#strength of thousands spoilers

[rookwritesrarely]

Riven and the Stormborn

Riven tried to focus on walking, but even that was growing more difficult by the hour. The pain was getting worse, and all she could smell was ozone. Everything ached, her eyes struggled to focus, and sometimes her limbs would spasm as the graveknight’s influence sent bolts of electricity through her muscles.

The worst thing though, were the voices. The constant, electric, petrichor whispering of the Stormborn, she could not make out the words but she knew with more certainty than anything that she was taunting her, trying to make her give up. Then there was the low, deep, crimson laughter from that thing in the egg, mocking her for her weakness. The ever-present background omens, dusty, silken whispers of the Almost-Dead and the Never-Quite-Alive, most of the time Sever dealt with those, but now… she could feel their connection slipping. But deepest and darkest of them all was the Father. His voice clearer than all the rest, rasping and breathless, sounding of brimstone and singed paper, lecturing her, disappointed. 

She looked down at her hands and stared. The tips of her fingers had already begun to putrefy and slough away. She continued to stare as the party continued onwards. It was not the first time she had seen bone in the wreckage of her hands, while fire could be kind, it did not tolerate hesitation. She hated to admit it, but she preferred the smell of her charred flesh to the sickly sweet smell of rot and ozone.

It was supposed to be better! Sure, she and her friends had all nearly died on several occasions, but she never felt so hopeless before. What she faced now was worse than death, shoved unceremoniously into oblivion, her body taken over by a demon, she thought with a mix of pride and shame, that her friends would be unlikely to defeat without her. She had fought nearly all her life for the chance to have a life like this, and she had won! She had fought tooth and nail against everything she knew about the world in the name of hope and kindness and she had succeeded, but no victory is without its costs. The memory of that day was still burned into her soul. The screams, the smoke, the heat of the flames, the look of betrayal on the face of Father Ulric, the rush of fear and adrenaline subsiding as she dropped the knife, hands slick with his blood. The sting of tears across the cuts on her face as she ran through the burning temple, the frantic sprint to the gates as Sever bought her enough time, the experience of seeing through two sets of eyes, the feeling of the cold cobblestones against her feet and the crimson heat of fresh blood on his hands at the same time. And when she was finally free, the feeling of weight falling off her shoulders, and the smell of the lilacs lining the street. The city was still sleeping, but that would not stay the case for long, not with the risk of the fire spreading, so she ran, and didn't stop until she could not run any further.

Of course, her life after the escape wasn’t perfect. Inexplicable phenomena were practically commonplace for her. Strange blind men she met on the road speaking to her in iambic pentameter, trees bursting into flame when she walked past them, she stopped being surprised after the first few months. And because strange things kept happening around her, people made sure she knew she wasn't welcome. But then she had come to the academy, and while those first few months were pretty rough, she was happy. Up until a few days ago, her life was as close to perfect as it ever had been. And despite that, her first thought had been of acceptance, she was ready to throw away everything she had worked for for expediency, she was willing to simply lay down and die without trying. She was falling back into bad habits. And Chizire! Oh, Chizire, she hadn't even considered what he might feel about her thinking like that. She was still getting used to having friends, let alone something more. He had surprised her on her birthday with flowers. He had made them out of glass himself, apparently he had asked Mustanae what flowers she liked most, and so he had made her the little glass lilacs that were still in her dorm back at the academy. Even though they hadn’t come out quite right and reminded her of that day she wished she could forget, they were her most cherished possession. Riven shook her head and began to walk faster towards the city. She made it this far, and she wasn’t about to let whatever it was that was so determined to make her miserable win.

[mosstrades]

devon (loading a gun and visibly at the end of her rope): id have two nickels. which isnt a lot. but jesus fucking christ.

[spoondoodles]

The crooked are smiling They know me the best / This cradle still burns Like a hole in my chest - The Crooked, The Cradle by The Crane Wives Introducing my grippli/tiefling flurry ranger/path of the heavens cleric for the pf2e Strength of Thousands adventure path: Iopo! I've been playing them for a long time now (over a year!) and I love them so very dearly :) My acearo nongendered metallic red frog :)))) what will they do (jump off an enemy to trip them ofc)

[tonycries]

Dream A Little Dream - G.S.

Synopsis. For the strongest, it was a privilege to dream. Especially when his dream is you. 

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. fem! reader, established relationship, implied sex, fluff, soft and sleepy Satoru, very slight manga spoilers, just Satoru loving on you and your future together.

Word count. 0.8k

A/N. Probably gonna delete. Art by @_3aem on X.

It’s times like this - when the quiet morning sun is just peeking in through your window, in the still haze of your naked body peacefully intertwined with his that Satoru allows himself to dream.

He dreams of everything - from the strawberry lollipops he snuck into the Gojo Estate as a kid to the time when he forgot Megumi at the mall. 

But mostly, he dreams of you.

Eyes still veiled with sleep, wandering the expanse of your face, a hand tenderly running along the features he’s mapped a thousand times over. Thumb softly catching on the corner of your mouth, slightly quirked up, he wonders what you’re dreaming of. 

Do you dream of him too?

Because Satoru’s favorite dream will always be the one with you. 

Your laughter in the morning light as he smothers you in kisses, how it rings in his ears and carries through his day. If there’s one thing Satoru knows, it’s that he would burn this entire godforsaken world down to keep it there. Even in the face of violence, his favorite song.

Reaching out to softly kiss your fingers, the hands which hold his heart and his future. 

Unhurriedly, he caresses that empty spot on your ring finger. Soon. 

Little black box burning a hole into that hidden corner of his dresser, Satoru absentmindedly wonders whether you would go for a flowing gown or more of a sleek design? He dreams of the delicate lace under his fingers, the gentle sway of the fabric and the blue bouquet to match his eyes. 

A huff of laughter, followed by a melancholic twinge of his heart, finds its way into the still morning air as he imagines the way Nanamin would have been crying very reluctant tears of joy.

Long fingers deftly run along the expanse of your body, drawing patterns on the marks he’s left to remember him by, resting on your stomach. He dreams of a world where he is there to see you run around with a few white-haired bundles of joy. All of them with your personality of course - he couldn’t handle having to fight with some mini versions of himself over you.

And they may be closed for now, but he dreams of the twinkle in your eyes as they meet his, the promise of a beautiful day ahead. 

He can only pray that they always look at him that way. Even when the shine of your eyes dim with age, the chapters of your story showing on your face. The dream where you two complain about your first gray hairs - him cackling about you finally joining the club. 

It might not seem like it, but in the blood and merciless gore of jujutsu, a part of the strongest always thinks back to the heaven he’s found in you. 

The heaven where you both cry over your kids leaving the nest, and later he’d fervently deny his teary eyes - secretly wiping the tears off his glasses. 

Where you spend quiet evenings on the porch, wrapped in blankets and reminiscing about the adventures of your youth. Did he ever tell you that story where he lost the tickets to a movie and had to sneak into the theater with Shoko and Suguru? Boy, did he get an earful from Yaga that day.

The dream where he’s surrounded by you and all your warmth. In the cold pain that comes with being the strongest, he can only hope that a day will come where his strength - rather than being used to kill - holds your future with ready arms. 

Ripping his eyes off of your face, they wander the room bathed in the soft morning glow. Mapping the empty spaces which you two would fill with pictures. The walls which would echo with laughter and whisper tales of serenity.

First days at school, graduations, all the friends and foes lost along the years - and one big picture of you in that beautiful white dress, right in the middle. All beauty and grace. His beautiful bride. A dream where his last name is a melody not a death sentence.

He dreams he’s there to fetch your walking cane to stroll through your little garden with a cup of his famous morning tea. He’d hold your hand as he always does, both trembling and frail with age. He dreams he would kiss the beautiful wrinkles on the corners of your eyes, only for you to push him away bashfully complaining about the grandkids seeing.

Blue eyes faded and the joy of the years showing on his face, not as strong or as vibrant as he once was, limitless nothing more but a trick to make his grandkids smile. Not a weapon, but just your Satoru. He hopes you’ll still be there to love him.

And he dreams he’s there.

He wants to be there. 

“Satoru?”

Satoru’s heart lurches as those beautiful eyes crack open, still foggy with sleep. A glimpse of that smile he found heaven in, and you pull him closer. Understanding. Skin heated against his, no one but you two in this quiet world.

All is well in your little heaven.

Today, the strongest will face Ryomen Sukuna, the fate of the world burdened upon his shoulders. But for now, Satoru is held fragilely in your arms.

For now, he is yours. 

He only dreams he can be forevermore. 

A/N. Tony writing something that isn’t smut??? The world is coming to an end.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[fancyfeathers]

Yandere Capitano thought

Genshin Impact 5.1 Archon Quest Spoiler Warning

So in act four of the Archon Quest we see that whole war and just the devastation it has on Natlan, over two thousand people who could not be resurrected. With Capitano lending his and his subordinates strength to the Pyro Archon it is only natural that he sees some of the most terrible of things in this war, including a very harrowing sight after he cleared out another group of monsters from the Abyss. It was near a remote farm house and he was going to help them evacuate to the stadium but he was far too late. When he goes to check the house everyone was dead, not a soul around except a young woman.

She was clearly not a fighter, crying, shaking and curled up in a corner while covered in the blood of her family. The image of this just sends him back five hundred years to all the people he could not protect, and this poor thing did not ask to be born in the nation of war and she clearly wants little to do with the traditions of her people with the pilgrimage and the night warden wars, so why should she be here?

The Captain does not have much time to dwell on her in the moment, just picking up the shocked girl and handing her off to his subordinates to get her to safety. Capitano had saved hundreds of people by that point but the people of Natlan had courage and she clearly did not, it just struck a chord with him.

He does not see her again until it is all over, while people are celebrating their victory, she is alone with no where to go and no one to be with, they were all dead. She is just sitting by herself while everyone else who fought is at least somewhat happy with their victory. Then Capitano overhears the words she speaks to another, one of the new heroes or perhaps the Archon herself…

“I wish I died with them.”

Her friends had started their future…

Her brothers and sisters were married or had their partners…

Her parents had each other…

But she has no one…

She is the only one left to mourn what happened to them, and no one there is there to truly comfort her because everyone else is busy or counting their own losses.

The Captain is able to recognize her potential self destructive behavior and is smart enough to have his subordinates keep a close eye on her after he heard that because there is just something about her…

Then the next time he sees her is when one of his subordinates drags her to him, she is crying and yelling at them to let her go and at first the Captain is irritated that his subordinate would handle her like this, well that is until he is told what happened.

She tried to join her family…

In death.

In her mind she has nothing left to live for, but thanks to this the Captain has found his something to give his life true meaning again, to protect her from rotting away.

(Just when I was adding the tags to this I remembered the song Flowers from Hadestown and it just fits so well with this idea)

[blughxreader]

Soft yandere Miguel O’Hara

cw: noncon, breeding, kidnapping, m masturbation, biting, SPOILERS. Headcanons and drabble. 1.4k words.

Mean dom Miguel is so hot, but I find that soft yan Miguel has so much overlap with canon.

This man still does all the sick and deplorable things a villain does, but in a way that's strangely tender.

I mean, you simultaneously have to be a sweet man and a stone-cold motherfucker to step in the shoes of your dead counterpart and con his family into thinking everything is fine. Like, he (eventually) fucked a dead man's wife, adopted his child, and seamlessly integrated into his shoes.

While certainly calloused, it also reveals a profound desperation for love and a willingness to do anything for it.

Enter you: a Spider from a random dimension that got caught up in an anomaly's destruction. Maybe your world was destroyed or it's emotionally difficult for you to return, so you end up spending a lot of time at HQ.

Miguel doesn't notice you for a while. There's hundreds of Spiders milling about the base, so it's only until you befriend Peter B and his baby that you get acquainted.

You draw him in without trying, no matter the walls that Miguel puts up. He needs to focus—everyone's very existence is at stake, dammit,—but by month five, you're the only thing he can think about.

His advances start off slow, bogged down by his own exasperation at himself. You're ordered to give in-person de-briefs in Miguel's office and get invited to lunch with him and Peter B, giving you the impression of an upcoming promotion. Miguel is as poised as ever, not letting a single stray emotion color his expression, and talks to you in an aloof, polite manner.

However uninterested he might seem, his insides tighten and flutter at your growing friendship. Every time you smile or secretly share a bemused look, he sinks deeper and deeper in his desire to have you.

Proximity-wise, Miguel vacillates between sitting next to you, close enough for your elbows to brush, and standing 30 feet away on his podium for the next week.

His involuntary, physical reactions startle him, and it becomes another contention he internally wars about. The second he thinks it's harmless to brush against you, it divulges into grabbing—cupping—pinning—fucking—ruining.

God, he fucking loathes the powerless feeling you inflict on him, but he doesn't have the strength to put an end to your friendship. He furiously jerks off after every meeting, biting into his hand to punish himself as he comes to the thought of you swollen with his child.

He thinks of all the deplorable ways to make you pay for causing these feelings, but he ultimately knows the blame lies within him. You see him as a boss and friend, nothing more. You would never intentionally drag him down to this state, so he bottles up all these feelings for your protection.

It takes a particularly bad mission for his control to break.

Whatever reservations he had about locking you in his bedroom evaporate when he sees you covered in blood and rubble. Protecting you from himself was one thing, but the thousands of universes?

You didn't realize what happened until you woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom, weary from pain medication.

He takes your fear, anger, and tears in stride.

While he can't shake his bitchy personality, his annoyance always fizzles out to mumbles and sighs. For months, he takes your verbal abuse and outbursts with resigned acceptance. Miguel didn't always like what he had to do, but he would commit any atrocity if it meant keeping you at his side.

He moves some of his work at home to spend more time with you, just content to occupy the same room while you adjusted to your new situation.

Your shared apartment is quiet most days, save for sporadic outbursts of rage from you, and Miguel daydreams about having a few little kids running around to fill the void.

He stares at you most evenings, watching you curled up on the couch pointedly ignoring him. Miguel thinks you wouldn't be so belligerent if you needed him for something, if you craved his presence and help in some way.

Miguel's mind always drifts back to his favorite fantasies on nights like these: you nine months pregnant and too big for anything other than his shirts. His eyes drift down to your stomach, to the place where you could make his dreams come true.

Patience is something Miguel prides himself on, which is why he puts up with the loneliness for nearly a year after bringing you home. You were given ample time to warm up to him and he's been nothing but kind. Every broken plate and spoiled food, every scratch across his face, every insult—he let you have your way in hopes that you'll eventually recognize him as your lover.

But no. You complained and struggled every step of the way.

Miguel could never hurt you, but he realized that more permanent and assertive measures had to be taken to make you see that you need and love him as much as he does you.

---

When he finally takes you, there's hardly any space between your bodies. There are months of touch starvation to make up for and Miguel is compensating all at once.

His entire 6'9" stature pins you to his bed, locking you between arms as large as your thighs. Miguel is the only thing you see or feel, as his hands caress every dip and curve of your body and his cock grinds against your slit.

With your legs helplessly hiked up around his waist and one of his hands pinning your wrists above your head, he makes love to you with a slow burning intensity.

Your fear and disgust are palpable, but between his sweet voice in your ear and his fingers somehow knowing the rhythm and speed to play with your clit, you're more wet than you've ever been.

"Shh, shh, mi cornazón. I have you." Miguel kisses your jaw, his cock rocking in and out of your aching heat with an agonizingly slow pace. "Just breathe steadily and let me take care of you."

He's too big inside of you, and your grunts of pain make him linger in place to help you adjust. When his stride picks up and the wet sounds of sex fill the bedroom, disgust roils in your stomach. Yet fuck, fuck, fuck, your body temperature rises with each stroke.

Miguel kisses you deeply, using his free hand to hold your head in place. He says, "It's time. I've been so patient. Be brave for me and take our baby."

He swallows your horrified pleading with another scorching kiss.

Your pussy clenches around his dick and your breath catches in your throat. Miguel hugs you tighter, his nose pressed into your hair as he angles himself just right. When the first waves of your orgasm make your head dip back, the sharp edge of fangs scratch your neck.

You barely register his mantra of, "Te amo," when his jaw clamps down on your shoulder. Blood spurts from between his teeth, and you cry out in confused pain as your orgasm shakes your body.

Miguel moans into your flesh seconds later, pumping his cum deep inside you. His thrusting is uncoordinated and rough, too blinded by pleasure to notice how powerful his pounding is. The mattress springs whine beneath you two, and you can only cry from the overwhelming treatment.

He milks every last drop of cum into your cunt before he begins to slow. Both of you gasp for breath, your chests heaving against one another's as sweat cools on your hot skin.

He keeps you plugged up for a while longer to give the conception time. His bloodied lips drag across the wound on your shoulder, peppering you with kisses as he trails red along your neck.

A sob shutters in your chest as Miguel runs a palm along your stomach.

"You'll understand soon. I promise. This will be the best thing that's ever happened to us."

[graceofagodswrath]

Transformers x HASO Headcannons | Part 2

Back on my Transformers kick and it’s making me depressed about the realism behind humans being helpless and tiny. I also went over this in my first set of Transformers headcannons as a reply, so this is me expanding on a lot of those points.

My main focus is that if humans were the average size of other sentient beings in the Transformers universe, we would finally be taken a little bit seriously. Cue ridiculous research into humans' actual strengths.

Transformers are coming to understand our evolutionary path. Because we’re so small, it’s easily overlooked that humans are still predators. We hunt, we kill, and we’re violent. If we don’t have someone to hate as a unified group, we turn on ourselves.

But specifically, we’re pursuit predators. Our endurance and stamina is what makes us deadly. Our main hunting strategy back in the cave and hut days was literally to just walk after an animal for days on end until it either gave up or dropped dead from exhaustion. We can go miles without tiring (when trained properly).

As long as we have water, we can last a month without food. The longest someone ever fasted was for 382 days (look up Agnus Barbieri), and that was with the bare essentials of liquids and vitamins. No solid food.

And when we do have to find our own food, anything is game. We will find a way to eat it. Whether poisonous, venomous, tough-skinned, or just a lot of teeth, we will figure out a way to make it a meal. We have the advantage of being omnivores. In a game of survival, outside of predators, we’re top dogs.

While no natural armor sucks, our hairless selves are perfectly adapted to adapting to any environment. We are hella sensitive even to the slightest changes. We can smell weather changes based on moisture in the air, taste anomalies in our food, feel the slightest brush on something on our skin, etc. Our lack of armor allows for easy flexibility most species can only dream of, especially transformers. Getting into tight spots, getting out of tight spots, and moving hella fast is our bread and butter (when motivated lol).

One thing I really find interesting is our prey/predator instinct vs transformers.

Transformers did not evolve (as far as my knowledge goes) with natural predators. They have been through horrific times, from slavery under Quintessons to their own government, but the only really natural evolutionary advantage they have is their technological adaptability. Their ease of learning alien languages is an example. As well as their main transformation ability.

TF One really highlights this (small spoilers). Their planet is shown to be a constantly changing environment, from flat surfaces to rapidly changing cliff faces. Their ability to transform between a vehicle and bipedal form is imperative to quickly adapt to such a fast-paced and even deadly environment. The only predators I can account for are scraplets and spark eaters (there are probably more, but idk them). However, their reaction to this is to pull guns and freak out. They assume their technology and "superior" processes will solve all their problems.

But their cockiness in other environments shows how nonchalant they are about these interactions, and it backfires heavily. The only real threats they see are other transformers and larger sentient species. Plus diseases, but that’s a whole other thing.

Humans on the other hand have had to contend with thousands of predator species over our evolutionary path. It’s only in the last couple hundred years or so that we’ve truly eliminated most of these threats or domesticated them. And when I say eliminate, I mean either mass hunting or learning about said predators to easily deal with them and avoid dangerous situations. Our prey instinct gives us the alertness to deal with imminent threats easier than species that don’t have such a strong experience.

That leads to the big evolutionary advantage of humans - our brains. Even though we’re considered primitive by transformer standards, that’s transformer standards. A race that has existed for ten million years through technological immortality, is also their undoing. Because they have lived for so long, breaking free of long-held traditions is near impossible for their society, which is why their war took place. Without consistent generational death and birth, they are literally stuck in the past.

Humans don’t have that issue - we change with the times because of our short mortality. While not the main influence for the size of our brains, it’s a point I wanted to add to clarify why transformers may struggle to adapt to certain environments versus humans.

Through the consistent stresses we endure because of our vulnerability, we have to consistently think outside the box to survive. To stagnate is death, forward is all we can do. Our brains have developed in such a way that we can comprehend, understand, and innovate with ease. It’s our main calling card. Hell, when there’s no stress we just do that shit for fun (shrimp literally frying rice contraptions for example).

When you combine these talents and we know what the fuck we’re doing, we’re pretty much unstoppable. As long as we’re on an even playing field. Via size. Because let’s be honest, that’s the only reason humans are looked down upon (other than being organic, but if anyone has any other ideas, let em flow).

A personal fav of mine is the idea that if we were the same size as the average transformer, we’d be cryptid level creepy. The way we move, behave, even the way we smile would be unnerving, no matter how similar we look. If anything, the similarities between the average cybertronian and human would probably freak transformers out, seeing their own features reflected in an organic. Noses, eyes, teeth, especially toes.

My personal headcannon is that Transformers would think toes are so weird. Like, what’s the point of having so many extra digits? Cue our climbing abilities and balancing in weird places. Or just closing a drawer or door with a foot. Grabbing something with the dogs. Pull a chimpanzee and let the weird looks fly.

Better yet, our pain tolerance. Sure, we’re squishy and get hurt easily thanks to the lack of armor and exposed skin. But that just builds pain tolerance. We tolerate getting picked up and thrown around by these giant asses so much because it’s what we’re already used to. We teach our children coordination, balance, their physical limits, and so much more through rough play. Its how we learn to become this versatile.

Roughhousing, doing dangerous shit just for fun, our vulnerability makes us used to the pain. It becomes easy to ignore and work through. This leads to the crazy shit about getting stabbed or shot and just walking it off. Imagine a transformer losing their shit over their human getting shot and the humans just like, “damn, feels like when I burnt my hand on the stove” or some shit. Unfazed.

And ANOTHER thing. Our instincts play a big role. That feeling you get when being watched? Or uncanny valley? I have a huge headcannon that humans would not be fooled by holomatter avatars. It would just hit us immediately. Transformers have no instinct to breathe. They probably don’t think about blinking. Their movement would probably be stiff and awkward, used to navigating spaces with more stationary bulk. Sure, they could probably program their avatars to do it, but I get a feeling that you would… get a feeling.

Plus their clothes choices make no sense half of the time (I’m looking at Rodimus, wtf was that getup in swerves arc in MTMTE?? Only Nautica and Swerve looked normal, plus Megatron - without his shoulder-padded trenchcoat).

This was a 2am rant, so if it’s unclear, I apologize. And if anyone wants to clarify or make corrections, please do! Again, I am not up to date on all comics or lore, so I’m probably missing a lot of shit. This is based on my personal feelings, knowledge, and observations.

[roseglazedlens]

⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

➠ series masterlist | 🔃girl’s route | 🔃boy’s route |

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY & CARLOS OLIVEIRA X AFAB GN! READER ADA WONG & JILL VALENTINE X AFAB GN! READER chapter synopsis: You are amongst the top five selected for this infiltration to take down Glenn Arias. An argument unfolds between the agents and you are forced to pick a side. chapter content: smut in next chapter, resident evil: vendetta spoilers, zombies, haunted mansion, explicit themes throughout this series. a/n: welcome to my second series!! (need to finish my first one oops) on a thursday one month ago, i thought to myself 'zombie threesome hehehe', then i took the idea and sprinted with it and this series is born. so, uh... zombiefuckers rise up?? « 3.3 k words | general masterlist | ao3 | reblogs appreciated! »

Millions are dying—Mass infections are happening across the globe swamping the streets with an unbeknownst fear. The symptoms of this virus are faint, indecipherable next to an x-ray of a man who is perfectly healthy. Not even the carrier themselves are aware of how the virus lies underneath their veins, dormant, until a click of button is pressed from a commander far away, then their symptoms worsen: a headache, a cold, veins turning purple as the poison hatches in them, spreading, until the only thing that can manoeuvre their limbs is the word: KILL.

That’s the greatest strength of this virus. Anyone can be infected, and maybe, you already are.

This product first reached the underground market three months ago. Called the A-Virus; a bioweapon succeeded in the market for its ability to infect targeted communities remotely and leaving no evidence on the perpetrator, which no other distributors had successfully produced before.

Engineered by Glenn Arias, the researcher sold over thousands of this bioweapon, becoming a billionaire overnight at the cost of lives lost from the whims of the rich. He supplied the wealthy and corrupted, like insatiable brats, with new remote-controlled monster trucks, who only aims to tear down families and have their victims beg mercy to a monster that will not speak reason.

Hence, this problem brought attention to a global scale, having the DSO come in alliance with the BSAA and other independent mercenaries to hunt down the vaccine and put a stop to Arias’ grand schemes. Handpicking five agents who are equipped with both experience and skill to combat a zombie attack on this scale of doom and urgency.

Those five agents are Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, Leon S. Kennedy, Ada Wong, and you.

A plan is already in place. A distraction concocted with your intel and the help of a senior researcher of all things bioweapons, Rebecca Chambers. While Arias is busy attending fake business meetings on the other side of the world, the five of you will infiltrate his private mansion to retrieve a concentrated sample of the A-Virus. Rebecca can use the sample to reverse engineer it into a cure and send her findings to facilities across the world.

The plan sounds brilliant in writing, but when you arrived his private mansion in Queretaro region, Mexico, something is off about this place.

Arias is a mastermind, you had been warned many times, in which you appropriately prepared all your best gear for this mission to treat it with utmost gravity. You’re thinking armed guards, well-equipped security, BOWs. But when the five of you pushed open the front doors of his mansion, it was quiet.

Empty. Not a single soul. Just five of you greeted by the whisk of wind through weakly hinged windows that somehow makes the humid air stick to your skin further. Did Rebecca get the wrong info? No one lived there. From what you heard when you were in town, not even the locals dare to venture anywhere near the odd gothic mansion on the top of the hill. They said it’s abandoned, cursed, rumoured to whisk away young children if they ever step foot inside.

It’s a story they say to stop the naughty kids, you remind yourself. It’s not haunted. And you’re not a kid anymore.

The inside is abandoned. Cobwebs lay thick between cornices and carved columns, the floors laced with a film of dust on the luxurious dark wood flooring, creaking with worn age as you take each step. Besides the chandelier, every single piece of furniture is either the same colour of black or red, or nothing else. The soft red velvet upholstery and the rug are made with the same fabric. And you can find the same dark wood in every corner of this house. It’s in the tables, the shelves, the chaise, the painting frames, and stone-like head sculpture whittled with the same exact dark wood, ridged the exact uniform way.

Then, you look at the wall. Black patches of mould smearing across the burgundy wallpaper like a crime scene.

Something creaks behind you. The hair on your arms stands up as you shiver, immediately followed by a wave of embarrassment. Despite the number of times you had taken down hordes of incoming zombies like they’re cardboard targets, why is a bit of wind freaking you out? It’s not a ghost, just old foundations, maybe mice, or wind kicking something off a table, like how every old house sounds like. You look around to see if anyone else catches you jumping at nothing, before Jill says, thankfully unaware of your worry:

“God, the smell. What have they done to this place?” Her hand flies over her nose as if that will help to shield any smell whatsoever. Unfortunately, the building is moulded far beyond salvageable that the stench lingers in every part of the mansion.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. We get weeks-old corpses in body bags every day. It’s absolutely retching.” Jill’s earpiece fizzes into life, and she recognises the familiar playful lilt of Rebecca’s voice on the other side of the line.

“At least that’s refrigerated and contained, Rebecca. This fucking stinks.” Jill scrunches her face like she just ate something unpleasant.

“I’m sending my sympathies from my well-conditioned lab right now.”

Carlos appears from Jill’s behind, placing a firm, teasing hand on top of Jill’s shoulder. His wavy curls catch in the wind and his teeth glistens sparkly white. “Yeah Jill, got a problem with my natural musk?”

Jill shrugs his hand off, grimacing at his attempts at flirtation. “Take a shower first, then we’ll talk.”

In which Carlos laughs, holds his hand out at his heart as if it was just torn into shreds. “That hurts my feelings, Jill. Why aren’t you ever saying things like that to pretty boy over there?”

“I have a name, Oliveira.” The blond man turns around at the call of his nickname, familiar with the nickname, but it's not pleasantly received by him.

“I think pretty boy suits you more, Kennedy.” Carlos replies, a glint in his voice that hints something a bit less than friendliness between them.

“Ah, so you do know my name.” Leon quips back while staring directly into Carlos’ eyes, before getting cut off by Jill.

“I would, Carlos, but if I have to hear one more corny ass comeback from Leon’s mouth, I’ll throw myself out the window right now.”

“Takes a genius to get my humour.” Leon smirks.

Your eyebrows raise almost immediately to chime in. “Erm… I think we have different meanings for the word ‘genius’.”

Quiet chuckles ripple through the room. It helps that you have worked with these guys throughout the years and had come to know and get close to them—some a bit closer than just friends—but none of them are strangers by far. Usually, you would be working with only one or two of these guys, never in a big group like this, but it seems that everyone is already well-acquainted with each other.

You toss a glance at Carlos and catch him staring at you, smiling. Ah, you see now. Carlos must have been trying to lighten the mood because you had been jumpy ever since you had arrived. You nod at him, a silent thank you before the five of you venture deeper into the eerie atmosphere.

The goal is to arrive at Glenn Aria’s office. According to Rebecca’s intel, Arias hid a concentrated sample in a safe last time he was here. You will need Ada to crack the safe to retrieve the sample and deliver it to Rebecca. As you traverse the corridors, it twists and turns in different directions—whoever engineered this did not enjoy unexpected guests at all. But under Rebecca’s guidance, she walks you and your team through the labyrinth with ease and precision.

But unfortunately, not ease and precision on your part. You trip over your own leg and almost fall to the floor as you round a harsh turn according to Rebecca’s instructions, and Jill catches you right on the arm before you fall.

“Easy there.” Jill pulls you up the ground, and you regain some balance. “You good? Mind your step.”

“Why did I agree to babysit?” Ada speaks, finally, for the first time in this mission. Despite how quietly she spoke under her breath, her words abruptly cut through the air, and all attention is on her and the red sweater dress that curves into her frame perfectly now.

“Oh, I bet once you get your paycheck it will be worth it. Or will you be betraying us, huh, Ada?”

Leon smirks loudly. Ada’s face goes from tired to exhausted in one second. “You just can’t let bygones be bygones, can you?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who used to work for Wesker.” Ada’s heels come to a stop, and with a slow turn, she stares deeply into Leon’s eyes that speak a million threats without needing to be utter a word. Oh, and believe me, you do not want to be messing with Ada. You learnt that the hard way.

“Woah, guys. Let’s keep this civil. No need to get heated.” Carlos rushes to stand right between them as the duo glares at each other with passionate fury and resentment.

You nod, joining Carlos’ side to stand by him. “Carlos’s right. This is not the time to pick a fight.” But it falls on the deaf ears of Leon and Ada.

“Thousands were killed. I want what’s good for the people, and I’m not sure Ada here is on the same page.” Leon continues, adding fuel to the fire.

Ada lets out a disbelieved gasp in response, before recollecting herself and replying in her usual tone of calmness: “Someone has to pay the price. I’m just the executor.”

“Regardless of our motivations, we all are on the same side here.” Carlos attempts at resolution again, putting his hands up in between them, and fails embarrassingly once more.

The air is heated with hostility; Leon and Ada’s eyes are locked in a trance, a hazy spite that reigns their composure, that looking away from each other means forfeiting. You don’t see either of them walking away first, they are both prideful people after all.

“Uh… Jill? Some help?” Carlos looks around to find Jill, who is leaning against a wall, her arms relaxing by her sides, unphased by the fire stirring right in front of the crowd.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Jill is merely waiting for either one of the parties roll over.

You feel speckles of flame through the two of them, as if steam is retreating over the top of their heads, burning not just them, but also everyone else in the room. Until the boiling point hits, and it erupts all in one second. The duo walks away, off to different directions in bitter adrenaline, until you and Carlos are just looking at each other.

“I guess we’ll take five. There’s a safe room up ahead.” Carlos is speaking, but you’re the one listening.

The five of you enters the safe room in silence. It is a storage room—despite its name, it’s quite large for a normal storage room—with boxes stacked on all ends that made the room seem smaller in comparison. A ceiling light illuminates the room dimly, but it isn’t enough to shade away years of old animosity from their past.

The lively conversations you had mere minutes ago is gone now. Just silence and awkward rustling as each of you sits in your own designated corner. Carlos and Jill find themselves a seat on top of a firm box. Leon and Ada giving each other the silent treatment, standing on farthest end of the room to each other. You are simply minding your own business, gathering materials to craft a flashbang to pass the time. Doesn’t hurt to have more supplies anyway.

There is a notable division on each side, an imaginary alliance that you choose to be on neither side. Until Leon crosses the boundary line, somehow making his way to you. He picks up an empty grenade case next to you, assembling the pieces together for your project.

“Sorry you had to see that.” A little guilt tugs at Leon’s voice.

“Not at all. I get why you felt that way.” Leon nods, a look of gratitude hanging softly through a smile. His other finger seals the flashbang cap and hands it back to you. “But you need to learn to control your temper. Especially when it comes to Ada.”

Speaking of Ada, a shiver runs down your spine suddenly. The feeling of someone sending laser signs and telepathic warnings towards you. You turn around towards the direction of the aura to find Ada, her back leaning against the wall, arms crossed without engaging or acknowledging anyone in the room. She stands by herself alone, and that’s how you had always known Ada—distant and in her own mysterious world. Not really a chatter, despite the number of times she had saved you in the past.

Ada does not look at you, but you can feel her glaring down—either you or Leon—with her entire body.

“Good to see the two of you getting along at least.” Carlos holds out two plastic water bottles to you two from a supply crate he found in the room, which Jill has finished downing two of them already.

You two gesture ‘no thanks.’ Ada does not spare Carlos a glance at his direction when he offers.

“You’re welcome, I guess.” Carlos says sarcastically, before taking in a generous sip from his drink.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, a moment of dry coughs; a squeak of footsteps, a joint click from a stretching neck. Then silence once more.

“I’ve had enough.” Jill slaps her hands on her thigh before pushing herself up from her seat. “You guys gonna keep acting like kids? Grow up, this isn’t high school anymore. Take your drama outside. If we’re gonna take down Arias, we have to get along. And yes, that means moving on from shit that happened… five years ago? Five years ago and you two are still hung up? Unlike you all, I’m actually looking forward to go home and get a decent shower, hopefully soon.”

You nod in approval as Jill speaks her mind, and you are glad at least the few of you have their priorities in order. Ada flicks her head away from Jill, but her silence is telling of how much she is thinking over Jill’s words.

“Leon, can you accept this?” Jill asks.

There’s a bit of reluctance in his voice, but he agrees anyway. “Fine.”

“Ada?”

Before Ada can respond, smoke is creeping into your vision, coming in quick. It merges into your view, obscuring it, and you whiff something artificial, some kind of chemicals that is piercing to your nose and eyes. You can’t help but wince, hands groping the air in attempts to find comfort in the person closest to you—anyone for that matter—to indicate you’re safe and is indeed not under attack. Your fingers find themselves in a fistful of someone’s shirt, muscles tensing tightly underneath the fabric on their shoulder cap.

“Leon. Is that you?” You cry out.

“It’s me. Stay close and don’t let go. It’s an ambush.” Leon pulls your arm towards him, securing your safety with his hand in yours.

There is some coughing through the air, faint panic in voices underneath the hissing of gas that seems to be coming from above. You hold onto Leon a bit tighter.

Carlos calls out desperately “Where are you guys? Is everyone okay?” as he flaps his hand around the smoke to stir it away. He finds you and Leon almost immediately, and looks down to your hands, finding them clasped tight against each other. Your hand lets go of Leon flying behind your back, but Carlos already saw it.

Jill is coughing deep from the smoke. “I-I’m here!”

“It seems like we’re all here.” Ada says, composed as ever despite the circumstances.

The smoke dissipates—until most of the fog fades away, escaping through the cracks underneath the door to the other side. Leaving the five of you standing in the same storage room darting eyes around, seemingly unharmed, and even more confused.

After what feels like a while later, Jill finally breaks the silence: “Huh. What was that?”

“No enemies.” Ada unholsters the pistol from her belt, inspecting the room and the door behind the room. “Clear on this side too.”

It’s strange. If this is an ambush, why isn’t there an attack?

Leon places a finger on his earpiece to activate his microphone. “Rebecca, come in. We’ve just been ambushed by some kind of smoke, but nobody’s hurt. Happen to know what’s going on?”

His earpiece buzzes into life. “Hmm, let’s see. From the architecture plans, I see the vents are connected to a lab below. It seems abandoned, there are no signs of anyone triggering an attack on my end.”

“Whatever it is, we need to investigate.” Leon’s voice is firm and serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

You swallow deeply, fear settling back inside you. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think…” Leon pinches his chin. “…Arias knows that we’re here.”

Your heart drops—Bundle of fear, anxiety and stress springing back into your nerves as you probe at the possibility of Glen Arias knowing where you are. What you’re trying to do. Making sure you will never reach that sample despite your hardest wills.

“He shouldn’t. Rebecca, didn’t Arias get on the jet?” Carlos is also thinking too.

“Affirmative. Security footage showed Arias walking into his private jet, and it took off four hours ago. He should still be in the air. No signal of them making a pitstop anywhere.”

You hear black pumps clacking against the hardwood floor. “I’m getting the sample.” Says Ada, her foot is already halfway out of the door. “Follow me or not, I don’t care. I’m here for the objective, and only that.”

“And what if something happens to you?” Carlos asks, genuinely concerned.

“I’ll deal with it if it happens.” Ada waves dismissively.

“Ada’s right, we could be set on a wild goose chase.” Jill chimes in. “Millions of lives are dying. We don’t have time to waste.”

“I guess it’s just you and me then, pretty boy.” Carlos rounds his arm around Leon’s neck, bringing him closer in an almost choking grip, a little too close and tight to his liking. And with Leon’s history with Carlos, Leon refuses to believe this is just a friendly gesture.

Leon grimaces, removing Carlos’ hand over him. “So that’s it? We’re splitting up?” The answer is unanimous. “Fine. I guess we’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

Rebecca, through the other side of your earpiece, speaks: “Be careful everyone. You don’t know what kind of schemes Glenn Arias had set up. Please stay safe.”

“We’ll be fine, as long as we don't have any traitors in our team.” Leon says the word ‘traitor’ while maintaining eye contact with Ada. She ignores him, simply deadpans.

“Well, what about you?” Leon nudges at your arm.

You are faced with two options. Indulge in your curiosity and find the source of the gas, or stick to mission as planned? Both options will be dangerous. So who will you trust with your life?

[OPTION A] “I’ll follow the girls.”

[OPTION B] “I’ll follow the boys.”

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 thanks for reading! come check out my other works! —yours truly, rose. i love my beta reader @scar-crossedlvrs! series taglist: @j3llyd0nut @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted @obsolescent @briermelli @secretiveauthor @ghosty-frog @navstuffs @slowcryinginthedark @rentaldarling @lesbntired © roseglazedlens — please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

[samwitcch]

will byers, the resident sniper and medic - apoc au details under the cut!

---

will's role in the party:

a scouter - stays back to watch over the area during runs w/his rifle and is a backup supply runner if need be. just prefers to scout with dustin and mike

medic - normally takes care of the group regarding injuries and medicine. is very gentle :)

the angel on mike's shoulder -> knows how to placate mike the best if mike's being unreasonable or too harsh

most knowledgable about the infection and how it works -> helps with understanding the patterns of infected people, what attracts infection, etc.

party mediator - rarely ever fights with anyone (mostly with mike haha) and is usually the person people most often go to for a vent or a rant

skills + hobbies:

best with a rifle + second best with guns! -> he practices a lot with lucas but refuses to kill animals

cook of the group along with el (taught her how to cook): rest of the party can make edible food but don't know how to make it taste good

great knowledge of plants and medicine -> jonathan and joyce taught him all they know about it (they are healers)

draws in a sketchbook that mike stole from another group for him: filled with mundane sketches from life and treats it like a daily journal

likes to collect cds and cassettes that he finds around to play in the car (him and max discuss music the most) - fave bands include system of a down, gorillaz, the clash and the cure :) he's an alt rock fan!

quirks / fun facts:

him and lucas have an ongoing competition that started with their aim and is now based on literally anything -> they've been keeping score since they were nine (lucas is currently up by ten and the points are in the thousands)

will shuffles different music in the car and observes who in the party likes what so he can make his own little mental playlists for them!

him and dustin talk a lot about how the infection works. they have some very intense debates about it, especially when it comes to if the infected still have human consciousness or not (will thinks they do, dustin thinks they don't)

--- other notes: canon will, in a short summary, is a very sweet, sensitive, empathetic and capable boy who consistently puts others needs before his own :') of course, i wanted apoc will to share those attributes, with a big emphasis on his empathy, strength, and kindness. first - i wanted him to be a medic to show how he cares about other people and how he helps the people he loves as well. it's shown a lot in the show how much he cares for people and living beings (see: his actions with dart, el, mike, feeling bad for jonathan's hand after he had just woken up, etc.) and him being a healer is very in tune with this behavior. will as a healer is very special to me :') and him learning this skill from his mom and his brother strengthens the theme of family also!

second - him being good with a hunting rifle was to showcase his quiet strength and capability (i'd also like to add that his dexterity on his dnd sheet is extremely high) -> he's a non-confrontational survivor. his strength shines from afar and is put on the backlight, but no one in the party thinks will is weak for his empathy. mike and lucas, in particular, are actually quite jealous of the fact that will is still able to see so much good in humanity and life while being so strong. of course, his connection to the upside down in st is mirrored in this au as well, where he has an innate understanding of how the infection works because of experience, observation and other story spoilers...

looking at the current poll results, it seems im going to be drawing lucas and max next :D see you for that!

[teatreeoilll]

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna drabble-headcanon thingy part 2 | part I here w/c - 750 cw: manga spoilers (although I'm only on chapter 180 so if it kind of doesn't make sense with the rest I'm sorry!!)

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who wakes up a thousand years later, now trapped in a boy's body, unaware of the fact that you, too, had made a deal with the devil to satisfy your yet unmet need for revenge.

Hein Era

"You must be Kenjaku," you said, relief washing over your body. It has been three long years since you've decided to find the man, the journey wearing you out, turning you into an empty shell in tattered rags.

"May the traveler who knows my name introduce herself?" He proposed, not making the effort to turn around from his position over the cooking pot. The shabby hut you stood in and his mild demeanor hardly lived up to the reputation of the most vicious man to set foot in Japan in eons.

And so you do, with a deep bow and a mutter of your name, "I've come to an understanding that to kill the man I wish dead might take more than one lifetime," you proclaimed, "and I've been told you're the one to turn to."

Tokyo, 2018

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna felt something strange the moment Itadori Yuji fell face-first into Tokyo Colony No. 1. However, he couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was, like the dull wistfulness of an old perfume. Itadori Yuji sensed it too, but had little time to muse over such things when he was too busy fighting to try to locate Higuruma Hiromi.

"Kogane, show me player Higuruma Hiromi," you order, looking at the information popping up, "his points are gone. Is he the one who changed the rule?" You don't wait for an answer before continuing, "It doesn't matter; he might still know something. Ikebukuro's close now."

You walk through the concrete and metal jungle; these people have built themselves miles upon miles of castles, you think, Sukuna probably enjoys watching them crumble.

When you approach the theater you were told Higuruma resides in, a boy walks out. As soon as he catches a glimpse of you, he halts, standing on guard on the other side of the road.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna has seen many faces, but yours was one that hadn't faded from his memory by the passing of time.

"I don't want to fight!" The boy exclaimed from across the road, but his shoulders were drawn back, fists curled near his pockets.

"I do not wish to fight either!" You shout back, thinking that another battle may wash off the remains of your strength. Besides, what good would it do to fight a young boy? Although only the look of his pink hair made your teeth clench and stomach tighten.

You watch the boy take a seat on the pavement, "Are you hurt?" You inquire, slowly drawing closer across the pavement.

"Just taking a breather!" He shouts, but you decide to approach regardless.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who laughs. He howls like a maniac inside Yuji's head, sending strange vibrations throughout the boy's body.

"Are you alright?" You ask the boy, watching him nod as he gulps the water you handed him. The resemblance is striking, you think, but perhaps I'm just thinking too much of it.

"Thank you," he puts the empty water bottle by his side, "I'm sorry I drank all your water."

"It's nothing." You assure him, "Have you seen Higuruma here? I've a question for him."

"I don't think he's the kind to answer questions," Yuji reflected, getting up from the sidewalk.

"I won't leave him much of a choice." You asserted, watching the boy's doubtful expression, "Do you have any insight you may offer on his technique?"

"Well, I don't think I understand it, really, but.." Yuji starts explaining, watching your brows furrow as you nod along at his descriptions.

You thank him, parting curtly before turning away towards the theater.

"Wait!" Yuji exclaims behind you, "What's the question? Maybe I'll save you the trouble."

You doubt his words, but turn back to face him, "There's a man I'm looking to kill," you disclosed, "trust me, you'd want him dead too,” you chuckle, pausing for a moment, but deciding there's no harm in asking, "Sukuna, do you know where he is?"

Yuji freezes, his heartbeat quickening at the mention of the name, his wide eyes pointed straight at you.

"Didn't think so," you sigh.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who pops out as a mouth carved in Yuji's cheek, causing you to jump back slightly at the bizarre sight while he taunted loudly;

"You're not going to tell her, brat?"

_

tag list: @saoirseirose, @marimeown, @http-dilflvr Thank you guys for the wonderful comments on part one, hope this one doesn't disappoint

[risuola]

PROMISE — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

You felt sick watching your husband fighting for his life, but your unborn daughter seemed to sleep just fine despite your complete distress. Little that you know, Satoru made some promises to her.

cw: manga spoilers!!! (chapters 223-235 with not much of specific details, but it’s resolved around the events), reader is pregnant — 0,8k words

a/n: this piece has TWO alternative endings — FLUFFY & SWEET & ANGSTY & DEPRESSING — choose your fighter, I guess

Sick. You felt sick, sitting in the room full of people, most of which you didn’t even recognize. You felt sick watching the screens that showcased live what was happening in the middle of Shinjuku. You felt dizzy and nauseous, and so overwhelmingly sick when you heard people betting money, trying to make profit of something that was so painful for you to watch.

“You think he’s gonna win that?” “Nah, he’s dead.” Some men were talking, chuckling like it was entertainment of the highest level for them. And maybe it was, maybe some sorcerers could benefit from the outcome that you considered the worst one, but you felt like the world was crumbling down in real time. Your world was fighting for his life right in front of your eyes.

You sat there paralyzed, unable to move as all of the voices around you slowly became distant. Yuji’s rambling, Kusakabe’s comments and Yuta’s notes all blurred into one, incoherent noise in the background and you wondered what happened, what went so wrong to lead to all of this. Why it felt like you’ll never see Megumi again? You raised that boy, you talked down his teachers in middle school from expelling him when he beat the hell out of other students, you encouraged him to train harder when he felt down, overwhelmed by the comparison to Gojo’s strength. Why now it felt, like you’ll never get to force another hug out of him, like you’ll never see his grumpy face again? You’ve already lost Tsumiki, the tears from that still felt fresh on your face and now you had to watch your husband on the battlefield, being wounded time after time by a cursed spirit that should have been dead thousand years ago.

You felt your insides turning and twisting into a very tight knot, every time Satoru got hit by Sukuna’s attack, every time you saw blood staining his light skin, you felt a little closer to heart attack. It was a sight you could never familiarize yourself with, Gojo never bled. He never was cut, not even punched and now, all of his body was covered in slits. Just once in your life you saw him in a puddle of blood, decade ago while still in high school and after that, never again. Until today.

You were scared. Petrified with the thought that he might not come back, that you might never feel his warmth again. The idea of going further in your life without him spread out in your mind in the colors of the worst kind of nightmare, your throat clenched, tears rolled down your cheeks as you watched his domain shatter. Infinite void fell down in pieces and the reds and blues were not effective either. It’s worse than nightmare. It was torture.

You felt the pain, deep in your heart, spreading in waves to every cell of your body. You wanted to go there, to jump in and help him, to shield him from the attack even if it would cost you your own life. You wanted to go there and slap Sukuna out of Megumi, to hold the boy to your heart and tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that everything’s gonna be alright. But you couldn’t do either of those things. You knew you’d only be an obstacle, a limiting factor to your husband’s abilities. You knew your tears wouldn’t bring Fushiguro back. You were strong on your own, but now, you were helpless just as everyone else. And you had a life to protect.

And so, you sat there, rubbing soft circles into the bump of your stomach that held the little girl that was yet to come to this world, wondering if she’ll get to know her father. She will, you knew that, deep down underneath all of the layers of fear and worry, you knew that Satoru will win, because he has to win. He has to be there with you, he has to know if his daughter has the same blue eyes as him and the same cute nose as you, because he bet on that. He has to be there to take all of those goofy selfies with the newborn, he has to be there to showoff the miracle that he’s created with you, to be able to put new title to his name – the best dad.

The baby seemed to be sleeping, calm in your stomach despite the utter distress that consumed you. She probably knew better than you not to worry about Satoru. She probably knew that her daddy will never leave her. He promised that to her, when before leaving to the Shinjuku district he pressed his lips to the curve of your bump, whispering things you barely heard.

He made a promise so he had to keep it.

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[blacknight7890]

The Power of Control

An essay on Victim

Spoilers for Animator vs. Animation VI - Ep 2

So, our dear boy Victim, of animator vs animation ONE fame, has officially returned.

We have been waiting half a year for this guy to return, and here he is. Now we finally get to see what he can really do in the only thing that matters in this series. How much ass can this stick kick?

Well, as it turns out, not a whole lot.

Victim is not a strong physical fighter. But, what he lacks in strength, he makes up in something else.

Control

The express purpose of this white box, is to ensure that he has full, and unambiguous, control. You could say that everything he has built is for the express purpose of control. He is the CEO of a gigantic, very well funded corporation, and is the boss of probably thousands of employees.

he has dedicated money and men towards researching and replicating animation tools to give him direct power over the world around him. He gave his top Merc the ability to Stop Time. His tech is all to extend his reach of control.

And this idea of control is shown no better than his signature weapon.

A lasso. An unusual choice at first but it makes perfect sense. Its entire point is to restrain, constrain, and control another.

Victim is not a powerful stick, its why he was initially never able to escape the flash program he was created in. How he got out, and how he survived is still unknown, but I'm sure future episodes will show us.

What we do know however, is that after all these years he has took to heart one thing. True power, is control. The more you have, the more powerful you are.

Which is why Alan nearly deleted him. Alan had the cursor, so he had control, which made him powerful.

Of course, that power has an equally potent weakness. When you lose your control, you lose your power.

The lasso he has wrapped around so many, breaks, and he loses control. Without control, he is vulnerable. Without control, he is powerless.

Its no wonder he seemed so scared when he learned what The Second Coming was truly capable of.

And now, Second has also learned what he can do.

So, what does he do? He tries to reestablish his precious control.

But unlike before, this control is flawed. He never knew what our dear orange could do, he never planned for it. His cage was likely never designed to hold someone as powerful as he is.

Victim may have locked him away, but its clear his grip on the situation has slipped. A lasso can only restrain what it can hold after all. When the rope snaps, when control is lost, he has nothing.

It makes sense why he would be after someone with more control than anyone.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Confronted with the fact that Maddie had been a ghost but, somehow, you hadn't been able to see her, you'd needed Wally to answer some questions. Unfortunately, the interrogation hadn't gone quite as planned...

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.7

The world swam into focus, reality cementing itself as you rose to the surface by gentle degrees. Shapes bled along their edges, sight still partially in dreams, and your room was late-night dark.

Definitely not time to wake up yet, so why had you?

You sat up on a heavy exhale, groggy as you scanned your body for answers. Nothing. No pain, no desperate bladder, no dead limbs that protested leaving the comfort of your sleep-warm sheets. Rubbing your eyes, you swung your legs over the side of your bed and bowed your back to release the tension that had settled while you'd slept.

Slowly, straining your ears, you realized the house was silent. Not the typical clouding of sound that often descended after a certain hour, but absolutely silent. Void of any noise whatsoever. As if every molecule and atom had trembled to a dead stop, sound ceasing to exist with nothing to carry it.

A creeping, crawling sensation nudged your left side, not quite touching; an energy that crested into the barrier separating one dimension from the next. Yours. And Theirs.

You choked on a dry swallow, panning your head to the left, the silence bearing down like a weight on your shoulders. There. At the foot of your bed. A door in its frame, freely standing, ominous and unbelonging.

Your heart pounded; breath shuddered; tears welled in your eyes. You recognized it, the dry, greyed wood and rusted handle horrifyingly familiar. You'd seen it, had walked through it twice—in and out—had used it to shut in the monster that had gouged into your innocence; bled it, chewed it up, and spat it out. Fed it back to you as a shrunken, mangled thing.

Please, no.

The rattle of the handle shook through the silence, sharp and metallic and terrifying. Without thinking, you leapt across the space between, threw your body against the door, and held tight to the handle. Sobbing. Screaming for your mother. Help, God, please, help me!

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. No sound, no voice, no help. The handle rattled harder, faster; the monster on the other side beat against the door like a war drum.

Bam.

Bam.

Bam.

The pulse of a tarred heart, the wood swelling forward then shrinking back again. Your knees buckled and you sunk to the floor, gripping the handle with every ounce of strength you had. Tears streamed down your cheeks, each gasp for breath thick and wet, please please no!

"Let me out! You're dead! You hear me!? DEAD!! LET. ME. OUT!!"

Again, you screamed, and this time it cracked through the night, the sound splitting across the silence like a spiderweb. Again. Again. Screaming against the void, against the clattering handle, the battering wood.

The silence shattered completely, a blast of air moved in to take its place, and the door...disappeared. You crumpled into a heap on your bedroom floor, folding over your knees and sobbing hard. And then your mother was there, kind hands and comforting words, cradling you against her chest. Safe. Finally safe.

But for how long?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You were spiraling, thoughts a thousand voices rising and falling in waves, most of them warning you against lifting your phone to your ear and using it as a buffer in case anyone walked by.

Well, too late, you'd already done it, because Wally had said Maddie's name. Casually, as if he'd spent time with her, hung out with her like friends do. And Wally was a ghost which meant Maddie was a ghost, except that you. saw. dead. people. Had that M Night Shyamalan flavor to you, but you couldn't see Maddie.

Jesus Christ, my mom's going to kill me. The thought pitched high above the others, over and over again, only quieting when you finally spoke.

"What did you just say?"

And Wally looked slightly disarmed by the question like he hadn't anticipated you'd ask about anything other than how he spent his afternoons when he wasn't destroying metaphysical school property. Which, yes, you were honestly curious about, but now.was.not.the.time.

"Uh..." Wally seemed to replay in his mind what he'd said in the last few minutes, "About Field Day?"

You shook your head, simultaneously checking your surroundings. There was no one around; just you and a ghost you r e a l l y shouldn't be talking to.

"About Maddie," You clarified in a hushed tone. "You said you were showing her the ropes?"

"Well, yeah. She's way too in her head about how she died, you know? I just wanted to help get her mind off it for a bit. Why?" Wally suddenly looked worried. "Is that...are you mad? Because she and I are totally just friends. Even though Rhonda thinks I have a crush on her, I don't, so, like, don't listen to her."

You flipped through your mental rolodex, trying to figure out which ghost Wally meant. "Rhonda? The one with the oral fixation?"

Wally grinned a dopey, sunbright grin, clearly happy that you could identify who was who amongst Split River High's otherworldly residents. You couldn't help it, your heart melted at the sight.

Something in the air shifted. Thickened. Wally's image suddenly sharpened against a bokeh blur, the world around you easing out of focus. Across from you, Wally appeared to notice the change in atmosphere, his eyes hazing over the way Xavier's did when he indulged his vape.

The urgency you'd felt moments before seeped from your pores and into the breeze, replaced with muggy desire. The feeling reached from your chest to Wally, instinct telling you that he could assuage it if only he were nearer.

Your heartbeat skipped and your breathing shallowed as you observed Wally closing the short distance between you until only a few inches remained.

Staring down at you, eyes at half-mast, he reassured, "Yeah, that's her. But, I swear, she doesn't know what she's talking about."

"Right." You whispered—what were you talking about?—watching his gaze slide left to right then down to your lips where it lingered for weighted seconds. Time lapsed, a drowsy slog from one minute to the next, and all the busy thoughts you'd been having drained from your head. "What?"

Mouth dipping closer to yours, Wally responded, low, simmered, "I didn't say anything, pretty girl." One large hand found purchase on your waist, the other on the slope of your neck, his thumb stroking a blissed path across your lower lip.

He angled his head, tracking closer, breath mingling with yours.

"I'm going to kiss you." He stated and your eyes fell closed. God, his voice; sandpaper hoarse as if he'd already spent careful hours taking you apart and piecing you back together. "Gotta tell me you want it, baby."

Vaguely, you nodded, consumed by the dense, silky warmth that had slumped over you both. "Yeah~."

Wally's lips brushed yours, parted and soft, and followed by the wet flick of his tongue. A tease, there and gone, but still so good. A tingle washed over your scalp, down your nape, up your arms; body responding to Wally's touch with an intensity you'd never experienced before. Your mouth parted slightly, drawing in each of his humid breaths like ambrosia as he hovered.

His grip firmed on your waist, fingertips pressed their mark into your flesh, and the tip of his nose grazed your cheek—more, more, more. He shuddered, wanton, the sound filthy and debauched, coaxing a whimper out of you and finally, finally, you felt him press in—

))) bzzzzzzzzzt (((

Your phone vibrated against your ear, shocking you out of the trance. Wally came-to as well, matching your movements and taking two full strides backward.

"Shit!" You rasped. "It's Tilly."

Where the hell are you? The text read in fewer characters, Mathilda's question accentuated by a string of random emojis: A fried shrimp. A potato. Two roller-skates and an angry cat.

"Okay." Wally said. He was scratching the back of his head, looking around himself as if there was some sign of what had guided you both into the situation that had just unfolded between you. And then he processed what you'd said, "Wait, who?"

"My best friend." You stated as you typed your response. When you finished, you looked at him, phone once more pressed to your ear, "We'll have to finish this later." His expression sobered, a dark, sultry cast to it. "Not that!" You amended, "Maddie!"

Wally's face fell, though he recovered quickly, "Yeah, right, sure." He made to take a step toward you which you reacted to by holding up a halting hand.

"Just...stay there. Don't. Don't move." Because if he moseyed into your space again, you knew you'd climb him like a tree and let him have his wicked way with you, carte blanche. "Until we figure this—" You gestured between the both of you, "—out, we need to stay at least three feet apart." If it was good enough for the CDC, it was good enough for you to deter whatever insane bouts of ghost-lust kept affecting you.

After all, you had Maddie to think about. Maddie who, despite what Wally had inferred, wasn't dead because you couldn't see her, even if she was somehow haunting the high school alongside Wally and the others.

Those were the facts you had to believe were true otherwise you'd unravel.

Really, you needed more information. "I have to go before Tilly decides to come looking." Wally nodded sagely, "But...okay, how about after school?" You suggested as you started toward the side door. "Meet me in the theater."

"Anything for you, pretty girl."

You flushed crimson, stammered, "I-good. Great." Awkwardly, you twisted around and set a hastened pace to the door, leaving Wally behind to do with the rest of his day what he would. About to pocket your phone, you remembered, "Wait!" You reversed along your path, returning your phone to your ear when you neared Wally.

He hadn't moved, hands in the pockets of his sweater, a silly grin slanted across his mouth. You almost crossed the imaginary line, overstepping the three-foot mark by inches before hurriedly rectifying the error.

Wally smiled, "Yeah?"

"You can't..." You stopped, started again, imploring, "Wally, you can't tell anyone. Please," pleading with your eyes that he accept the gravity of what you were risking by speaking to him. "If anyone finds out." A worried pause. "No one can know...please."

Disregarding your three-foot rule completely, Wally strolled right into your space, placed one of his big hands on your cheek and smoothed a dry, gentle kiss to the spot between your brows, staying there for a moment before pulling away.

He held your gaze, bold and sure, and said, "I promise, baby. I won't tell a soul." Wally released you with a wink, backing up a number of steps then turning in the direction of the field.

You were marshmallow soft and way too pleased with how he'd bid you goodbye, evidenced by the ridiculous grin you could feel plastered on your face.

God dammit.

You were in so much trouble.

It wasn't until much later, during the interim between 6th and 7th period, catching your reflection in the girls' bathroom as you washed your hands, did you realize: "Oh my god, I dressed like a weepy bat for nothing."

"Huh?" Mathilda stilled, face scrunching, mascara wand paused halfway through combing her lashes, and looked at you through the mirror. "What? Are you seriously questioning your off-brand life choices now?"

"Oh Tilly," You said, doing just that, "You have nooo idea."

💀___________________________

PART SIX - PART EIGHT

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[vrystalius]

I was wondering if you could do a small request. I was thinking of Yoriichi or Kokushibo(it doesn’t matter which one) with an s/o who’s a dragon. Not like a demon just a normal dragon who can turn into a more human like appearance(for the s/o dragon form think of house of the dragon there dragons are what I’m thinking of). How do think he’ll react to seeing his s/o’s dragon form for the first time and going on a flight?(I need this man to be taken on a flight through the clouds🥲)As well as the deep snoring/growling his s/o makes when sleeping?

❕ Having a s/o that can morph into a dragon

Yorichii’s and Kokushibo’s reaction to having a s/o that can morph into a dragon.

Note: Thank you for requesting!! I never watched House of Dragon, so my apologies if I wrote something inaccurate. And yes this is a little more different than I usually write, but I’ll go back to the Sanemi fluff tomorrow. Or angst, who knows? :P

Pairing: Yorichii, Kokushibo x reader

(Here, Yorichii and Uta were only friends. Spoilers for Yorichii’s past)

🧡 Yorichii Tsugikuni 💛

First reaction

Yorichii would feel a deep respect for you the first time he saw you transform into a dragon. Dragons symbolise a connection to incredible power and ancient wisdom, and yet you use it for the good and humanity, and not for Muzan’s search for power. That is something he admired greatly.

He would admire you with soft eyes, recognising the burden you must be carrying with you. Power could be both a curse and a blessing. You have to transform into a human in order to be accepted, to live amongst others and to hide your power. Yorichii was forced to live a life of solitude, thanks to his immense power and but also continues failures (in his eyes). He lost Uta, his brother, and he will loose many more in the future. But Yorichii is incredibly grateful that he has you now, the love of his life, the one he will swear to protect

First flight

When you first suggested to take him on a flight, Yorichii was very hesitant. He can’t imagine himself flying over the clouds and seeing Japan from above. Did anyone ever do that anyway? Would he be the first?

But after talking about your experiences, how pleasant it feels to feel the air around you and how convenient it is to travel from one place to another, Yorichii quietly gave in. Your first flight was to the Kamado family to visit Sumiyoshi and his newborn he has been writing to him about.

While in the air, Yorichii held onto you for dear life. His face appeared stoic and calm, but his death grip told another story. He was leaning down, trying to be as close to you as possible, kind of using you as a shield to not feel as much wind resistance.

After landing, Yorichii had to take a couple breathers before being able to walk as normal. He may be the strongest slayer, but being hundreds, maybe thousands of feet in the air might be too much, for even him.

Snoring and nesting habits

Your snoring is oddly comforting to him. It reminds him that you are right next to him and that you are not going anywhere for tonight. If he has a terrible nightmare or any need for comfort, Yorichii can just turn over and hold onto you. That thought calms him.

He also finds you adorable when you roll into the sheets, constructing some kind of nest. Yorichii would indulge you in your needs and provided you with more pillows and futons and quietly encourage you to keep going.

💜 Kokushibo 💜

First reaction

Kokushibo’s first reaction is envy. Your great power and appearance is intimidating him, as if someone challenged him for his Upper Moon One position. Your power must be great. Is it as great as him though?

But after his first reaction, Kokushibo began to admire you quietly. He would only express it rarely, but he begins to appreciate your strength and abilities and how they could benefit him in his goal to become the strongest. You’re his lover, and you could assist him in the pursuit of perfect skill and power. Also, having such a powerful significant other feels empowering.

First flight

Kokushibo would refuse to fly with you at first. Not that he’s scared- not at all! He’s Upper Moon One, what is he scared off? Nothing.

It took a lot of convincing and talking to make him agree. His usual response would be to silently stare you down until you decided to leave on your own. His silence would be enough of an answer.

Kokushibo needs a good reason to go fly with you, otherwise he’ll flat out refuse.

Tonight you managed to convince him. You offered to fly him to his next mission’s location while Nakime was unavailable. Kokushibo was silent the whole flight, like most of the time, refusing to look down. The infinity fortress he can handle, if he falls into the infinite halls, Nakime would be able to teleport him right back to his chambers. But up here, in the skies and above the clouds, there’s no escaping. Kokushibo proceeds to just dtare at the moon the whole time, trying to be as stable and safe as possible.

Your snoring and nesting habits

He doesn’t mind your snoring or growling. It’s like white noise to Kokushibo, something he can listen to while he meditates.

Your nesting habits may seem childish to him every now and then, but he does enjoy laying and cuddling with you in them from time to time.

💠

Make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough.

Take care of yourselves <3

[jesswritesthat]

Bakugō Katsuki: Wish

Fandom: BNHA // MHA — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: ~0.8k, angsty

Request: chapters 365 -like you know how bakugou is currently severely injured in manga /anime instead of bakugou almost dying it's the reader who takes all the hits and blows for him when fighting shigaraki crushing reader arm maybe taking huge blow in the chest to protect bakugou.

Warnings: Spoilers, blood, injury.

>>>>——————————>

War.

A thing that can be so beautiful and romantic when painted the with a creative brush.

Real war was painted in blood.

A fact you knew all too well now that you were drowning in the thick of it. Deep lacerations would leave scars on your skin once the blood was wiped away, and you’re certain adrenaline was numbing the searing pain of broken bones if you even survived the next few seconds.

Shigaraki was immensely intimidating and had the power to fortify it, waves of hands flowed like a tsunami and despite both yours and Bakugōs’ perceptive attempts to dodge and attack yourselves, it felt suffocating. After hit after hit, you’d found your body getting in the way all on its own - willing his attacks against you rather than your explosive ally. After all, if anyone was going to win, it was going to be him, the ‘symbol of tenacity’ as you’d mockingly dubbed him once.

Your movements were something Dynamight was attuned to though, within seconds he’d realised what you were doing and wasted no time in callously reprimanding you for it - hearing the splinting snap of bone and your pained but ferocious cry left him flying to you with explosions spiralling at the offending appendages.

“(H/n)! (L/n) dammit!”

“It’s alright I have another arm!”

It was a poor attempt at humour and false confidence, but if you dare try and acknowledge the reality of the situation you’re certain you’d breakdown, so you’d cling to this idiotic denial in order to keep fighting.

“Then use it and keep fighting with me!” It was blunt, and everything you’d expect from Bakugō during battle but it meant he understood your unspoken anxieties and further distraction was the last thing needed when you were in the midst of a life or death situation.

So you both continued fighting perilously, yourself preventing any hits from landing on Bakugō when you could regardless of his adamant refutes.

“Moron stay outta my way and stop getting hurt! I’ll be your damn hero and kill this idiotic villain!”

It was then you saw it, multiple hands aiming directly for his chest and just like that, your body moved in its own.

“Not if I’m yours first.” You saw the blood before you felt the injury, a puncturing blow aiming directly at your heart - but at least it wasn’t his.

You were certain the ground would hit next, although part of you expected a sort of comfort from that. Instead, you were enveloped in a ferocious warmth as Shigarki faded into the distance with sparks blurring your vision.

The next thing you saw was Bakugō, furious and fretting once he’d gently laid you on the ground.

“The hell were you— dammit! I can’t—“

“It’s okay Bakugō.” You’d reached up, fingertips delicately touching his blood stained face whilst he snapped to you with a harsh blink. Was there tears— no, he needed to continue fighting.

“You need to stay down, the blood loss…”

“Be a hero Dynamight, go save the world.” With the last ounce of strength you had left, you weakly pushed his chest like encouraging him with a battered smile on your lips and a look in your eyes that spoke a thousand words.

Shiragarki wasn’t defeated yet, and if he stayed by your side any longer you’d be put at further risk, so he shot off in the blink of eye with renewed determination to kill the villain that who threatened to taken something precious from him.

Your vision faded in and out, blackening and blurred, but through it all there were flashes of light. Luminous sparkles glittering like gold. Your last wish was that of victory, Bakugō gleamed across the sky like a shooting star and if anyone would fulfill your final plea it’d be him. Your wish would be safe in his hands.

However, when all was said and done, when accounting the sacrifices, the funerals, and the devastation, even heroes wouldn’t call it victory - it was called surviving.

It was that thought that crossed Bakugōs’ mind when he laid carefully selected flowers upon your memorial.

“You told me to be a hero, but how can I call myself that when I couldn’t even save someone I care about?!”

It was spoken into the silence like you were there, listening, ready to bite back at any given moment. Instead, the silence only grew louder and Bakugō in turn placed a fist against your cold stone. Ironic considering you were always so warm.

“I ain’t giving up though, I’ll keep winning. That was your last wish right? I’ll become the best hero this worlds ever seen no matter how many villains I have to kill - so watch me idiot!”

And watch you did, watched as the golden glow of explosions illuminated the streets of Japan effervescent, and slowly brought them back to life.

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]