#this is compounded for me by the fact that like

[screaminglygay]

It´s something

pairing: yelena belova x fem!reader

summary: what starts as routine check-ups slowly turns into shared granola bars and soft conversations. yelena makes a quiet, vulnerable move - inviting you to an avengers-only gathering.

word count: 2k

warnings: flirting that neither of them admits is flirting, hints of self-doubt and mentions of emotional vulnerability, injuries mentioned (bruises, past bullet wounds, etc.)

an: yelena owns my entire heart and if there is a lena out there reading this... I can cook, clean, play piano, make you tea, patch you up, anything you need:)

part one I part two

☀️ Summer with A masterlist ☀️

The medbay’s lights are dimmer in the late afternoon. It’s quiet, peaceful, rare for the compound. You’re scribbling notes on a tablet when you hear familiar footsteps, light but deliberate.

Yelena walks in. No blood this time. No dramatic entrance. Just a quiet sigh as she shrugs off her jacket and sits down on the exam bed like someone who’s learned the routine.

"Right on time," you smile softly. "I was starting to think you finally learned to rest."

"I almost didn’t come," she mutters. "Didn’t feel like talking."

You set the tablet aside with a soft nod, respecting her decision, "we don´t have to talk."

But of course, Yelena does, eventually. She always does. As you check her shoulder, fingers gentle but thorough, you catch the slump in her posture. The silence that feels heavier than usual. Her eyes linger too long on the floor.

"But I´m here if you would change your mind." you state softly.

A pause. A breath.

"I feel like shit," she says bluntly, eyes still avoiding yours. "Not physically. Just… everything else."

You stay quiet. Let her keep going.

"I’m trying to be better than I was," she says, voice low. "I want to do good things. I want to be someone my sister can be proud of. But it’s like… no matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m not special. Not like the others. I don’t have a god-hammer or super-serum or a fancy suit."

Your hands still for a second, resting lightly on her arm, "Yelena…"

"I just…" she exhales harshly. "I feel guilty. For surviving. For being free. For not doing more."

You kneel slightly so you’re eye-level with her, "can I say something?"

She nods, tight and guarded.

"As a doctor," you begin gently, "I meet all kinds of people. Rich, poor. Arrogant, terrified. Heroes, civilians, criminals. And you know what? Not once, not one time, have I ever met someone who wasn’t unique, or strong, or interesting in their own way."

She scoffs lightly, but it’s half-hearted.

"No, really," you smile, soft but sure. "It doesn’t matter if someone comes in with a broken leg or a bullet in their gut, the fact that they’re still breathing, still pushing forward, makes them strong. And you? You’re saving lives out there. Putting yourself on the line for people you don’t even know. That’s not clumsy. That’s not pointless. That’s heroic."

Her eyes flicker to yours, softer now, vulnerable.

You continue, gentler. "What I do? I patch you up. I fix bones, close wounds. But you… you go out there and risk it all. There’s a difference. One most people don’t see."

Yelena blinks slowly, absorbing your words. You can see them hit.

"Especially here," you add, "in this country? People don’t care unless it’s about them. But you care. You fight. Even when no one’s watching. Even when it hurts. You’re doing everything you can… and more. And that matters."

Yelena doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes are still down, fixed on the edge of the exam table like she’s trying to will it into disappearing. When she does finally answer, it’s not with the strength you’re used to, it’s with something closer to a whisper.

"I want to believe that," she says. "What you said. I do. But…"

You wait.

"But when people look at me," she continues slowly, "I see it. I see what they think. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m broken. A weapon. Maybe they don’t say it out loud, but it’s there... in their eyes. Always."

You hate how true it probably feels for her.

You gently place your hand on her arm, not clinical, not professional. Just… present.

"People like that?" you say, voice steady. "They’re miserable. Truly. And I mean that with actual pity. Because anyone who looks at someone else and only sees their worst chapters, they’re the ones carrying something ugly inside. They have to tear others down to feel taller. I don’t envy that."

She’s quiet again, but you see a flicker, the tiniest tug at the corner of her mouth.

You chuckle, shaking your head. "You know what’s funny? Most of the people on the team… they’re not even American."

That gets her to look at you.

"Seriously,” you continue, smirking. "You. Bucky. Wanda. Pietro. Thor- okay, I don’t think Asgard counts as international but still."

Yelena lets out a soft, unexpected laugh. "I never thought about it like that."

"Yeah. It’s a whole dysfunctional world family," you say with a smile. "You are supposed to fix something you didn´t even break and then get hate for it? That´s what I call bullshit."

Yelena breathes out slowly, like the words are sinking in, softening some part of her that’s been hard for too long.

"I don’t think you’re a monster," you say gently.

She meets your eyes.

"And I don’t think you’re broken. I think you’re trying. And that’s more than most people ever do."

Yelena exhales a shaky breath, then blinks a few times, like she’s trying to re-center herself. "Whoa…" she mutters, brushing her fingers over her thigh. "You’re good at this."

You lift a brow, playful, "thanks. My second field in college was psychology, so…"

Her lips twitch upward. "Ah. So that’s why I feel like I just got emotionally tackled."

You chuckle, "in a good way or bad way?"

"Little of both," she replies, giving you a look almost flirty without trying. "I’ll decide later."

You shake your head with a smile and start clearing the little med tools from the counter. For a second, it’s quiet again, but not heavy this time. Easy.

"Can I ask you something?" Yelena says suddenly.

You glance at her, "of course."

"Do you ever… leave this place?" she gestures vaguely around the medbay. "Or are you, like, medically required to haunt the halls in scrubs forever?"

You laugh, "only on Tuesdays."

Yelena grins, but her expression softens as she adds, "Seriously. You’re always here."

You lean back against the counter, arms folding loosely. "This job makes sense to me. It’s not always easy, but it’s… fulfilling. I know why I’m here. I know what I’m doing. It helps. So I don´t mind being here."

Yelena nods thoughtfully, watching you with that sharp gaze that always feels like she sees more than she says.

"So," she starts, "do you have any more work for today?"

You shake your head, "you were my only check-up today, so just paperwork."

Yelena smirks, "good"

You raise a brow, "why?"

"I´m gonna check you," she says nonchalantly.

"Like an interview?" you chuckle.

"Da," she says seriously, then immediately grins. "First question... favorite snack."

You tilt your head, "that’s what we’re starting with?"

"I need to know if you’re trustworthy," she deadpans.

"You´re not seeing me for the first time," you chuckle.

"No, but you could be playing a long game, so I need to know..."

You smirk, "granola bars, the ones with chocolate chips. Boring, I know."

She scrunches her nose, "hmm. Acceptable. Barely."

You scoff, "alright, your turn."

"Nope," she cuts you off, pointing a finger at you dramatically. "I´m asking the questions."

You tilt your head, playful, "I want to get to know you too, you know."

That stalls her just a second. Not long, but enough for you to catch it, the way she doesn’t expect people to want that. Not without a catch. But then her expression shifts into something smug.

"Fine," she shrugs. "But if I don’t like your questions, I will lie."

You laugh, "like you did the first time you came here?" You grab your tablet and finishing off a form while glancing at her over the edge. "Okay, liar, what’s your favorite snack?"

"Sunflower seeds," she says easily. "But only the salted kind. Not those dry, tasteless ones that feel like guilt in your mouth."

You try not to laugh at the wording, but fail.

"Alright," she leans back in her chair a bit, watching you with narrowed eyes, "tell me the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you while on duty here."

You groan, "oh no."

"Oh yes."

You sigh dramatically, setting your tablet down, "okay. Once, I tripped over my own shoelace while holding a bunch of test tubes, since I was doing UA..."

Yelena lets out an actual laugh, sharp and amused, "oh god."

You let out a long exhale, "yeah... it was horrible to clean, but even worse asking everyone to give me their samples again."

"That is really emberassing."

"Oh yeah, tell me about it," you cringe at the memory.

She leans in like she’s telling a secret. "Once, during a mission, I tried to kick out a glass out of a car and ended up stuck in there instead."

You blink, "stuck?"

"Like a raccoon," she says flatly. "Couldn’t go forward or back. Just hanging there. Lucky or unlucky for me Natasha was able to pull me out."

You lose it, "oh my god."

She’s laughing now too, teeth showing, real and bright. And you both just… keep going. Funny moments. Weird moments. Bits of the past that aren’t too heavy to say out loud. While you finish up your paperwork and she lounges in the chair like she belongs there, it’s not just banter, it´s truly some kind of a bonding.

Something neither of you expected.

After some time it starts happening like clockwork. Every couple of days, the door to the medbay opens, always at the same time, always with the same casual cool. Yelena Belova, standing in the doorway like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Sometimes she claims her knee hurts. Sometimes it’s her shoulder again. Once she said she had a weird cramp in her eyebrow.

You caught on by the third visit.

Today, as soon as she appears, you don’t even glance up from your tablet. "So what is it today?" you ask, smirking.

There’s a pause, then a rustle of something in her hand.

"I want to hang out with you," she says simply, walking over and setting a granola bar beside your paperwork. Chocolate chip.

You blink, glancing up at her, "tha- thank you." She remembered.

She shrugs, but there’s a small smirk tugging at her lips, "no problem."

It becomes a routine. She shows up when you’re between patients, always somehow knowing when you’ll be finishing paperwork or restocking the supply shelves. She lounges in the extra chair, legs kicked up, asking questions that are equal parts ridiculous and oddly thoughtful. You pretend to be annoyed when she teases you, but she can always tell when you’re trying not to laugh.

One day she brings in a tiny potted plant.

"For your desk," she says. "It’s not dying. Yet." You’re pretty sure it’s her subtle way of saying she likes being there.

And then, one late afternoon, while you’re typing up notes and she’s flipping through a medical catalog with exaggerated horror at the diagrams, she says it. "There’s a thing," she begins, casual. Too casual. "A gathering. Avengers-only thing."

You glance over, eyebrows raised, "okay?"

She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair, "you should come."

You blink, "me?"

"Yeah," she says, a bit too quickly. "I mean… you basically are part of the team. Medics are important. Very important."

Your lips twitch, "is that so?"

"Yes," she says panics. "Kate would be happy to see you. Since you stitched her up three times."

You let that hang for a second, watching her. Her cheeks are a bit pink. You smile softly, "that´s nice. I’d like to come," you say, "thanks for inviting me... for uh Kate." You hope that this is just an excuse.

She relaxes, visibly, "good."

You try as much as you can to cantain your excitement, you can´t wait for this Avengers gathering.

Thank you for reading!

[sylviaplatypus]

from what i can tell the reviews about this are mixed but tbh i was personally a huge fan of joe and nicky’s characterizations in this film. spoilery highlights after the cut

nicky basically “back in my day”ing nile for her question about whether the guard ever gets time off like the grandpa he is

the glimpses of how truly unhinged a millennia of being immortal has made them: laughing about booker getting his head blown off by a cannon, their shared amusement at joe’s funny guy bit with his severed thumb, the gleeful competitiveness over who drives which car, nicky teasing joe for not hot wiring his car as fast, playfully racing one another with their stolen vehicles. all while in the middle of a goddamn heist where bullets are flying everywhere lmaooo that’s deranged behavior and i love them for it.

speaking of the cars!! how even their driving is perfectly in sync!!!!!

i’ve seen a few posts saying that it was obvious nicky knew something was up with joe after he deflected nicky’s question about the mysterious text, and i totally agree, but i think he knew way sooner. that look he gives joe after nile asks if they think booker is doing okay is very Telling (citation: i’ve been with my spouse for a decade and can tell right away when something’s off with them, imagine that compounded by a literal thousand years!! i wouldn’t be surprised if nicky’s been suspicious of something since the moment joe made contact with booker)

the fact that joe crashed their goddamn car because he was looking at nicky instead of the road. relatable. 

the old married couple energy being so strong it almost blew me off my couch!!! bickering about snoring and sleep talking before going to bed at the same time, i’m weak

nicky’s loaded “huh, okay” to joe’s announcement that he needs some time alone. kudos to luca marinelli for being able to imbue a couple of filler words with such meaning. that meaning ofc being that nicky knows his man too well to believe he’s telling the truth about wanting to be alone. 

nicky’s little whispered “te amo” when he and joe part ways, sobbb

“we’re following him” / “what?” genuinely made me laugh out loud 

fully believe nicky would have been fine with joe going his separate way for a bit if he truly did need a little time and space. but i love that he follows him (and forces nile into a Situation in the process lol) because at this point he’s probably known for months that something’s been off with joe, and now he’s lying??? about needing something nicky would be willing to give him if joe were only telling the truth?? ofc that’s the tipping point for nicky.

not really a character development choice, but i am genuinely curious about why joe is bringing booker lemons. is there reason to be concerned about booker’s citrus intake?

the conflict is delicious to me!! love to see my favorite fictional ships argue because those moments reveal a lot about who people are, individually and as a unit. and joe and nicky fight like the old marrieds they are, like two people who are unflappable in the certainty that their foundation is too solid to crack under the pressure of a prolonged disagreement like this. it reminds me a lot of one of my favorite quotes from the haunting of hill house: “you fight with love. you're on the same team even in the middle of a fight. during the fight, you're forgiven. there's no fear. there's no danger. you're safe. it's a beautiful way to be.”

speaking of the Argument, my personal old married take is that it wasn’t joe being in contact with booker that upset nicky as much as it was the extended lie of omission joe told by not letting nicky in on this fact sooner. nicky has spent six months believing they were on the same page, that they’d both agreed to the terms of this painful exile - painful not only for booker, but for them as well because it meant losing a brother. nicky sat in that pain alone for months without realizing it, all because, as nicky pointed out, joe assumed he knew how nicky would react instead of talking with him. they’re supposed to be a team, and joe left him in the dark on this one! so it feels like it's not so much about his anger that joe is talking to booker again and more about joe shutting nicky out of his very understandable struggle with their decision to cut ties with him. 

yusuf went to see him! yusuf!!! (cue hilary duff’s this is what dreams are made of)

truly unwell over the cliffs of moher backstory and how beautifully it sums up their characters, their relationship, and the nature of this conflict arc. the game was playful and competitive like they've been shown to be, but when it came down to following through, nicky was too stubborn, steadfast, and consistent to give up first - just like he couldn’t move past what booker did as easily as joe, just like he waited until joe came to him to put a punctuation mark on the argument and finally tell nicky what’s really been bothering him. 

“talk to me,” nicky says and nothing else - and when joe does, he meets him with understanding but also objective facts. it’s a beautiful counterpoint to joe’s romantic monologue in the first film. no flowery prose, because nicky isn’t a poet like joe, but still just as moving in its simple truths (things end, and so will we eventually. but this thing that i feel for you because i know your heart isn’t an arbitrary happenstance. it’s a deliberate choice made countless times over countless years. and everything that’s a product of that love will ripple outward through eternity). 

 every battle couple moment. every single one of them.

joe kicking the guard onto nicky’s sword was definitely a precursor to the make up sex they need to have and i’m so glad that, if nothing else, we can all agree on this.

[animereaderinsertwriter]

we give what we can give (and take what little we deserve)

ch 11

pairing: alpha!kakashi x omega!reader

tags: omegaverse, arranged marriage, angst and fluff and smut, plot twist!

description: Kakashi agrees to marry an omega princess-- the adopted daughter of the daimyo. However, what he agrees to and what he gets aren't exactly the same thing...

Excerpt: “You’re hurting me,” she cried, those glistening tears making glittery tracks down her cheeks. Her pain wrenched at his heart even as he held her fast. “Let go, let go!”

“If I let go, are you going to hit me?”

“No,” she sniffled piteously, and like a fool, Kakahshi let her go.

She poked him in the eye and made a break for the door.

masterlist

ao3

Even when all the world was set aflame and nothing remained untouched by change, Kakashi could not escape his mate. He could hear her in the halting, stumbling, but nonetheless clear intonations of Konoha shinobi speaking to foreign shinobi not in the common language, but in their own tongue in the allied shinobi camps. She was there in every brush of silk fabric, more rare now and therefore precious enough to use for trade, and she lingered in the shadows of dancing shinobi and their songs. 

More than that, though, the rumors of a band of civilian militants led by a banished princess evacuating villages and harrying Akatsuki supply lines haunted him, chilled him to his very bones. Not to mention the fact that Tsunade, who had been skeptical from the start about the dubious nature of his wife’s demise, had threatened to court-martial him for deceiving her. Kakashi had suspected that the only reason she had not done so was because, in her own way, she had fallen for his wife’s lies just as easily as he had, and had felt just as keenly the sting of her betrayal.

Oh, how he hated her for haunting him.

And yet, in idle moments like these, staring into the campfire while the world held its breath for the next offensive, he wondered if he had made a mistake in casting (Y/N) off. In a way, she had done more than any of them to prepare young shinobi for this fate. She had taught them languages, dancing, and diplomacy, not to mention correct manners and the niceties of foreign customs— all things which Kakashi had witnessed at work as the Allied Shinobi Forces struggled to bond and ease old tensions. 

Distantly, Kakashi wondered if his wife had always known this war would happen, if she had augured it from the entrails of his heart and prepared her— no, not her village, he reminded himself— the village as best she could out of the goodness of her heart. If indeed she had any goodness there. 

“I love Konoha,” she had told him that night, her eyes full of tears and golden candlelight. “I would give everything, betray anything, before I let harm come to this place or its people.”

Shortly after, she had begged him to kill her rather than make her leave. In that, she had been selfish— truly selfish, to ask such a thing of him— but Kakashi could not deny that anyone who could love Konoha as she had could not be wholly evil. She might be an enemy of the village now, but she had loved Konoha. She had loved him. 

Her notes, he remembered, had been exacting on those points. Remembering them had him hating her all over again. Using her ability to walk through walls, she’d had access to restricted documents, and had recorded hundreds of classified case files. No village secret had been safe from her. She’d been privy to every jutsu, forbidden or not, every classified contingency strategy— all of it. Not to mention the Hatake clan secrets.

But that wasn’t all that was in her notes 

Those notes which were not spy craft were on the subject of Kakashi’s movements; they were not spy-like notes at all, aside from detailing his mission schedule, but rather notes on his personality. Likes, dislikes, colors she thought suited him and those she thought did not, thoughts on pups, thoughts on genetics, and potential plans for renovating parts of the compound— it was all there for him to view. He was startled to find that, after the first few weeks, the notes she had taken read more like a journal than like mission reports. 

Reader, I hate him, she had written on the date that they had fought about the seal on her neck. He is insufferable. Should kill him in the morning, when my strength is back. Might be hard to make it seem accidental. Will report back.

That had hurt to read— but the entry continued into the next day:

Reader, I love him, she had written, and the characters were smudged at the edges. Should kill myself in the morning, when my strength is back— only, I must finish this book with him. Perhaps there is some insight he can provide there. Will report back. 

Kakashi thought of those entries often, especially when the nights were cold and lonely, and the conflicts dragged on and on into terrible oblivion. He would think of those entries and wonder if she still loved him. 

He still loved her. 

He had tried to stop. 

He could not. 

It sickened him how she’d used him. How she’d destroyed his ability to hate her alongside his ability to love her. He was a wreck over it. 

“Sensei,” Sakura spoke to him one night across a shared campfire. “I'm sorry.”

He did not need to ask what for. She had risked everything in a last-minute bid to either win Sasuke back or take him out herself. She was apologizing for everything— for having done it, for not having succeeded, for missing her would-be lover and fated mate and hating him at the same time. Sasuke and Sakura, they were a rare biological match, each as frightfully beautiful as the other, equals and opposites in nearly every way. Sakura was brilliant, Sasuke was talented… but more than that, Sakura was kind where Sasuke was cruel, and Sasuke was sharp with claw and fang where Sakura was soft and vulnerable enough to still be human. An equal match indeed, if they had both consented to it. Balance like that was hard to find. Kakashi had tried as best he could to make that clear in his showdown with Sasuke, but he got the feeling that his point hadn't come across as he'd meant it. 

She loves you, and you love her, he wished he'd said. There is no impediment. All would be forgiven if you'd just come home. 

But maybe that was just projecting. Projecting, and yet not even true. After all, some sins are so great that they cannot be forgiven, nor forgotten.

“Love is a heavy burden.” He told her, poking idly at the fire with a stick. “If you stumble, or even step badly beneath its load, it can be easy to falter. I don't know if you made the right decision or not— but I do know that you're still alive, and Naruto and I are still alive, and no one has really been hurt. On top of that, we now have a hostage. As far as I'm concerned, that's all to the good.”

I'm proud of you, he might have said— but he was never so good with words. 

“I almost wish the princess was here,” Sakura sighed. “She always seemed to be wise in the ways of love.”

The princess— that's all anyone called her these days, at least in his presence. It was as if her name was too painful to speak. 

“She was wise about a lot of things.” He tried not to sound bitter, and utterly failed. 

“Do you ever miss her, sensei?”

Kakashi closed his eyes. As he always did, he saw her lovely, heartbroken face.

“Every day.”

“Do you think… do you think that maybe one day you'll reconcile? That it'll all… I dunno, work itself out?”

“No.” Nothing in his tone or expression betrayed the hateful clenching of his heart— not even when his student looked at him with wide green eyes that still glimmered with hope. 

“But… you're still mates— and she fights on our side of the war, y’know. That's got to count for something.” 

“Yes, well, to not fight for our side would be to welcome total destruction. I don't think that's anything special. And as for mate status… I was just too selfish to free her when she left. That's all.”

It was the truth, as far as he could stomach it. 

“Maybe I'm selfish too, for… for the whole Sasuke thing.”

Kakashi shrugged. 

“Maybe. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Just a human thing.”

Sakura stood. She was taller than she was as a tiny genin, more womanly. Here and now, lit by firelight and somber with worry, she seemed to have aged decades in mere moments. 

“Don't beat yourself up, Kaka-sensei,” she said, briefly placing one warm hand on his shoulder. “Our selfishness might yet pay off.”

And with those words of wisdom, she left to join another campfire, leaving Kakashi alone with flickering flames and memories of his departed father. 

In the distance, coyotes howled. Or, more likely, Kakashi knew, men and women howled their terrible call to warn nearby enemies to stay back. Recently, there had been an uptick in refugees who had been escorted to safety by his wife’s militia. It was said that the battle cry of that force was like a ferocious beast, a terrible, inhuman howl from a thousand men-at-arms.

It was said that their leader could not be killed with sword, bow, sickle, or ax— that she was terrible and fearless and as cruel to her enemies as she was kind to her friends. Duplicitous, tricky, deadly. His wife, his mate. The same woman she had always been, but sharpened by war.

Kakashi wondered how far she was from him. He wondered if he might wander into the woods and find her there, as beautiful as the day she left him, leading her people and saving as many lives as she could. He wondered if she was with them, howling her fury into the night, beautiful and terrible and mighty.

The thought discomfited him, and he was awake through most of the night, straining to hear a howl on the wind. 

As if by some terrible, malignant miracle, the next time Kakashi saw his mate was in the heat of battle. 

It had not been terribly long since he had spoken to Sakura about her, and since that night, everything that could go wrong was going wrong. That stupid green-and-white Akatsuki asshole just kept on duplicating himself— it was so annoying when anyone besides Naruto used the overwhelm-them-with-numbers tactic— and then as if that wasn't bothersome enough, that ridiculous coyote call sounded and he had just enough time to turn around before he caught sight of her. 

She was riding that stupid, mean horse with a stupid, mean expression on her face, and she cut through the Akatsuki copies like a hot knife through fucking butter. 

Kakashi had way too much on his hands to worry about what was happening behind him— like seriously, way too much— but he heard more than saw her kill, her cries a mix of battle-howl and screams of furious exertion. 

The last glance he caught of her before the chaos of battle separated them was an image that would forever be burned into his mind. A green-and-white copy had launched itself at his back, and before Kakashi could kill it himself, the copy was tackled to the ground by a force almost too fast for him to see. 

His mate, in all her war-like glory, pinned the copy down with two unyielding hands, then used her teeth to rip out its throat. 

It was over in seconds. 

She spat the tendons from her mouth, pushed herself onto her feet, and whistled for her mount. Kakashi stared at her. She stared back. And then she was gone. 

It was only after that it occurred to Kakashi to be terribly jealous. No one should have had the satisfaction of her teeth at their neck but him. 

Obito’s dream was too evil to ever succeed long-term, and too good to ever last. 

Seeing Obito grown, learning of his haunted existence, and crossing blades as bitter enemies seemed unfair beyond belief. Regaining his friendship and losing him all over again was something even beyond unfair. It was unthinkably cruel. Saying goodbye for the final time was harder than it had any right to be, and although watching his students defeat a goddess, united at last, was incredibly fulfilling, coming back to the battlefield left Kakashi feeling torn, bereft.

Now more than ever, he wanted his mate and the comfort she could give him. 

All around him, people were waking. Cocoon-like structures were cracking, the Infinite Tsukuyomi broken, and the bereft cries of the waking dreamers felt like hail on his skin— cold, piercing, and impossible to ignore. The joys of victory, so hard-won, had left him entirely. It was as though he was standing in the middle of a freezing downpour, drowning, unable to breathe for the water in the air. 

He dropped to one knee. He forced himself to count the cracks in the rocks below his feet. Deep inhale, deep exhale. In. And out.

In—

Oh. 

There was a scent in the air. It was a scent he knew well. 

Green tea. Earth. Rain. 

Mate.

Kakashi jerked his head ninety-degrees to the right with enough force to give himself whiplash. In the low light of the new day dawning, his wife knelt, holding herself as terrible, gnawing sobs were wrenched from her chest. It was impossible to tell the sound of her hyperventilating breaths from sounds of agony; she was shaking all over, and her nails were digging into her arms hard enough that blood trails were left in their wake. 

“No,” he murmured, unable to look away. “No, no, no, no, no.”

She was in heat— and he was not the only one who had noticed. 

If Kakashi had any sense of self preservation, he would fuck off to the ends of the earth and leave her there. He would let her kneel there and cry, let her mourn whatever world she had just lost alone. He would let someone else bear the burden of her heat, let her wring some other sonofabitch dry and leave him forever changed by her. 

Kakashi left all of that behind him, though. There was nothing left to him but aching— not even dignity or shame.

So with weak knees and a heavy heart, he forced himself to lift one foot after the other, marching as if to his death towards the woman he had loved. Heads turned as others realized what they were smelling, but he paid them no mind. He exhuded killing intent like a wolf on the hunt, and shinobi of all ranks and all villages gave him a wide berth as he made the terrible trek to his mate. 

Up close, she was even worse off than he'd thought. It was clear that she had not eaten nor slept well; she was lean and gaunt where she had been round and robust. Her clothes— a simple shirt and a pair of men’s breeches— were dirty from weeks of hard travel, and her hair was a terrible tangle. She looked like shit. 

And yet, despite everything, she was still beautiful. 

Kakashi knelt. She looked up at him, startled by his shadow, then looked frantically away.

“I'm sorry,” she said, holding tightly to her own arms as though she were afraid they'd fall off if she didn't. “The dream triggered it. I'm so sorry, Kakashi, I tried—” 

She shuddered. 

“Please.” Tears cut long tracks in the dirt on her cheeks. “Please, leave me. I'm sorry.”

It was clear that she wanted him gone. 

Kakashi wasn't really interested in what she wanted, though. 

“Come away,” he murmured. “Come with me. People are starting to stare.”

That was an understatement. Anyone within smelling distance was watching with a terrible intensity that made Kakashi’s teeth itch. His mate’s pheromones were so powerful that, when combined with his own that warned of back, bite, mate, mine, they were mouth-wateringly tempting. Any alpha— or hell, even beta— would be itching for the chance to challenge him for her. And, unfortunately for them, Kakashi had not had enough of death to be sated if he was pressed at this current moment. It would be his pleasure to rip the throat out of an impertinent alpha punk who decided to test him— a terribly dangerous thing indeed.

“N-No,” she shook her head, trembling like a leaf in the wind. “I don’t— don't want you— don't want them to look at me.”

Her hand reached up to touch her hair, and her face scrunched with tears once more. 

It hit Kakashi that she wasn't worried about her safety. She was worried about being pretty enough to be seen. 

Not for the first time, he considered defecting from Konoha for the express purpose of murdering every last RAAT agent that he could find. 

“Can you stand?”

She nodded. 

“Then get up. I'll get us somewhere safe.”

He stood, then helped her to her feet. Once she was securely in his arms, he flickered a good ways away, to a nearby hilltop that they could hide behind while they caught their breath. When they stopped moving, he still held her, his body reluctant to release the solid warmth of her. 

It was a good thing he did, too, because her knees chose that moment to give out completely.

“Easy. Come on, let's get you on the ground. Slowly, now.”

He lowered both of them down until they were both sitting on the ground with her back to his chest. She was still bleeding from where she had scratched herself. Kakashi could smell it, could feel it hot and wet against the tips of his fingers as he held her steady. He had to temper his desire to lick the wounds clean with his knowledge that, objectively, that was more likely to cause an infection than truly soothe the wound. 

Still… he wanted to taste it, the blood, her blood. He wanted to share, somehow, in her pain, to own it.

To own her. 

“Lilies,” she babbled, her head lolling back against his chest. “You smell like lilies… and stone, and blood. A gravesite. The death of me. You're so angry, Kakashi..”

She shuddered, and Kakashi realized that he'd still been in battle mode, projecting killing intent like a murderous villain.

He willed himself to be calm. Breathing deeply, he touched her neck, brushed his thumb over the Mark that lay there. She gasped, then sobbed— but he was comforted, eased simply by touching her. He should want to kill her. 

“Kakashi.” His name was half-gasp, half-moan in her mouth. “Please…”

He pulled down his mask and pressed his lips to where this thumb had been. He could feel her heart beat fast as he licked and kissed, soothing her, and his hands busied themselves with fumbling in his flack jacket for antiseptic and field dressings. Her skin was hot and his lips were chapped, but judging by the sounds she was making, he must have been doing something right. 

It was a risk, putting off tending to her heat long enough to dress her wounds, but it was one that Kakashi was willing to take. He cleaned the deep scratches carefully, tenderly, and wrapped them as well as he could. His patient was restless, but tried her hardest to be still even when it was clear by her pained breathing that she needed relief. 

Just as Kakashi was trying off the last bandage, her composure broke. She shifted so that her hand slipped beneath the waist and of her breeches, unsubtle; as she did so, a bead of sweat rolled down from her temple to her jaw, to her shoulder. 

Kakashi licked the sweat from her skin, and her hand began to move. 

“I'm sorry,” she said again as he moved her legs. Her back was still to his chest, but he had moved her feet to the outside of his legs so that her thighs were held open by his knees. The shift in position brought their sexes into alignment and allowed him far greater access to the growing wetness between her legs. “So— so sorry…”

“Me too,” he said. “Move your hand.”

She did. He carefully unlaced her breeches, then helped her remove them. His calloused middle finger found her hole. The heel of his palm met her clit and elicited a gasp as he added another finger; his tongue idly traced the Mark on her neck, a reminder of the deep and terrible love that had drawn him into her web. 

It had always been so easy, the attraction between them, Kakashi mused as he curled his fingers into her tight, wet heat. So much had required hard work and dedication to make their love work, but sex? That had always been an area of natural chemistry between them. 

“Knot.” Her voice was high and tremulous with need. “Want your kn-knot…”

“Soon.” He brought a hand up to rest on her belly. “Soon.”

You need to come first, he thought, because I'm not going to last long.

It took more than usual to bring her to climax— Kakashi’s wrist hurt by the time his mate finally stiffened, then collapsed with the fullness of her pleasure. Nevertheless, he took advantage of her disorientation to move her gently until her back was against the soft earth. She had asked for his knot; his knot she was going to get. 

“...’kashi,” she mumbled blearily, sitting up for a moment. “Wait. Your eyes…”

She brought a hand up to his face. Kakashi was at once reminded of what he had lost. 

“I'm alright,” he said, taking that hand and kissing it tenderly. “I made it out alive.”

Her brows scrunched. 

“How?”

He told her a shortened version of the story. Dimension-hopping, god-fighting, Obito’s life— and his death. It took less breath than he thought it would to say it all. Perhaps none of it had ever been so very grand or complex. Perhaps it had always been simple. Power versus power. Good versus evil. Village versus loner. 

“Oh, Kakashi,” she sighed, heavy-hearted. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugged.

“Losing the sharingan isn't the worst that could have happened. I was lucky to leave with my life.”

“No.” Her brow crinkled, and her hand moved to cup his cheek. “I'm sorry your friend is dead.”

Up until that moment, Kakashi had not realized the true weight of that unspoken grief in his shoulders. Now that it was pointed out to him, that grief threatened to swallow him whole. 

“Besides,” she continued, a tinge of reluctant admiration in her voice, “I much prefer your eyes this way. They're so lovely, Kakashi. I have always loved your eyes, but now…” 

Her thumb traced the scar where the sharingan should be. 

“I want a pup with those eyes. They’re so dark that they shine— a paradox, but it's true.”

That frank confession did funny things to Kakashi’s chest. He had never had a heart attack, but he had a strong suspicion that he might now know what one felt like. 

“A pup?”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. 

“Yes. I can have pups now.”

Come to think of it… it was a bit strange that there hadn't been any talk of children before now. Despite his (previous?) desire to end the Hatake line himself, he hadn't exactly been careful about sex before. He had always just assumed that his wife would be on some type of birth control or… something. 

Now, though, he knew better than to assume. It couldn't really be an accident that they hadn't conceived yet despite an utter lack of precaution. That she would bring it up now meant that there was probably more to what she was saying than she let on. It must be a very real possibility— one that she wanted him to be aware of before they went any further,or else the thought would have been lost to her desire.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Without the chakra withdrawal…” she licked her lips. “I’m not sure how it all works, but I can feel it. My body is… different. Ready.”

Right. Chakra withdrawal. Because she had been a spy with a seal on the base of her skull.

“Please,” she whined, squirming beneath him. “I need—”

“I know.”

An invisible fist tightened around his heart as her hand moved to touch his Mark. Oh, how sweet that touch, and how cruel— it sent shivers down his spine to match hers. In a moment of terrible fantasy, he pictured a future with her. A future with dark-eyed pups whose smiles rivaled the sun’s. 

Pups with smiles like their mother’s.

With unsteady hands, Kakashi drew out his cock. He stroked it with his rough, gloved hand, watched as he pressed it gently in that sweet, wet place between her thighs. She cried out as he teased, lingered, drawing out the inevitable; she gasped when he finally stopped hesitating and began to move with gentle force again, again, again, again inside of her. He tried to last, he really did— but heat pheromones in concert with the way his body sang after being reunited with his mate were just too much to bear. He knotted with an embarrassing quickness— before she finished— but when he moved his hand to her clit to finish what he started, his wife stopped him. 

“Hold me, Kakashi.” Her voice was weak, watery with the force of unshed tears. “Just… please hold me.”

And so he did. 

They were quiet as they waited for his knot to deflate. Their breathing was the only sound, and even that seemed thunderous. Still, Kakashi felt as if he should say something… but what? What was there to say that he could stomach? 

“I'm going to have to leave soon— as soon as I can,” he told her, stroking her hair. “There are things that need tending to. Will you be alright?”

“Yes. I think—” she shifted, winced. “I think you could probably go now, it would just take some doing.”

“No.” It was far too early for that— she would tear at least a little if he tried to pull out now. “Be patient. I won't hurt you.”

Liar, he thought viciously to himself— leaving her, as he inevitably must, would hurt both of them just as much as any physical pain— then, at the tender smoothing of her hand across his lower back, he forgave himself the lie. It wasn't worth ruining this moment over. For this moment, she was his once more. 

As he held her there, so gently, so tenderly, his mind was racing. There was a burning question that Kakashi wanted to ask… but it would be entirely unfair for him to ask it. He had no right to make demands of her. 

Except…

He had every right. 

Still, he would not. It didn't matter who she planned to spend the rest of this heat with. She was a beautiful omega— she could have her pick of partners, and it was not his place to even so much as ask.

So he didn't.

Pulling out of her there on that battlefield was the hardest thing Kakashi had ever done. His instincts screamed and fought, but there was nothing to be done for it. Piece by piece, he cleaned himself up and put himself back together until he was a man and a shinobi once more, rather than an alpha and a husband. 

“I've got to go,” he said to his wife, tracing a knuckle down the side of her heated cheek. “Will you be okay?” 

She nodded.

“I will.”

Kakashi nodded back, then turned to leave.

“Kakashi?”

He halted, turned. In that moment, watching her look at him with such quiet pain, he knew that if she asked him to stay, he would. If she asked him to defect from Konoha and live with her as an outlaw, he would do it and damn the consequences.

She did not ask any of that, though. She simply said,

“Be careful.”

He nodded once more, then flickered away, afraid of what he might do if he lingered even a second longer. 

[preemptivejustice]

The pieces were divided, piles made. Patterns emerged from the apparent chaos, led entirely by the subject - the puzzle did little to show piles as being a possible ‘solution’. The subject had thought of that, himself. That was notable. 

The pieces were inherently irregular, designed that way. And yet, the need to classify them had emerged regardless. The act of sorting suggested at more than curiosity - it suggested aesthetic reasoning. A desire to understand, alongside ‘complete’. There was no system in this pile of pieces, not really - and yet the subject wanted there to be one. 

It was human. 

He made a mental note, wondering briefly if there was significance in the number ‘four’. There was, of course - four corners. Four limbs. Four directions. It could be a coincidence, or even something subconscious; Arthur found himself rarely believing in coincidence.

The answer about the meat came quietly, without resistance, the same as everything else. It made Arthur’s brow lift slightly, though it wasn’t shocking; sensory-based objection. One described with the kind of awareness that wasn’t fabricated. ‘Burns’, he said. An honest discomfort. 

He nodded carefully, continuing the conversation casually. “That’s a common reaction,” he promised. “Many of the flavors in meat, specifically pork, are fat-soluble compounds. It means they linger, saturate. For someone with heightened sensory processing, it can be… overwhelming. It could come across as painful.” 

He paused only briefly, before adding: “I’m vegan, myself. I don’t eat any animals, or any products from animals. I understand the preference.” 

The note about vegetables was interesting, too, his head tilting the other way. Sodium, too much of it. The food prep team likely had been defaulting to standard institutional meals; likely bland to most, but chemically intense to someone sensitive. It would be worth putting in a request to adjust that. 

“I’ll make sure your meals are simplified,” he offered. “Low sodium, different meat. We can try fish, if you’re open to that. Some people prefer fish, when other meats feel like a bit too much.” It worried him, a bit, that the subject would hold a distaste for meat with no pushing in that direction; it worried him that, somehow, the subject was able to pick up information from him. 

The circle was completed, pulling his focus again. Not a perfect circle, but a closed form - and one that the subject didn’t try to preserve at all. He dismantled it. Reversed the process, not as destruction but rather as transformation; each piece was being raised, now. Stacked. Built. 

Arthur watched, his gaze sharp. The subject wasn’t trying to ‘solve’ it - he was exploring how it behaved. Exploring what he could do with it, rather than rushing to what he ‘should’ do - it was fascinating. 

“… I’ve noticed you rarely ask questions, or ask for things,” Arthur noted; not criticism, only fact. “You answer them, which I appreciate. But you haven’t asked me much, in return. Most people, in unfamiliar environments, would be asking about what’s going on. What time it is, how long they’ll be here - who might be watching them. What their purpose is, here.” 

He shifted his position only slightly, stretching out his bad leg off to the side, making certain to keep it out of the way. “You haven’t asked me a single thing about myself, or this place, or what our goal is. Is it because you already know? Or because you don’t care?” 

If Kane happens to feels bothered by Dr. Harrow watching him with such intent - making sure to not miss a single thing that's happening in front of him - he's not showing any of it on his own features. There's no discomfort, no negative expression lingering within the dark of his irises, not at all; He's focused on this task at hand, fingers picking up piece after piece before putting them back down, pushing them around...

Slowly but surely, as seconds and minutes of silence pass, four separate piles of wodden puzzle pieces are created, with Kane seemingly following a pattern he's agreed on inside his mind - turning the one big display of pieces into those four sections before continuing to attempt to create a shape out of what is given to him.

There's only cohesion, only form. No picture, no reward.

It all happens while the other decides to speak up again, talks about Kane's preference for sorting; Perhaps the thing he just did, creating neat little piles of wooden shapes to execute whatever's going on inside his mind, is giving additional proof to Dr. Harrow's spoken assumption - a bit funny, all things considered. A hum follows, a sound made of acknowledgement, before Kane tilts his head to one side - his gaze, though, remains on where his fingers now pick up single pieces of that puzzle again.

"...I don't like the texture of it." The way Kane speaks his answer into the air between them almost makes him sound casual there, syllables feeling light around the edges; Nimble digits continue to push pieces of wood together, turning them this and that way until he seems to be satisfied - then takes another piece, repeating the action, over and over again. "---The taste. It's... very intense, and I don't like the way that taste feels on my tongue either. It burns sometimes."

A shape begins to appear as hands continue to work, to push and pull, to turn individual pieces around, exchange them for others---

"...Most of what they serve to me tastes rather intense, though - even the plants, the vegetables. Like... sodium. Lots of sodium."

One more piece is added, sliding into place with ease...

---Kane inhales, then exhales, as he pulls his hand back and simply looks at his creation - a complete circle it is, about as big as both of his hands combined, as neat as he could possibly get it with the limited options available to him. Because of those puzzle pieces being irregularly shaped, the edge appears a bit wonky; Surprisingly so, though, Kane likes it. Makes it appear more... interesting.

But then, instead of just letting the thing rest there, he... begins to disassemble it again - and each piece he removes he puts back down next to that now incomplete circle, in a different way: He makes them stand up intead of lying flat, then goes on to balance the other pieces on top of the previous one...

Only cohersion. Only form. Any form, any shape, any perspective.

[benzedrine-calmstheitch]

So I saw The Apprentice (2024) today, and came on this site to look for screen caps or gifs to reblog. But what I’ve found is a lot of publicity photos of Sebastian Stan and a few interviews about the film, but… nothing of the film itself. Which makes me think most of his fans who are blogging about him being in it aren’t actually watching it. And yknow, fair, it’s not an appealing log line, I get it.

But 1) he’s really good in it. And, more importantly, 2) it’s a good film and obviously Very Relevant right now!

I don’t know I just think at this point it’s such a given for some of us that he’s awful as much as it’s a given for others that he’s a Success, and these two groups of people have entirely forgotten to actually care about the fact that what we separately think is not the same thing. We should care about that! We should want this film! We should not be so averse to the complexity of human beings!

[pokeberry5]

fellas, is it gay to give up a guaranteed future with the girl of your dreams and the collective happiness of most of the people in your life for the sake of one homie?

redraw of THE page from chap. 275:

[ironicreality]

Yeah, the saltfest basically means that anyone who doesn't worship Marinette gets the hose of life ruining. But they never actually think through the implications of their setup.

Like you say: even in the fics where Chat was harassing Ladybug, that comes with caveat that he's A- correct about the whole 'Ladybug and Black Cat holders are soulmates' and B- Plagg's canonical actions as an anti mentor who *pushed him* to identify as the Black Cat and pursue Ladybug during the earlier seasons.

I've even seen stories where the side effects of using a 'Miraculous never meant for him' included physical mutations, curses, literal insanity (that was often the cause of his harassment by the way, not that he ever gets let off for that) and worse: but the fact that he's a victim is *never* given more than a few passing lines compared to the outpouring of sympathy for poor widdle Marinette and her high school drama.

Add on his canon backstory, or even just the bits from earlier seasons when he was just a regular human rich boy confined for most of his developmental years (the whole custom-made child with remote control action just... *multiplies* things), and it's even worse.

Plus you can usually add in his entire personal and professional life going up in smoke too- since the saltfics usually have Adrien (and Alya, and anyone else in the class who isn't the author's favorites) get utterly ruined. And compound it with the disaster of Gabriel getting revealed as Hawkmoth and Adrien's life is well and truly ruined from every angle.

This is a boy set up to *burn.*

If Chloe is justified in becoming a villain over Marinette's handling of Queen Bee, then whatever broken mess of a person than comes out of this salted earth would be a spectacle to behold. In fact, I've actually thought of something similar myself before, if you'll indulge me reposting:

-

Post Saltfic Adrien has a way better setup for an accusation fic than Marinette ever had.

The whole thing with Adrien Salt is that it's salted earth for Adrien. It's not enough to just 'punish' him: the writer usually sets out to destroy him.

All his friends, family, social and career prospects get nuked. His future burns up in smoke and his very existence usually gets turned into a husk of a life. One whose only realistic 'happy' ending would be him finding the will to end it himself rather than slowly wasting away or letting someone else get the pleasure of doing it to him, because all hope of improvement has been destroyed.

And it all gets excused at best. Usually it's outright celebrated as fair justice.

But unironically this is a far better setup for a 'salt' story than just about *any* version of Marinette woes. Because her problems just aren't anywhere near the scale to justify her going salted earth.

She has a loving home, a good financial future and her worst problem (Lila) could be solved by transferring to another school.

Meanwhile the Adrien from these stories would actually fit pretty well for one of those revenge-manga protagonists. By the end of a saltfic he has **literally** no friends or family, just treacherous targets who either stood by while others gutted him or did it themselves. He's lost all of his prospects of a good, or even normal life. His efforts as Chat Noir have been utterly dismissed, and his secondary identity is usually revealed to have never actually been his because of the whole "true holder" bullshit- which victimizes him on multiple levels while ruining his relationship with Plagg. That's on top of the sidelining and complete lack of training he gets from Fu and Ladybug.

His problems aren't ones that can be solved.

His life is genuinely ruined, over what amounts to *high school drama*.

Ironically though it just makes Adrien more sympathetic. Not just because any real assessment of his sins make it clear that it's undeserved. Or because when you pair it with how Adrien's canonical backstory realistically explains most of his issues with ease, and most especially because salt fics usually have it revealed that Adrien was never actually the 'true Black Cat' and so it makes every moment between him and Plagg retrospectively pure manipulation of a vulnerable boy to be used as a disposable tool.

But because Marinette not only gets massive amounts of unwarranted sympathy and praise, she *also* gets all of her own failings and far worse issues ignored or glossed over and she gets disproportionately rewarded in way that beggars belief. Adrien meanwhile gets strung up and his metaphorical corpse dragged through the streets.

There's probably at least one story where that literally happens.

But despite that, Adrien's also established as a hyper-talented near genius with innumerable and improbable academic and physical skills, and has a legitimate reason to go scorched earth on Marinette and everyone else who turned their backs on him. Sure, the Adrien they knew might have been someone who preferred to turn the cheek, but going through all of *that* would change anyone: and he would have nothing else left *but* revenge to live for- to see Ladybug held to account by any means necessary.

Add in the fact that Ladybug herself commits all kinds of mistakes in the show that should have cost her her own Miraculous by the standard she later sets (Miracle Queen alone would justify it, but there's plenty of others), and *everything else* that Marinette and her followers do during the average the salt fic that gets excused by protagonist-centered morality and the sheer hypocrisy basically **demands** an equalization.

When you step back from the protagonist centered morality: The whole thing actually feels like a the backstory of an overly long-titled revenge manga;

"Balancing the scales: I was ruined by my ex-superhero partner over bad advice, stripped of my powers, given a social death warrant, had my future taken away and left to die- but she's way worse so lets make things fair!"

The salt-deconstruction/counterfic more or less writes itself.

So, I kind of already asked another poster about this, but I'm interested to see your take on this post of mine since this is a Mariette-critical space. ***

Yeah, I don't like the whole True Holder thing much myself. In case that wasn't obvious. But like, it's so much worse than just an excuse to take Adrien's ring. When you actually think about the whole idea that "Adrien was never the TRUE Black Cat", and apply that to everything that would have come up before that point- it so radically changes the context of every scene between him and Plagg that you can't ignore the implications.

Every time Plagg was dismissive of Adrien in season one and doesn't care to explain things: well now we know its because he's just dealing with a temp guy.

The scenes where Adrien tried to get answers and was rebuffed: it's because he was never meant to know anything.

Why was he never trained like Ladybug? Because he was always meant to be replaced.

All those scenes where Plagg bonded with Adrien, encouraged him to keep being Chat Noir, even imagining a future where he was Plagg's holder for life (Wishmaker)? That moment in Syren where Plagg uses their bond to get Adrien to stay on as Chat Noir, because Plagg apparently values Adrien as a person and doesn't want a replacement? It was ALL manipulation.

Manipulation of an emotionally vulnerable teenager who had never had a friend outside of his house besides Chloe and Felix before Fu found him. A teenager who has quite a few useful fighting and athletic skills, but who also came pre-conditioned to accept authority figures and their unexplained demands.

The whole 'True Holder' thing is clearly supposed to undermine Adrien. But if you take off the excuse-plot googles and *actually* think about how it recontextualises the series and Adrien's involvement as Chat Noir; it *victimizes* him far, far more than could ever be justified. Throw in everything else in his backstory, and you have a tragic figure who is picked up and used by just about everyone in his life.

A figure who was encouraged to believe that he was *meant* to be the Black Cat, who was coached to identify as Plagg’s holder and Ladybug’s partner. A figure who was never trained or guided in any substantial way but *was* used as a combination meatshield, tool and emotional support whenever the early Ladybug needed those things, only to get dropped when she didn't need him any more.

Even in the harshest of Salt Fics and Maribat stories, there's no way to spin this that doesn't make Adrien into a victim. But... that's not the purpose of those stories, so the obvious implications are just ignored so the bitter tones don't interfere with whatever vindictive catharsis and romantic fantasy the plot is trying to achieve.

---

Yeah, the Miraculous fandom has a lot of fanfic tropes that actually have some pretty severe unintended implications. The “True Holder” one is especially grating about this. You mean you purposefully kept him weak so that he can be easily replaced and then yell at him for not being good at his job? Marinette being dismissive of him, Fu ignoring him and Plagg being an unreliable ally aren’t because of their personal character flaws, they’re because they have already decided that he shouldn’t even get the bare minimum.

In that setup, he’s being treated worse than Chloé, and I do think she would have been justified in becoming a Ladybug-hating villain after being strung along on the promise of getting to be Queen Bee for a full season.

In both cases, the audience buying into this treatment being okay requires the prerequisite of hating each of these characters, so any harm done on them is just catharsis, no matter how undeserved, no matter how it actually justifies the very things the people writing this nonsense criticise the character for.

[s-ccaam-era-crepe]

aroallo rep in my trans horror book ? more likely than you think <33

[tj-crochets]

So my little brother and I are not allowed to be on the same team for family game night when we play games like Taboo, because most of the time we share a brain cell and the rest of the family has decided it's an unfair advantage. Today, I was trying to remember the word hummus but completely blanked, so what I said was: "Cabbage. No, hermitage" And my brother guessed "Brussels sprouts?" "No, it's a brown goo" I said, but my brother heard "it's a round goo" "Hummus!" he said "that explains the green from cabbage" "It was hummus, but hummus isn't green????" "Oh I was thinking of guacamole" So like. Even when he and I are thinking of totally different things we can still come up with the same word lol

[ricelover247]

looks up. blinks blearily. scifi series review in the tags (not real review) (not verified) (i have been awake for a very large number of hours)

[aelswiths]

AELSWITH (ripping my heart out and destroying me 😭😭) IN 1x07

[halfbaked00q]

in spite of what the rather.. freeform and haphazard nature of like all of my posts here may lead you to believe, I am actually really good with grammar and formatting. Was hired at my last job specifically because my ex-boss was so impressed with my writing abilities, in fact. just for the record ;-;

[silly-stings]

"you better not be shrignold doing his makeup in the mirror when i get there"

me:

[david-watts]

I don't want to talk about this too much for a few reasons but firstly. incredible how different things can seem if you're not suffering symptoms. truly the 'nothing in life matters' meme but replace it with 'I know nothing about my favourite guy (t. e.)'. but still hole in brain aside most of that was suffering symptoms as bad of an excuse as either of those are

[asterdeer]

I had a dream where I was being held hostage in Corado Springs by James Dobson and Paul McCusker in the Focus on the Family compound, and they had to take my phone away bc I kept trying to torment them by reading aloud from your gay AiO fan fic.

akjfhsdkjhfsdksjfhsds HOWLING. you weren't trapped in there with them, they were trapped in there with you (and also by proxy with me)!!! 10000/10 dream, i wish it was a short film

[wyrmwizzard]

I went to a little pottery festival in a small town close to mine this morning, and I obviously understand I'm a visually alt/queer looking person living in the deep south. Yes. I get that. But the whole time I felt like a horrible fart everyone was desperately trying to pretend they didn't smell. I had a lovely conversation with a Spanish lady I bought a mug from, but many of the vendors desperately avoided my eye contact, and a few flat out ignored me. Which is baffling, do you even want my money?? my scary gay money?