#now he.....only thinks i'm pretty when i'm in pain

[star2fishmeg]

can i get reader taking care of our boy jack after he got high sticked?

The bathroom light whirs, your fingers brushing against Jack's as he sits on the toilet seat, holding the pack of frozen peas against his lip, his eyes peering up at you softly. He pats his knee, hand finding your waist as you sit, arm slinging around his shoulders and fingers running through his hair.

He pulls the frozen peas away, wetting his lips and eyes finding yours, "Does it look bad?"

You pout slightly at the rasp in his voice, how quiet he is, how tired he is after a game. Threading your fingers through his hair, his breathing deepens and grip around your waist rightens, his thumb rubbing against the fabric of your top. He doesn't care about how it looks, really, he just wants to hear your voice bring a sense of bliss and comfort to him. Like a lullaby to soothe him to sleep after possibly one of the most horrific games this season, in his eyes.

"Not the worst you've had, still pretty, don't worry." You guide his hand to hold the peas back to his lip, pressing your lips to his forehead and gently smiling. "Keep the ice."

"It still hurts, pretty girl. Can you do something?" He mumbles, slightly muffled but you can hear him well enough to notice the yearning in his voice, how he seeks to empty his mind, anything to get rid of this sinking pit in his stomach and feel warmth again.

It hurts seeing him dejected, he's your Jack, your sunshine, the guy who's always making you smile and your stomach flips miserably at how dull the world is for him. Your gaze steady on his, nails tucking his loose strands behind his ear and you brush your knuckle over his cheek, "The medical staff patched it up pretty well, babe. Not much I can do but provide you with pain relief."

He pulls the peas away, much to your dismay, an exhale escaping your nostrils, but you say nothing, examining his swollen and busted up lip, the cut the hockey stick left behind. It's going to bruise bad, but it will heal.

"Kiss it better? Kisses make everything better." The corner of his lips pulls up and his playful tone breaks through the bleak atmosphere. The only thing you can do it roll your eyes and shake your head at him, but light-heartedly with a giggle that slices through the thick clouds that feel like they're suffocating until you're both back to your charming selves.

His hand slips under your top, grounding himself with the warm silkiness of your skin against his calloused palm, his occupied hand discarding the peas onto the counter and he waits. He looks at you with big, wet eyes and a smirk that makes your heart swell, hands cupping his face and pulling him closer to you, slotting your lips together so delicately in fear of hurting him. He hums with satisfaction, feeling his shoulders relax and weight ascend off his shoulders at last.

"There," you break away, mouth barely separated from his, so close you're muttering the words against them but his eyes are brighter and he's smiling, despite how the cut tugs and stings, he thinks it's worth it, "now come to bed, I'm tired."

You slide off his knee, interlacing your fingers with his and coaxing his off the toilet seat, his figure towering over yours as you swipe the peas from the counter, guiding him out the bathroom as he switches the light off on the way. You stop at his bed and turn to him, his tired smile still plastered on his face as he waits for your next instruction.

"I'm gonna put these away, be under those sheets by the time I get back, m'kay? No watching the game back." You say, only leaving when he nods.

When you return, he's waiting in bed. T-shirt and sweats piled on the floor, his hair dishevelled and the lights off. You slip under the duvet next to him, refusing him the opportunity to wind his arms around you because before he can process anything, you're pulling him to your chest, lying back with your arms around him, fingers in his hair and bringing one of his hands onto your breast.

He inhales slowly, eyes fluttering close and he nuzzles into your chest, his favourite place to be after a long day. Pulling the covers over you both, his body melts into yours, breath fanning against you as you give another kiss to his head.

"I love you." He mumbles, thumb caressing over your chest comfortably, soothingly.

You smile, closing your eyes and letting the exhaustion finally take over you, "I love you too, pretty boy."

[sematarygirls]

Okay but he’d fuck you so hard when they lose the Super Bowl after you spends an hour gloating about the eagles handing their asses to them!

i saw this request and started giggling and kicking my feet omg. anon, i owe you my first born child. you are a GENIUS! (although, fair warning, i'm not great at writing smut. i hope this is okay <3) not proofread

cw: unprotected p in v, rough sex, mean rafe, slapping, degradation

Football tended to be a touchy subject between you and Rafe. Where you were a diehard Eagles fan, he wouldn't be caught dead rooting for them. After the Chiefs narrowly beat out the Eagles in the 2023 Super Bowl, Rafe wouldn't shut up for weeks about how "trash" the Eagles were. It drove you absolutely insane.

That's why, when the Eagles absolutely kicked ass this Super Bowl in a rematch against the Chiefs, beating them out at a whopping 40-22, you thought it was your well-deserved right to rub it in Rafe's face, much to his dismay.

One thing about Rafe is that gloating is only okay when he does it—much like a lot of other things (he's a very hypocritical guy), hence his growing anger when you wouldn't stop talking about how the Chiefs absolutely threw the game with all their fumbles, making jokes the whole time about how it seemed like they weren't even playing.

Another thing about Rafe? He tended to get violent when he was angry. With other people, this meant he'd kick their asses, but with you, it meant you were in for a long night of rough fucking to make him feel better and put you in your place for your "bratty attitude."

Though, if you tried to point out the hypocrisy with him finding your actions annoying when he had done the exact same two years prior, he would only get more annoyed and very, very defensive.

You'd learned at a very early stage in your relationship that some battles were not worth fighting with Rafe, and besides, you kind of liked it when he was all rough with you, manhandling and degrading you deliciously.

"Not so mouthy now, huh?" He taunted, pounding into you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward a little bit, your face burying further into the pillows as you moaned. A sharp slap to your ass had you gasping, the pain sending a jolt of pleasure to your core that had you practically gushing around Rafe's thick length. You didn't know how long you'd been going at this with him, but he hadn't let you cum, nor had he let up the brutal pace.

"Look at you," he sneered. "Can't even think of anything to say back to me, huh? Thought you were gonna gloat all night about how the Eagles won." His words were cruel and biting, revealing the depth of his anger, which wasn't about the football game. It was more so about being challenged, his ego hurt after talking such a big game about how the Chiefs were going to dominate.

You couldn't form a coherent sentence. Your brain turned to mush as the only thing you could focus on were his rough hands on you and his length stretching your velvety walls. You could practically feel each ridge and vein of his cock as it slid back and forth, his tip nudging your cervix roughly with each pass.

"What happened to that smart mouth, huh?" He mocked. "Your dumb little brain's too desperate for cock, huh, bunny," he cooed, his tone patronizing as he continued to pound into you with rough strokes, making your back arch and eyes roll back.

He was so mean, but you loved it.

He was right. You couldn't respond to him anymore. You had lost your ability to form a single word, dumbed down to a mess of please sounds as he hit that sweet spot inside of you so perfectly. He took that as a victory, seeing it as proof that you knew your place. He loved it when you whimpered underneath him, completely at his mercy. "Look who's behaving now. You're lucky you're so pretty, honey," he continued, enjoying this little game of his. "Otherwise, I wouldn't put up with such a bratty mouth."

"Fuuuuuck," he groaned, giving your ass another sharp smack before his hands found your hips again, his grip bordering on painful. "And this fuckin' love this pussy. Fuckin' perfect, baby."

He was getting close. You could tell by the way his pace started to falter, and his words switched from degrading to praising. One hand slipped down to your clit, rubbing firm circles. Even when he was pissed, he still tried to make you cum first.

It didn't take much more effort on his part. Your thighs were already trembling, desperate for release from the moment he'd thrown you onto the bed and ripped your clothes off.

"You're gonna be a good girl now, huh? You're gonna stop being such a pain in the ass, aren't you?" He questioned, punctuating each question with a thrust. "No more running your mouth and riling me up, right?"

"Uh huh," you whined pathetically, needy and desperate to cum.

He knew he had you right where he wanted you, all pliant and begging. "Yeah, you gonna stop talking back, huh? You can be a good little bunny for me, can't you?" He cooed, his words sounding a little bit less harsh. He was enjoying having you like this, completely at his mercy.

All you could muster was a weak nod, your fingers gripping the sheets and mouth parted in ecstacy as you reached your peak, blinding pleasure overtaking your body as your walls clamped down around his cock.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he groaned, pumping a few more times before pushing deep inside you and releasing spurts of hot, sticky cum into your eager cunt.

[divab0dy]

dirty AND messy

contains: smut MDNI!!! domestic as FUCKKK, smoke weed, high sex, tired sex, nicotine/vape usage, really in love hamzah, established relstionship

authors note: erm this has been in the works for like a month and lowkey a self insert...

it was a saturday for you guys, and hamzah and you did saturdays like no one else. you had both gotten out of bed, made cereal breakfast, smoked, and promptly climbed back into bed half asleep. that damn morning indica was going to kill you.

"hamz," you whisper.

"yeah?" he matches your tone.

"are you awake?"

"no," he chuckles.

"well then wake up," you say, turning over to face him.

he smiles lazily and shifts to be closer to you, your knees moving between each others.

"why would we do that," you smile.

"i didn't know," he sighs.

"i'm so tired now, i won't be able to do anything all day."

"yeah?" he slides his face closer to yours across the singly satin pillowcase. him and his damn hair care.

"mhm," you bring your hair up towards his hair, twisting your fingers into his curls.

he closes the gap, moving slowly towards you, stopping, his lips hovering over yours. "you're so fucking beautiful," he breathes.

you let out a breathy laugh.

"i'm serious. i'm gonna marry you one day. you know that?" he smiles against your lips.

"maybe tell me again."

he laughs and finally presses his lips onto yours, capturing your bottom lip between his. you suck on his top lip, before swiping your tongue over the crease between his lips, far too high and far too comfortable with him to take things slow. he hums and lets you in, greedily, almost more excited than you. almost.

you roll back, pulling him atop you, wrapping your legs around his back, all in one motion.

"someone's eager," he breaks the kiss.

"you know how touchy feely i get when im high," you smile against his lips.

"this is a little more than touchy feely don't you think? this is more like horny needy."

you laugh and grab him by the hair, pulling him back into you, shoving your tongue into his mouth with more need now that he's said it out loud.

you tug on his shirt and the whole room feels like it's on fire, kissing each other with a passion that neither of you have felt from anyone else. he pulls back and sits up on his knees removing his shirt, taking the time to carefully slot himself between your legs again.

"want you," you whine as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

"don't you want to take things slow," he almost laughs, referencing last night, slow cowgirl, even a little candle.

"no," you hook your fingers into his boxers. "it's way to early for that," you finish.

he sits back again to take off his boxers. "isn't it a little too early for all of this?" he smiles as you shimmy your boxers off.

"it's like 11" you sigh as he gets back on top of you.

"you think you're still stretched from last night?" he asks, bringing his hand down. he runs his fingers over your leaking hole, not even bothering to press them inside.

"i don't really care, i just want you to fuck me," you wrap your legs around him.

he laughs and lines himself up. "definitely still stretched" he comments as he pushes himself in.

that couldn't be true. you're pretty sure you could fuck him thrice a day and never get used to it. it's not painful, but it's definitely a stretch.

your blunt nails grasp at his back, letting out a heady moan as he bottoms out.

"shit," you sigh. at least he knows to give you a moment to collect yourself.

whenever he fucks you like this, high and out of it, the only thing you're actually out of is everything going on around you. it's so easy to hyperfocus on him practically throbbing inside of you. the creek of the bed drowns out and all that's left is is the soft clapping of skin.

he slowly pulls out of you squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. he would never get used to the feel of being inside of you. the way you claw at his back, the way your heels dig into his thighs to pull him back in. every high you chase, every glass you break, every moan you make, it all makes him fall deeper in love with you than he ever thought possible.

he pushes back into you with little resistance, the sounds of your sopping cunt amplified through the high.

you clench down on him as he rubs against a spot only a few inches inside of you, just out of reach of your fingers. you could never make yourself feel the way hamzah makes you feel. he knows your body better than you do at this point.

you lazily reach towards your side table, grabbing your mexico mango geek bar and bringing it to your lips as he stars a steady pace. he laughs as you inhale and bow it out into his face.

"really?" he asks, pace now slowing.

"trying to kill this high," you sigh, still feeling tired from the weed.

"before the climax?" he's so proud of his own joke. no one finds hamzah funnier than hamzah.

"enough, let's pot that mouth to good work boy," you push the geek to his lips and watch as he takes a long inhale.

he grabs your face with one hand, holding himself up with the other arm and forces your mouth open to shotgun you. you inhale the smoke with ease.

"fuck that was hot," you breathe.

he reaches down and begins to rub your clit, making you gasp into him. he changes the angle, moving lower, now practically hitting your cervix with every thrust.

"hamzah im close," you grasp onto his bicep.

"i know baby, i know," with that he's rubbing your clit faster.

"fuck hamzah, i'm gonna cum." at this point your hips are undulating into him, practically fucking yourself onto his cock.

he kisses your cheek as your head turns to the side and that does it for you. you're cumming around him with a cry shaking on his cock.

it's only another thrust of pure overstimulation until he's cumming inside of you, whining as he does.

his hot break fans over your as he's overstimulating you even further, pushing his cum as deep into you as possible. he'd always been like that, even before you guys were dating, when he was still fucking you with a condom. some deep primal instinct that only came out when he was fucking you.

"fuck," he sighs, pulling out and flopping down next to you. he lazily throws an arm over you, pulling you back into him.

"that definitely killed my high," you giggle.

[missdynamighttt]

can you pretty please write something based on the song Would You Fall in Love With Me Again from Epic? I was thinking like, barbarian bakugo but he went to war or somethin’ and finally gets home to his wife?

the village gates loomed in the distance, barely visible through the morning mist. the scent of rain and blood clung to the air, but for the first time in years, katsuki bakugo paid it no mind. his fingers twitched at his side, the leather of his armor worn from war. his sword, heavy as the burdens he carried, hung loosely at his hip.

he had returned. but would she still want him?

his steps slowed as he neared the familiar path leading to their home. it was still there—unchanged, untouched as if time had waited for him. the wooden beams, the carved symbols of protection along the frame, the worn stone path leading to the door. a home he had built with his own hands.

a home he feared he no longer belonged in.

the door creaked open before he could knock.

“katsuki?”

there she stood. his wife. his love. the woman he had fought for across a thousand battlefields.

you.

you looked just as he had remembered and yet… not. there was something in your eyes, something weary, something knowing.

"is it really you?" your voice trembled, your hands gripping the doorframe as if to steady yourself. "or am i dreaming again?"

his throat went dry. he wanted to say something—anything—but all he could do was stare.

he had imagined this moment a hundred times, had whispered your name into the cold night air of distant lands, had prayed to gods he no longer believed in just to see you again.

but now that you were here, he didn’t know if he had the right to reach for you.

"you look... different," you whispered. "your eyes… they look tired."

his lip curled, not in anger, but in some bitter, broken thing that resembled a smile. "that ain't the only thing that's different."

you took a step closer, hesitant, searching. your gaze trailed the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw. your fingers twitched as if aching to touch him, but you held back. 

a sharp breath left him. he knew what you saw. he wasn't the man you had once known. he was something else now. something ruined.

"i'm not the man you fell in love with," he admitted, voice rough like gravel. "not the man you married."

you flinched, but you didn’t look away.

"i'm not your husband anymore," he continued, his voice quiet, pained. "my love... would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all i've done?"

your breath hitched. "what... have you done?"

katsuki shut his eyes. when he opened them, they were dark with memories he wished he could forget.

"left blood on every fuckin' battlefield," he sighed. "traded soldiers like weapons. hurt more lives than i can count." his jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "but every goddamn thing i did… was to come back to you."

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "so tell me. would you still love me?"

your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. you studied him again, truly seeing him, the man he was now—the weight he carried, the sins etched into his skin.

then you turned, walking deeper into their home. katsuki's chest ached as you disappeared from view. maybe this was it. maybe you couldn’t—

"could you do me a favor?" your voice drifted from within.

"what is it, my love?" his brow furrowed as he followed, stepping inside for the first time in years. the air smelled of you. of home. 

you were quiet for a long time, the wind whispering between you. then, at last, you stepped forward, eyes steady. 

you turned your gaze to the large wedding bed in their home, carved from the sturdy olive tree that had stood as a silent witness to your love since the beginning.

“that bed,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “could you lift it? carry it far away from here?”

his blood ran cold.

“how could you say that?” his voice cracked, the anger, the exhaustion, the heartbreak all colliding into one. “i built that bed with my own fuckin' hands. carved it from the tree where we first met. the only way to move it is to—”

his breath caught. he looked at you, realization striking him like lightning. his chest ached. his arms, worn from war, longed for your warmth.

“…you knew."

you stepped closer, cradling his face in your hands. his hands came, gripping your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

a small, trembling smile touched your lips. "only my husband would know that. so i guess that makes you... him."

his knees nearly buckled. he surged forward, hands cupping your face, his forehead pressing against yours.

tears slipped down your cheeks, but you smiled, truly smiled, as your hands finally touched him—fingers ghosting over scars and bruises and the remnants of war.

"i will fall in love with you over and over again, katsuki," you whispered. "i don't care how, where, or when. no matter how long it's been. you are mine.”

he crushed you to him, burying his face into your hair, his body shaking. katsuki swallowed hard, his vision blurring. “i told you… i’m not the same.”

"you're always my husband, katsuki," you murmured. "i've been waiting for you. i would have waited forever."

katsuki's arms tightened around you, grounding himself in your warmth, your love, your unwavering belief in him.

"you don't have to anymore," he whispered. "i'm home." 

katsuki held you tightly, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go. the weight of years, of battles, of bloodshed, all crumbled beneath the warmth of your touch.

you swallowed hard. “how long has it been?”

katsuki exhaled, his forehead resting against yours. his voice was barely above a whisper.

“twenty years.”

a breath hitched in your throat. twenty years. twenty years of waiting, of uncertainty, of praying that the man you loved would return to you. “god, katsuki…”

“i thought i’d never make it back to you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “i thought—” he stopped himself, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours. “i don’t deserve this.”

"don’t say that," tears spilled down your cheeks as you cupped his face, your fingers trembling. “i love you.”

his breath shuddered. he had been through war. he had seen death, had taken lives, and had lived in the darkness for what felt like an eternity. and yet, nothing had ever struck him down the way those three words did.

a harsh, broken laugh escaped him, and he pressed his lips against your forehead.

“i love you more. always have. always will.”

you sobbed, burying yourself in his chest as he held you tighter, his body shaking from exhaustion, from relief, from love.

and for the first time in years, katsuki bakugo finally let himself fall. back into the home he had fought so hard to return to. back into you, his wife.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ��ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[ratwithhands]

We got Volo!! I've been thinking about Mahoumas again now that my school workload is lighter, so I finally got to draft Volo's champion design. Worst to ever do it, can't wait to draw him fighting our main duo.

Since I've had time to think about it, I've also done some more refining on where the magic comes from. Essentially in this AU, legendaries are such powerful divinities that just being in a place will cause immense damage to the nearby environment and creatures as a result of the energy they let off. In ancient times they would "resolve" conflicts by whaling on each other, which would obliterate any nearby settlements and mess up the ecosystem. Arceus then decided that the best way to protect all his children would just be to simply stop them from doing that by only allowing proxies to fight.

The basic idea is that a legendary has a divine champion (diplomatic assistant) that meets with the champions of others in order to discuss and settle issues. This ensures no region ending damage and also makes sure that decisions aren't rash, spur of the moment actions. The champions are protected under the rules too; once in contract to a legendary, they aren't to be attacked or harmed by other champions unless they've already been cleared and confirmed for trial by combat. There's some other specifics too but in essence they're basically just there to keep the peace and represent their divinity.

What makes Volo different (and such a pain to deal with) is that he's Giratina's first champion, so he got a lot more benefits that champions generally shouldn't have. Giratina had never had to set up a champion before, plus was excited to have one after eons, so Volo was lavishly spoiled. Since Giratina doesn't talk to other legendaries, he was also pretty much unchecked and just doing whatever he wanted without any regulation. This is a problem in general but it is especially troublesome when another champion (cough, Ingo) tries to revert the "corrections" he's making.

Anyways bonus doodle: since he was the first, Giratina wanted a little whimsy for him.

Let me know if you guys want to see more of this bastard, I'm off to take a nap

[httpuckdrop]

ashes – day 116

jack had gotten a bad hit.

sure, tackles and hits are just a part of hockey – but this one was worse than usual.

he wasn't even sure how he got himself into the situation, but during his game against the bruins, his head had been bent down far too much when he had tried to shoot off a pass along the barrier. when an opponent went in for the tackle, jack's head hit the boards in a nasty angle, and everything had gone black instantly.

the directions from the team doctors were clear: he needed to stay in a dark room, with no lights or loud sounds. he wasn't allowed to use his brain too much, since that would only worsen the concussion. no phone, no stepping outside the bedroom for at least three whole days.

thankfully, your apartment was the perfect place to keep someone who'd just gotten a concussion; the blackout curtains of your bedrooms were of the best brand, keeping the room perfectly dark during all hours of the day. that's why jack now found himself lying flat on his back on your bed, with his arms relaxing restlessly along his body, just as he had for the last 48 hours or so.

this wasn't the first time jack got a concussion. even back when he was a young player, he was too intense, too focused and too stubborn that he didn't care about the risk of injury when doing certain things on the ice, meaning that he had been forced to go through the boring process of recovering from head trauma several times. he recognized the feeling, and he hated it just as much as he had when he was still a teenager, when he was forced to stay inside while his brothers and friends could still practice. he wanted to do something, anything, but the pounding in his head limited his actions to pretty much none.

he felt helpless.

but even through the pain, there was one thing that made him smile.

you.

he was so thankful that you were there for him. he slept for most of his days, not having enough energy to stay awake for longer periods of time. but every time he woke up, you were there; reading him a book, telling him a story from your childhood, catching him up on the recent news. he was so thankful, because he thought he would have gone insane if he had to endure this all on his own.

"jack?" you asked from your side of the bed, voice hushed as it had been for the last two days. there was a small hum of an answer. "don't you want anything to eat? it's been…" you squinted, trying to make out the time from the clock on your wall. "seven hours since you had breakfast."

jack stayed silent, taking a few deep breaths before opening his eyes. "yeah, i think so."

your little nightlight, a lamp in the form of a fox in a far corner of the room, was the only source of light. jack could still make out your face clearly, probably due to the last two days of practicing his night vision. the concern on your face translated to worry on his, and then it was all just a downward spiral. you hated seeing him like this. jack was usually so energetic, so happy, so… tireless. seeing him like this really hurt you – and suddenly, you were back in your old mindset again. the pain and the worry and the anxiety all boiled up into one big soup of guilt. for the way you've treated him, for the way you care for him, for everything that has happened these last months. you stood up from the bed, about to make your way to the kitchen to cook something for him, but you stopped at him calling out your name in that raspy voice of his. "i'm sorry." when you looked back at him with a confused look, he spoke again. "for last week, for-"

"jack, it's okay." you shook your head at him, putting on a small smile. you didn't want him to worry about this now, not when his head was already overworked. "really."

now it was his time to shake his head – or, as much of a shake he could handle without his brain exploding from the jolt of pain shooting through it whenever he moved even an inch – and his voice was firmer when he spoke again. "no, please don't interrupt me now. i want you to hear that i'm serious about how sorry i am."

your heart fluttered like never before. not once until today had a man spoken to you like this. like you were someone worth apologizing to, someone worth fighting for.

"i am so sorry about pushing and pressuring you. i never should have." he took a deep breath. "you have your reasons not to trust me and not let me in, i understand that. however," his hand reached for your side, wanting you closer. "i also hope that in time, things might change. and i hope to stick along to find out if they do, without pressuring you, no matter how long it takes."

at this point, you wanted to throw yourself into his arms, bury him in kisses and hug the life out of him. but with the memory of his concussion still in your mind, you settled for leaning down to his height and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips for the first time in weeks.

maybe things would be okay, after all.

[jd-loves-fiction]

I would like to ask reader x stellaron hunters (i dunno if you accept multiple characters, if not im fine with only kafka) with a reader that fights like denji from csm.

Like, if you havent seen or read csm i would describe denji fighting style as bashing his head against a wall until it breaks, theres the eternity devil fight that you can probably find on youtube (altought its kinda gory, just telling beforehand.)

Its fine if you dont take the request but if you do thanks in advance :D

🌑 I have in fact not watched CSM but I'm vaguely familiar, so I've kept this pretty vague in the descriptions :)

✦ 𝐊𝐚𝐟𝐤𝐚 ✦

Worried sick + weirdly impressed

She finds the way you fight to be quite interesting, very curious as to why you choose it in particular

Will be asking a thousand questions, particularly about whether or not you feel pain and if yes, why you don't seem to mind it

If it does bother you, she will not hesitate to offer help through her 'Spirit Whisper' (what she uses on Blade to help with the mara)

But if you wish to endure it without help, then she'll respect it but care for you as best she can after fights

Truly, she'd rather end fights quickly so you dont have need to hurt yourself but she cant deny the excitement she feels at fighting by your side

Though her people are incpable of feeling fear, for you, she might just about taste it on the tip of her tongue

✦ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 ✦

This hypocrite

Hurts himself constantly and yet worries about you so so much

Scolds you for being reckless constantly even tho he is the same, which you tell him - a fruitless conversation everytime

Always watching your back like a hawk on the battlefield, taking hits for you when he can - he'd rather hurt himself even if you can take it

Loves sparring with you tho!

It soothes him to know that you can keep up with him in battle

That being said he's the type to constantly remind you to take care of yourself, rest, eat well, etc

It's also comforting to know that should the mara take him over you'll have a chance to fight back against him, at least

✦ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 ✦

So hype✨

You're like an SSR character, extra extra special and she's glad to have you on their side

Doesnt give much thought towards if it hurts you or not - all she knows or cares about is that it's cool as shit

Lowkey constantly asking to fight you because she sees it as a challenge to complete

Keeps equating you to a boss in one of her videogames

Hypeman no.1

Always hyping you up and asking about combos MID BATTLE😭

Menace but at least she's always down for the chaos

✦ 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲 ✦

Hypocrite no.3

So so worried 🥺

She's just generally very caring, especially towards those at her side, so obviously will keep an eye on you at all times

But as a soldier, she's not going to try to hold you back, even if she really wants to

She's got her own pride and so would never think to tarnish yours

BUT oh my god if you could stop risking your life every five seconds😭

She gets it, she does really, but she's naturally very empathetic and because of her trauma... Let's just say she's of two minds on the whole situation

Gets over it if you come out mostly alright - generally tries to focus more on the here and now

Please reassure her of what she already knows, that you're strong, capable and that she can trust you to come back to her at the end of the day

[rom-e-o]

We've discussed it with the Scrooges, it only seems pertinent to extend it to our DA couples.

What do we think it was like the first time Emmrich popped a surprise erection around Wifey?

Aaaaah, yes. Hehehe.

Listen, the man is a gentleman with his brushes and razors and fine dressing gowns, but he's still human. Very human, very red-blooded, and very fascinated by the woman who has just inspired such a reaction from him. It's been a while since he's seen anyone serious, after all. ;)

I think it poses an interesting question ... when is the first time it happens at all, and when is the first time Wifey notices it?

I don't want to speak for Guinevere, but I can definitely imagine it happening quite early. After all, these Raven lovebirds move at a pretty fast pace with their first date and second date being pretty spicy (I read your ask like 'DAMN, good for them!'). Does it happen during their first kiss? Hmm. Emm may be a little too seasoned for a kiss to get him at full-mast, so to speak.

Emm strikes me as a guy who won't get that aroused until there is some deeper feeling. Once he starts to think she's the one? THAT really gets him going, in my mind.

What do you see for G'iney, in your mind?

For Isma specifically, I have an hc that it's two separate occasions.

The first time ever is when she slips into the water and he dives in without a second thought to retrieve her.

He pulls her ashore, and she's clinging to him. She's wet (all over, haha), breathless, trembling, and her face is incredibly close to his. When she does look up at him, her expression is one of blissed out relief. "Oh...thank you, Emmrich."

It's a painful throb in that moment, when he realizes how badly he wants her. Also, there's guilt. She nearly drowned, and now his anatomy is betraying him by getting hard at the aftermath of the ordeal?! He's nearly ashamed, and pulls away before she can notice.

The first time it happens and she notices? It's after their dinner date. Where he scolds her favorite non-color, lmao.

When they kiss after the meal, I imagine she's pressed back in that chair while he deepens the touch. He leans in, and when she starts gasping his name, she feels it. At first, she thinks it's some Watcher ornament or mage totem on him, but...nope.

Sensing her surprise, he readies himself to pull away, but Isma's hands quickly seize his shoulders.

"It's just ... been a while," she tells him softly, shyly, "Since a man has done that for me. I don't mind. I-I quite like it, actually. I'd also like if we could keep kissing, maybe?"

They don't go all the way (that happens in the coffin for her, haha) but her knee does find a very pleasant spot against his crotch, and the necking that follows is quite superb.

Btw, I'm curious of your opinion: I do see a lot of people hc that Emm and their Rook consummate their relationship on the dinner date rather than the coffin. I think it's fascinating so many people came to that conclusion. i like it. actually, but for Isma, I think he first time with him is in the crypt. (Sorry for the chill, girl.)

[overdressedcarp]

I've been thinking for a while about the optional Magatama dialogue in The Cosmic Turnabout where you can prompt Fulbright about what's bothering him, and for both of the wrong answers, he acts like you got it right, and actively leans into the bit. For example, if you suggest that he's exhausted by life, he agrees and claims he's thinking about quitting his job and going to space. (Honestly, mood.)

(AA 5-4 and 5-5 spoilers below the cut)

It's a good line on its own: funny, and definitely relatable. With 5-5's context, though, it brushes up against a deep-seated desire to disappear, to run away and start over, something the Phantom hasn't been at liberty to do in years. He's shackled to a seven-year-old assignment, strangled by loose ends that he can't tie off. For maybe the first time in his life, he has to wake up every day and live with the effects of his actions, made blisteringly real in the form of the people he hurt.

(Do I think he's walking around harboring deep, profound remorse for UR-1? Not really, no. But the self-protective lie of "my choices don't matter because I'm not really a person" only goes so far when you're clocking into work every day to hang out with the guy who's on death row because of you, who's grieving because of you, and suddenly you're the only person he trusts to hear about the monster that ruined his life, and you planned for this but you didn't plan for this and honestly at that point I'd want to quit my job and throw myself into the vast expanse of space, too.)

Also worth noting, during this entire scene, any time Fulbright goes to answer a question or make an assertion about himself, the tinted glasses go up like a shield. Eyes hidden, hand obscuring the lower half of his face. It's something he does pretty regularly throughout the game, but it's egregious here. My man is on the defensive and he's giving absolutely zero ground.

But the big thing for me is the other "wrong" option, where if you claim that Fulbright is troubled by love, the Phantom's knee-jerk "yes, and," response is to tell a story about a carp named Love who ate a bunch of goldfish because he put them all in the same tank.

In the moment it's supposed to be absurd and comical and one more example of how hapless this guy is, but in retrospect, it's kind of telling that when the Phantom tries to conceptualize love in relation to himself, the first piece of Fulbright-flavored bullshit that comes to mind is about a creature that brings pain and death through mere proximity, not out of malice, but out of nature. As though, subconsciously, he's fixated on the notion of a foreign element that's been dropped into an otherwise peaceful space. A fish that seems like it belongs there until it devours the others.

He really could have said anything—he could have made up a story about a bad breakup, or a really sad movie, or a family member who died. He could have jumped to talking about Blackquill, and how he's concerned for his emotional state given the nature of the current case. But instead, his mind instinctively gravitates to a Love that consumes everything around it: a Love defined by its capacity for violence. There was never a world where the carp could exist alongside the goldfish without hurting them.

And idk. I feel like if he wasn't feeling some kind of way about that, then it wouldn't be bleeding into his Olympic-level improv gymnastics routine to convince Phoenix that he doesn't have any secrets and you can put the supernatural lie detector away now, thanks.

[doctorho]

a quiet light (a gentle support)

hi gang!! i got this ask a while ago and this has been simmering in my brain ever since. tonight i finally managed to write it down (@iheartdilfs1204 this is for u!!) sooo here's academy era viktor making a leg brace for reader that suffers from knee pain! gender neutral, 2k-ish words, no warnings. this is...sort of vague on all fronts, but, ya know, i'm always here for the chronically ill reader. bon appetit?

It's torture, that's what it is. Pure and simple. Viktor had opened his big stupid mouth before thinking, of course, which – sometimes worked to his benefit, and sometimes it didn't. He'd just wanted to help, and, truly, he’d meant it as nothing more than a friendly gesture of good will, but now you were in his lab, after hours, and it was quiet, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

He’d offered to make you a leg brace before he fully even realized he was doing it. The understanding of what he’d just said had settled in like an afterthought, the ‘I could do that for you’ an instinctual response to your musings about how your knee tended to ache and you were maybe thinking of getting something to help. He’d only looked up from his notes when you went quiet, and – it’d been one of those moments again. A single shared heartbeat, an understanding between people who both crawled their way out from the Undercity to live among people who had no idea what it was like. 

Viktor knows that while you’d mentioned the leg brace pretty casually, it was everything but; there was a great deal of pain you’d sludge through before paying someone to help, and, it was likely, even more before you’d admit to a weakness. While you hadn’t shared the more personal details of your situation to him, he was fairly sure he knew this, because it’s precisely what he would’ve done, and up in Piltover? A history like his gave a good perspective. You were colleagues, sure, maybe even friends, and he wasn’t arrogant enough to think he’d know what you were thinking most of the time, but…this he was fairly certain of. After all, he’d lived through the same problem. He’d been there. Except he hadn’t had help, then. 

“They’d overcharge you for the materials anyway,” he’d continued, writing down something that would most likely end up being redundant later, “and the standard issue ones are never well-fitted.”

You’d shifted in your place. He’d looked up. Met your eyes, waited for another shared second to pass while you clearly assessed his offer. 

“That’s probably true,” you’d sighed, then, “you’d do that?”

He’d shrugged. Returned to his notes. “If you want me to,” he’d answered, “I’ve got the experience. And I like to think my…current model is pretty sufficient.” 

He’d gone through many versions, many iterations of his own mobility aids over the years. Not all of them had been particularly comfortable to wear, but he’d eventually worked out most of the kinks. And…he was pretty confident that he could make you something that was more comfortable than the cheaply made off-the shelf ones you would find in the very few shops that offered them. 

“You’re sure?” 

He’d looked at you again. “Yes,” he’d answered, and it’d settled to the bottom of his lungs like a promise; yes, he’d do this. Yes, he’d help. Yes, he’d do what he could to give you any possible support in this stupid high-strung city, because no matter what his position in the Academy was, it still felt like he was an outsider among them. And you were one too. And…sure, maybe he’d jumped at the chance to help a little too quickly, but it was an honest offer. Viktor wasn’t the most social of butterflies, he wasn’t very good at getting close to people, but…he wanted to help if he could. He liked you, and, yes, he would probably have helped any decent person that’d ask, but he also felt a certain quiet sort of solidarity with you. And, truth be told, he wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to spend more time with you, even if he was never really good at saying so. 

So, here you are, in his lab after-hours. Shifting in your place like you’re not sure where to go from here. He’d asked you to come, and you had, he just…hadn’t thought much further than that.

He looks at you, and then at his desk, and then it truly strikes him that he does not have the space to be working with a person as a model base in here. But…you’re a trencher, like him. You’re not going to expect a five-star hotel, and for that, he is grateful. God knows he’d been in dingier establishments than this for his own tries at medical treatments.

“So,” he says, studying your posture, “joint pain? Muscle?” You hadn’t been very loud about the nature of your pain before, and he could understand why. It was hard, in the environment of the Academy, surrounded by shiny, polished Piltovians and their idealistic lives to admit that you had problems.

“Joint, mostly” you sigh, adjusting your posture again, and he nods. 

“I can work with that,” he notes, “do you know your measurements?”

“Ah, no?” You answer, “do you know many people that know their leg circumference without checking?” 

He shrugs, shoves a hand in his pocket. “You might have had a well-hidden passion for tailoring clothes.” 

You breathe through a hum. “Sadly, I do not,” you sigh, “I parse a mean hole, but I don’t know my measurements, no.” 

He shrugs again, and then, busies himself looking for a measuring tape. 

"I don't usually-" he says, then does a vaguely circular hand gesture, "work with live subjects. Well, excluding myself and the occasional plant, but those-"

He shakes his head with a sigh. "Nevermind, that's irrelevant. How do you – want to do this?" 

He finds the measuring tape, and looks at it in his hand. Two options; either you measure yourself or he measures you. And, unfortunately, he was suspecting that the latter might be more accurate. You were wearing skin-tight trousers made from light material, which should help, at least, but... 

“What do you need?” you ask, and that is not a question that is asked of him often. 

It takes him a second to recover from it. 

“Circumferences,” he answers, “range of motion. After that, it’s all fine-tuning.” He nods to himself, twirls the measuring tape in his fingers. 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other again. “Alright,” you say, nodding, “and how do we get those?”

He explains, to the best of his abilities, that the circumferences of thigh, knee and leg were pretty straightforward, and that the range of motion was a bit more complicated. He’d need to know how much your leg naturally moved – without pain, if possible – and how much it should move to serve optimal functionality. Which…unfortunately, were not always the same thing. He’d need to see you in motion to do this, and to be able to measure the bend of your knees.

This is how you end up sitting on the edge of his desk, your legs hanging down, while he’s instructing you to lift or stop or stay still while trying to measure the angles and distances with gentle fingers. It was weird, working with something…alive and warm and not-him, but he tries to adapt a professional approach; asks specifying questions about your ailments to perfect the design. 

Does the pain react to situational changes? Temperature, pressure? Weather? 

The brace should be as light as possible, to not misalign your posture, or bother you more than what it was worth. Sleek enough that you could hide it under clothes if you wished. Robust enough to not have to worry about. Somewhat adjustable.

You are warm under his hands, and so close he can hear your breathing. In the small, slowly dimming space, it felt like even the dust had stopped moving in the moments between questions and answers, when it was just you and him and the silence. 

It tugs at something at the back of his brain; how easy this moment flowed, even when he’d predicted it to be awkward. And maybe it was just him being a perpetual loner, but it was nice, one he got over the shock of–

Of touching someone like this, yes, but also…off approaching a near-medical situation with this level of gentleness. 

He’d spent most of his life trying to fix his own problems for as cheap as possible, and he knew too-well what medical treatments could be like, even when paid for. Cold tools, cold attitudes, the people in charge seeing you as nothing more than a problem to get rid of as fast as possible – and he wanted this to be as far from that as possible, so he kept his shoulders relaxed, his voice soft, his fingers gentle. It was true that he didn’t often exercise as much care as he should when working on things for himself, but this? This he tried to handle as carefully as possible. If he could do anything to make you more comfortable, he would. 

So he keeps his breathing steady. Keeps talking through the process to let you know what he’s doing and why. Keeps his touches lighter than probably actually necessary, erring on the side of caution. And he, very pointedly, compartmentalizes the part of him that was trying to supply thoughts of in what other kinds of situations he’d perhaps like to see you on his desk. 

He didn’t want to be weird about it, so he pretends those thoughts aren’t there while he gently wraps the measuring tape over your thigh. 

“Lift, please,” he exhales, without looking up, and you do, and Viktor can feel your muscles move under his fingers. But that’s just a professional observation. He’d keep his…unprofessional cravings under wraps, at least for now. 

This was just another thing he was working on. 

And if he’d do it well, it might just change your life for the better, and – personally, Viktor was of the opinion that you, and him, and everyone else from the Undercity had suffered enough already. He wanted to help. 

So when he’s satisfied with his notes, he leans back with a sigh and a nod, and looks up at you. You’re already watching him, eyes curious. And he’s suddenly very aware of the rest of the room, quiet and creeping at the back of his mind as you wait for his next move. The air feels colder now that he’s not touching you anymore.

That’s probably good. 

“This should be enough,” he says, waves a hand towards the scribblings on his notebook, “I’ll get it to you in, hm, a week?” He could probably do it faster, but he didn’t want to get your hopes up unless he couldn’t. He’d need to double-check the materials. 

You just look at him for a moment, frozen in…something. Then, “Can I…do something for you in return?”

Ah. The age-old tradition of bargaining. “Hm,” he says, glancing at his notes again, “if you want,” he shrugs a little, “but I don’t think that’s necessary.”

He knows saying that isn’t going to change things. It’s clear in the way you’re looking at him; you’re going to do something for him in return, and it isn’t optional. Not that he’s objecting, he’s not…against spending more time with you, by all means, but he hopes he’d sounded sincere enough that you really don’t need to. He’d spend his time tinkering with something anyway, so it might as well be something that helps. 

“What do you want?” You ask, leaning closer with your hands on the edge of his desk, and that, again, is something he isn’t asked often. It’s not something he thinks about often; his life is too full of other priorities for his own wants to matter much. But this gets his brain going before he can stop it;

More, it supplies, more time with you. More of whatever this is. And it feels selfish, and he knows that, but…

He shrugs again. “Not much,” he answers, “just whatever you think is good.”

[tophat-69]

Vander and Silco - First Meeting

When I started writing for Arcane I wasn't sure if I wanted to write Jayce/Viktor or Vander/Silco first. I landed on Jayce/Viktor because the idea for "it's the good, defining itself" pretty much took over my life to the point that I was putting out a chapter a day for 22 days. But I backburnered a prequel fanfiction of Vander and Silco, to get back to later. I'm not quite ready to commit to it, but wanted to put out there what would be my first chapter. I'm hoping you enjoy it, because I'd like to revisit the idea and keep going someday. So, for now--enjoy Vander and Silco meeting for the first time in the mines, and the start of a partnership.

To be honest, on first impression Vander’s not actually all that impressed. 

“Hey-hey, slim! How was lockup this time?”

It’s midday at the mine, not that anyone would be able to tell if it weren’t for the whistles that echo down into the depths. The only lights in the drift tunnels come from their headlamps, and there’s a sort of liminality to that—it could be dawn or it could be midnight, and in the tunnels they would never know. All they can see is directly ahead of them, and everything else is shadow and rock, like blinders for the beasts of burden that they are. 

As the forward line, their crew is down deep enough now that stopping for meals is almost as miserable an affair as chipping their way through rocks, the kind of heat that makes the heavy protective gear suffocating, the kind of humidity that has Vander’s hair plastered to his neck and forehead beneath the hard hat, and his shirt melting into his skin under the leathers. 

“Still dank, dark, with terrible food and worse company. So, roughly the same as being down here with you lot.” There are a handful of hearty laughs at the dry sarcasm coming from within the echoing cavern, the kind of shared bleak humor that comes with working in the shittiest conditions known to man and, apparently, spending time in prison too. The voice continues with a sly undertone that lends itself well to the affected accent of the Promenade. “Still, food on the table and a roof over my head and topside footing the bill. I’m considering the merits of making it my summer home. ‘Stillwater Manor’ sounds very refined, don’t you think?”

As they stump into the echoing depleted cavern, tobacco smoke curls through the air, though smoking down in the mines is a dangerous game to the point that bringing a match or lighter down is highly regulated. Yet the thirty hewers of their shift fan out to sprawl onto the rough stone floors on either side of the cart rails, and all of the more experienced members of the crew seem to be taking this as expected and normal, throwing out greetings as they haul out their lunch pails and settle in.

Taking off their protective gear is more than just against regulations, it’s a stupid idea: yet there’s a helmet hanging from a rivet in one of the support ribs of the walls, head lamp pointed down to illuminate a book in the lap of a shadowed figure comfortably sprawled out lounging while the rest of them busted their asses. In the dark and with the light focused on the book in front of him, all Vander really gets is a glimpse of stick-thin legs resting on top of the thick leather uniform jacket as if it’s a cushion. 

Vander’s not even really a tight-ass about the regulations. Just someone who understands why these particular rules exist, and how dangerously stupid it is to ignore them.

So, overall--not the greatest of first impressions. 

“You ever consider not getting arrested, Silco? It’s getting to be a pain in the ass for the foreman to pull you out of there.” Cray may be their shift supervisor but down this far he’s just another one of them, putting his back into it to lead by example. Until Vander came along he was the biggest of the crew and did that just in productivity alone, and he’s a well-respected and liked man overall. But leading by example extends beyond hauling rocks and apparently means plunking himself down next to this ‘Silco’ and hooking his helmet off of the bolt, dropping it down onto his head and then thumping his loose fist on top of it. As Vander settles nearby, feet braced against the rail, he can hear Cray’s voice lower, his tone a warmly affectionate warning. “Keep your helmet on, kid. We had a rib pop about a month after you were pinched. Sully didn’t make it out.”

“When they’re given the choice between having me break rocks up there and break rocks down here, I always end up back in the mines. Congratulations, even Stillwater thinks this is a worse punishment than prison.” There are a few of the men who have clearly done time as well who raise their canteens in a toast to that, and the echoing clamor of ribald and lively conversations pick up, letting the newcomer drop his charismatic performance to respond to Cray. He sounds different without a crowd to perform to, and Vander has to strain to listen as he sits nearby and opens up his thermos of leftover stew. “I heard the news when I came in. He was a good man, it’s going to be hard to replace him. …Though I assume that’s why we have the eavesdropping newcomer.”

When the headlamp swings his way, Vander turns and squints against the glare of it being directly aimed at him until his eyes adjust to the light.

Vander’s second impression is an entirely different matter. 

For Vander’s first job, he had been a dockhand where the River Pilt met the Conqueror’s Sea, saltwater and freshwater slow to mingle in the estuary. The brackish waters were a pretty shade of blue-green under the too-bright sunlight, beautiful and troubled, river eternally forced to cede to the overpowering force of the ocean. 

Staring into brilliant, challenging eyes, Vander’s second impression is just ‘pretty.’ Which is probably stupid to think about a dirty little thing so grayed in coal dust that it looks like he’d rolled in it, no matter how striking his eyes are under direct lamplight. 

“Vander, Silco. Silco, Vander. He’s a cousin of mine, so maybe try to be nice to him?”

“Half of you up in the sumps are cousins and all the rest of you call each other siblings. I’m not going to ‘be nice’ to any of them until they prove they’ve earned it.”

It’s an interesting way to phrase things, almost like a slip of the tongue. There are damn few people in the world who would consider the Sumps to be ‘up’ from anywhere at all, even in the undercity. You’d have to be looking up from the bottom of the fissures or the mines themselves to see the world that way. That combined with the Proms accent doesn’t make sense, but Vander just files it away for now as he offers an amiable smile and an extended hand.

“Well, let’s just hope I can earn it, then. Pleasure to meet you, Silco.”

It’s hard not to feel like he’s being dissected when under the glaring bright light of Silco’s headlamp, sharp eyes assessing him. It certainly makes it easier for Vander to do the same without it being awkward, despite being the only thing the other can see clearly for that moment. 

‘Slim’ isn’t a surprising nickname—he’s built small and wiry, all limbs and no bulk to him. There’s a shrewd, wary intelligence in his eyes but one of them is bloodshot; beneath the coal dust Vander suspects he has a black eye and a gash on his cheekbone that he’s trying to conceal. Stillwater wasn’t the picnic that he wants to pretend it was, and the second he’s in direct light it’s obvious. Vander’s nineteen and he’d estimate Silco’s seventeen or eighteen, but he talks as if he’s been a part of this crew for years, he’s gone to Stillwater more than once in that time, and he is perhaps overly comfortable in the mines. 

And he’s a snarky shit who doesn’t even pretend like he’s going to shake Vander’s hand. 

Instead bandaged fingers bring his cigarette back up to his lips as he drags in one last deep pull before stubbing it out on the toe of his boot and pushing himself to his feet, Vander’s outstretched hand completely ignored.  

“Charmed.” His voice is dry, sarcastic, and then he’s back to the show of it all again so others can hear. Illuminated from below by Vander and Cray, they watch as he tucks the book into the small of his back to be held in place by a cinched in belt, then tugs on a uniform jacket. “New rule number one of these mines, Vander. If you see your blaster run, you get the hell out and if I tell you to stand clear you stay the hell out. Cray, I’ll be at the third inbye. You haven’t done anything with it since I’ve been gone.”

“We hit solid on that one about three weeks after you were picked up, slim. I could have asked for another blaster since mine decided to spit in an Enforcer’s face, but then I’d have a harder time convincing them we needed you bailed out.”

Standoffish towards newcomers or not, it’s clear that Silco’s deeply embedded in the crew and they’re looking out for their own. Mining communities are tight-knit like that, and they may squabble among themselves but they’re viciously protective of each other among outsiders. It’s one of their best qualities, and has carried over into the culture of the Sumps. The Enforcers picked up the youngest member of the forward line, and they raised enough hell to get him back out a little early by grinding their operations to a crawl. 

“I’d thank you, but now they’re making me work off that bail so I’m doing this for half my take for about as long as I’d have been behind bars. Which as far as I’m concerned means I’m not being paid to be nice to any of you.” Cray grimaces, but Silco’s wry, slanted smirk doesn’t slip as he shoves his tied-back hair up into his helmet and grabs up a leather toolbag. Wedging a rod through the strap, lighting a safety lamp, and tucking a stub of chalk behind his ear, he then waves a hand lazily as he lopes into the dark. “Tell Myra not to wait the cart on me at shift’s end. I need a chance to get some prospecting done while you’re all out of my way. Draw straws for who’s going to butty me, because I’m blowing something up tomorrow one way or another. ”

“Try not to make it one of us!” One of the miners pipes in, and Silco huffs his amusement as others laugh, but he’s disappeared into the dark, just a narrow silhouette and an uneven bob of a light as he heads to the tunnels, voice echoing back to them.

“Half pay, so I only half promise.”

Vander frowns after him, and based on tone he’s fairly sure Cray is doing the same. “Don’t mind Silco. He takes a while to warm up to people…”

“Your blaster is limping and beat to hell from being in prison. He’s going to get himself killed.”

“The limp isn’t from Stillwater, it’s why he got himself picked up in the first place.” Cray passes over a hunk of bread for Vander in exchange for a portion of the stew, and together they eat side by side. Vander doesn’t have to ask him to explain, his silence says enough. “We had a shitty roof bolter, it’s why the rib popped on Sully too. Too much strain on a pillar ended up with a rockburst. Snapped Silco’s leg like a twig, and it’s only because he’s a fast little bastard that his leg wasn’t just crushed and him along with it. He went from the medical tent straight up to the first Enforcer he saw, picked a fight and let them think they fucked up his leg. So, Stillwater foots the medical bills and gives him three hots and a cot while he can’t work to feed himself or keep a roof over his head anyway. He’s done it before, and him being a kid usually lands him a short stint, too. We’d have left him in for another couple of months to finish healing up...”

But they were threatening to replace him. So Silco is back with a half-healed leg in a job that requires him to be fast on his feet or be caught in his own blasts, doing overnight deadwork that isn’t even going to get him paid, and still dryly quipping with the people who screwed up his plans to let himself heal. 

He’s also not really a kid anymore, so the trick with the Enforcers isn’t going to get him leniency in sentencing for much longer if he goes and gets himself injured again. And it’s clear he’s not exactly making himself friends in prison, either.

“Don’t draw straws.” 

Silco needs a partner, but whoever is stuck with him loses the chance for production bonuses while they’re paired up, and risks being blown up alongside him. Vander has a roof over his head, can get by on the daily wage. Plus he’s pretty sure he could throw the cantankerous little shit over his shoulder and book it faster than Silco can run right now. 

Cray’s scrutinizing him, light bright on Vander’s face again, but he just dunks stale bread into three day old stew and continues eating. 

“…Well, guess we’d better get you the gauntlets, then.”

[laseracronym]

They Made You Cry (MHA/Fem!Reader)

(Laser: I'm sad today, so I curse you with angst.)

Summary: MHA characters reacting to making their girlfriend cry. (Angst, arguments, and some unhealthy relationship dynamics.)

Characters: Bakugou, Dabi, Aizawa, Shigaraki, Midoriya

MHA-MHA-MHA

Bakugou

Katsuki's heart sinks when he sees the unmistakable wetness that mists over your eyes. What's worse, what really makes him feel like the worst kind of bastard, is the way you shy away from his gaze with a sense of bitter defeat. Like he's getting what he wanted. Like his victory, his intention, was pushing you to tears.

As if he could ever consider this a victory.

"H-Hey..." he reaches out to you, awkward and unsure. He's so bad at dealing with tears, especially yours. It's so much easier to take on whatever piece of shit that's made you cry, but in this case, it's him. He's the piece of shit.

You sniffle, hurriedly brushing past him, equal parts angry and hurt.

"Whatever, Katsuki."

Dabi

The thing about you is that you're so damn unpredictable. Sweet one second, drawing blood the next.

Dabi kind of loves it. It keeps things from becoming boring, getting stale. And you're so hot when your eyes are ablaze with whatever emotion is overcoming you.

Just like right now, in the middle of some pointless, bullshit argument, when something he says makes you snap. You tackle him to the ground, your hands fisting into his jacket as you yell in his face. All he can do is grin up at you dangerously, just as angry, but equally as enticed by just how vibrant you look in this moment.

Then something even sweeter happens.

Big, fat tears begin to drip from your wild eyes, and Dabi sucks in a breath. You sob, frustrated and overwhelmed, and his cold, little heart warms at the sight.

"Oh, pretty girl..."

His arms wrap around you as you cry into his chest, cursing his name all the while. He strokes your hair, twisted affection squirming in his chest like a nest of spiders.

Always so unpredictable and entertaining.

Aizawa

"(Name), I-" Shouta falters, all the anger and frustration from your argument washed away by cold, all-consuming guilt at the sight of the tears slipping down your face.

You hurriedly wipe them away, stepping back, away from him, and the guilt deepens.

He knows you hate crying in front of him, even when it isn't his fault. It makes you feel weak, and he knows you worry he'll think less of you, that he'll find your more emotional way of being "irrational."

You turn, hiding your face as you try to walk away, but he stops you, gently catching you by the arm.

"Wait," he pleads, his voice gentle, "I'm sorry." Because no argument is worth making you cry.

"I don't want you to see me like this," you mutter, your head down. But at least you're not pulling away from him. He takes that as a good sign.

"Don't hide from me," he urges. He takes you by the chin and tilts your head up so he can look at you properly. He brushes your tears away, regretful that they're there in the first place. "Let's talk about this, okay?"

He's always so stubborn, set in his ways. But he'll try to meet you in the middle, to understand your perspective. You're worth it.

Shigaraki

Tomura feels no guilt at the sight of your tears, only vindictive satisfaction. Good. He'd been aiming to hurt you when he said those words to you. He really can't stand the way you make him feel sometimes, so he's happy to return the favor.

"You're seriously crying?" he taunts with a cruel smirk, poking at your cheek with a mocking finger.

You smack his hand away, "fuck you, Tomura, you fucking prick," you hiss, trying not to cry even more in front of him. You turn and storm away from him before things get even worse.

"You're so pathetic!" he calls after you, making sure you can hear him before you slam the door behind you.

He huffs, standing there and scratching at his neck. You're so damn overdramatic, a pain in his ass. You deserve to cry a little for the shit you put him through.

The image of your tear-filled face flashes through his mind. He ignores the way it makes his stomach twist with discomfort.

Midoriya

Izuku feels his own eyes fill with tears, watching you hug yourself and cry in front of him.

"(N-Name)... please don't cry..." he begs, his hands brushing up and own your arms, trying to console you.

"I thought I was never going to see you again," you cry, your words making his heart ache. You scrub a shaking hand over your eyes, "I was so s-scared for you!"

"I'm sorry, (Name)," he pulls you into a hug, his own tears running free. He really scared you this time. It was a close call. "It's okay, I'm okay. I'm here."

He shushes you gently, guilt spreading through his chest at the distress he's caused you. His job is always going to cause you to worry, the only thing he can do is try his best to come home to you at the end of the day.

(Requests)

[its-aftg]

book narrative leads us to think that yes, she knew and accepted it was Riko. Hang with me here, there's a lot to unpack in not a lot of words. Speculation of the text is mine, take my interpretation or don't :) I maybe, defintely, ran away with this because in the end it has to do with two of my favs <3

Let's go in chronological order!

(side note: there is a lot of pharmacology talk in here lol i'm so sorry. i maybe work somewhere in this area lol)

TFC pg 262-

Andrew tapping his phone against his thigh feels just so telling to me. He knows this isn't what it seems like and that thought process coming out in this motion. I just like this :)

I really need mythology Tumblr on this one, I feel like the club/bar being named Bacchus is really important here but this is not my Roman Empire. Breifly - God of wine fertility estacy and banquet, (Dionysus in Greece), created madness, ...he symbolizes the cycle of life - can i argue that Seth is Bacchus and that his death is exactly what he represents? Him dying means the Foxes come together, the Foxes will be 'reborn' into something that they weren't before all because Seth is no longer there and they will continue the cycle. (he had a lot of followers which we can see when there's talk of other friends/notes/teachers when they get back to the court after his death, Seth may have been unlikable to half the Foxes but he was liked by others in his life).

Andrew warned Seth that he was going to off himself via OD - I find the phrasing here interesting because i get the impression that he wasn't doing it to throw in his face but more a srtraightforward observation. How many other things did Andrew try to tell Seth? ("not that he ever listened to me")

If most has been out of his system for years does that mean he hadn't OD'd in the time that the Monsters were on the team? This is only their second year there... if he's only on antidepressants now I really want to know what class lol Alcohol can mess with them (SSRI, SNRI, or MAOI - MAOI has the most risk associated) but other than MAOI would usually just make depression/anxiety worse. MAOI are super 'dangerous' in general and not first or second line treatment, usually only prescribed when other treatment fails and the benefit outweighs the risk, i would argue that no competant MD would prescribe a MAOI to him due to history of drug and alochol use - and potential suicidal thoughts pre-Allison. You don't want to drink on a MAOI, period. If you do you can skyrocket your BP (you also shouldn't eat aged cheese, soy sauce, smoked meats, smoked fish, pickled stuff, etc etc etc, the list is long lol) and not for just the same day you take a MAOI but for like 2 weeks you're not supposed to do these things! High bloodpressure = chest pain, headaches, vomiting, confusion, heart attack, stroke, etc. So this to me means he's on a MAOI (not likely imo) or he took something else. (willingly or not)

(side thought is i don't know how much nora knows about pharmacology and if any of this is actually based in real life or if this is just kinda made up for the story, see some points later to why this is confusing.)

TFC pg 264-

Andrew is like 1000% confident Seth wasn't suicidal. From what we know of Andrew this wouldn't be some half-thought. Did Seth never need to go to Eden's with them because he wasn't actually addicted and it wasn't actually a problem (like Matt or Aaron)? The only problem was the posibility of accidentally dying while using and drinking. Did Andrew equate his using similar to their usage of cracker dust? (the reason, not the potential outcome)

Seth is "Andrew's least favorite fox" (TRK pg 3) and yet he is SO sure of this.

His reg meds plus alochol are probably not giving him this no thinking or feeling, I think these days we all think opiates instead, but maybe some benzodiazapines (maybe at the time a barbituate but i think by this point xanax had become pretty commonly prescribed?) Benzos plus alcohol have an extremely high risk of fatality and honestly where i would put my HC behind... (optiates were around then but honestly not near as popular as they are now for abuse and i think it's less likely that he would have been prescribed an opiate if the main reason he's on meds is depression. see below why i say he was prescribed...)

TFC pg 264 -

They weren't on the outs, Seth ONLY takes 'his pills' when they are.

The phrasing is weird and why I keep coming back to these thoughts. 'His pills' to me means his prescribed meds. I would rule out MAOI since you're taking those as maintenance meds, which makes me think he's on something for breakthrough in addition to his regular non-MAOI anti-depression med. Which as I said above really makes me go to something like xanax. now obviously it could be anything, any CNS depressant with alcohol (another CNS depressant) can have not good outcomes....or a made up drug for this fictional book series lol

I've been around a lot of people who used rx meds (not their own) and party drugs (and the really hard stuff too) for several decades, i don't think a single person has referred to them as 'their pills'. which is maybe why this stands out to me so much.

bby Neil is so in denial after watching Allison check Seth with several witnesses, still just assuming he had taken his. (like did you think he was ooping them? is ooping still the term these days?)

Andrews points are of course super solid here. Riko had to be stragtegic in who he took out, 3 strikers, 2 goalies, 3 backliners, 2 dealers. He had to take out a striker or a backliner and only a striker and a dealer were out that night. Seth was also one with a known drug issue which would make him the easier target over Allison.

TRK pg 23 -

I've said it 1000 times on my blog, but seth dying is what it took for the foxes to win. Him being gone means the monsters and the upper classmen don't have to pick sides anymore, they get to try to merge together at least a little bit.

and with Neil being on both sides.... HE turns into the uniting force because of Seth. Because if Seth had stayed they may never unite, because even though he wanted them to do well so bad he was too unagreeble.

TRK pg 54 -

Just a scene that is refrenced in a later screenshot :)

I like to think he said something like "Don't let him have died for nothing." or "Fuck them up." :D

TKM pg 110 --

(he's got the perfect court number at this point, and just told Riko off in an interview post-game. this is where the cars are destroyed.)

I love that Allison knows he's not sorry and she also doesn't want him to be. Allison needs him to fight against Riko/Ravens bullshittery, because that IS Neil. And he doesn't fight then Seth's death was worthless.

Neil not wanting the fight to come back on them is the funniest shit lol Like the fight hasn't been coming back to the team since day one.

Nothing else they can do will break Allison because she's already lost the most important things - the Reynolds Empire and now Seth. She knows they can't take another teammate cus then they can't play and Riko needs them to be able to play. She's already been the most hurt she can be.

TKM pg 112 -

It really is so right of Aaron to call Neil out here. Becasuse while he may have initially thought that no one would get caught up in his bullshit we've had two whole books to see that's not how this works. Was it a mean way to say it, yes lol

Neil wanting to defend himself but knowing he can't because it is true really makes me think about how we see the AFTG world. Neil says he's sorry, but he's not because he would do it again and again, he thinks what he did is right (i mean me too lol) but he also doesn't just know how to say like shit's gonna happen and it sucks yall will suffer for it but i think it's the right thing to do....

I'm just here for Allison slapping Aaron. Like yes, Neil's mouth caused Seth's death, but Allison is having none of this shit (next part has them actually talking about this). She already KNOWS how Seth's death came about but still needs Neil to be Neil - and Aaron isn't gonna go around putting her mans name in his mouth when it's convienent.

TKM pg 124 --

She in no way has thought that Seth did it to himself since like within 4 days after it happens (we don't know the day of the funeral because Neil never tells us lol thanks. They all split up Sunday when Matt and Andrew got in a fight and don't see each other again until that Wednesday) Maybe initially? But even then I think she knew in her heart that he was clean and he wasn't going to do anything. Better murdered than taken out by himself....

Andrew intentionally having stopped by to ask questions and then share his theory? A class shit. Love this for us. I know he's just trying to make sure the team can play so he can keep all these promises he's made and make sure Neil is still around because at the time he was just interesting but maybe not heart eyes yet...and he knows they need Allison. She also doesn't have a reason to NOT believe Andrew.

I don't know if i think Allison blames Neil, maybe a little bit. Maybe it was hard to look at him and know that he was the catalyst to Seth dying. From Neil's perspective it's hard for me to know.

He acknowledges that she forgave him at some point but neither of them ever talked about it. Even thought Neil here says that he should have said something sooner, Allison also didn't bring it up. It seems that internally she forgave him and then just kept on living life, expecting Neil to be the mouthy asshole he is, and that the foxes would continue to have his back.

The we noticed is so funny, like this bro snuck off to Evermore for weeks, got tortured, came back with a perfect court tat, ripped Riko another asshole in an interview, and yet literally cannot talk to the people he's closest with about important things. like yes, no big deal....

TLDR - Allison knew within a few days that Riko was the cause of Seth's death because of Andrew and accepted this as truth.

(can i tell you how much i don't like not knowing WHAT Seth OD'd on specifically. drives me crazy!!!)

I'm sure this has been said before but do y'all ever wonder if Allison knows? I mean, Seth was clean and had been for a while, and she checked that he didn't have drugs on him, but it wouldn't have been hard for him to slip something by her. do you think she wonders if it really was riko after all? Did she miss the signs? Were there signs to miss? Do you think she lies awake at night flipping that coin in her head.....

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

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[buttercup-art]

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH OMG OMG OMG-

[shield-and-saber]

yeah, so i just finished cataclysm