scraping at her cloak. They were insatiable, mouths meeting as though they could only find salvation in each other. Anthony needed to say nothing; she could feel his gratitude and passion, his love, in every bite and moan. He was alive at her hand, and the rush would not settle until they found their release together.

Undoing her cloak, she let it fall carelessly to the ground and rucked up her dress to her thighs. Anthony released his falls and thrust into her without overture, forcing her to stretch around his length. They fucked like animals, brutally and with abandon, her screams echoing through the trees as he took her. 

She wanted to stay like this forever. Consumed by him, filled with his cock, the sting of his teeth on her neck and crying out her pleasure. For the world to know that she was completely and utterly his.

Warmth flooded her cunt, a feral noise leaving Anthony’s throat as he spent inside her. The sensation of being claimed tipped her over the edge, a painfully intense climax tearing through her.

He did not leave her body, and she tightened to keep him there, even as they both shuddered at the sensitivity. “I love you,” he said, tears in his eyes as he caressed her cheek. “There are no words for it.” 

“I know,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his. “We do not need them.”

[highlordofkrypton]

batman equalizer au // the knight from nowhere - chapter 1 & 2

Read on AO3.

SUMMARY: Bruce Wayne is dead. In the wake of his death, he leaves a trail of bodies and the ruins of a city. He can’t do this anymore; he can’t be a man who uses justice as an excuse for violence, so he leaves it all behind. Now, a nobody in a nowhere town, he starts to like his mundane life—no heroism, no villains and no pain—until one day, injustice finds him. Heroes aren’t real, but sometimes, all people need is a knight.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's basically just the Equalizer but with Bruce Wayne with fun cameos!

Chapter 1 & 2

Every day, eight o’clock on the dot, the employees of Home Depot file into the massive warehouse on North Avenue, right on the big intersection near the highway. Not quite in the middle of the city, it has the perfect balance of busy and calm all at once. Just enough clients to make the day go by, but not enough for them to overwhelm the staff. 

You’ve got Erica at the front cash. She’s been here for years, so much that she runs the customer service section better than any of the managers. Her hairstyle’s old, perpetually stuck in the eighties and teased into the stratosphere, but her heart’s as big as the ‘do. For every person that squeezes into the not-quite open doors, she flashes a gum-clenched smile—always classic bubble gum flavour.

Geronimo and Juan always come in at exactly the same time. They’re cousins and live on the same street. They’ve also both got the same snoozing habits, which make it a real wonder whenever they come in early on a day like today.

“Hey, Mister Kane! Bright and early as always?”

“Yeah, he’s old. He ain’t got nothing better to do.”

The two teens stop in front of the older man. Mister Kane came out of nowhere one day, applying for a job just like anyone else. The city’s big enough for them to not recognize him, and though he keeps to himself, everyone thinks of him as part of the family. They’re comfortable enough to tease him, at the very least.

With an elegance unbefitting of such an unassuming man, he uncrosses his leg and sets the newspaper down. He cocks a slender dark brow in their direction, questioning. On his lips, an amused smile greets them.

“How old do you both think I am?”

“Old enough to ride dinosaurs!”

“Old enough to live before the internet.”

“That’s not even that old, tonto.”

Mister Kane laughs, a low smooth sound, and folds his arms across his bright orange apron. “C’mon, you two. You’re on time for once, don’t wanna be late punching in ‘cause you were fooling around.” He shoos them along.

The bell rings for the start of the shift, and the boys sprint across the backroom to get their aprons. Mister Kane hops to his feet and heads right over to the building materials section of the warehouse. There are a few wood orders from yesterday he didn’t get a chance to finish, and he likes the calm that comes with working with power tools. He can’t hear anyone over the sound, and there’s a nifty boundary that keeps clients away from him while he’s handling machinery.

Sneakers squeak from across the aisle, and it can only be one person (because the two late bloomers are already in).

For the life of him, Barry cannot show up to work on time, but he’s a good kid, and his family situation’s tough, so management gives him a pass. It helps that no one complains; everyone goes out of their way to give Barry a hand.

“Morning, Mister Kane—I mean, uh, Bruce,” the young blonde flusters in the face of his friend. “Good morning, hi, hey.” His windbreaker hangs over his shoulder, along with his lunchbox which are hooked by two fingers. “I,” he breathes heavily from the running. “Overslept. Was studying.”

And to think, Bruce was just going to ask about his night.

“Sounds rough,” he muses politely. “Hurry up, you just missed the bell. Time’s a tickin’.”

“Ope, right on, Mis—Bruce! I mean, Bruce, not miss Bruce.”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder, reassuring that there’s been no harm and no foul. He told the kid not to call him Mister Kane. The teens, sure, but he’s not that old. At least, not on paper. The aches in his body, the old injuries that didn’t heal right and his horrible blue plaid short-sleeved button up and pleated khakis say otherwise. Funny, how style choices can really age a person. Actually, it has to be orthopedic shoes. (What? They’re comfortable.)

“Go on, Bar,” he reminds, steering his friend in the right direction—towards the break room.

Barry waves, and Bruce can just hear the sounds of the young man mumbling to himself. “Right on? What was that, Bar? Who are you?”

The people here are good and the life he has built for himself is good. Bruce is kind and polite, speaking when spoken to and helping whenever he can. He’s a man who’s been given a second chance, and he’s making the best of it, however he can.

He puts on his safety glasses and a pair of gloves, then gets to work on trimming the various pieces of wood. Some are long and flat boards, while others are basic two by fours. Around his third order, Barry comes back around wearing his apron. His glasses and his gloves stick out of his pocket.

“When’s your exam?”

“Three weeks. I’m alright on most of the core competencies, like collaborator, communicator and leader, but I’m stuck on the medical expert section. The, um,” Barry clears his throat uncomfortable.

Bruce tips his head, lifting a brow curiously. “Which part?” His tone is gentle, encouraging. This place is a safe space, there’s nobody around to judge. “If you’re going to be a forensic scientist, you might as well get comfortable with the job.”

“It’s the medical examiner portion. I’m alright with the science, but it’s more the cause of deaths and offering a hypothesis? I just can’t really imagine… murder.” Barry’s voice drops low. Well, he can, but there’s a knot in his chest, and a wall that keeps him from staying objective. He looks away, throat bobbing with an uncomfortable swallow. “I just want to help people, you know. I want to make sure I’m getting it right, but the thought that a person—,” he pauses.

“You have to think of the people you’re helping. It’s difficult to face death, and there isn’t a way to undo it, but the next best thing is what you can do for the living.” He offers a reassuring squeeze and loads in the next piece of plywood for trimming. 

The sound of the saw offers both of them a moment of reprieve to think about death. Bruce runs the vacuum that seems to echo across the entire store, and shuts it off, handing the piece for Barry to transfer into the ‘pick-ups’ rack.

“I think you just need to find the line between using your imagination to connect the evidence, and letting it go too far where you put yourself in a victim’s shoes. Once you get into the habit, it’ll be muscle memory.” But for Barry to learn, he needs experience. “Do you have any combat training? Or have you ever fired a gun? It might help you get insight on the way the body moves, and how projectiles work.”

“Oh, no, Bruce. I-I couldn’t.” Barry holds his hands up in surrender. The thought of a gun feels like a violation against everything he is as a person. He is politeness incarnate, and he can count on his hand the amount of time he’s ever been in a confrontation. (Twice, and both times his—adoptive—big brother Carter got involved, which meant that his adoptive father Jay would also come to the rescue. Of the person who caused Barry trouble, of course. Carter is known for his… excessive force.)

“It’s not as bad as you think. You busy this weekend? I’ll take you to the range. And look up some martial arts classes. It’ll help.” If it doesn’t help with understanding physical struggles, then at the very least, it’ll help Barry find an outlet for his stress. “You don’t have to shoot if you’re not comfortable. You can just watch and jump in whenever you like.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh.”

Barry seems to think about it for a long while, but he doesn’t inquire further about it. Instead, he bounces on the balls of his feet, eager to help and making sure that he does all the heavy lifting, not Bruce. He seems to buy into the thought that Bruce is older, even if his hair has barely started graying at the temples.

It has to be the orthopedic shoes. No one over seventy wears orthopedic shoes.

Before long, the two of them are easing back to their routine with Barry chatting away about his day and asking Bruce if he’s up to anything new. Bruce never is; his routine is simple, contained and quiet—just the way he likes it. They have lunch together. Barry’s adoptive mother, Joan, always packs a sweet note on Mondays wishing her son a good day. (For the rest of the week, the kid’s on his own.) Bruce’s lunches are always simple, but the ingredients are treated with great care. Today, he has sautéed green beans in garlic butter, and a simple roasted chicken breast. In the afternoons, he’ll also have an Ensure and Barry always checks to see the flavour of the day. Strawberry, ooh, nice, he’ll say even if there are only three choices.

The people here are good and the life he has built himself is good, yet at the end of the day, once warm farewells are exchanged along with pleasant smiles, his expression slips into nothingness. As soon as he is alone, he becomes no one and he is empty.

… or that’s how he thinks he should feel. 

It was like that at first; this life felt painful and underserved, but it’s grown on him. He has friends and even if it’s built on a lie, he’s found a peace he’s never known before.

Maybe—

Maybe he can finally start to forgive himself.

***

Oasis Apartments are exactly nine minutes away from North Avenue, except during rush hour where the light have an added two minutes to them. It’s situated right by the highway and drinks up all the sounds of rumbling vehicles through the building’s too-thin walls. Bruce can tell when an eighteen wheeler drives by from the faint rattle of the windows. 

The only thing even faintly resembling an oasis is the dirty pool in the centre courtyard with its peeling palm-tree lining. He can even make out tiki torches trapped somewhere in the overgrown greens.

He didn’t pick the Oasis for its amenities or its comforts. In a place like this, no one asks questions. Either they’re too shitfaced to care, or too worried about how to make ends meet before the next rent is due. He doesn’t even care that it’s close to the Depot; he’d applied for the job after signing the lease and paying (in cash).

Bruce walks the steps up to the third floor where his apartment is. There’s an elevator in the building, but he’s pretty sure it hasn’t worked for over a decade. Swinging his lunchbox in hand, he thinks about Barry’s plight and how to help and he pays no mind to the sounds of living filtering in through the various apartment doors. 

His thoughts come to a halt as his gaze travels towards a boy sitting at the top of the steps of the third floor. His gray eyes drink in the child’s appearance—his ever ratty clothes, never combed hair and worn shoes—before setting on the open textbook on his lap.

“Cheezus Christ, Mister Bruce! Took you look enough,” the kid grins, flashing his missing tooth—his right lateral incisor.

“Language,” Bruce clips, too tired to put on a smile. Not that his unsociable personality would stop Jason from coming over. He’d explicitly started showing up in Bruce’s life regardless of how welcoming he was.

“What? It’s not like I said ‘fuck’.”

Bruce stops in his tracks and levels the kid with a deadpan stare.

“What?”

Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. The saying has never quite rung true for Bruce until this very moment. He prays to the gods above for the strength to do good in this child’s life, instead of pointing out the obvious: Jason swore to prove his point, thus defeating the purpose. The kid would argue, and they’d go round and around until someone relents. It was by the fourth encounter that Bruce realized Jason was doing it on purpose—trying to pick some kind of mundane argument so that he could stay, if only to finish up the conversation.

Bruce has also long learned not to ask for the boy’s mother anymore. A curious gaze slides towards her apartment, the one right next to his, and her voice comes through: loud, flirty and most importantly, slurred. He sighs softly.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, looking down at his math book. He doesn’t need to know what Bruce is looking at.

“What about the other one?” Bruce swiftly changes the subject, nodding his head at the apartment across from theirs.

This time, Jason wiggles his bum to turn and look at their neighbour’s place. You know, to make sure that they’re on the same page. His mood lightens up considerably, happy to have an answer for Bruce.

“Oh, Mister Kent got a big break at work. He’ll be out late. I think he’s nervous ‘cause he baked us pie.” Jason jabs his thumb towards Bruce’s door where a foil-wrapped pie awaits him. “Mom already took hers.” And she’s probably having it with whatever client she has with her. 

Bruce sighs, again. “Did you eat?” He asks, as he climbs the last handful of steps and picks up the pie. 

His keys jangle before they slide into the lock, and the door opens to reveal the most unimpressive apartment in the city. It’s clean, but it’s also empty. Only the bare minimum of furniture are present, and the only reason he even has a second set of cutlery is because of Jason, so they can eat together.

“Well, if you were any slower, I would’a eaten your pie. Count yourself lucky.” Jason trails after him, textbook tucked against his chest and his schoolbag perilously hanging over his shoulder. The zipper’s still open, and its contents threaten to spill across Bruce’s floor. Maybe that’s intentional, too; he can never know with this kid, and in a way, he finds that pleasantly amusing.

“I am truly blessed,” he replies, flatly.

Jason knows the routine by now. He takes off his shoes and sets them by the door. The first time, his socks had holes in them, and he had fought and rebelled against the idea of revealing his poverty to Bruce, even if it was already obvious. This apartment is free of judgement, and it’s a truth that Jason clings to. He’s also prouder now because Bruce got him a whole six-pack of white socks that he washes carefully in the bathroom sink. 

If he has a jacket, he’ll stand on his tiptoes to hang it on the coat rack, but he’s only got a light sweater today. He pads over to the kitchen, slings his backpack on the spine of his chair and places his math book on the table. There’s enough place for exactly two people to eat comfortably, and maybe three if Bruce ever invites Mister Kent inside. Maybe then, the googly eyes will stop.

“What do you want?”

Bruce wraps a plain white apron around his waist, and opens the fridge to show Jason his choice of ingredients.

“Grilled cheese!”

“I can make you other things, you know. Things with vegetables.”

Jason sits up a little straighter and cranes his neck to get a better look inside Bruce’s sparse fridge. There’s food, but it’s always the bare minimum for the week. Maybe a little more these days because Jason practically lives here.

“And tomato soup!”

“But—”

“Grilled cheese!”

“I—”

“Tomato soup!”

Well, not much point in arguing anymore. 

They both get quiet, focused on their tasks. Bruce gets the soup going, and despite its simplicity, the ingredients are treated with care to achieve perfect richness. It also helps that his palate has not changed in this new life, and his groceries are of the highest quality. He takes great care in disposing of the labels, and making it look like he’d picked them up just down the corner. He takes great care in arranging everything in his home to perfection.

The grilled cheese is the last, made with sourdough and three kinds of cheeses. While he prefers to cook the bare minimum for himself, Jason deserves… more. Bruce slices chives to sprinkle across the perfect crust, adding colour to the golden brown, and swirls a whip of cream across the top of the soup. He cleans the plates and the bowls, ensuring the best possible presentation.

He would be proud—

Bruce shoves that thought out of his mind, but it’s too late. The pain and the grief begins to set in. He has to stop for a moment, staring past the two plates of food, until he can settle his heart and return to baseline.

I am no one,

I come from nowhere,

I feel nothing .

He repeats his mantra as many times as required. When he gets a hold of himself, Bruce breathes in, and carries the food over to his guest.

Jason closes his book, and hops off his chair to wash his hands. He also grabs the cutlery, and brings it over. The two of them? They make a great team.

The food—it’s the best thing Jason has ever tasted. After his first bite, he hums, swinging his feet and wiggling his body to an invisible beat. Good food makes his entire being sing. He smiles to himself and takes a bite of the sandwich. It’s also fucking amazing. Naturally. Everything this weird old man does is kind of… awesome? Not that he’d say it.

“This slaps! How do you make food so good?” He asks with a half-chewed bite in his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Jason swallows, and takes a big gulp of water. “When my mom makes it, it’s good, but this feels like something you’d get on your birthday at a fancy restaurant.” Don’t get him wrong, he loves his mom’s food, but this feels special and they’re just having dinner at home on a monday.

“You wanna learn?”

“Um, f—friiiiiiick, yeah!”

“Alright, but you’ve got to help me with a project in return. Think you can swing by on the weekend? Not this one, but the one after? I’m trying to help a friend.”

“Depends,” Jason muses, tapping the spoon on his chin and taking a bite of the sandwich. He keeps talking with his mouth full. “What’s the project?”

“You’ll see.” Bruce smiles. “How good is your acting?”

“So good, it’ll make Timothy Chalamet eat his shorts.”

“I don’t know who that is, but sure.”

“You don’t know him!” Jason nearly gets up on his seat, throwing his hands up in the air. “He’s the guy! With the movie! Where he does the thing!”

“Alright, alright, if you settle down and finish your food, I’ll see if we can find one of his movies.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Language.”

“Oops,” but Jason doesn’t seem too sorry about it.

“How was your test?”

Jason gives him a thumbs up, mid-bite. “Aced it!”

“Good boy,” Bruce hums. 

He doesn’t need to ask the boy to finish his homework, either. Jason insists on it before doing anything else, which gives Bruce the time to clean up and decompress from work. He patiently prepares his lunch for tomorrow, and tells Jason to bring the leftovers of soup and grilled cheeses back home to his mother. (Or for himself to keep for later.)

About halfway through Dune, Jason falls asleep on the couch, leaning against Bruce. He takes it as a sign that the child feels safe with him; Jason sleeps heavily enough that the sounds of the television or the neighbours through the thin walls never get to him.

Bruce is happy to finish the movie. He’d read the book back in high school, but never got around to watching the film. Time was precious, and he’d spent so much of it trying to be productive. He was one man trying to save the whole world. By doing so, he’d missed the most important parts of it. The people and the experiences who made up his whole world were right there, yet he’d favoured a crusade against an invisible enemy.

No amount of bodies had cured his grief; it’s why he’s trying something new, this time.

Three knocks rap against his door. Bruce is careful when he gets up, replacing his support with a pillow, to answer the door. Jason’s mother, Catherine, glares up at him. Her gaze turns to her son on the couch, and though there is no evidence of foul play, she chooses anger as a defence mechanism.

“This again? What the fuck are you doing with my son?”

Bruce is an even calm in the middle of Catherine’s anger. Her eyes are bloodshot and she’s lost even more weight. Jason had asked him once if he would marry his mother so that she could stop selling herself to the local criminals, even a guy like Bruce would do. He thought about it, but decided against it. People make choices, and they have to live with those choices. The best Bruce can do is give Jason a place to stay so he can have a little peace.

“Jason,” he calls, his voice a low rumble. “Get your things.”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. The kid sits up, rubbing his eyes and drags his feet towards the kitchen. He packs his bag and makes sure to slip the food into it. His mother won’t want to take charity from Bruce. For some reason or other, she hates him. Clark, too. Maybe it’s because they’re nice to him, and they remind her of her failures. Who knows.

“I swear to god, if you do anything to my son, I’ll fucking kill you.” She hisses at Bruce. “I told you not to come here,” Catherine grabs her son’s arm and pulls him away. “There’s something off with that man.”

“Yeah, he’s weird, but he’s nice,” Jason argues back.

[antihibikase2]

Pokemon Blur - Prologue : The Fool

In the lively city of Aspertia, there was a boy that dreamt of being a hero.

Divine dragons of Truth and Ideals, heed the prayers of a foolish heart.

Before we embark on this dangerous quest, shower us with your grace so that we may have a safe journey.

...

The coming of spring is where many dreams would blossom alongside the flowers- following a harsh winter, the people of Flocessy wasted no time in tending to their lands and ranches, eager to see what the rest of the year will bring.

"February was colder than other years," Muses the town mayor. "I hear it was as cold as Sinnoh on a hot day."

From behind her teacup, a blonde laughs.

"Yes! That's what I've been telling Professor Juniper! We're experiencing temperatures never before seen in Unova- I wonder why that is?"

"It's easy to chalk it up to the times, little lass-"

He leans over to refill her teacup.

"-but the youth of today isn't gonna take that for an answer."

"And why would we? If something's up, we ought to be the ones to figure out why; not when you old folks are sitting about."

The blonde's companion, a girl with a massive ponytail, speaks from the window- she does not join the other two in their warm conversation, content with merely listening and occasionally quipping in every now and then.

"You have a point there,"

The mayor laughs.

"Ah, it's good to see you haven't lost your spark, Hilda. Still as abrasive as ever- it's a shame you've taken a break from the subway, Emmet thinks you're a wildcard."

Hilda rolls her eyes- but her companion smiles even brighter.

"Oh, she's been a delight to have around! I make sure she gets plenty of training done even while she's acting as my bodyguard in the field,"

"Bianca,"

"Sorry, sorry- that's for another time!"

Bianca giggles, setting down her teacup and tapping her fingers against the book on her lap.

"It's really nice to catch up with you, Mr. Alder. It's been, um, two years?"

"Two years."

Though the hue of the leaves remain the same, the winds have changed- his guests remain as they have, but the light in their eyes are different.

And speaking of guests.

"Where's your other friend? He was here a few minutes ago, wasn't he?"

"He went out for some fresh air," Hilda replies. "He's taking his Pokemon for a walk."

"The ranch outside of town is lovely- he told me he spent a good quarter of last year's spring season over there."

Alder's mouth makes an "o" shape as he recalls.

"He did, he did- how has he been, by the way?"

For all that she's chatted about today, Bianca finds herself unsure of what to say.

Finally, she picks a word.

"Different-"

And as predicted, Hilda immediately adds "-but better than before."

That's all Alder could ask for- and it was far better news than what he was expecting.

"Okay, that's good. I admit, I wasn't sure what they were thinking when they told me they wanted him in this position, but-"

He glances at the framed picture on the wall- one of him with a group of four youths, wide-eyed and brimming with potential.

"Perhaps you kids can dream of things us grown-ups can't."

He himself hadn't lost the will to dream- but with the reality before him, he had to set aside certain expectations.

That's what it meant to be the Pokemon Champion after all.

An air of melancholy hovers over them as the conversation takes a more somber route- Bianca looks down at her teacup, smile still present, but stiffer than what it usually was.

And Hilda, looking outside the window, speaks up again.

"Guess we're gonna lose that ability soon in a couple of years, huh, Beebs?"

"Oh, hopefully not, Hilly- not with the research I've been doing."

Alder spots an opportunity to talk about something else- this quiet, tense atmosphere was something he didn't want in his house after all.

"Oh? Working hard with Fennel too?"

"You bet! Say, do you wanna know about the effects of Dream Mist- beyond what we know now?"

As the conversation picks up again, Hilda sighs, back leaned against the wall as she gazes out into the blue sky.

They had a few more hours to kill before they were expected to head to Aspertia- and it wasn't like she hated hearing Bianca's voice anyway.

...

"I'm all set, mom!"

She hears the excited footsteps clamoring downstairs, the clicking of plastic and jingling of bells- a collection of keychains.

She exits from her chores in the bathroom, removing her rubber gloves- and is horrified to see the atrocity standing before her.

"Bye bye! I'll make sure to give you a call!"

"Now, wait just a minute!"

She grabs him by the scruff of his jacket, just as he's about to pass by her- and stares incredulously.

In the home of Marianne Blake, things were in an uproar- the day had finally arrived, when her only son would receive a Pokemon of his own from an esteemed professor.

Or at least, the professor's assistant- she was quite a busy woman, she could not be blamed.

Such should be a cause for celebration- but here she was, arguing with her child before he even stepped foot outside.

"Anak, you can't be serious," Marianne takes a good look at him, head to toe.

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"What- anak,"

She rubs her temples, sighing deeply.

"What even are you wearing? There's a spare backpack for you to use, a much more protective cap- and is that a rash guard you're wearing under your clothes?!"

"I might want to take a dip! You never know!"

"Nathaniel, you better not be leaving the house like that!"

Through the argument, the small boy grinned mischievously at his mother's exasperation, his little cat-smile never leaving his face.

"Crazy, because that's exactly what I'm going to do!"

"Nathaniel!"

"Mamaaaa, who cares what I wear out there? This classifies as acceptable travel gear, you know!"

"Just because it's acceptable- go change into something else before you're late!"

Now came his whine- and his Lillipup eyes.

"You're making me run late here! What will Ms. Alabaster say? That I kept my future partner waiting because I was busy coordinating my outfit?"

She opens her mouth to argue- but groans.

"Ugh, fine, fine. Do whatever you like. I suppose if you think that's fit for travel-"

She looks down at the worn pair of crocs.

"-but at the very least, take these."

Her son tilts his head like a confused dog, wondering what else she has to give besides an additional scolding- but to his surprise, she digs out a box from underneath the staircase.

"I was saving this for your birthday, but since your journey is starting today, you might as well make use of it now."

Opening the box, she reveals a pair of red running shoes, ankle-length- the same ones she knew her son had been eyeing.

"Happy early birthday, Nathaniel- now put these on and go look for Ms. Alabaster."

"Mamaaaaa, thank you!"

He wasted no time settling into his shoes, tapping them against the floor as he felt himself almost standing in the air.

They were a perfect fit.

"Now, remember what I taught you-"

"Yeah, yeah! I get it!"

He opens the screen door with a bang- and promptly terrifies his family's pet Delcatty and her Skitty, awakening them from their slumber.

"Be wise with money, avoid shady characters- and have fun!"

"And come home when you're lost," She reminds him. "If you can't find your way forward-"

"Then I'll retrace my steps back from square one!"

Looking up at the big blue sky, he felt the first page of his journey being written for historians to see.

"Just my style!"

Sprinting out of his house with a loud cheer, Marianne leans against the doorframe with a look of worry- one that quickly melts once she realizes who exactly she is being fussy over.

Still.

From the distance, she hears him yelling.

"Look out, world! Nate's gonna take you by surprise!"

"Dragons,"

She shakes her head.

"Please make sure he doesn't get himself in trouble."

...

The bell of Floccesy Town tolls, it's chimes echoing throughout the area.

The Mareep bleat at the sound, and nearby Riolu peer front underneath the tall grass.

From within a hidden grotto, a figure wrapped in a gray cardigan prays in the shade of the trees-

And a gust of wind overtakes them, as the nests of Pidove and Tranquil resting on the branches soar to the skies.

They cover their face, steadying their ground,

And the ribbon wrapped around their collar unravels, carried by the wind.

[phoenix-d-shunko]

Whispering Inferno, Part 12

Some parts are low quality. Apologies beforehand.

In the dimly lit alleyways of the city, Zeke glared at the fake headquarters of the hero agency. Unbeknownst to his legions, this structure was a clever ruse designed to minimize damage while still satisfying the bloodthirsty desires of those who admired his destructive prowess. Frustrated and fueled by anger, Zeke decided to vent his wrath on the supposed hero sent to neutralize the threat – Galeon.

The night air crackled with tension as Zeke approached the fake hero agency headquarters. Zeke's eyes glowed with fiery intensity as he surveyed the scene, already calculating his moves based on battle intel and shady resources. Grant, a shadowy figure with a penchant for gathering information, whispered strategic insights into Zeke's ear.

"They're here, My Lord. Galeon's squad is formidable, but we have the element of surprise," Grant murmured into the comms, his tone calculated and precise.

"I guess I'll play with them before I make them do what I want... but then it's that arrogant fool," Zeke muttered, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Meanwhile, inside the hero agency's fake headquarters, Galeon, the charismatic leader of the superhero squad, gathered his team. The air was charged with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

"We divide into three. Team 1-Tempisol, Citlalin, and Cor Magia, you're with me. We'll weaken him to the best of our capabilities. Team -2 will step in only if we need backup. Ama, Cruift. Bring Valorian and Nocturna's clones with you. With that, we'll have a good number of hitters and support with healers. That should take care of Cimmerian. We'll hit them in the heart, and that should make those scum retreat," Galeon directed, his confidence radiating through his words.

"You're taking him way too lightly. It's the Cimmerian. There's going to be way more damage. And even if these buildings are fake, they still do have people in them," Amateral interjected, her frustration evident.

"Then form a team 3 and let Stella, Psyren, sound kid, and Lumi help with the boring stuff. It'll make the newbies look good in papers too," Cruift added with a smirk. The "newbies" could do nothing but swallow the humiliation.

"Yeah, that sounds good. Team 1, follow me." Galeon felt confident as he led his team to the dark streets turned into a battlefield. The Cimmerian stood alone, menacingly. Like he needed no one else against them. The fact annoyed Galeon deeply.

"You'll need more people if you want to storm the agency"

Zeke's cold voice cut through the air: "Hmm, I don't see anyone worthy enough of trying to stop me," he mused, irking Galeon even further.

"You'll know it after this hits you!" Galeon boomed. The skies tore apart instantly, clearing the way for a lightning bolt that crackled all around Zeke, engulfing him. Galeon had done exactly what he wanted him to do.

"Now to deal with the biggest threat here," Zeke muttered. With one swift movement, he dove towards Tempisol, charging with Galeon's lightning and impaled him in the stomach.

"Surprised, Galeon? Faraday cage, remember?" Zeke's cold voice cut through the chaos, leaving Galeon in shock. "Can't ever forget that annoying trick of yours," Galeon bit back, attempting to regain his composure.

But even as he put on a brave face, Galeon found himself unable to move. Citlalin caught his hesitation and summoned a crystal binding on the Cimmerian, turning towards Cor Magia, who was trying to heal Tempisol but to no avail.

"I can't... do it.... he's... he's The Cimmerian is so filled with anger.... I can't help but produce venom!!... I'll poison Tempisol if I tried healing him with a potion now!" Cor Magia almost screamed, his emotional vulnerability laid bare.

Citlalin knew Cor Magia was susceptible to emotions, but this was too much even from him. "How angry is this guy," he thought to himself and doubled the thickness of his bounds for good measure.

"At least someone's rightfully scared," Cimmerian taunted. "It's not the only thing I'll do," Citlalin replied, his voice still shaky, and launched a barrage of crystal shards at the Cimmerian.

Galeon finally breaking out of his fear-induced halt, conjuring wind blades and firing them at the Cimmerian from all angles. The Cimmerian, however, blocked every assault with hands bound with an ease that deeply unsettled Citlalin and made Galeon fume with anger.

"This got boring too quick," Cimmerian yawned teasingly. "Let's get to the point, shall we?" And with one quick motion, Citlalin's bounds were shattered into tiny glittering pieces, and in the next second, Galeon was pinned by the shoulder using a huge skewer, and Citlalin pushed to the ground, skewers sticking out everywhere.

"Now, I'm not here for you, Galeon. Bring me Incendra, and your squad can walk away intact," Cimmerian walked menacingly towards a writhing Galeon.

"I don't care what you want me to do. I'm not doing it," Galeon still spoke haughtily, refusing to yield.

"Could you not be stupid for once? I'm giving your squad a chance to walk away free. I'm asking so little of you," Cimmerian retorted, frustration tinging his tone.

Galeon just looked away in protest. Cimmerian took his chance to grab Galeon's comms. "Seriously, Ama, you gave up squad leadership to this?" With that, he took the comms and smashed it into pieces in his fist.

"Galeon...." A small voice cried out, breaking through the chaos. Both the Cimmerian and Galeon whipped their heads to see who it was.

"Do... what he says... he's too angry...." It was Cor Magia, his form huddled in a corner, emotionally shocked.

"What? No! Why should I listen to you? You idiot. You didn't even do anything," Galeon blurted out, offended that a squad member had dared to look down on him.

"... no... Nooooo... you made him angrier...." Galeon whipped his head back to see a snarling Cimmerian.

"He's right... you're scum. Hero? You? What a wicked joke. It's people like you... like you who leave injured civilians behind... like her, like that Incendra. You defeat the very purpose you seem to stand for!" Zeke wanted to knock the daylights out of Galeon, making his gauntlet heavier, wanting to leave a mark. A mark that would remind Galeon that even a villain took him for scum for ages to come. But at the very last moment, he felt his fist being held back. It was a strand of sunshine, melting his gauntlet off, slowly.

Amateral.

[daitranscripts]

Skyhold Conversation

Maryden Halewell

Skyhold Masterpost

Maryden: Inquisitor. A title hard to rhyme. A challenge for another day, I think. Forgive me my distractions, Eminence. I'm overwhelmed by you and what you've done. My name is Maryden. A humble bard.

Dialogue options:

General: How can you help? [2]

General: You’re a bard? [3]

General: Goodbye. [4]

2 - General: How can you help? PC: What do you bring to the Inquisition? Maryden: A simple thing that you know well. The power of a muse to rally hearts and minds. Inquisitor, I want to spread the word of what you've done. A small but vital role. Perhaps I'll also make a coin or two. [back to 1]

3 - General: You’re a bard? PC: Are you a bard, likes those of Orlais? Maryden: Oh, Heavens no! I am a minstrel first. My weapon is a cutting tongue, not blades. I hope my skills will help in some small way, if only I can give your deeds their due. [back to 1]

4 - General: Goodbye. PC: Carry on, then. Maryden: Oh, I will do my best, Inquisitor.

As the PC leaves Maryden: I thank you for your time, Inquisitor.

If spoken to again

Maryden: Your Worship graces me with blessed eyes.

Maryden: The day finds you of well and sturdy health?

Maryden: I hope to serve the cause, Inquisitor?

Maryden: There is an issue that you should address. I think it's worth your time, Inquisitor. Acquired War Table: Stop the Rumors

Upon completion Maryden: Of course you handled this, Inquisitor.

After completing Sutherland’s quest chain Maryden: Inquisitor, these youths of yours delight. A boon both on the field and for your name. And yet, I've tried to capture them in verse. To no avail it seems, but I forge on!

—

Ambient Dialogue

Maryden: From Haven's fire come we the able true, to Skyhold now, a fortress strong and free. We rally with our hero born anew. Inquisitor, there's none as brave as he/she.

Maryden: Our hero strode the winding road, defiant of the vile. Uncertain pause for home and cause, when met the monster's smile. A man his kin through blood and sin, a bastard of the gloom. A rising cut through bone and gut, an awful skyward bloom. I think this one is simply not my style.

After HLtA Maryden: Wardens harm their own, and fall to mortal failings. Where does that leave us?

After WEWH Maryden: I wonder who knows pain astride the Game, it's one who lacks a certain wherewithal. For he knows well a pain with paltry gain, the fool who dares to rhyme Halamshiral.

After WPHW Maryden: Wonder well what did befell our heroes wise and wondrous, the risks they took would earn no brook from villains dark and thunderous. For not undone but fairly won were victories and happenstance. And suffered all who held Mythal, deserving of their circumstance. Corypheus was failing thus, his weakness obvious to all. For faced with we, the fools must flee the blessed Inquisition's call.

General

Maryden: Ah lahdeedah and something something else.

Maryden: It writes itself. At least it seems it should.

Maryden: A perfect start except… no, it needs work.

Maryden: I think that one is just me showing off.

Maryden: It’s not my style to simply start and simply stop.

[supahsaucemann]

Destiny Is Never Left to Chance

Only those who have power can decide!

Xehanort Prime

Master Xehanort's superego, lingering desire for power, and deep hatred of Sora and the weak . . . incarnate . . . melted off the original after he defeat, claiming to be the TRUE Xehanort

Read Below for the Fanfic lore of Xehanort Prime

This is the Xehanort everyone knows and hates

This incarnation of Xehanort was "revived" by Brothmancer

Lord Buttercream was enticed by the drama and insanity of the Kingdom Hearts universe and created a sorta "Castle Oblivion-like" pocket dimension, created by the bad memories of the Sora's friends for his entertainment. He also used Xavier, a true hero of darkness, to stir up drama in this world, hoping to see Sora's friends go after Xavier for being the spawn of Xehanort and the Heartless, blaming him for Sora's fate.

Lord Buttercream tasked Dr. Brainfreeze and Brothmancer to study the KH world and it's secrets to make this "stage" possible. They created replicas of there own and two of them where the REAL Young Xehanort, who was timetraveling his was back after his "defeat" in KH3. With his hatred and envy of Sora becoming the "Child of Destiny" still buring in his heart and he memories of said hatred, Brainfreeze and Brothmancer use them to recreate the Master Xehanort we all know and hated, dubbed Xehanort PRIME!

This incarnation of the old master STILL has his delusions of grandeur, STILL wanting the power of Kingdome Hearts to remake the world. He also had all of his memories, includign the events of Dark Road. He muses of Aqua's hatred for darkness, comparing her to Vidar, and even berating Baldr from the beyond for being too weak to summon Kingdome Hearts. Xehanort Prime also loathes his old self for surrendering to Eraqus and relinquishing the X-blade to Sora at the end of KH3, denying it ever happened and claiming his "revivial" was all part of his plan for conquest.

First Phase: Dictator Of Destiny

The first form is his usual garb, but with occasional flaming arms and legs of pure light. In battle, a mini Kingdom Hearts is seen on his chest, similar to the Heartless symbol on Ansem SoD. He's eyes will also glow pure white, unlike his golden Heartless eyes, indicating this is NOT under the influences of darkness, but something far worse.

Second Phase: Symbol of Perfection

His second form takes the appearance of "Kingdom Hearts" with his ugly mug merged into it. This is NOT the real Kingdom Hearts, but a replica also created by the Light Order to fool Xehnanort Prime into thinking he's obtained it's power once again.

Third Phase: HeartBreaker

The final form is Xehanort's face, broken after the previous phase. Now enraged, light heart veins spread, forming the faces of the main seekers in the shape of a giant heart. Xehanort Prime becomes angry and childish, claiming to be the Child of Destiny, takes his anger out on Xavier and Sora's friends. He could summons the seekers and light versions of the Xehanort Replicas and Demon Towers, which Xavier could use against Prime to stop his rampage.

[strongestavengerthor]

@asgcrdianprince sent 💢 to start a fight with my muse.

Flashback, pre-Battle of New York

Something was wrong with his brother. His brother who was not dead, as they had long believed after the fall from the bifrost. (Thor called it a fall, told himself again and again that it was. Maybe he would convince himself if he kept repeating it. Maybe he would forget the look in Loki's eyes as his fingers loosened their grip.) When he first resurfaced, in the hands of Midgard's 'heroes,' Thor had not known what to believe. He was sent to retrieve him and Loki had slipped through his fingers again, but that wasn't what kept him up at nights. It was his eyes.

His brother's eyes had always been a brilliant, icy blue. But not when he performed his magic, his tricks and his spells. They pulled a green glow to his eyes, had since they were children, it was vibrant and telling. But during their last fight, no matter what spells Loki shot at him, his eyes had remained blue. And not the blue they should have been. But the same piercing blue as the scepter in his hands. Thor was not a fool, and there was no one in the nine realms he knew better than his baby brother. Something was wrong.

And much of that became clear when he saw the titan's ship. Thanos. He was a legend throughout the realms, a whispered story of war mongering, death, destruction. Thor hadn't been certain he was real until now. Stealing onto the ship was no easy task, but failure was no option. Stealth was not his forte, nor his usual choice, but this was too delicate a matter. So Thor wormed his way to the heart of the ship, until he heard a few guards talk about the cell. The Trickster's cell. They were bringing something to him, food perhaps, but Thor didn't hear anything past those three words. He gathered his wits enough to follow them, making sure to stay unnoticed until they finally rounded a corner.

And there was his brother. Seated obediently in the center of the room, staring blankly ahead. Thor rushed forward, slammed the guards' heads together and stepped over their slumped bodies. "Brother," he said, slamming his hand against the glass door. "Brother, it's me. Look at me, for the love of all the gods, look at me!"

[dragondawdles]

uhh I know your current interests thingy says "man idk" but do u possibly have any bug fables headcanons ??

hihi I do indeed! I’ll stick my thoughts beneath a readmore for ease of skippability and also for spoilers:

leif ≠ leif. like is’s less “leif was resurrected and came back complicatedly different” and more “leif super dies in snakemouth and leif as we know him is the cordyceps”. I mean they aren’t as mutually exclusive as I may be presenting them as but idk! I like leaning into how weird leif’s whole deal is. let him wrestle with legacy let him wrestle with his borrowed yet vividly personal memories and feelings let him grieve leif and muse and elizant I and continue to live. let him be a weird not-quite moth

a bit along the same lines, leif having health issues as consequence of leif stuff. wounds that don’t quite heal right (thinking his injury in ch4 is a big one), some form of vision impairment, and poor dexterity are the main ones I’ve got in mind and that last one is maybe a little bit of projection as a treat

leif being a fantastic actor is already canon but I would like to extend that off stage. I think he’a scarily good at putting on fronts acting however he would like to present himself. I think his facades even fool himself sometimes

vi being raised as a potential successor to the queen when she was young before getting a bit older and being moved to the honey factory and ultimately striking out on her own is maybe not canon compliant but I think it’s potentially very interesting and funny. could’ve been a princess but she chose violence.

vi being wholly able to fly the entire game but not even bothering to until the end when she is directly ordered to do so by the queen is so funny I don’t think there’s some deep rooted psychological reason for that I think she’s just like that. maybe one day down the line she’ll appreciate the oddly elusive gift of flight for what it is but as of now she just walks everywhere since bugaria’s built to be accessible to flightless bugs so why not y’know! she just likes to walk! maybe she has really good lower body strength for a bee as consequence

kabbu’s a theatre enjoyer! he can be too enthusiastic sometimes (he’s not always great at volume control) and he’s seen enough plays that he knows what makes a play good and bad and he’s not a good liar if asked about it, but he’s a well-liked regular at his local theatres. he’s occasionally mistaken for an aspiring actor himself with his passion and his boisterously earnest nature but no, his heart lies elsewhere. he just really likes the theatre

kabbu gets shy about it but he’s a really good singer too. mothiva will never know

chompy’s favorite bug is leif (of course, likewise leif spends the most time with chompy and talks to/about her often, although he kinda spoils her and she usually goes to him for sympathy whether earned or otherwise). she considers vi a playmate/rival much to vi’s chagrin. she sees kabbu as a firmer authority she can’t weasel past, but finds his approval all the more special, and often accompanies him/comforts him on his worse days whatever the reason may be.

chompy thinks todd (leif’s turbo nephew) is another chomper.

postcanon neolith fluent in roach

zasp and mothiva childhood friends mayhaps

more of a worldbuilding headcanon (because bug fables’ worldbuilding is a little bit flimsy for my tastes cough cough) but I think the bugs that exist outside of the strict “species = kingdom” is fun to consider. like moths being more nomadic and individualized, and it’s families and their descendants that align themselves with the kingdoms rather than a whole flutter of them. maybe it’s more common to see lone unassociated beetles than bees, for example. idk if I were braver about bugs I’d be attributing those traits more I like it when creatures are creatures with creature traits :] bug enthusiasts who attribute those traits for me are my heroes

also I know it’s a common headcanon but bug fables and hollow knight existing in the same universe is really fun. I don’t think they’re all that close to each other spacially or tonally but thematically and for the antics!! idk. maybe quirrel shows up on his precanon travels and warns about the folly of eternity and the numerous bugs devoting their lives in some way or form to finding the everlasting sapling just kinda. politely nods along vehemently disagreeing

[limpfisted]

THE SPECIFIC LORE OF THE BLADE OF THE FRONTIERS / RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN WYLL AND FAERUN, WHAT YOUR MUSE WOULD HAVE HEARD OF WYLL.

by default, unless your muse just does not give a shit about the happenings in the last seven years, your muse would have probably heard of a heroic “arcane knight” who frequents the hells to fight “evil” devils and monsters—but also goes town to town, place to place, fighting bandits, cultists and monsters (and yes, whoever mizora asks him to, sometimes innocents he allows himself to be fooled into thinking are guilty), and proctectinf women, children, people of marginalized fantasy races (besides goblins and devils), refugees, and the poor. he is a proper folk hero, and people HAVE heard of him all over the coasts, and he is known for storm and sword powers, as well as his charisma in telling tales of the hells.

but more importantly, no one, save the people wyll knows personally and has interacted with before AND after his banishment, know wyll ravengard, banished prince, is THE BLADE OF THE FRONTIERS. wyll has not been back to baldur’s gate since his father exiled him, some of the nobles never leave it. the blade and the banished son are known as names and rumors/legends all over faerun, but very few people know the two are one and the same, and wyll will dodge the question if asked. wylls father has also not told anyone about the pact, save his closest confidants.

in general, wyll never asks for payment, but is happy to take it when others insist. he buys fine things sparsely with his money, packs light, has few personal keepsakes, buys books and gifts them to libraries or sells them to shops when he is done with them. he keeps a journal full of poetry, and a seperate full of his adventures, and a third a book of spells and “progress” with his powers, and the further “gifts” he recieves from mizora.

mostly, people seem to be wary of him even before the horns, so they don’t ask too many questions until the job is done and their lives are saved—and even then theyre always content with not tall tales, but true tales enlarged, and news of other towns, over free drink and board.

wyll does not travel with others, though he sometimes makes friends on “missions.” he does not check in on them often—but they always have a blade by their side for missions of their own—though very rarely leisure.

wyll is something of a “workaholic” when he’s not celebrating his victories. he always goes the extra mile, theres always showmanship and flourishes, he genuinely lives to fight for others and be recognized for his goodness. which is what he deserves tbh he just saved ur life!!

wyll takes his job helping ppl by fighting monsters and devils very seriously, and he knows the blade thing isnt THAT serious, but wyll loves to have fun and keep things light and cheery even when hes suffering. the blade makes him confident and proud, and it gives his ferocity and impulses for violence and vanity and gratification meaningful and fun, even when they scare him

a part of wylls thing is in many ways hes a generic adventurer in temperament. like, he is swishy and gay and poetic and he can talk his way out of things and he makes a good love interest and a better player character. like balduran, he seems “pure good,” the heart and hope and pride of the gate. he keeps it light and smiley and soft, but his heroes and his upbringing are full of lies, and so is he.

in general i believe wylls stats and proficiencies were much higher pre-tadpole, a level 15 at least. hes lost some points!

wyll has saved many ppl, and pre-game, he is actually quite known in the hells as well as a pesky demon-like human. untouchable bc of his powerful pact. but also? a huge asshole? who makes them so so mad? they think this dude must be insane fr. how is some human gonna come here asking for another devil without making a deal, the damn nerve!!!

[necroangelz]

bored, so gunna do yur ask game... 💌 and/or 🫀 pwease.^⁠_⁠^^⁠_⁠^ hru today btw! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

help this has been in my inbox for a few days oops im so sorry... i drafted up the first half of this post last friday but i forgot to continue it and i had no energy... anyways

as of right now i havent been that great, my mood swings r going crazy and im stressed over a test tomorrow, although i did a lot of thrifting on friday and saturday and bought lots of nice stuff! i'll post my entire .. "thrifting haul" when i feel like it...

emoji answers below! i decided to answer both. my answer for the heart emoji is very... long.......... but what do uu expect from an infodump?

『 💌 』

a quote or song lyric

muse just realized on muses pinned post it says "song" instead of "song lyric" erm... it's supposed to be song lyric help anyway

“ Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes. ” -Plato, Republic Book II

wow, look at the intellectual internet angel, quoting Plato /s the quote is also referenced in the secret history by Donna Tartt (hir latest obsession) at the very beginning of the book ^_^ shi doesn't really know what to say, shi just really really likes this quote! shi likes very grand lines like this—the way that a simple leisure story can become an influence to the next generation of great heroes... there's something so alluring about it.

『 🫀 』

a game i played + an infodump

the free visual novel cemetery mary by arcadekitten! i really love cemetery mary and i can go on about it for hours, which is why i'll keep this infodump short bc i might just be typing here for hours and i wont get any sleep.

it's about a girl named mary anta (design is based on a manta ray), whose parents had mysteriously vanished without a trace one day. there's rumors of a killer in her city, called the blackwood butcher, and she suspects that her parents disappeared because of the butcher. she also texts a 'mysterious number' that claims her parents are alive and well.

she may look scary in the title screen but don't be fooled! she's a sweet and soft girl who simply has darker interests (such as the concept of death and cemeteries, as the title suggests).

here's mary hanging out with the other characters—crowven, twyla, and reginald. the player can pursue a route with any of these characters where mary will hang out with them and get closer to them. each route has a vastly different story and even genre/theme, and they lead to their own good and bad endings. i feel like it's easy to get the bad endings at first though... and they can get veeerrryyy VERY fucked up. there is also a true ending which is very entertaining and mysterious but leads to a happy ending.

i have about 42 hours in the game. yeah i got very obsessed with it... i like visual novels a lot and despite the occasional fucked up moments i enjoy CM because it's very chill and the characters are written well. and there's just something about how the game is designed that scratches my brain.

i got introduced to the game by a friend 2-ish years ago. we don't talk anymore but i liked that friend a lot... i didn't start playing CM until a few months later though

also just look at mary rn. SHE'S SO SILLY AAAHH I LOVE HER how can one not adoooreee her?????/

anyway let me just speedrun describing the 3 route characters rn

too lazy to find a better photo of him rn—this is crowven corvuson, design is based on a crow, and he's mary's cousin. except they're not blood related but they see each other as family. i don't interact with the fandom but i can imagine the discourse they would have about crowven and mary.

crowven is emo, moody, smokes weed, and has anger issues. his parents are dead. he lives together with mary. he gets up to secret business.

AAAAAHHH EHHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHHE this is twyla sophio, design based on an owl, this isn't her main "look" though, this is her outfit for a party. she's filthy rich, she's toxic, she's manipulative, and she's relentless to uncover the identity of the blackwood butcher. she also has some kind of rivalry with crowven (apparently it's accurate to nature where owls and crows have beef irl)

i am very very very in love with twyla in a normal way and i ship her and mary together

lastly, reginald tetra, design based on a pufferfish. this also isn't his main look, but he's so handsome here. i don't really like him that much but there's some certain scenes that make me like him...

he's your local average guy. he's so average. he's so normal. there's nothing wrong with him. i swear

he also has a littol tiny crush on mary :3 they develop a nice bond

ok thats it infodump over

[antihibikase2]

Commissioned by @psqe; please heed the warnings.

The False Prophet was not a god.

If he were, he would have spared him a glance of mercy, and his violence was to be a catalyst for goodwill, for divinity.

Rather, The False Prophet was a devil who touted godhood as his birthright- but he was so painfully human, to align himself with the family of priests and claim themselves rightful heirs to the throne.

And like the devil, he had his schemes- and the karma of his evil persists throughout the centuries, until his ideals became his truth.

No one could deny a king to their kingdom- just as an heirloom cannot deny its owner.

An obedient doll with porcelain skin, worn and cracked from years of abuse- the heirloom to the Harmonias.

It was easy to detest Ghetsis- he did not need to personally meet the man to know so.

Yet, he could not stop himself from coming back to the doors of the castle- and subsequently assisting the false king in his pursuit to conquer the region, just as his descendants should have done all those years ago.

It was easy to list out all of Ghetsis' sins- he did not need to dig deep beyond the surface to figure that out.

Yet, he could not stop himself from carrying out his tasks dutifully, without a single complaint, even as his dignity as a human was stripped in favor of acknowledging his existence and purpose as a vessel.

It was easy to entertain thoughts of abandoning Ghetsis as soon as he could- how could he not, with how much hatred he had for that man and his past selves?

Yet.

With the fool by his feet, one eye in dire need of medical assistance,

He could not resist.

The man who touted himself as his lord was painfully human, bleeding by his feet, cursing at the Hero of Truth for his monstrosity.

He does not even offer him the privacy of the medical quarters.

Like a worshipper, he falls to his knees, straddling the other's lap as he digs through his supplies.

"Nikolai-"

A scalpel, and anesthesia. It was all he needed.

Those eyes that looked down on him, the same eyes that dared to replicate Arceus' gaze.

His expression does not change, unmoving like a doll.

Yet, his skillful hands get to work, as he swiftly makes the proper incisions, digs his fingers through the flesh-

His gaze was curious, like a cat's.

But to Ghetsis, it was the face of an angel- one of god's most devoted, carrying out his work without so much as a noise.

He holds the eye of the false god between his fingers, staining his skin with a deep, dark red.

"What are you doing?! Get back to work you-"

"Lord Ghetsis,"

Nikolai peers down.

"It appears you are.. severely unaware of the situation you are in now,"

One eye on the prize, the other on his tool, gleaming under fluroscent lights.

"I suggest you allow your doctor to continue his work in peace- unless you have other plans."

Perhaps his icy tone struck fear into the heart of the dragon- or perhaps his anesthesia simply took claim of the other's consciousness, complying him to the doctor's demands.

As Nikolai continues patching up the rest of the injury, silently musing to himself about the irreparable damages done to his mortal form,

There was a slight smile.