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purplink8 · 2 months ago

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Hey do you guys think Light got his love for punctuality from Soichiro? Like look:

Here is Light all but praising the Death Note for being exactly on time and then we have his father:

Soichiro: "Only those who are ready and willing to sacrifice everything and fight, who are truly committed to stopping this psychopath...are asked to remain. I'll find out who you are when I return at five o'clock from my meeting upstairs."

Soichiro checks his watch before entering and it's exactly 5 o'clock!

As if that wasn't enough, we have this additional tidbit that canon offers us:

Light: "Ryuk, I pretty much only take my watch off when I sleep. I definitely always wear it when I go outside. And habits don't change. This watch was a gift from my father when I graduated high school. I wouldn't replace it."

Not only Soichiro gifted Light this watch as a graduation present, Light counted on his deeply engrained habit of not taking his watch off for his keikaku to work.

Can you guys imagine Soichiro gifting this to Light despite the latter being all caught up into becoming the prime suspect for being Kira? Can y'all imagine Soichiro, against his better judgement, against all the doubts he had against his own son (which continued on to his deathbed btw), choosing to hope that he's right in trusting Light enough with this present?

After all, Light was everything a parent could've asked for and more. He knew Light idolized him since he was but a child, how could he not? Despite all the nights he was absent (away for work, for justice, for making sure he was fulfilling his duty to the best of his ability), he knew Light, little Light, waited for him until he fell asleep (he didn't need Sachiko telling him that to know this).

And yet Light never complained, did he? Even as a child, Light displayed a maturity that other parents envied. He understood. He understood that his dad was away for the greater good. That sacrifices are necessary for true justice. Soichiro knew from the bottom of his heart just how much Light took pride in him. He knew because that's how much pride (if not more) he had in Light as well.

That didn't mean Soichiro didn't feel guilty for not spending enough time with his family, for neglecting them so. He absolutely did. So what he couldn't make up in quantity, he did it in quality. With what little time he spent at home, he'd ensure to utilize it efficiently by imparting his wisdom from his experiences to his dear children. One of them being: time is money, use it well.

And little Light took his dad's teachings to his heart, of course, and incorporated it into his life so well since then that despite all the doubts Soichiro may have about Light being Kira, he knows that, at the very least, his dutiful son would cherish the watch he'd gift to him. That Light would definitely appreciate the gesture.

He was right. Light did care for the watch immensely. However unbeknownst to Soichiro, Light counted on that deep attachment to the watch, to use it as a weapon of all things. A weapon used to facilitate "the worst murder weapon in the history of mankind" (the death note) to kill people discreetly.

"The real evil is the power to kill people."

The watch given by Soichiro, as a symbol of trust (in spite of lingering doubts), to Light, made its debut as a deadly weapon when Light gained his memories as a part of his grand keikaku.

Can you imagine the sheer gravity of Light's actions? Saying they're horrific would be a gross understatement.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Ahem. Let's rewind a bit, to the time period at the end of Light's confinement. Particularly, the mock execution scene:

To put things into (Light's) perspective, Light has no memories of being Kira. He's been confined for at least 50 days based on (as far as he's aware) false charges. When he's finally released, he's told by his own father, no less, that he & Misa are being taken to their execution and Soichiro volunteered to take them there himself.

Light doesn't get a right to a trial (let alone a fair one). L's conclusion of them being Kira is treated as absolute. Regardless of the lack of evidence. What's worse, Soichiro appears to be on L's side.

It's a betrayal of epic proportions from a father who he used to deeply admire + respect.

It's no surprise how Light takes it: he's horrified. He tries to plead his case, for his life, and, understandably, it takes on a more desperate, more emotional edge:

Light: "Dad! You believe L over me?!"

Light feels hurt. Betrayed. His own father believes L above him. His plea is heartbreaking. This is the question that must've been tearing Light apart since the hospital scene:

Ryuk: "Notice he doesn't say "I'm certain that Light isn't Kira." Hyuk Hyuk."

Soichiro doesn't trust Light. From this moment, it became painstakingly clear. What makes it worse for yotsuba!Light specifically is- now that he isn't aware that he used to be Kira, i.e., he is (from his POV) absolutely certain that he is NOT Kira. He thinks that L's judgement (in this case, at least) is not to be trusted.

And here Soichiro is, trusting the one person Light has grown to loathe since his time during confinement OVER HIM.

I cannot emphasize enough how utterly depressing it is, just how frustrating it is to have your own parent turned against you, to have him side with a detective who you know is WRONG about the case, about Kira, about who you are. Your father doesn't believe you. He thinks you're the sort of person to murder thousands of people.

Sit with that thought. And let it stew.

Back to Light asking the question with pain written all over his face. "You trust L over me?"

Is that how fathers are supposed to act? To trust a nameless third party over their own child??

The question is in the air and Light gets its answer.

With a gun to his face:

Light raises a question of trust (that is essential in every relationship) and Soichiro replies that not only does he not trust Light (thereby trusting L's judgement more), he rewards Light's question by declaring that he'd kill Light and then himself.

...Fucked up, isn't it?

Now we know of course that it was all an act. A mock execution, as Soichiro explains.

Soichiro: "Please understand that I only did it because I truly believed that you weren't Kira."

These words along with the fact that L was the one who staged this sick & cruel act, allow Light to quickly forgive his dad by blaming it all on L.

We aren't shown the psychological effect this ordeal has on Light. It was very traumatic imo.

Imagine yotsuba!Light having disturbing nightmares repeatedly...imagine the poor kid holding onto his dear watch telling himself over and over that the gift given by Soichiro represents the strength of the father-son bond...imagine him crying (when he thinks nobody is watching) regardless...

He's handcuffed to the man with the worst judgement he knows. Despite the whole mock execution that this particularly stubborn detective had staged. Despite the damage L brought to his father-son relationship.

And then, Light regains his memories and the entire illusion shatters.

He IS Kira. Just like L said and his father suspected. Still, there's no time to lose by having an identity crisis. And he chooses to continue on the path he had chosen as Kira. He uses the watch his father had given him to kill Higuchi to reclaim his identity of Kira.

I think it's interesting that the only other times, i.e., while killing Kiyomi Takada and Near, he uses the watch again is after his father had already died. I know he didn't use it before that for practical reasons but I also think it's because he couldn't bring himself to sully the memory of trust his father had in him by entrusting him with the watch, unless absolutely necessary.

The trust that was gone the moment Soichiro says this on his deathbed:

Soichiro: "...Light, you're not Kira...I'm so glad..."

Matsuda: "O-Of course he isn't! You were still worried about that?"

Even after the mock execution, Soichiro still doubted Light which were dispelled just before his death. He dies without knowing the truth, yet dealing a blow to Light that might never heal. At the end, Matsuda, a man who's disposable to Light, trusts him more than his own dad. Cruel irony, isn't it?

This is the moment Light realizes that the trust he thought his father had in him was all his imagination and it shatters his heart.

I feel that Light & Soichiro's relationship is the most tragic one in Death Note.

#woah can't believe that my simple post pointing out 'like father like son' re: their punctuality turned into an angsty musings #anyway they make me ILL #by which i mean i may or may not have sobbed during writing this #death note #light yagami #soichiro yagami #Light & Soichiro #like father like son #musings #p #my meta #<- i guess?#mangacaps #long post #100 #125 #150

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yanderes-galore · 1 year ago

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Can I request platonic Mewtwo hc’s? Maybe Mewtwo could also communicate with its trainer through telepathy, similar to the anime.

Ohhh, Mewtwo could be fun! Sorry for the long wait :)

Overprotective! Mewtwo Concept

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Manipulation, Mind reading, Violence, Murder, Blood, Slight gore, Forced companionship.

Before meeting you, Mewtwo spent most of its life in isolation.

It was created from Mew's DNA to be a weapon... a powerful Pokemon devoid of compassion.

When it escaped the labs, creating destruction where ever it went, it fled into one of the deepest caves in the Kanto region.

Mewtwo didn't expect to be found... It didn't want to be found.

Humans only caused trouble....

But then, years later, he met you.

You were Kanto's newest "Champion" who had heard rumors of a rare Pokemon deep in Cerulean Cave.

Once you managed to surf your way through to the cave and crawl deep within... you were greeted with Mewtwo.

Mewtwo wasn't fond of you, the idea of humans still finding it down here irked it.

"You are a foolish human to come down and find me."

The voice of the Pokemon rings in your head, its tail flicking.

"Begone with you!"

So battle ensues.

Your team was trained to deal with strong threats like this so you mostly handled things quite well.

By the end of it, a ball was tossed and Mewtwo was sealed.

Your "bond" with the legendary starts rocky.

Mewtwo was used to violence and being used.

It often ignored you and the little communication it did in your head with telepathy was usually cruel.

You often tried to get along, feeding the Pokemon and trying to touch it.

Mewtwo usually batted your hand away with a snarl.

"Stop trying to be nice! I am at your command, aren't you going to use me for your pitiful ideals?"

However, no matter how cruel Mewtwo was with you... You were never cruel back.

Mewtwo often observed how you treated your own team.

Despite how strong they were trained, it was done with care.

Mewtwo never understood compassion...

Not until it grew closer with you.

You surprisingly rarely used Mewtwo in battle.

You stuck with your team but kept Mewtwo around.

It had no idea for what... for chatter?

Why do you enjoy talking to it?

Mewtwo wonders if you know about its true nature.

Did you know that it's killed before?

Are you naive?

Mewtwo had no idea why it even decided to play along with this.

Did it really enjoy your company?

You treated it more like a fellow human than Pokemon.

You often wanted it to speak with you through telepathy... and it felt comfortable with this.

Mewtwo eventually began to see you as a companion.

You were technically its master, but it didn't see you like that.

Soon enough the powerful legendary even allowed you to pet it.

It felt nice... it has trouble admitting that.

Mewtwo has a vague sense of what compassion is, but it's still a weapon.

Compassion is only given to you and maybe some of your Pokemon.

You have tamed Mewtwo for the most part.

However... all that comes crumbling down the moment you're attacked by Team Rocket.

Mewtwo already had issues with other trainers.

The Pokemon would glare at those you communicated with, still not used to human contact.

Although, Team Rocket was a group Mewtwo couldn't cooperate with at all.

Mewtwo remembers what they did to it.

Which is why when it senses you in danger and comes out of its ball... the Pokemon freezes.

Team Rocket heard that the Champion had managed to tame Mewtwo and wanted to utilize that.

The thought makes Mewtwo shake.

Not from fear...

Rage.

It's at this point you lose control of the legendary

"How dare you touch them... I am not for you to use! I belong here... and I plan to stay beside them."

You can imagine that the end result isn't pretty....

Mewtwo has killed before, if you didn't know that before... this was proof.

Mewtwo doesn't feel any remorse when it attacks.

By the end of it there's corpses on the ground and Mewtwo's covered in splatters of gore.

"They'll blame you... You know that, right?"

Mewtwo's voice echoes in your mind, turning to you with a piercing purple gaze.

"Let us flee. I can find somewhere they'll never find you or me."

When you don't move, the Pokemon frowns.

"You see me as a monster, don't you, Champion?"

When you stare, Mewtwo steps closer before using telekinesis to drag you close.

The Pokemon mimics an embrace, even if you fear it.

"Let's be honest, human... I was always a monster... something that shouldn't exist..."

Mewtwo pulls you along, away from the murder scene.

"You may have changed me slightly..."

Its grip tightens as it carries you.

"But I will always be that very same monster."

#yandere pokemon #overprotective pokemon #overprotective mewtwo #yandere mewtwo #platonic yandere

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moonlight-prose · 1 month ago

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TO BE ALONE

➛ 01. trying to sleep

a/n: to think i would be infatuated with this man after three years of nothing is mind blowing to me. but thunderbolts made it happen. and i am back in the fucking building yet again! this was originally gonna be two parts of some one shots i was gonna write, but i got hit with an idea that i can't put down. so we'll see how long this actually takes me to write. (it helps i'm watching tfatws again so). enjoy the mess my darlings!

summary: the past lingered like ghosts. shadows casted along your apartment walls, dark memories tainted with blood and bone and the taste of gunpowder on a loose tongue. you were finally...safe. until a call comes through, an engine roars, and you're stuck with someone you believed was dead. a solder out of time.

word count: 5.5k+

pairing: bucky barnes/the winter soldier x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, violence, tw blood, dark themes, tw suicide mentions, mentions of torture + ptsd, the winter soldier (no bucky), fear, hunter + prey dynamic, past trauma coming back, cleaning wounds, tension, one sided conversations, choking, time skips, the beginning.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

It was three in the morning when he arrived.

Witching hour.

A reality where the living and dead met between a translucent curtain—faces and shadows casting long ominous shapes along the vacant walls of your apartment. Picture frames were stacked on a nearby table waiting to be hung. A half empty bottle of wine was propped on a small pile of books, the glass beside it empty yet stained red from what you devoured. The day had come to an end and you slid the window shut to avoid the chill.

Four years of freedom allotted to three small bags of clothes, a collection of art picked from the flea market every few months in a different town, and dishes (cracked and second hand) scattered in cabinets you barely managed to scrub. It wasn’t extravagant in taste, but you enjoyed the sweetness of calling it yours.

You remembered what it was like to run. Hide in plain sight, become invisible to the naked eye. But you didn’t want to flee from a prison that no longer existed to capture you—a past that could finally be buried in a shallow grave.

Put to rest with the small shelf of weaponry and a suit you longed to burn.

The hour didn’t alarm you, late nights often spent wary about where you were and where you would go to next. A game of mental manipulation that became easier than taking in a single breath. You were once comfortable in the role—a weapon to be utilized and horror to be unleashed. But this life melted your resolve, offering peace at the end of all things.

Hope for a future devoid of pain, a life not yet plagued by their cruel and merciless touch.

The shrill ring of your landline jerked you from watching the streetlamp out in the dark alleyway—its yellow glow the only light for blocks. You chose this place on purpose. With a bay window large enough to watch, observe if the threat you ran from were closing in either side. They wouldn’t come for you. A useless forgotten toy they used up. What purpose could you serve after four years of nothing?

You answered it with silence, whatever breath you had now trapped in lungs that refused to work. The number was unknown—most likely spam—but you understood the nature of their torture. The lengths they would go to.

“Soldat-”

Your heart wedged itself into the base of your throat, prickling numbness coiling tight around each limb—the temperature suddenly cold enough to form a cloud of your breath. If you could even find the will and strength to exhale. Your hand twitched, stomach tangling in knots you took half a decade to undo. Wounds that refused to heal, a life ingrained in the blood of your childhood and built by the sinister darkness you could now see along each wall.

“Have you enjoyed your years?”

Wedging the phone between your shoulder and ear, you yanked open the closet frantically searching for whatever weapons still remained. What you didn’t dump into the Seine two months ago you kept locked away. A restriction to refrain yourself from crawling back; to enjoy the freedom that could always be taken back—ripped from trembling hands and a heart that pleaded for the end.

An empty box stared at glazed over eyes, the hot rush of tears battling a familiar eerie calm. You felt it settle over your body, old habits coating thick scarred skin to protect what little humanity remained in the depths of your chest.

You would not go back. Death would be your escape if it came down to the only choice you had left.

“He is coming. Treat him well.”

The line went dead, silence scratching at the ringing in your head, nails clawing into an already fractured soul. Yet it ripped at your flesh anyways, pulled at the sinews of your muscles, the hardened bones along limbs that refused to move. You were a marionette puppet back on strings yanking you to a fro. Setting you in place and displaying a piece of perfect destruction waiting to be set loose on a world that begged for mercy.

They wound your fate tight in a silk web and bathed you in the blood of a ledger meant for someone unbreakable. A simple pawn in their final match, moved along a board steeped in malice.

No indication had to be made in order for you to figure out who they were talking about. A ghost story. Lost to shadows and the spark of a used bullet. He held no name, no identity of his own, but you could picture the glimpse of silver in the back of your mind. A figure that stood in the corner of your memories. Half a man trapped in the body of a perfect soldier.

Nothing could be done to prevent what came next, but faint muscle memory kicked you into gear, a hand wrapping tight around the hilt of a knife.

Rumbling overtook the quiet street, seeming to grow and vibrate along each wall and cracked pavement as he grew close. A single bright headlight flashed beneath your window, flicking off as something shifted—drawing the darkness close as he staggered towards the heavy metal door one level down.

You locked it hours before, shoving a crowbar through the handle with the excuse of safety—a precaution you thanked yourself for as a bang ricocheted along your skull. Sucking in a breath you tucked into the corner behind your walkway, blade clutched to a heaving chest.

He struggled. Injured you suspected. Possibly in need of help to even get through; which left you with an advantage. The apartment fell quiet, your breath piercing the thick air clamping tight around an already constricted throat. Beat by beat you counted the seconds, following the clock that ticked on your mantle—counting down his frustration.

One. Two. Three.

Another bang as his body rammed against the door, no doubt leaving a dent.

Four. Five. Six.

A shout, deep in nature and filled with the grit of agony, echoed through the stairwell. His boot landed with a crack, the metal groaning beneath his strength. You sucked in another breath, eyes shut and mind fixed on what came next.

Seven. Eight…

“Nine,” you breathed.

The gun went off with a thunderous boom, splintering the metal into a jagged gaping hole. He wrenched it open with a grunt, using his weight to rip through what remained, a stain of red pooling beneath his damp combat boots coated in someone’s blood. You steeled yourself, shoulders bunching beneath the thin fabric of your shirt with each heavy slam of his boots as he stumbled up the stairs. His breath heavy and body weak from a fight that wrenched what it could from their perfect fist.

He kicked through the door, wood flying into the kitchen on his right, and you remained still. Breath held and eyes narrowed as he entered your space. A home never meant to be tainted by their guilt, by the man who scanned your apartment for threats. You wondered if he could feel your presence, a warmth lost to the darkness, but you didn’t give yourself time to find out.

“Soldat,” he sneered, voice confined beneath a muzzle. Such power held in the body of a man, yet they held him on a tight leash.

Never allowed to bark unless they permitted it.

The clock ticked, he took a breath, and you snapped to attention. With a breath you leapt forward, catching him off guard, the knife plunging into his shoulder with a harsh curse spit from your lips. He roared, metal hand clamping along a bare thigh as you twisted the blade and felt blood spray along your cheek, dripping onto bared teeth. Twisting you off and crouching low he heard the snap of your rib—body colliding with the edge of your counter.

“You don’t belong here,” you snarled, yanking free a kitchen knife.

He ripped what still stuck from his shoulder out, the clatter of it hitting the floor drowned by his growl. A predator advancing on his prey is all you could describe him as. Perfectly pristine, yet bathed in the blood of innocents. He gripped your arm tight enough to pop bone. You shouted, adrenaline flooding a system fried long ago.

They wanted you to do their bidding, but this was your final reckoning.

A wounded animal desperate for survival after years of their twisted games.

Wrapping the other arm around his neck, you clambered onto his back, the knife finding a home in beneath layers of armor meant to protect him from bullets. He staggered back, slamming you into the wall, eyes flashing in the darkness at the sound of your head cracking against plaster. Groaning you kicked at his thigh, dragging the broken pieces of yourself that remained back into a standing position.

You swung with a growl, fist colliding against the top of his head, watching in satisfaction as he snapped back with a muffled grunt. He retaliated with a swiftness that threw you. Blood dripped off your chin, warmth pooling along the back of your neck, but still you smiled. Eyes alight and crazed as death lingered on the frayed edges of your soul—the end always meant to be handed out in the comfort of what you could never have.

He wiped at the split in his forehead, blood staining the pale wood of your floors. A permanent stain of the person who once lived here. The air grew thick, chests heaving in sync, and for a brief moment you felt peace find a home in the base of your lungs.

They brought him here with purpose. You help him or he finally puts an end to their lost weapon.

So why did those blue eyes painted in a greasy black—void of emotions, a blank slate of the man they killed—flash with remorse?

Gathering enough air you lunged with a scream that tore open a burning chest. Anger palpable in the harsh swing of your fists, knuckles split and wrists strained and begging for you to cease. But relenting wasn’t an option.

He dodged, a bare hand ramming into your side with a harsh shout. You landed one into the base of his throat beneath that fucking mask, laughing at his choked cry—another fist heading for the space between his eyes. A gun was strapped to his side—most likely out of ammunition—but with a jump your knee met his chest, shoving him back into the wall. Curling a hand around the grip you yanked it free, cocking back the safety and setting the cold metal against the open wound at his temple.

“Make a fucking move,” you sneered. “I dare you.”

A storm of blue and gray and wide pupils ready to swallow his iris whole found your scowl. He didn’t move, stuck to the flat surface now cracked with his form, and you watched him work through an exit. Find the only path and take it by any means necessary. A technique you were familiar with.

But only one avenue remained, staring at him with the bright glow of something you only tasted once. Even if it’s saccharine hope was now a false bitter pill to swallow.

Freedom.

“You want me to kill you,” you murmured, catching the quick intake of breath hitching in his bruising throat.

Perhaps you underestimated his resolve—the power thrumming beneath a body hardened by misery and torment. He was just a man at one point. Unsuspecting. Maybe even hopeful at one point. Brown hair fell into his face, the muzzle gripped tight around a stoic face. But his eyes told you enough—the blue flashing dark, pleading for something other than the horrors that awaited his return.

“I can,” you breathed, finger hovering over the trigger. “If that’s what you want soldat.”

A subtle shift of a chin dipping, barely visible to the naked eye, but you felt as if he’d screamed the word into the stillness of your apartment. You nodded grimly, steeling yourself for the mess to come. And pulled the trigger.

To be met with the empty click of an empty gun.

He snarled and before you could swing the weapon towards his face silver flashed in your peripheral. Brutal strength latched onto the bar skin of your throat, crushing your windpipe beneath his unbreakable hold, but still you scrabbled against the ridges and edges of metal—nails cracking when you pulled. Blood rushed to your head, pounding in your eardrums, wiping the echo of his boots along wood from your mind. He slammed you against the wall with a grunt—masked face leering close.

Whatever life remained in the blue of his eyes was gone. Forced down into the depths of the raging fist before you—Hydra’s weapon.

Oxygen was sparse in lungs that pleaded for freedom, black spots dancing across your vision hazy with tears. He’d kill you. That was the order placed upon a mind broken and spun anew.

You allowed your eyes to flutter shut, mind going white with the silent lull of a ticking clock. Peace drifting within grasp, finally after so long. Only for him to let go and watch as you collapsed to the floor, your knees taking the brunt of your fall. Gasping for air you clawed at the now tender flesh of your throat, a furious glare thrown his way when he fell into an empty kitchen chair with a grunt.

Expectation hanging over your head like a storm cloud waiting to be split open.

Even after all this…you were still meant to help him.

“You should have killed me,” you rasped, voice gone and trachea heavily bruised.

He lazily raised his normal arm, resting it on the edge of the table with a wince. It looked to be dislocated, blood oozing from a gash in his thigh and wound on the back of his neck. They would be opened further long before he managed to get back to whatever base they released him from. And in a surprising turn of events, he waited. Patient and still as you clambered onto shaky legs—the white of your shirt stained red with his blood.

“If I fix you…will you leave?”

A nod was all he gave, eyes tracking each step you took.

The box of medical equipment swiped from a nearby hospital was stuffed in the back of your hall closet. You dragged it out with heavy breaths and shaky limbs. It hurt to breathe at any capacity, movement tinged by flaring muscles that screamed with each shift. The rib he broke sat with enough pain to make you struggle, his form a statue made of flesh and bones and stitched together with scrap metal.

A broken toy at the end of it all.

Although you supposed…you were too.

Silently you set his shoulder right, taking glee in the sharp sound of pain ripped from his throat as the limb popped back into place. His fist clenched, spine stiff, but he made no noise at the needle digging angrily into his skin. Alcohol poured heavily over each one until the scent burned your nose, leeching into the back of your throat still tinged with the taste of copper.

His breaths became an indication of his pain. Sharp ones traded for loose exhales as you pulled the thread through and sliced it with the edge of your knife. If he was angry you couldn’t tell. His face turned down and eyes fixed on the bloody mess of his thigh now decorated with even black sutures.

He’d heal long before they would need to come out, but that wasn’t your problem.

“What do they call you?” you asked, the humor dripping off a tongue lathered in malice. He started, gaze finding yours as you wiped the dark hue of dried blood off his cut arm. “You got a name or is it just soldat?”

Nothing.

You sighed, tucking supplies back into the box. “You’re done.”

Dawn would be coming soon, sunlight ready to overtake a darkened sky. But for now the moon’s glow was all you could see beyond the lone streetlamp—its soft light casting into the broken apartment. You settled into the chair, wiping at the blood on your chin, and he sat a foot away watching. As if you were preparing for a strange meal, a dinner never served even at the growl of your empty stomach.

It made you smile. The bizarre setting adorned by two soldiers lost to the horrors. Left to drown in the darkness alone by their own makers. Surely if you were to die you wouldn’t see their faces, the smooth vacant expressions of women training the purity out of your soul. Ripping the childhood right from hands too small to wrap around the handle of a gun.

There you sat. Facing off the soldier meant to put the fear of death in the hearts of cruel men. Made by the hands of cruel men themselves. He was a walking time bomb, a shell of someone that once roamed the Earth.

Your eyes trailed along his face, the muzzle keeping his voice trapped and buried in his throat, the dark paint coated around eyes that held such beauty in them. Yet were somehow void of emotions.

One day he’d be free. One day he’d find peace.

You simply wondered if it would take a bullet to give that to him. And who would be at the other side of the gun? Who would pull the trigger after you tried?

Who would set him free?

The soldier watched as you slumped forward onto folded arms, exhaustion winning the war against the hours that ticked by. A flash of silver gleamed in the dark as he rose to his feet, a metal hand pushing you into a more stable position. For the first time using the tender touch of a man trapped in the back of his fractured mind.

ONE YEAR LATER

A crooked picture hung above a second hand couch covered in badly crocheted blankets and a leather chair pushed into the corner. Yet no matter how off putting the sight looked, you enjoyed the comfort of its cozy demeanor. You set the empty plate in the sink, draining the last dregs of a cold juice watered down by ice, as the rumble of an engine started down the street.

Familiar and loud the closer it got. Echoing off walls and windows sealed shut after a year of harsh weather. Rainfall was called for tonight, but it wouldn’t bother him. He’d walk through a hurricane to get back to his home—a prison built solely to hold him captive. The dangerous weapon that stumbled through an already unlocked door long since replaced.

You pushed the box into the kitchen, setting old towels on the floor as the door swung open with a heavy thud. Neither of you spoke this time around. The violence still rampant in the air even though time left that night in the past.

A year passed before they called again. Allowing you a sliver of freedom in favor of nursing their best soldier back to health. That was all you were good for now. A trained weapon forced to play caretaker to their feral animal—his eyes just as void of emotion as before. Permanently altered, forever lost, and yet something new rose to the surface at the sight of you waiting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other and a bottle of vodka open and prepped on the table.

He remembered you. Or flashes of you.

Memories that would never fully rise to the surface—trapped beneath the rope of Hydra. They wiped him before this mission, but you wondered how long it lasted this time. How much time did he spend out in the field?

“Soldat,” you greeted, watching as he collapsed into the chair.

A deep gaping wound in his side steadily dripped blood, coated in the thick grime of mud, his ankle twisted and set in an odd position. He’d been in a nasty fight. One that ripped at his armor and nearly tore the fabric clean off his human arm. Crimson stained the silver metal of his other arm, leaking into the grooves.

They wouldn’t clean it for him. Never bothering to treat him with the decency of a human.

To them…he wasn’t one.

“Hold still,” you muttered, grasping his ankle in both hands and watched as he went taut when you set it back into its right position. You didn’t have anything to wrap around it, but he didn’t seem to care. Too engrossed in the sight of your face clean of blood and grime from last time.

He was piecing it together, grasping at what lingered just beneath the surface. And you watched in fascination as he struggled to understand where he’d seen you before, how he knew your face.

“You’ve been here before,” you affirmed with a nod.

Swiftly—before you could settle back into your spot—he leaned close, blue eyes fixing on your wide ones. He analyzed you, dug through the open pages of what you could offer him, and in barely a flash of a second you saw the man they wished to terminate. The human beneath their torment. He knew you. Could form the memory in his blank mind—gather enough information to remember what happened that night.

“Any other injuries?” you pressed, checking his side with a hiss. “I need you to remove some armor if I’m to get to that one.”

He rose as if pulled by a string and you reared back, unable to rip your eyes from the tall hulking figure disrobing with ease in the middle of your kitchen. Straps that resembled a fucking straight jacket were undone, his metal hand ripping at the restricting fabric with a grunt. Without hesitation you worked at the final buckles, helping it fall in a heap on the floor and giving him the freedom he sought.

Already he looked better—finally able to relax into the chair with a soft puff of air beneath a tight mask. If it were up to you that would be discarded too. Ripped from his face to give him a deep breath of clean air.

He wasn’t a monster, yet they treated him as such.

A horror of their own creation.

“This will hurt,” you said, pouring vodka along his wound before he could hear you fully. “Sorry.”

His eyes flashed, surprise etching into the lines around his eyes. It looked ridiculous on such an infamous man. But you understood the significance of such a small word. No one had ever apologized for his pain before. No one gave him the much needed reprieve from what clung to his skin, claws of agony latching into muscles he could barely control himself.

“You don’t have to wear that.” Pointing to the mask, you dug the needle into his skin with care. “It’s not necessary here.”

He froze beneath your touch, gaze tracking you with a wary hesitation that hadn’t been there before. Your heart remained still, lungs steady even as you dealt with a live wire. A man ready to go off at any moment—mind unsteady and broken by the touch of who sent him. You worked with speed, finishing off with a bandage wrapped around his waist, your feet softly pattering against the same wood floor he bled on last time.

“I think that’s it,” you said after tying it in a knot, digging a clean cloth into the side of his metal arm. “Thanks for not trying to kill me this time. I know that’s what they would have wanted-”

A hand rose steadily, fingers gripping the sides of a hard mask, and pried it from his face. It dropped to the table with a thud you swore they could hear down the street, the indent of red marked along his face where it sat—a jaw darkened by stubble and mouth chapped from lack of water now revealed in the low lights of your kitchen. He gasped in a breath, nose flaring at the crisp night air. The taste of clean oxygen along his bitter tongue prominent—bathing his senses in its sweetness.

“Oh,” you breathed, drinking in the sight of sharp cheekbones and gaunt cheeks starved by hunger.

Still the beauty of the man managed to shine through in blue eyes latched onto your stupefied gaze. He was ethereal in the dark. Shadows playing across his face, paint coating the thickness of his eyebrows. A weapon yes…but still a man. Someone that looked at you with clarity shining in his stare—memories forming half a picture.

“B-Barnes,” he muttered slowly, his voice rough after never being used. “32557038.”

Your heart jumped, body thrumming and nerves alight as he recited numbers that could only belong at a certain point in time. They taught you enough in those classrooms intended for the false structure of safety. Wars waged, battles lost, leaders you would one day come to target. Manners and weapons and instructions on how to wield a blade with the delicate flourish of a ballet performer.

The man before you—the soldier lost to time—was indeed lost. He belonged to a decade only found in the pages of history books, a time that he would never see again.

“Why…” What would he gain by telling you his? Why did he offer you this on a silver platter? You couldn’t free him; you could barely free yourself.

But the soldier before you sat with the faint glimmer of pride in his gaze.

He told you…because you asked.

One year ago in this very spot you inquired about a name he’d never remember. Only now that name was encased in his palms and pressed into yours with the expectation that you’d keep it safe. Remember him even as they ripped away the final shreds of the soldier trapped in an everlasting war. A veteran of pain and loss and unimaginable grief.

“Barnes,” you repeated, watching his lips quirk and surprise lighting across his face. As if he didn’t know he could…smile. “It’s nice to meet you Barnes.”

Time moved at a rapid pace and yet you remained planted in your shared bubble. Watching one another with the curious nature of strangers finally getting the chance to meet. Eventually he’d have to go. Find his way back to the rubble of a future painted with screams of agony, and you would remain here. Awaiting his arrival with baited breath and a fluttering heart.

He rose silently, a ghost carved into the walls of your apartment. The armor went back on easier than it came off, his mask tucked into a pocket on his pants, and you followed him to the pitch black opening of your hallway.

A year ago you stood there fighting to stay alive. A year tormented by the nightmares of a man coming after you, a place that called you back to its snare of excruciating torment. If he felt the same stirring in your gut he never said anything. Opting to watch as you wrung your hands together, teeth latched into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

You understood what came next, the call of confirmation that you had helped as they commanded. The order to keep watch for next time.

“Thank you,” he stated firmly, rooted to the ground as you met him with shock.

“Interesting…” you whispered. Heat flooded your cheeks, heart ramming against your ribs. “You’re welcome.”

Stepping forward he rose a shaky hand to your chin, pulling your bleeding lip free from the harsh tug of your mouth. You gasped, unable to back away, yet finding you didn’t want to. Curiosity lingered in the forefront of your mind, begging to see what came next—watching as he leaned close enough to smell the juice off your tongue. Blood and the leather of his armor wafted into your nose, choking you on the scent of the man who finally had a name.

“Barnes,” you breathed, catching a flash of light in his blue eyes.

His lips met yours with indecision—the choice he made wavering in a mind that broke under the weight of his memories. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, that much you could discern. But the taste of him deafened every alarm rising to crescendo in your mind. His mouth was chapped, tongue bitter with the taste of alcohol he must have consumed at some point, and still it made you dizzy. Breath lost and hands shaky against his chest.

He kissed you again, this time bathed in the certainty of what he wanted. This. A pretty thing in his grasp, pliant beneath his touch and willing to swallow the choked sound pulled from his throat. Flashes of a brown haired dame in a flowing dress, a dance floor packed with people, and laughter pulled at the fringes of his mind.

A blond friend yelling at him to slow down as they ran through the streets of a city he couldn’t put a name to. Time he’d never get back.

You moaned softly, hands sliding up and into his hair, but he yanked back with a painted grunt. Eyes wide and glazed by tears met yours. Innocence painted along a blue now shadowed by grief. You stepped back, watching as he shook his head and dragged a hand through his hair—breath gasping into his burning lungs.

“Are you okay?” He stepped back, shoulder hitting the wall fixed from his dent. “Barnes?”

The name dredged up another wave of broken bits. A mother, a sister, names he’d never be able to solidify before they were taken once more. He struggled against the clean air, your taste still prominent on a tongue gone dry. You moved to help him, worry painted across features he longed to keep in his mind, but time was running out and he was due back.

Pushing you back with a grunt, he stumbled through the door and down the steps. And you stood there, flinching at the rumble of that familiar engine roaring back to life.

Alone once more.

FIVE YEARS LATER

The picture frame was cracked, barely hanging by the nail now pushed too far into the yellowed drywall. A couch still remained but the chair was gone. Replaced by an unused bookshelf scattered by novels you never read and notebooks that remained empty. All for one. That one remained spread on a vacant kitchen table layered by dust—forgotten to the ravages of time.

He picked it up with a gloved hand, pushed away what coated the once pristine white paper. Now faded and aged from exposure to oxygen. Your handwriting—or what he figured your handwriting looked liked—was scribbled in the middle. Soft curved letters and numbers that were unevenly placed on the lined page. A memory he could finally grasp between two fingers.

Barnes. 32557038. World War II.

France? HYDRA

Captain America - Steve Rogers

His past mapped out in such a short amount of time. From one end to the next, scribbled on a singular page. He could picture you pouring over books and texts depicting a war he once fought in. A battle that still lingered in the back of his mind—feeling as if he’d just been there recently. He lost a friend there. One that tracked him at this very moment.

“Steve,” he muttered dryly, lips pulling at the corners in a grin. He expected pain to come from such a minuscule movement, but none rose to the surface.

You weren’t here anymore. Long gone from a place that once meant so much to you. A home you were prepared to die for—a life that belonged to you. But your memory lingered in the space, haunting him even as he stood amidst the ruin of his past.

Freedom didn’t taste sweet anymore.

Not as the other half of him battled against the cage he trapped it in, the weapon that craved blood—the soldier desperate and hungry for battle. Yet he clung to the image of you seated at this kitchen table, stitching a different version of him back together. The taste of your lips dancing at the edges of a damaged mind, the hope of more shoving to the forefront of everything else.

Such a small moment to hold onto.

Probably entirely forgetful to some, but not to him. Certainly not to the man you brought back from the verge of the grief that swallowed him even now.

“Bucky,” he said to the stillness of an apartment trapped in time, pretending you could hear his voice even as he stood there alone. “My name is Bucky.”

©moonlight-prose do not feed my work into ai, do not steal my work, if you are a minor, spam like my fics, or are a blank blog you will be blocked.

#bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x y/n #my writing

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dee-writes-anime · 7 months ago

Note

Hiiii

If you’re not doing requests then feel free to ignore this, or if you dont wanna do this ignore or delete this if you’d like! I was wondering if you could possibly do bakugo x fem! Hawks daughter! Reader if possible?? She has wings like him but instead reader has large black wings? And if possible telekinesis?😖 I dont have a specific idea in mind but if possible they could be meeting for the first time or if they’re like together if you’re okay with that! Feel free to ignore or not do it if you’re not comfortable!!

Eat and drink! Have a good one ☺️

Bound by Blast Zones

FEATURING Katsuki Bakugo x Reader

SUMMARY Bakugo takes a liking (?) to Hawks' daughter

CONTENT WARNINGS Bakugo being Bakugo, brief descriptions of fighting, violence, BANTERRRR, fluff, angst (if you blink, you'll miss it)

AUTHORS NOTE this ask has had me in a chokehold ever since I read it!! This was the cutest idea and the opportunity for banter had me on the edge of my seat! thank you so so so so much @montybooks for sharing this beautiful idea! <3

The streets of Musutafu were alive with chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, and smoke coiled into the sky like jagged scars against the blue. Bakugo Katsuki skidded to a halt in the middle of the destruction, the sharp scent of burnt concrete filling his lungs. Another villain down, another notch in his belt—but the work wasn’t over yet. His crimson eyes scanned the wreckage, searching for any lingering threats or bystanders in need of evacuation.

The faint sound of wings slicing through the air snapped his attention skyward. A shadow darted across the sun, moving with precision and speed that rivaled any aerial hero he’d seen. His brow furrowed as the figure grew closer, the sun’s glare giving way to the sight of massive black wings. The sheer size of them was impressive, the way they moved even more so—controlled, purposeful, like every beat was calculated.

The figure descended gracefully, landing with a gust of wind that sent dust and debris swirling. When the air cleared, Bakugo’s scowl deepened, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. She stood before him, black wings folding neatly behind her back. Her dark hero suit hugged her form, the utility belt and protective padding marking her as someone who didn’t just rely on her quirk but understood the battlefield. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual, but there was an undeniable sharpness in her gaze—the kind that told him she didn’t miss much.

“Bakugo Katsuki?” Her voice cut through the noise around them. It was smooth, but it carried a subtle weight, a confidence that made him bristle.

“Tch. Who’s askin’?” he snapped, crossing his arms. His eyes darted to her wings, the sheer span of them making it impossible not to stare. They were nothing like Hawks’—darker, more imposing, less of a symbol and more of a statement.

She didn’t flinch at his tone, her lips curling into a faint smirk instead. “Blackwing. My dad said I might run into you.”

The name struck him like a stray spark. He narrowed his eyes. “Your dad?” His mind raced to piece it together, but when she tilted her head just slightly, her golden-brown eyes catching the light, it clicked.

“Wait… you’re Hawks’ kid?”

“Guilty as charged,” she replied, her smirk widening. “And you’re the guy who’s always yelling in the headlines.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he growled, though the faint heat rising in his cheeks betrayed his irritation. He’d spent years perfecting his hero image, but having it boiled down to “yelling” was infuriating.

“Relax, it’s a compliment,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. “You’ve got a hell of a reputation. Dad said you’re… intense.”

“Damn right I am.” He straightened, puffing out his chest. “What’s it to you?”

Instead of answering, she crouched and raised her hand, her fingers splaying as if gripping something invisible. Bakugo watched as a chunk of debris—easily the size of a car door—lifted into the air. His eyes widened slightly as the slab hovered for a moment before she gently set it aside, clearing the path for the emergency workers. The air around her seemed to hum faintly as she stood, brushing her hands off.

“Wings and telekinesis? What are you, some kinda overachiever?” he muttered, trying to mask his genuine surprise with his usual snark.

She shrugged. “Guess I’m just efficient. Not bad for someone who’s ‘stealing the spotlight,’ huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped, though the edge in his voice softened slightly. There was something about her—her confidence, her ease on the battlefield—that he couldn’t ignore. Most people folded under his glare or tried too hard to impress him. She, on the other hand, acted like she had nothing to prove. It was… frustrating. And intriguing.

They worked in silence for a while, clearing debris and checking for civilians. He caught himself glancing at her more than he’d like to admit. The way her wings moved, instinctively shielding others from falling rubble, or the way her telekinesis allowed her to lift objects with the kind of precision he’d only ever seen in machines—it all made her stand out.

When the last of the wreckage was cleared and the villains were hauled away, Bakugo stood at the edge of the scene, watching as she spoke to one of the rescue workers. Her posture was still relaxed, but her wings shifted slightly, their dark feathers catching the light. He wondered what it was like to have that kind of presence—to be someone who could fly above the chaos and still keep control.

“You gonna keep starin’, or are you gonna say something?” Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She was looking at him now, one brow raised, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“I wasn’t starin’,” he shot back, scowling.

“Sure you weren’t,” she teased, her smirk returning. She stepped closer, her wings folding tightly against her back. “You’re not as scary as Dad made you out to be, you know.”

“Scary?” he repeated, his voice rising. “Who the hell said I was tryin’ to be scary? I’m a pro hero, not some damn—”

“Relax, Ground Zero,” she interrupted, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “You’re good at what you do. I’ll give you that.”

The unexpected praise caught him off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He settled for a gruff, “Damn right I am.”

She laughed, a sound that was surprisingly soft given her sharp demeanor. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Bakugo. Try not to blow up too much in the meantime.” With that, she spread her wings and took off, the powerful beats kicking up dust as she soared into the sky.

Bakugo watched her disappear into the horizon, his scowl softening into something more thoughtful. She was annoying, sure. Cocky, like her old man. But there was something about her that stuck with him—something he couldn’t quite put into words.

“Blackwing, huh?” he muttered to himself, his lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. “Tch. Show-off.”

Weeks later, the crisp scent of autumn clung to the air as Bakugo trudged toward the staging area for his latest mission. The briefing had been clear: a rogue villain group with dangerous quirks was causing havoc in an abandoned factory outside the city. The task sounded simple enough—neutralize the villains, secure the hostages—but Bakugo had learned long ago that simplicity on paper rarely translated to reality.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. Leaning against one of the transport vehicles, Blackwing looked every bit as casual as if she were waiting for a coffee order, her massive black wings folded lazily behind her. She tilted her head slightly when she spotted him, her smirk almost a challenge.

“You following me, Blackwing?” he barked, hefting his gear onto his shoulder with an exaggerated grunt.

“Please,” she replied, pushing off the vehicle with a fluid grace that irritated him for reasons he couldn’t explain. “You’re not that interesting. Besides, it looks like we’re stuck together for this one.”

“Tch. Great,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders as he turned his attention to the briefing officer. Despite his grumbling, there was an undeniable flicker of anticipation in his chest. Watching her on the field would give him something to focus on other than the noise in his own head.

The mission went sideways almost immediately.

The villains had fortified their position far better than expected, filling the factory with traps designed to incapacitate heroes. A dull orange glow filled the air as fires from earlier skirmishes crackled in the background, and the acrid stench of melted plastic and singed wood burned Bakugo’s nose.

He blasted through the front entrance, his explosions precise and deafening, but even his confidence took a hit when he saw the maze of barriers and booby traps ahead. Before he could charge in recklessly, Blackwing swooped past him, her wings kicking up a gust that momentarily cleared the smoke.

“Try not to set off every alarm in the place,” she called over her shoulder, already scanning the area with an analytical eye.

“I don’t need your advice!” he barked, but she was already moving.

Using her telekinesis, she disarmed traps with a finesse that made his blunt approach look almost amateur. Pieces of debris floated and shifted under her command, clearing paths for them to maneuver while neutralizing hidden explosives.

“You know,” she said as she floated a metal tripwire mechanism safely out of their path, “you could try being a little less predictable. You might even survive longer.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, vaulting over a barricade. “I’ve got this under control.”

It was a half-truth at best. As much as Bakugo hated to admit it, having her there was an advantage. She moved with calculated precision, her wings shielding her from attacks and her telekinesis providing a level of support he rarely experienced. She wasn’t just cleaning up after him—she was complementing his chaos with her control, and it made him grit his teeth in both irritation and reluctant admiration.

At one point, a villain dropped from the rafters above him, aiming a serrated knife at his unprotected back. Bakugo twisted too late, bracing for impact, but the attacker stopped mid-air, their body suspended in an invisible grip.

“Seriously?” Blackwing’s voice cut through the tension as she yanked the villain away with a flick of her wrist, slamming them into a wall hard enough to leave them unconscious. “You’re welcome.”

Bakugo glared at her, heat rising to his cheeks. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she replied, her smirk returning as she turned to the next obstacle. “You’re lucky I’m here to keep you alive.”

They fought side by side for the rest of the mission, their synergy growing despite the occasional snide comment. By the time they reached the hostages and secured the villains, Bakugo found himself begrudgingly impressed.

As they walked back to the staging area, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins, she nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Not bad, Ground Zero. Maybe we should do this more often.”

“Tch. Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The hero gala was every bit as obnoxious as Bakugo had expected—too many people, too much chatter, and absolutely no peace. He tugged at the collar of his suit jacket, already regretting letting Kirishima drag him here. The red-haired idiot had insisted that it was a great opportunity to make connections, but Bakugo had his own opinion: a waste of time.

Scowling, he scanned the room, trying to find the least crowded corner. The ballroom was grand, glittering chandeliers hanging high above polished floors, but all he could think about was how suffocating it felt. That was until he saw her.

She wasn’t in her usual hero suit, but the sight of her was just as commanding. The sleek black dress she wore hugged her figure in a way that was both elegant and effortless, while her dark wings draped behind her like a cloak. They caught the light with every slight movement, drawing attention despite her attempts to remain inconspicuous. She stood near the edge of the room, her posture as casual as ever, but her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Don’t tell me you actually clean up,” Bakugo blurted as he approached her, his usual filter nonexistent.

She turned slowly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “And don’t tell me you actually know how to talk to people without growling.”

He bristled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I talk just fine.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Nice to see you too, Ground Zero.”

“Tch. Didn’t think this was your scene,” he muttered, his gaze drifting to her wings. Even in a room full of heroes, she stood out.

“Ditto,” she shot back. “But even I can play nice when I have to.”

They ended up gravitating toward the same quiet corner, away from the noise and spectacle. Bakugo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while she sipped on a glass of champagne, her wings shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though it was charged with something Bakugo couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“So, how’s the hero gig treating you?” she asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“Fine,” he replied curtly. “Same as always. Blow up some villains, save the day.”

“Charming,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Do you ever try to make a good impression, or is this just your thing?”

“I don’t need to impress anyone,” he snapped, though there was no real bite to his words. “What about you? Enjoying your dad’s shadow?”

Her expression flickered, just for a moment, before she shrugged. “I’m used to it. Comes with the wings, I guess.”

Bakugo frowned, realizing too late that his comment had hit deeper than he intended. “You’re not just ‘Hawks’ kid,’ you know,” he said gruffly. “You’re good. Real good.”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard by the rare compliment. Then, she smiled—a small, genuine curve of her lips that made something in his chest tighten. “Thanks, Ground Zero. That almost sounded sincere.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

As the night wore on, their conversation shifted. They talked about the absurdity of gala events, swapped stories of ridiculous villains they’d faced, and even argued over who had the more annoying fans. It was the most relaxed Bakugo had felt in a long time, though he’d never admit it out loud.

By the time the event began winding down, he found himself reluctant to leave. She turned to him, tilting her head slightly. “You know, you’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be,” he replied, smirking.

“Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “Whatever.”

As she started to walk away, her wings brushing lightly against his shoulder, she glanced back at him. “See you around, Bakugo.”

He watched her go, the noise of the gala fading into the background. For once, he didn’t mind the chaos. Not when she was part of it.

Years later, Bakugo stood in front of the mirror, scowling at his reflection as he adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time. The fabric refused to sit right, and every attempt to fix it seemed to make it worse. His palms felt clammy, a sensation he despised, and the faint sound of chatter filtering in from outside the room only worsened his irritation.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her sitting on the edge of their bed, her black wings folded neatly behind her. She wasn’t doing anything in particular, just watching him, her golden-brown eyes filled with a mix of amusement and affection. She’d always had that maddening ability to look completely unbothered, no matter the circumstances.

“Hard to believe you’re nervous,” she teased, the corner of her lips quirking up in a smirk that still managed to rile him up after all this time.

“I’m not nervous,” he snapped, tugging at the knot of his tie yet again. The way his hands fumbled with the fabric, though, betrayed him. He wasn’t one to show weakness, but something about today was different. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but the weight of the moment pressed on him in a way he couldn’t shake.

She stood, crossing the room in a few easy steps. Her wings shifted as she moved, brushing lightly against the edges of the furniture. Without saying a word, she took over, her fingers deftly fixing the tie with the ease of someone who’d done it a dozen times before. Her hands lingered for a moment as she smoothed his lapels, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“You’re gonna be fine,” she said softly, her voice steady and sure. It was the same tone she’d used on countless missions, the same quiet confidence that had drawn him to her all those years ago. “We both are.”

He huffed, crossing his arms as she stepped back to look him over. “Tch. You’re way too calm about this.”

“That’s why we work,” she replied, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. “One of us has to be.”

His eyes flickered to her wings, the same imposing, beautiful black feathers that had once made her an unforgettable silhouette on a chaotic battlefield. Those wings had shielded him more times than he cared to count, but it wasn’t just the wings—it was her. The woman who’d gone from being a rival to a partner, from an annoyance to the most important part of his life.

The memory of their first meeting flashed through his mind: her sharp wit, her infuriating smirk, the way she’d effortlessly saved his ass while making him feel like she hadn’t even broken a sweat. And then the missions after that, where they’d learned how to move as a unit, her precision balancing out his explosive power. The late nights, the quiet moments, the laughter and arguments and everything in between—it had all led to this.

He glanced at her again, taking in the way her dress hugged her form, the subtle shimmer of her feathers in the light, the way her eyes held him steady even now. She looked like she belonged in the sky, untouchable, and yet here she was, tethered to him.

“You look good,” she said, breaking him from his thoughts. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, her touch steadying him even as his mind raced. “Even if you can’t tie a damn tie to save your life.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, though the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “You don’t look half bad either.”

She laughed, a sound that still made his chest feel a little lighter, no matter the circumstances. “High praise from you, Ground Zero.”

“Don’t push it.”

As they prepared to step out of the room, the noise from outside growing louder, Bakugo couldn’t help but glance at her one last time. She caught his gaze, her head tilting slightly in question.

“What?” she asked, her brow arching.

He hesitated, the words forming in his throat feeling too soft, too vulnerable for someone like him. But as he looked at her, at the woman who’d been there through every explosion, every triumph and failure, he let himself say it anyway.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he muttered, his voice low but steady.

Her eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her fingers lacing through his. “Always.”

As they stepped out to face the world together—whether it was a high-stakes mission, a major announcement, or their wedding day—Bakugo couldn’t help but reflect on how far they’d come. She wasn’t just his partner on the battlefield; she was his partner in every sense of the word. And as much as he hated to admit it, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

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stanleymyhusband · 4 months ago

Text

Stanley x fem reader

A new world (part 2)

The time when Stanley, Xeno and reader got unpertified and try to survive.

Stanley and reader are in a situationship but during the story it changes

Y/N, while incredibly intelligent herself, had settled into a role where she contributed her medical and biological knowledge. Her advice was often what guided Xeno’s more scientic strategies, especially when it came to utilizing plants or identifying medicinal herbs. They worked well together—two minds, balancing each other out—but there was always something beneath the surface. A tension she wasn’t sure how to read, especially when it came to Stanley.

Stanley and Xeno had known each other since childhood. Their bond was unshakeable, and even though Stanley now worked under Xeno, his loyalty wasn’t out of subjugation. They were partners in the truest sense of the word, each having shaped the other in ways that only they truly understood. Y/N hadn’t seen them interact much before, but she had caught glimpses of their closeness—how Xeno seemed to rely on Stanley’s steady strength, and how Stanley’s unwavering support for Xeno went beyond just friendship.

It made Y/N feel like a bit of an outsider, despite Stanley’s constant presence at her side. She had started getting closer to him, but there was so much left unsaid between them. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that Stanley, who had always been a bit of an enigma to her, might be hiding something from her, or maybe he just hadn’t figured out what they were either.

That afternoon, Xeno had sent Stanley and Y/N on an expedition to a nearby river to collect water and gather some of the resources Xeno had requested. It was a simple task, but Y/N couldn’t ignore the tension in the air, especially as she found herself walking beside Stanley in the silence between them.

As they reached the edge of the river, the sound of rushing water filled the air, a stark contrast to the quiet of the rest of the world. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a dappled glow on the path in front of them. Y/N knelt down at the bank to fill the wood containers they’d made, the coolness of the water a welcome relief in the heat.

Stanley, who had been silent up until this point, leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes lingered on the water for a moment before they shifted to Y/N, a subtle smile tugging at his lips.

“You know, you’re pretty good at this,” he said, his voice casual but warm. "I mean, you’ve got this whole calm, collected thing going on. Don’t know how you do it."

Y/N let out a breath, filling the first container. “I guess... it’s just easier when you’ve been through enough to know that you can handle whatever comes next.” She glanced up, catching his eyes, her heart skipping a beat. “Besides, you’re the one who’s always calm. Always ready to protect the group.”

Stanley smiled a little more, though there was something in his eyes that made Y/N feel like he wasn’t just talking about the group anymore. There was an underlying tension, something she couldn’t fully name, but it felt like it was just waiting to bubble to the surface.

“I’m only as calm as the people around me,” Stanley said with a shrug, his tone lighter now. “I guess you could say I’m... a product of my environment.”

Y/N laughed softly, though it was more nervous than she meant. She felt the need to turn her focus back to the task at hand, her fingers tightening around the edge of the container as she filled it. “I guess I’ve been lucky,” she said quietly, her mind drifting. “Having you around...”

Stanley watched her for a moment, his gaze softening. “Lucky, huh?” He took a few steps closer, his voice lower now, almost teasing. “I think it’s more of a mutual thing. You’ve been a big help to Xeno. Honestly, we wouldn’t be this far without your advice.”

Y/N tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, right?” She glanced over at him, her eyes searching his face for something she couldn’t quite place. “I mean, you’re not used to relying on me... you and Xeno...”

Stanley’s expression flickered, something almost unreadable in his eyes. He took a step forward, his voice soft but intense. “You’re more than just Xeno’s right hand. Don’t think of yourself low, Y/N.”

The weight of his words settled over her, and Y/N felt her heart rate pick up slightly. There was a lot unsaid between them, a lot of emotion building in the tension that was so palpable she could almost touch it.

A soft breeze ruffled their hair, and for a brief moment, everything felt quieter.

“So,” Stanley said, breaking the silence, his grin returning, “Xeno’s probably waiting for us to get back and get to work, right?”

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle, even though a part of her was still caught in the moment, her mind buzzing with thoughts. “Yeah, we should probably hurry before he starts analyzing stones and making it into a whole science experiment.”

Stanley laughed, the sound light and easy. “That’s what he does best, though.” His gaze lingered on her for a second longer, the air around them thick with something that neither of them dared to address fully just yet. “But hey, don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been looking out for all of us. You’re doing a hell of a job.”

Y/N’s chest fluttered at the unexpected praise, and she gave him a soft, genuine smile. “Thanks, Stanley. Really.”

They continued working together, gathering what Xeno had requested, but as they headed back toward the group, there was a certain ease between them, a quiet understanding that this—whatever it was—was only the beginning. Stanley, though still the protective soldier he’d always been, had shown her a side of him that was less about strength and more about trust.

And Y/N? She couldn’t help but think that there was something more between them—something waiting to grow.

#stanley x reader #stanley snyder #stanley snyder x reader #dr stone #xeno

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nexus-my-beloved · 11 months ago

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Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Klaus took the bullet for Dave in Vietnam. Klaus comes back (not realizing he should, in fact, be VERY dead) to a Dave that is heartbroken and thinks he is dead, scares the shit out of him by reassuring that he is not in fact a part of the afterlife, and brings up the briefcase and bringing Dave back with him to 2019. Dave agrees and Klaus gets on track to being semi-sober with Dave's help. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Ben didn't check the tank and blew it up like he was supposed to. A world where he walked home from the mission and waited for Five to come back like Viktor did when he made Five nutfluff sandwiches every night. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Allison didn't rumor Claire and went to therapy and took deep breaths and didn't mess things up. A world where she kept her daughter and even if she and Patrick split she still was in good graces to spend time with her kid. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Diego got Patch's message in time and managed to make it to the hotel room to either help her deal with Hazel & Cha-Cha or he got there before her injuries were too far gone and he was able to save her. A world where he kept her safe. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Luther let Five do his job instead of threatening to drop Dolores out the window to keep Five from murdering people that might kick-start the apocalypse. A world where Luther understood where Five was coming from and didn't threaten to break the only thing that Five had learned to love. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but someone found out Viktor had powers and helped get him off of his power-supressing meds and helped him figure out how to use them. A world where Viktor was helped rather than left to spiral into a mindless rage that would end the world. Umbrella Academy where everything is the same (NOT) but Five learns about the subway before meeting the Handler and he learns potential outcomes and how best to solve the apocalypse. A world where he takes the Handler's deal but he breaks down the comission (or at least removes her from it, creep) and gets back to his family, and despite looking young he is alive, everyone is alive, and he checks the subway regularly (that he has made a map of) for potential oncoming threats. He learned at a young age during one of his subway explorations that he would inevitably kill Lila's parents, and he never does it, pretends to get the mission done so that his cover isn't blown before he goes home. Umbrella Academy where everything turns out okay because Five utilized the subway, people listened to each other, and they didn't have poor timing. Umbrella Academy where things didn't hurt as bad. A "do-over", if you will. Like "The Day That Wasn't" episode.

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meownotgood · 8 months ago

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Wait you are so right about obsessive viktor!! Wth why didn't i connect that... He'd scourer piltover to find you! I like to think he's desperate to show you eveything he's gain and rationalize you running away from him as you being afraid if the "glorious unknown"

viktor would go one step further anon, he literally has hundreds of followers at his disposal. if you were somewhere in piltover or even in the depths of the undercity, he will find you. even if it means utilizing his commune, seeing through all of his followers' eyes at once in order to track you down. even if it means sneaking — or perhaps fighting his way — into piltover. you will see his vision, eventually. you must. you, out of everyone, must understand. you have always understood his ambitions, why would this be any different?

perhaps you doubt the lengths he is willing to go to. you believe you are far from his grasp. as you walk through the crowded streets of piltover, accidentally bumping into someone as you try to brush past — a hand finds your shoulder, stills you. your eyes catch with a stranger donning a placid, gentle smile, five arcane-touched imprints marked onto their face. their swirling eyes flutter, before their pupils gloss over to form pale, full moons.

and a voice you would recognize anywhere, viktor's voice, speaks through them.

"there you are."

#sorry anon I've had possessive viktor thoughts since I answered that first ask and I needed an excuse to share them #omnipotent guy. precious kind of dubious guy who's infatuated with you in the best and worst of ways #his desperation to have you at his side and further his evolution specifically with you TOGETHER #overpowers every other need within him #drowns out any of the hexcore's wishes #eats him. he tastes like grape #ask mags

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mirthfulmoonshine · 2 months ago

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▲ Back with more of my LoZ au/original content. My first post on this can be found here !

In between suffering with my MA, I've been working on a lineup of the 'cast' for my LoZ original. This not exhaustive, as obviously we're still missing a Rito and a Goron. They'll be listed below from right to left :3

My Zelda story serves as a catalyst for the Hyrulean Civil War that precedes Ocarina of Time. It is a period referred to as the Era of Division and the great war at the end is the Tricenary War or the Queen's War.

Pashato & Dahri | Captain and Royal Scribe

Ganondorf's elder half-sisters, born of a different Hylian man. Their shared mother was Chieftain Rutimala. Dahri is the eldest, making her second in line to the Gerudo throne.

Pashato is the captain of the Gerudo guard and a valiant, recognized fighter. She oversees Ganondorf's armies directly and the training of Gerudo forces. She passes away in the final assault on Hyrule.

Dahri is the royal scribe and muralist, serving somewhat as a lady in waiting for Riar'svah. She would eventually become chieftain after Ganondorf's death and Riar'svah's short-lived role as chieftain. She would go on to become the Heroine of Gentleness/Compassion.

Kotake & Koume, Twinrova | Elder Witches

The elder witches to the Gerudo empire. They hold the seat of magic in the Gerudo governmental structure, intended to advise and aid the king but they specifically teach him magic in his youth. When they fuse, they form the Gerudo Twinrova.

Both are worshippers of the primordial evil, known simply to the Gerudo as Malice. (Mal'hice)

They endorsed the war with Hyrule, hoping it would bring the Triforce pieces together for Ganondorf's victory. When Ganondorf dies on the battlefield, the witches encourage the Gerudo to keep fighting and for Riar'svah to use her last resort.

Tatu | Steward of the Sword

Tatu tends to the Great Deku Tree and is privately understood as the keeper of the Master Sword. Though she is not a sage, she often sits on the council of sages as an advisory position.

She accompanies Link in his trials through the Lost Woods, searching for the Master Sword at Queen Zelda's behest.

As a Kokiri, her childish appearance can be deceptive but she is very wise and compassionate.

During the Tricenary War, she remains in the Lost Woods, protecting the Great Deku Tree and other Kokiri.

Parrane | Sage of Shadow

Parrane is a sibling of the royal advisor and defender, Impa. His work with the Hyrule royal family is mostly through his sister and his maintenance of the Shadow Temple.

As the sage of shadow, Parrane is gifted with the manipulation of shadows but this skill is highly tepid as he prefers to lean into the illusionary element of his sagely abilities. He can obscure both the physical and the mental upon touch and can create shadow apparitions to demonstrate events that have happened or visualize what he speaks of.

During the war, Parrane is the one who leads the Sheikah into battle alongside Queen Zelda.

After the war, he remains in the Hyrule royal court, outliving his queen and her hero into the next generation. There, he would be a main advocate for a unified Hyrule and would be the first to see the Shadow Temple be utilized as a torture institution.

Malan | Sage of Water

Hailing from the sea Zora, Malan holds the special place in Zora court life of Musician, playing for Jabu-Jabu to keep the patron god peaceful. However, his job is not just playing soothing harp music but to also defend the temple that protects the gardens and waters of Jabu-Jabu.

His king and queen, Inogo and Lala, believe their daughter, Ruti, to be the sage when Queen Zelda calls for the sages. Malan is recognized as the sage by Zelda on a diplomatic mission, visiting Jabu-Jabu's temple and upon hearing him play a certain tune.

Malan is awoken as sage manually by Zelda, who touches his hand.

His sagely abilities are hydrokinesis, manipulated through his trident or his hands. Often through song, he can cast powerful spells that can call on downpours, storms, and purge evil from someone.

While he survives the war, Malan returns to the Zora beaten. He is eventually exiled Jabu-Jabu's temple by the royals who align themselves completely with Hyrule.

Though he appears in some ancient reliefs, Malan's identify is lost to much of Zora history.

Ganondorf | Demon King & King of the Gerudo

Ganondorf is the relentless king of the Gerudo, his coming foretold by the 100 year cycle, preceded by the great King Naboris. He is raised by Kotake and Koume after his mother, Chieftain Rutimala is slain in battle by the Hylians. In his youth, he was taught dark magics and spells long passed down from one Gerudo leader to another. He is recognized as the Vessel of Malice.

Being the Vessel, he is regarded as the Demon King, able to transform into a large lion-like boar and wield immense magic. He suffers from bursts of unconsolable rage, destruction, and mania.

This Ganondorf is bestowed the Triforce of Power after the Triforce is shattered upon Zirda's death.

He wages war against Hyrule and her allies, a war passed down to him by his foremothers. He yearns for the land and resources of Hyrule, refusing all early diplomatic efforts by the young Queen Zelda.

Despite being highly prideful and arrogant, Ganondorf has a tender spot for that of his people, leaning on the advice of his mothers, Riar'svah, and his sisters Pashato and Dahri.

His final battle against Hyrule in the Tricenary War is an attempted and succeeded besiegement of Hyrule Castle. Unable to stop it, he transforms into a beast stronger, larger, and more animalistic than that of the form he could control. Malice's monster, he is slain by the Hero's sword and his spirit eradicated by the Queen's light.

After his death, he is immortalized in Gerudo facades and carvings. Some Gerudo historians and royals question who he is, his face lost to time like many other Gerudo kings until Ocarina of Time, when the name graces the history pages once more. He is the second to last king before Ganondorf proper, each 100 years apart from time of death.

Naboris -> Ganondorf -> ??? -> Ganondorf OOT

Riar'svah | Sage of Spirit

Born six months before the prince, Riar'svah was raised secluded in the Spirit Temple by her mother, the previous spiritual leader of the Gerudo, Palu. After taking on her mother's role, she enters the Gerudo Fortress proper. Her role is similar to that of an Ottoman Şeyhülislam.

Riar'svah and Kotake/Koume disagree and fight constantly, mostly due to Riar'svah finding Malice a dangerous force to be dealing with or encouraging.

Her role as a sage warranted some concern amongst her people, with many believing she would betray the Gerudo and Ganondorf to serve Hylia's agents. However, she remains steadfast in supporting the Gerudo above all else.

Her sagely gifts are specifically that of prophesying and channeling divine spirits into her body to grant her immense astral powers. She mostly prophesies and meditates on Ganondorf's behalf, communicating with deities for and declaring prophetic words to him.

After Ganondorf's death at the hands of the Hero and Queen, Riar'svah becomes Gerudo chieftain, waging brutal war against Hyrule. At the encouragement of Kotake and Koume, swarmed in grief, she makes a deal with Malice.

She dies atop the Gerudo Highlands, legend says she turned to stone, becoming one with the geography.

Zelda | Queen of Hyrule & Hylia's Descendant

Zelda becomes queen after the death of her father, Rhoam, who reigned as regent after Zirda's passing. From a young age, Zelda knew she was the savior of Hyrule, a burden she's carried with her.

Her Hyrule-first mentality grows only stronger after the murder of her mother and the death of her father, fueling her to rule Hyrule with an iron fist and determined hope.

She attempts many diplomatic missions and alliance reconstructions with the Gerudo and her failures pile atop one another.

She is close friends with the Hero and she views her sages as divine-inspired guardians. Impa is like a second mother to her.

Gifted by the Goddess, Zelda is proficient in light and time magic. She can prophesy at sacred locations, seal/subdue darkness, and can craft light weapons such as the light arrow.

The Triforce of Wisdom sits on her hand, appearing when her mother died.

With Ganondorf slain and Link injured, Zelda is torn. She returns to the battlefield to face a vengeful Riar'svah. Armed with the Master Sword and the power of the Goddesses, Zelda charges.

Her battle with the Gerudo sage was a pure demonstration of Hylia and Demise at odds. While she is in turmoil about creating such rage-filled sorrow, Zelda beats Riar'svah back to the Highlands.

Her only son would be four generations before the Hyrulean Civil War.

Link | Hero of Courage

From the depths of Faron, Link is a Lurelin Hylian. His parents were retired sea farers. When the Triforce of Courage appeared on his hand at a young age, he was surrendered to Hyrule Castle, destined to become the Hero.

Abandoned, Link trained ruthlessly under the royal guard, often isolated from much of everyone to preserve the courage and heroic purity of the Hero.

While he does not necessarily struggle with accepting he is the Hero of Courage, it is isolating and his village becomes that of strangers for they treat him with such reverence when their used to be friendship.

He becomes very close to Zelda during their youth and their friendship transcends mortal relationships.

When his training is deemed complete by the sages and Impa, Link is sent to the Lost Woods to unleash the Master Sword. When he does, he will carry this sword into the final battle with the Demon King. Upon his return, he is paraded throughout Hyrule Castle Town and Castle.

Link defeats Ganondorf in battle but is mortally wounded in the process. Rushed back to Hyrule Castle, he is tended to in fervent vain by the Queen and her surviving Sages. However, when Riar'svah violently storms Hyrule, he is left to suffer alone.

Though he survives, Link is mute from the damages suffered.

Zirda | Former Queen of Hyrule & Sage of Light

Deceased queen of Hyrule, Zirda reigned with a soft but iron fist, working towards unification of Hyrule under the Loftwing banner. Seated at the head of the council of sages, she urged unity but found it fell on deaf ears.

Zirda had tense relations with the previous Gerudo chieftain, Rutimala.

She is fatally wounded in battle, dying days after. This leaves the throne to her husband, Rhoam, with her early teenage daughter, Zelda, rushing to prepare for the throne. Her death was a shock to the Hylian geopolitical scene, encouraging the sages to rally their respective people to join, save for the Gerudo and Rito sages.

As sage, Zirda could manipulate and control sources of light and light itself, known to illuminate the dark and shine light on lies. Gifted by the Goddesses, she could also conjure powerful beams, shields, swords, and arrows of light.

She was the sole holder of the Triforce. Upon her death, the Triforce saw no befitting wielder and split, landing upon the Goddesses' divine players: Zelda, Link, and Ganondorf.

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monstersdownthepath · 3 months ago

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Homebrew Artifact: The Tome of the Deep

Major Artifact

Aura: Strong all

CL: 20th

Weight: 5lbs

Slot: —

This mystical tome is remarkably tame-looking for what it is, possessing a simple red cover with the its title written in Aklo on the front, the words spelled out with shards of silver. The pages are simple white paper that resists all forms of damage or attempts to alter its contents, with new ink sliding directly off. The text itself in a bizarre mixture of Aklo and Aquan, the language being used often changing mid-sentence, and is largely incomprehensible word salads even to those who can read it. It has numerous multicolored ribbons trailing from its spine, ostensibly to aid in marking important pages, but when free they flutter and flow as though they were underwater. These ribbons frequently wrap around whatever comes close, sometimes preventing whoever is holding it from easily putting it down. The book is constantly cold--enough that precipitation often forms on nearby surfaces--and emits the smell of the ocean.

The Tome contains unusual power over the seas and allows its holder to navigate and manipulate them with ease, its incoherence actually a cipher that can be understood with study, revealing the author(s) to harbor a deep cruelty towards sea life. After studying the Tome of the Deep for at total of 24 hours (across any number of days), its powers begin to unlock; the base benefit allows the holder to gain the benefits of Water Walk and/or Water Breathing as a swift action, and they can dismiss the effects as a free action. They also gain a swim speed equal to twice their walking speed, and gain the benefits of the Know Direction and Tongues spell at all times, though the holder hears all voices through a bizarre reverberation, as if the speakers were talking underwater.

After studying the Tome for 48 total hours, further benefits unlock as the reader comes to understand that despite the author's apparent dislike of the sea, they are a fanatical devotee to some mysterious cabal of "Forgotten Gods of the Depths" that lay hidden in the sea's darkest and deepest trenches, bound there in ancient times by the gods of mankind. The holder gains a +4 profane bonus to saving throws against all spells with the Cold and Water descriptors, as well as against the abilities and spells of all creatures with the Aquatic or Water subtypes. In addition, the holder gains the ability to use the following spell-like abilities:

At-will--Fog Cloud, Hydraulic Torrent, River Whip

3/day--Control Water, Find the Path, Geyser (DC 25)

1/day--Control Weather (as a Druid), Submerge Ship

After studying the Tome in its entirety for 96 total hours and coming to learn the supposed names of the Forgotten Gods of the Depths, its final benefits unlock, enhancing the profane bonus the holder gained from the previous unlock to +8 and granting them the ability to perform truly bizarre feats by speaking prayers to these gods aloud:

Atrophic Harvest: Once per day, the holder may chant a litany of bounty, causing sea life to suicidally fling themselves into nets, onto the deck, or even into waiting mouths. This litany requires 10 uninterrupted minutes to perform, but if allowed to conclude, results in the harvest of 1d4+4 tons of sea life in the form of fish, sharks, small whales, crabs, and other animals. This can manifest as the sea life filling up a trawling net or leaping onto a ship's deck, leaping into the waiting arms of fishermen, or simply washing up on the nearest beach. Utilizing this power deals 1d6 Wisdom damage to the holder, and may have far-reaching effects on the sea's ecology, at the DMs discretion.

Banish: Once per day, the holder may utter a word that inspires mortal terror in sea life as a full-round action. All creatures with the Aquatic or Water subtype within 300ft of the holder hear this word regardless of intervening barriers, and become panicked for 1 minute upon hearing it, attempting to flee the holder as swiftly as they can via whatever means they possibly can. Utilizing this power deals 1d6 Wisdom damage to the holder, and prevents them from speaking at all for one hour.

Cruel Drive: The holder may chant a litany of haste from the Tome while standing on the deck of a ship. So long as the holder maintains their chant, the ship's speed is doubled, it ignores the sinking condition, it takes no penalties for moving against the wind, and it ignores penalties it would take for operating at half crew capacity. Performing this litany requires the holder's full concentration; they cannot take any actions but to chant, or the litany ends. Each minute (minimum 1) the holder maintains the chant, they take 1 Wisdom damage. Whenever the litany ends, this ability cannot be used again for 1d4 hours.

Dredge: The holder may pull treasures from the bottom of the ocean. Once per day over the course of 1 hour, the holder may produce 500gp x their own HD worth of valuables by sitting within 100ft of the shoreline and chanting, the valuables washing ashore with every toss of the waves. These valuables take the shape of coins, gems, art objects, and other tradable goods lost to the tides. At the DMs discretion, the holder may request a specific object that was lost to see be returned to them with this power. Once this action has been performed, it cannot be performed within one mile of the previous location until 30 days have passed. Utilizing this power inflicts 1d6 Wisdom damage to the user.

Vengeance of the Deep: Once per day, the holder may cast Vortex, Seamantle, OR Tsunami as a spell-like ability.

At the DMs discretion, further research may yield powers ever stranger, including details of the rituals needed to release the Forgotten Gods.

Curse: The Tome of the Deep possesses a powerful curse and a vengeful, malevolent, alien will of its own. A holder that has unlocked even the basic powers of the Tome becomes unwilling to part with it, utilizing all of their strength and resources to retain possession of it. Similarly, the cursed holder becomes unwilling to travel further than 1 mile per HD they possess from the nearest shore, becoming compelled by an irremovable Geas to return to the sea if they do as the blasphemous gods call for them. No ability score damage caused to the holder by utilizing the Tome's power can be healed through any means for 24 hours after sustaining it. All creatures with the Aquatic or Water subtypes can sense the Tome's malevolent presence from up to 100ft away, and their attitude to the holder drops two stages and cannot be improved past "indifferent" through nonmagical means. Finally, a dread fog follows the holder wherever they may go, rolling in every night from the sea to surround the holder in a roughly 5 mile radius. This fog is mundane in most respects, but eerie shapes, disconcerting sounds, and bizarre scents often emanate from it; this stimulus can be experienced by every creature in the area, not just the holder. This dread fog is not directly dangerous beyond the hazards it creates by obscuring sight, but at the DMs discretion, its distressing emanations may have a deleterious effect on the populace experiencing it.

Destruction: The Tome of the Deep can be destroyed in one of two ways: the final death of all the forgotten gods, or if the Tome is consumed by a Colossal creature that is both Mythic and possesses the Aquatic or Water subtypes. This creature must then swim to the bottom of the ocean and remain there until the Tome is completely digested, which takes many years. When the Tome is finally destroyed, the creature that swallowed it irreversibly slain as well.

#original concepts #Homebrew Horror #sort of #no points for knowing what this is from

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yanderes-galore · 1 year ago

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Can I request a short scenario about Gojo falling in love with Sukuna’s favorite lover? They got unsealed first & was discovered by Gojo. Darling tried to escape one problem only to acquire an even worse one

Darling is gender neutral and it’s Romantic Yandere Gojo

~Anon~

The plot was a bit complicated yet vague so I hope the idea I came up with works ^^; I don't know much about the Heian Era so I am guessing. AU where Jujutsu High is actually Jujutsu University for the sake of ages and plot.

This deviates from the request a bit but I hope you enjoy it anyways :) The end is a bit butchered as I had no ideas :( The yandere behavior is vaguely implied, I wish this was executed better but I was working with what I had. Constructive feedback is appreciated.

Possible Manga Spoilers, Please read with caution.

One Long Century

Yandere! Satoru Gojo Story (Ft. Sukuna)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Violence, Possessive behavior, Slight rivalry themes, Jealousy, Stalking, Darling hates relationships, Themes of toxicity in relationships, Delusional behavior, Forced relationship.

The Heian Era was known as a legendary time for Jujutsu Sorcerers. After all, this era was where Sukuna and Kenjaku originated from. Speaking of which, there was another Sorcerer that history recorded who dealt with these two.

You were Sukuna's favorite lover, out of all the partners the King of Curses had, you were his best. You were experienced in utilizing Curse energy, which made you a favorite. However, you never wanted to be tied to the monster.

Sukuna took you as a partner due to your abilities as a Sorcerer. While you were originally his enemy, he broke you in due to his strength. You were never stronger than him but he liked your potential. Truthfully, your plan was to die trying to take him out.

You never got such an easy fate.

No, instead Sukuna contacted Kenjaku to speak of immortality. You understood Sukuna wished to live forever, but you fully expected to die here. Unfortunately... Sukuna didn't want to waste such a good partner.

"Make them a cursed object, too. I want them to follow me eternally."

You were never like Sukuna. No, your morals were more pure than his. You had the morals of more modern Jujutsu Sorcerers.

Protect the weak... For you are strong.

Against your will you were made into a sealed cursed object. You reluctantly lay in wait for a time where you can awaken. With the body of a host... you can be reborn.

Even if you didn't wish it.

---

For a century your cursed object was passed around and stored. Legends and rumors told of your relationship with the King of Curses. It was often said that you could calm the King of Curses if things ever got out of hand.

Eventually, like some of Sukuna's fingers, you found your way into the protection of Jujutsu University in their Cursed Warehouse.

You weren't chosen to be reborn until enough of Sukuna's fingers were collected. Higher-ups realized that if something goes wrong they should have you ready. Which lead to a host being chosen...

And you being reborn.

It felt... strange to be reborn in the modern age. Everything was so different, from the amount of Sorcerers to even the clothes and buildings. You were brought back for a reason it seemed.

You feel like you're being judged.

You can't blame these modern Sorcerers for suspecting you. Sukuna was known for sadism and being known as his favorite lover didn't help. However, you did your best to prove your true allegiance.

Any side fighting Sukuna works for you.

You didn't meet Satoru Gojo until you were allowed to be "used". Their wording disturbed you, yet you try not to judge in turn. They have their reasons to be worried.

Unfortunately... meeting Satoru Gojo comes with reuniting with... Sukuna.

You were told that Sukuna had taken host in a student named Yuji Itadori. Satoru Gojo was given the job of being his teacher and being a handler. Your job?

Stick by them both... and keep Sukuna under control.

You loathed the idea... but you hated the idea of Sukuna going unchecked more. As a result, you comply with the order. This makes you part of Gojo's group.

It also gets you involved with Gojo and Sukuna... the blights of your life.

---

As expected, being in the group started uncomfortable for you. Gojo was curious of an ancient Sorcerer such as you. One who wasn't malevolent... but kept alive for some reason.

Admittedly you weren't as strong as Gojo... but you were up there.

You then met the younger students who accompanied him. Yuji (Sukuna's vessel, according to your intel), Nobara, and Megumi. They were all quite interesting and powerful in their own right... and over time you found yourself attached to them.

Then there was Sukuna, the King of Curses and your supposed lover. He festered within Yuji, much to your disgust. You dreaded whenever he took control.

You could never have a normal conversation with Yuji without Sukuna popping in to taunt you. He was unfortunately still flirtatious, seeing you as his lover. He didn't care if you hated him... just like all those years ago.

You wished you could just stay enemies with him.

You wished you weren't brought back.

Arguments often occurred between you and Sukuna. It was usually verbal as Gojo was around to prevent physical fights. For the sake of everyone around you.

Speaking of Gojo, you often spoke with him. You both often acted as mentors and guardians to your group. Originally, the air between you was tense.

Then Gojo realized he could get along with a strong Sorcerer such as you from ancient times.

You don't mind Gojo at first. He helps you adapt to modern times now that you're able to be out and about around other people. You two even bond well in battle against Curses.

Sukuna often mocks the fact Gojo is so close to you. The King of Curses is still possessive of his remaining lover. You often hear Sukuna vowing to take you back once he takes full control of his vessel, Yuji.

You plan on preventing that with Gojo.

You help Gojo train his students. For the most part you stay out of the way of other activities unless it's Sukuna related. Occasionally you even help with Kenjaku issues once those become known.

Soon months begin to pass and Gojo grows more... intrigued. He knew attachments could be dangerous, especially with an individual as mysterious as you. However...

It didn't stop Gojo from falling for someone he shouldn't have.

Gojo's obsession with you doesn't go unnoticed by Sukuna. In fact, he often acts out more around Gojo. Which leads to more work for you.

You begin to notice things when Gojo leaves your side less. He often excuses his actions as the higher-ups just wanting to keep you monitored. You believe it since Gojo is technically monitoring two dangerous Sorcerers.

In reality, Gojo can't keep his eyes off you.

He originally didn't want to think of the idea of being in love with you. Yet despite the difference in your eras and origins, Gojo still managed to be playful and interested in you. You even played along.

If anyone was worthy of Satoru Gojo...

It was you.

---

Gojo is really your only guide to getting around this new age. You have power, but without him you could've been misguided. At least, Gojo seems to think so.

As you work with Jujutsu University, Gojo only seems to grow closer to you. He often asks how you manage to get Sukuna under control and what you've learned throughout the ages. If anything, you're the most valuable asset he and the rest of the Sorcerers has other than Yuji/Sukuna himself.

Gojo's strange behavior doesn't get better as you work with him. It perplexes you. After all, you aren't that much of a threat. So why is he so close at all times?

If only you knew the true extent to his feelings.

You haven't thought much of romantic relationships due to your circumstances. After all, Sukuna is still around and he's turned you off to such relationships. Which is why it disturbs you when you notice Gojo's... obsession.

It's fitting that the strongest craves the strong, no matter how forbidden it is.

However, when you see the signs, you're reminded of how you were treated all those years ago. The possessive glares, then hostility towards those who don't accept you... it's familiar.

Gojo's much nicer and more playful than Sukuna...

But it appears they're both their own type of monster.

Whenever Gojo pulls you into an embrace, you shove him away. Whenever he playfully teases you, you go cold. You don't wish to be trapped again....

Yet Gojo never stops to consider his actions....

His hold on you is always tight. His confession for you was rather sudden once he did say it. When you tried to refuse, his behavior didn't change.

In fact he only seemed more violent towards those you fought against... Including Sukuna.

"We're good partners, aren't we?" He asked you, a smile on his face. "So wouldn't we be good... romantically?"

You hate that you still persist even now.

Even now, when you just want to rest, Gojo's there. You begin to dislike company of any type by this point. Yet you're forced to endure as a Jujutsu Sorcerer.

Originally you could deal with him being overly affectionate. The hugs were even originally comforting. You kept telling him you didn't like him romantically, but he seemed to ignore such a thought. You were tired of him constantly being by your side no matter where you go.

Although, snapping would only bring you trouble.

If you snapped, the higher-ups would order you exorcised and their control over Sukuna would falter. That or Gojo himself would seal you so you're harmless. As much as you hated it...

A century ago you told yourself serving Sukuna was your duty. Now, in modern times, you tell yourself that serving alongside Gojo is your duty. It didn't matter what happened as long as the weak were protected....

It was once again your duty to please.

Gojo was so focused on you two being strong together, he never thought about what you think. In his eyes, the strong belong together. No matter what.

Instead of piercing red eyes, you're met with glowing blue ones. Instead of the King of Curses, it's the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer. There may be differences...

But in the end you're still left with a monster...

A monster that has so much more power over you... A monster that claims to love you... Just to take everything you have all over again.

A long century has passed... and nothing has changed.

"We'll be unstoppable, won't we, baby?"

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere satoru gojo #yandere gojo

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purplekissinger · 2 months ago

Text

How Tom Riddle married off his cousin

Late 1940s. Y/N is Morfin Gaunt’s illegitimate daughter. The Death Eaters take turns proposing to Tom's dearest cousin. He does not like a single candidate. Platonic.

(Death Eaters speak quite freely with Tom, but this is like… my hcs lol…... they got out of school yesterday, they are still classmates and not the members of some underground cult)

Abraxas Malfoy sighed heavily, tapped his wand on a scrap of parchment and pushed it towards Tom. Tom lazily picked it up and ran his eyes over it.

"Ten thousand Galleons?" he asked mockingly. "If you're thinking of buying my sister, that's not a very generous offer."

Malfoy snorted, waving a dismissive hand, as if to say, ‘look at this merchant selling his sisters’.

“How much do you want for her, then?” he asked, sounding hurt. “Mind that this offer is for you. Y/N won’t haggle over her upkeep. There won’t be enough parchment to write down the price.”

Tom turned the scrap of paper over with a bored expression, pretending to think about it. Then he carefully placed it on the table in front of Malfoy.

“Cassie, do you know how I met her?”

***

It was the end of August, the last summer before his final year at Hogwarts. The month had been dry and hot, but on the day he needed to drop into Knockturn Alley on business. As luck would have it, it started raining. The long-awaited, thundering rain that raised the dust on the pavement. The alley was deserted in an instant, passers-by rushing in all directions, someone conjuring a transparent umbrella over his head. Tom slipped through the half-open door of the shop, hoping to wait out the downpour.

It was quiet inside, dimly lit and somehow... cozy. He sniffed and immediately recognized the intoxicating smell of old books, unlike anything else. A moment later, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw them: on the shelves reaching the ceiling, on the counter, on the steps of the wooden staircase. Old ones and ancient ones, disheveled and neat, with monograms on the covers and without no covers at all. The shop was a bookstore. Tom, a great connoisseur of books, immediately bent over an inconspicuous tome and opened it in the middle.

"Good day, sir! Welcome to the Godsend," a friendly voice rang out. Y/N, whom he didn't yet know was Y/N, peered at him from the utility room.

"Pretty," Tom thought. "And polite."

He smiled back at her.

***

"Where’ll you live?" Tom asked.

"Asked" was putting it mildly. The White Wyvern was so crowded he had to nearly shout in Dolokhov's ear. Antonin nodded, took a big swig from the bottle, throat bobbing.

"I have a flat nearby," he shouted. "Not a Malfoy Manor, of course, but liveable. Y/N is a wonderful girl, she'll decorate any shack it'll seem like a palace."

That was true. Y/N sometimes joked about being Wendy on a pirate ship. If there was even a drop of comfort and warmth in the headquarters, it was she who brought it there.

"A wonderful girl, that is correct," Tom said, looking away from Dolokhov. "Tony, are you sure you’ll have anything to talk about? She's a Parselmouth, just like me."

"We'll manage," Dolokhov smirked. "Y/N is such a modest girl, and a docile one. You see, I told her the other day that I’d ask you for her hand. She said, "As Tom says, so it will be."

"She can’t be more right," Tom said.

***

An hour later, Tom still couldn't leave the "Godsend." He forgot about the case, which never happened to him before. He felt bitter and absurd at the same time; there he was, standing at the counter, chatting with the saleswoman like some lazy schoolboy, in no hurry. As if there weren't goblins waiting for him in the next block with goods that could easily land him in Azkaban. As if his soul wasn't split. As if he didn't have four murders on his account.

He didn't want the rain to end. It was easy with Y/N. She understood him with half a word, with half a look, they finished each other's sentences, they read the same books, they even smiled the same way.

"Why didn't I see you at Hogwarts?" Tom asked, tilting his head to the side. "I would have remembered."

Y/N smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

"I had to work. I helped my mother here since I was a child, studied a little when I could, mostly on my own. Now I'm preparing for the OWLs. A bit too late for that, but still…’.

"And your father?" Tom asked after a pause. Asking about such things is rude. If they didn't mention a father, you probably already know where he was. But in that hour he and Y/N had spoken in such a way that Tom thought, If soulmates exist, it’s her.

“Merlin knows where he is”, Y/N shook her head indifferently. “Mom saw him a few of times. He called himself a prince, heir to an ancient family… Mom told me, he was a scruffy guy, but a charming one. They left me this ancient family name, so the Hogwarts letter addressed me as Y/N Gaunt, but I’d rather use my mother's name... Oh, be careful!”

Tom dropped the book he was holding.

“What?” he asked sharply. “Come again? Gaunt?”

For the first time, Y/N feared the look on his face.

***

“Tom, I don’t get it. Are you even going to marry her off or not?” Ray Lestrange asked irritably, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You refused to even talk to Mulciber - that I can understand. Tony’s no prize either. But what's wrong with Rosier? I won't even mention Malfoy, who can easily drown Y/N in gold, and his name is quite respectable”.

Tom stirred his tea absently, as if he hadn't been listening.

“Rosier botched his mission twice, we’ve spoken, and I’ll sideline until he learns to behave”, he finally said. “As for Malfoy... Drowning someone in gold doesn’t require much gold”.

“Tom, that was figurative”.

“I know. And forget the name”, he added coldly. “Y/N has Slytherin’s blood in her veins. She is no less in status than Princess Elizabeth, and you want me to marry her off to some rich upstart from overseas?”.

"There you go again..." Lestrange said wearily. "Fine. No worthy groom for your precious cousin in magical Britain. Tom, no offence, but what now? I understand your fears. She’s your blood, you want the best for her...”

"No, you don't understand.

***

Y/N was everything. Home, family, comfort. A friend, a light in the window, a breath of air. She was what he lacked and what he couldn't live without.

If he knew who’d kept Y/N from him for sixteen years, he would kill them without any wand, bare-handed. But there were too many guilty ones. And instead, Tom strangled those who dared to look askance at his little sister or think badly of her (not figuratively, he was a skilled Legilimens already). Fortunately, few were foolish enough.

Another taboo was talking to Y/N about the organization. When Nott hinted at something in her presence, he writhed under Crucio within an hour. She knew nothing. She didn’t even know that Tom had sent her father to Azkaban.

Sometimes he wondered if he’d split his soul to find its match. If so, he regretted nothing.

***

Of course, Tom didn’t explain all of this to Lestrange.

“… Then why lead them on?” Ray asked wearily. “Marry your precious princess yourself and be done with it. There is no law against it, neither Muggle nor magical”.

“As if I’d ask Muggles for permission”, Tom chuckled. “Ray, has it ever occurred to you that there are soul bonds beyond romance?”

“You mean you share one with her?”

Tom didn't answer. The door creaked upstairs, and Y/N's sleepy face appeared on the balcony.

“Oh, Mr. Lestrange!..” she exclaimed. “Tom, why didn't you warn me that we had guests?”

Tom looked at her as one might look at the sun, gold, a masterpiece, a beloved child, a mother. Like no one else. Lestrange felt a chill.

“It's alright, darling. Come down”, Tom said softly. “The tea is fresh”.

#harry potter #tom riddle x y/n #harry potter x reader #tom riddle x reader #voldemort x reader #voldemort x y/n

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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 years ago

Text

When Simon struggles, he finds Price for relief.

CW: D/s dynamics without it being explicitly outlined, blowjob, a bit of yearning Price.

Price looked up at the sharp rap on his office door and blinked out of the trance-like concentration that had kept him focused for four hours solid, without even a coffee break. The nearby clock said 0200 in flickering red numbers, which meant it could only be one person. No one else sought him out at such an ungodly bloody hour without an imminent mission.

"Come in, Simon."

The handle twisted instantly, like Simon's hand had been resting on it in readiness, and the looming figure of Ghost crossed the threshold. But it wasn't Ghost who needed attention now; Ghost was asleep, waiting for the moment he was needed once more, which had left Simon Riley to surface. The mask did little to hide the difference; Ghost moved like a force of nature, unrepentant and ruthless, but Simon... he moved like a man uncertain whether he was even real.

Price threw his biro down and leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the side. He knew that waiting for Simon to speak was futile; he never would, not in these fragile early hours when he was exposed like a raw nerve. So it fell to Price to take on the burden of deciding, just like in the field.

Price turned his chair to face to the side and Simon drifted over to stand before him, his fingers twitching at his sides in regular little ticks. The tension hummed off of him like radiation, a tight heat on a hair trigger. Price tilted his chair back, fingers twined together over his belly as he looked up at his officer.

Other than his mask, Simon had presented himself practically naked. Well, by Ghost's standards. Cotton shirt, trousers held up by an empty belt, not even a utility knife at the side, his boots were unlaced where he had clearly rolled from his cot and shoved his feet into them in a hurry. Price couldn't see his eyes; the light in the office was too dim, the battered lamp only enough to illuminate the dossier he'd been working on. The shadows hid Simon from him.

He spread his knees and dipped his chin towards the floor. "On your knees, lieutenant," Price said, and Simon obeyed. He dropped between Price's knees without hesitation, hitting the old rug with a dull thud. His shoulders remained squared, his arms rigidly at his sides, but now he was looking up at Price with doe-wide eyes, and Price felt the first stirrings in the pit of his stomach.

He made Simon wait as he evaluated those eyes, the only window he had into the man before him. They were still blacked out but the camo had partially smeared off in sleep; Price could see a few wisps of a blonde eyebrow and damn if Simon didn't have the fullest lashes Price had ever seen on a man.

"The airport," Price said, and saw a flicker in Simon's eyes that confirmed it. "I see."

Price leaned forward and saw the first judder in Simon's composure; a hitch in his chest, a twitch of his broad shoulders. There was no point in telling Simon it wasn't on him; Price carried the rank so he carried the responsibility. All Simon would be thinking of was the families he hadn't saved; the stand-ins for everything he'd lost. Ghost understood; collateral damage, the enemy taking their pound of flesh. That was just what happened in the field. Simon needed help forgetting and letting it go, because he would never be able to understand.

Now, Price wasn't a fool. He knew they were one and the same man, but trauma did something to a man's head. Fuck, it had done a number on his that he was sure some army psych would take great joy in unravelling when it eventually all caught up with him, but they managed in their own ways. Simon has pulled on a mask and called it Ghost, because his call sign was the one defence he had left.

So, to reach Simon, the mask had to come off. Just a little.

Price reached forward and Simon flinched from his hands despite the needy jut of his chin. "Stand easy," he said, the words falling out naturally as they would with any twitchy greenhorn about to take his first jump. Calm authority. And it worked on Simon like a dream; his chin pressed into Price's palm and his shoulders eased.

Price held him there, letting Simon rest in the literal and metaphorical safety of his commanding officer's hands. He felt the warm puffs of breath from Simon's nose on his wrist, and squeezed only enough to feel the strong lines of Simon's jaw. A handsome bloke, if memory served. One day, he'd get this damned mask all the way off and admire it once again, even with all of Simon's past etched and burned into it.

Price hooked his thumbs beneath it and curled it up until it folded just over the tip of Simon's nose. Those intense eyes were flickering, alert, and Price let them settle again until he turned to tracing Simon's lips. They were so unique; full, pale, gnarled across one corner by the scar twisting from his jaw to his cheek, disappearing beneath the band of his balaclava.

Simon was breathing a little heavier; excitement, anxiety, it didn't matter, the body reacted the same. Hairs on end, goosebumps on pale skin. Simon wouldn't pull away, wouldn't stop Price at any point. In these early hours, Price could make him do anything, which was precisely why he couldn't. Simon would shatter and Ghost would be there to harvest the pieces, absorbing them until Simon disappeared forever. Price would only go as far as they always did, because he couldn't risk losing Simon. Not this way.

"You're a good man for coming to me," Price said, the low timbre of his whisper sounding loud in the small office. "Always so good. So loyal."

Price tugged at Simon's lower lip and then stroked the pad of his thumb over Simon's teeth; Simon opened obediently under the lightest touch, and Price stroked his tongue, cupping that strong jaw as Simon surrendered to him, each breath coming easier. "Good, lieutenant. Come on, show me what you want..."

Simon's eyes flickered and rolled, his mouth closed only to suck Price in as far as his thumb would go, those full lips pressing down to his palm with the softest groan as the last of Simon's hesitant restraint tumbled away, like glacier ice cracking off a distant mountain.

"Ahh, there you are, Simon. Good boy." Price pressed a little on Simon's tongue and looked down between his knees. The front of Simon's trousers were bulging out, but his big hands remained firmly on his thick thighs; thighs that Price would give his damn pension to have wrapped around his waist, they would snap him in half and he'd be bloody grateful for it.

The heat under his own skin throbbed warmer and he spread his legs a little further, yielding space to his hardening prick. As if he could sense Price's building arousal, Simon sucked harder, his teeth grazing Price's skin. "Hmm, eager to please, I see." Price pressed down, urging Simon's mouth open, as he pulled at his belt and button. It took only a little fumbling for him to free his cock, the shaft sitting over the elastic of his boxers and dripping shamelessly. Price grunted, a little abashed at his own eagerness. "You do things to me, lad."

Simon's eyes flickered between Price's face and his prick, his tongue wriggling beneath the weight of Price's thumb. "Fuck," Price breathed, fingers tightening on Simon's jaw once more. He eased thumb free and then his foreskin back until his frenulum could tease over the soft, supple skin of Simon's lower lip. Simon held fast, his eyes not leaving Price's face, and Price let him see the pleasure, the admiration.

He teased himself on Simon's lips, rocking backwards and forwards, leaking into his lieutenant's mouth until Simon's tongue was saturated in scent and taste. Price couldn't deny the feral attraction of it; of having Lieutenant Simon Riley on his knees, Ghost tamed into quiet submission, all that power coiled away, and the man himself so desperate to submit.

Simon's tongue curled up to press at Price's slit and Price groaned as his glans yielded to the tip of it. "Impatient, as always," Price said, the words croaked through a miasma of listless pleasure. He leaned back and drew Simon with him, sliding that hot, eager mouth down his shaft. Price wasn't sure what was better; the wet, needy heat that swallowed him to the root, or the way that Simon's eyes rolled back into his bloody head.

Simon pushed his nose to Price's groin, his throat spasming reflexively. "Steady," Price managed, checking the swell of his own excitement as his balls pulled tight. Fuck, so soon? His own bloody thoughts had ridden him to the razor edge and Simon hadn't got his fill yet. Price let his head fall back and closed his eyes, but his hand stayed on Simon's chin, not guiding once Simon had slowed so much as holding. He pressed his thumb into Simon's cheek and felt his prick slide through Simon's mouth and it was almost enough to shove him over the brink.

"Bloody hell," Price hissed through clenched teeth as Simon drew off to lick through his slit again, seeking that concentration of taste and arousal. He licked the thick vein that snaked up from the base, finishing just shy of the tip and then slowed. Slowed right down. Price played with the fuzz of blonde hair at the back of Simon's neck, revealed as his mask hitched a little higher, and felt the cooler tip of Simon's nose at the cusp of his boxers, the puff of hot breath and another deep, guttural groan, and Price's stomach bunched tight.

It was sweet, sweet torture, but Simon was teasing him deliberately, baiting him out for something a little more, and Price gave gladly. He pushed his lieutenant back enough to stand, before hauling him around by the chin until the back of his head pressed to the edge of his desk, cushioned by the meat of Price's free hand.

Simon's mouth hung open for him and Price thrust in deep with a low growl. Price rolled his hips slowly, savouring each drag of Simon's lips and tongue down his shaft, but he couldn't temper his pace for long. He moved faster, stopping only just short of ramming Simon's head back into his hand. Simon's eyes were closed, his body completely slack, and the absolute submission was enough to rip Price's orgasm from him.

His hips stuttered as he emptied down Simon's throat and the lad took it all, consumed every last drop of it, and Price once again revelled in the power yielded to him. He may never have Simon over his desk in the way he wanted, but fuck was he going to enjoy every shred of him he could have like this.

Price dropped Simon's chin in favour of propping himself up and watched as Simon licked absently at his softening prick, the sparks of oversensitivity leaping up his bloody spine like burning shrapnel.

When he was certain his legs would hold him, Price pulled back, returning to wipe Simon's mouth clean of spit and cum. Simon hung in his hands, soft and light, and Price stared at his lips. The urge to kiss in these moments after was almost overpowering, a breath between Price and the taste of himself in his Simon's mouth. Ahh, and there was the bloody problem. His. Not now, not ever.

Price swallowed and sat back on his heels, discarding the scarf he'd used to clean Simon's face, and eased Simon's mask back into place. He rose on aching legs, the afterburn of his climax making him a little dizzy. "Bed. Now. Mess at 0600."

Simon uncurled to his full height - all six-foot-giant of him - and left without a word. Price slumped at his desk and stared at the ceiling. The dossier would have to wait. He felt like he'd just run Test Week at double time.

***

"Ahh, L.T., bit of a wee bounce in yer step t'day. Get lucky at the bar?"

"Focus on the mission, Soap."

"Ahh geddit, you don' kiss an' tell, pwoper English gent."

As Ghost walked to the back of the plane, Price was sure Simon glanced at him from beneath that balaclava, but it was Ghost that rumbled through the intercom. "Ready, sir."

"Ghost takes point, radio silence until we rendezvous at agreed coordinates, go."

Ghost slid his rifle behind his back and threw himself into free fall.

#call of duty #cod: mw #simon ghost riley #captain price #priceghost #ghostprice #john price

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taintedsoul-if · 4 months ago

Note

hi love,

just played the new demo and it was chef’s kiss <333

because I cannot get enough I just stalked ur tumblr and have a question on the revenge routes

if we choose the hardcore revenge route we are locked on Trysten/Trista as a ro, and can choose what we do with them, or can we romance other ro? because I understood that we can romance others only on the soft revenge or good life path

ps. Cannot wait for the union chapter so I am sending much love, inspiration and hugs to you <33

Hello there!

Anon, you will be my last ask for the day, lol.

My hard work actually paid off; thank you, Anon, for this small boost of confidence! You're welcome to visit this page of mine anytime you please, anon. And I'm glad you enjoyed that small update! The next one will be big, how big, I can't say as yet.

Well, with the updated plot points I have, I realized I was being small-minded. So, with that being said, since I'm going all out and pushing all the limits, you will not be locked out, but for godsakes, don't sleep with T. Build up your points for Shadow Manifestation and let your shadow do the fucking...

But if there's any sort of penetration or mouth play whatsoever, kiss all those ROs goodbye. Be a manipulative beast all the way. Utilize your system... your abilities aren't for show. Be creative.

And yes, you are free to choose what you do with them... but once things happen between T and MC they'll be like a thorn in your MC side. So if you're planning to romance anyone else, both persons will have to remain hidden, and you will have to have a suitable reason as to why T/N/C/A/??? Is always hanging around you.

So romance on all three paths is currently accessible. (Until I change my mind for the umpteenth time! 🤭)

_____

Thanks for the ask. ❤️

#ask #lovely anon #paths #romance

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stormbreaker101 · 8 months ago

Text

W101's Advanced Combat 103: Clears, Gambits, and School Synergy

Over the past few years, Wizard101 has been trying to add more variety to gameplay by introducing Advanced Combat, which focuses less on raw damage and more on hanging effects, the additional ‘things’ that can be present in battle.

In my last post on this series I introduced the theory of School Identity and the Roshambo wheel, using metaphor and the conceptual identities and themes of the schools to explain the relationships between them. This post will demonstrate how the Roshambo is used in combat, using many spell examples.

Clears

Clears allow you to remove hanging effects that benefit your opponent to get something that benefits yourself. Let's look at two examples of Ice school Clears.

This example Clear is from the Arc 2 prequest's tutorial. It can clear a Charm because Charms are representative of Storm, and Ice freezes Storm.

And this B Path Evil Snowman is able to clear Curses because Curses are representative of Death, and Ice survives Death.

Sometimes, you'll have spells that have their Clear condition after doing their damage, rather than before, such as in this example below. As a reminder, Storm can clear DoTs because DoTs are representative of Fire, and Storm douses Fire.

Gambits

Gambits are the opposite of Clears. They let you sacrifice something that benefits yourself for another thing that benefits yourself. This can be a stronger hanging effect, higher damage, or pips.

Wait, that last example seems odd. It's a Death spell, but instead of gambiting or casting a Curse (which is its representative hanging effect), it's gambiting Charms (which represents Storm) and recieving Wards (which represents Ice). What's going on here?

School Synergy

Schools are not only able to counter one another, but synergize with one another, using the hanging effects of other schools in their own spells. Specifically, schools can synergize with the other schools adjacent to them.

Death is in between Ice and Storm, and so it can synergize with those two schools. Death spells can gambit or produce curses, wards, or charms. Weaknesses, Shields, or Blades.

While the official concept of School Synergy and using it with the roshambo system is relatively new, there are some examples of older spells that display Synergy as well.

These are a pair of old Fire school spells, and they fully display all the synergies Fire has within Advanced Combat. Damage over Times (Fire itself) and Heal over Times (Life) in Link, and Jinxes (Myth) in Fuel.

In my eyes, Synergy isn't just a brand new system meant to make the schools more interconnected and able to interact with each other, but expanding upon older mechanics and lore to make it more thorough.

What About Balance?

As mentioned near the end of the last post, Balance sits within the School wheel, not countering and not countered by anything. Additionally, because Balance is in the center, it's adjacent to all the schools, and able to synergize with everything.

Thus, instead of Clearing or Gambiting anything, some B-Path Balance spells have a unique mechanic called Echo. If your opponent has a certain hanging effect active, your spell will give you the same kind of hanging effect without removing theirs.

Other Key Terms

There are some spells that don't include Gambits, Clears, or Echoes, but still lean into the roshambo and the concepts of Synergy, or just provide additional utility. As an example, often times DoTs HoTs and Bombs won't be officially gambited, but some spells will trigger a secondary effect of some kind if a DoT or Bomb is on your target, or if an HoT is on you. Most can be understood just by reading the symbols, but some use additional terms that I haven't yet covered and so I'll cover them here.

Detonate: Deal all of the damage in a single DoT or bomb

Activate: Deal all of the healing in a single HoT. A HoT detonate, essentially.

Swap: Trade one of your hanging effects with one of your opponent's hanging effects of the same time. (E.G., swap 1 of your charms with your target's charms) (Exercise for the reader: find the spell that has this effect.)

Push: Put one of your hanging effects onto your target.

#leah speaks :3 #wizard101 #w101 #wizblr #advice corner #and that about wraps up everything I wanted to cover in this tutorial series #if anyone has any questions or if there's another aspect of advanced combat youd like me to write about feel free to ask me

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devildom-moss · 2 years ago

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Roses for You (12)

This had all started when you noticed a link between a book on the language of flowers you had borrowed from Satan’s room and the current lessons from your Seductive Speechcraft and Magical Potions classes.

In Seductive Speechcraft, you had just reached a section on the effectiveness of spells using non-verbal communication: enchanting glances, dance, and offerings. Meanwhile, in Magical Potions, the professor had been discussing the significance of using specific quantities when concocting potions; they had spent fifteen minutes just providing examples – including adding petals from two different flowers when using them for a love spell.

You couldn’t resist discussing the use of flower language – utilizing the type, color, and quantity of the flowers – to specify the magical intent of an offering as a form of seductive speechcraft. Asmo and Solomon listened intently. The same idea popped into both of their minds, and before you knew it, everyone was looking into color and number meanings, searching for the perfect combination to convey their feelings for you and try to put you under their spell. The only rule for their little competition to charm you? Only roses are allowed.

Will you be charmed by their attempts?

Twelve Roses - Solomon

Word Count: +800

Be mine?

(Nightbringer specific era)

“You know you don’t have to walk me back to my room, right?” You informed Solomon as his shoulder brushed against yours. It wasn’t as if you didn’t want him there, but Solomon had already planned the entire date – took care of everything and catered to your every whim. He didn’t need to keep it up.

“But I want to,” Solomon grinned at you so beautifully that you felt the need to deflect.

“Hoping to get a reward for such a lovely date?” you teased.

“I’d never refuse a reward from you, but spending the day with you was all the incentive I needed.” Solomon’s smile softened into something more contemplative. “We live together now, and I still find myself wanting more of your time.”

“Aww, do you get lonely?” you teased again, hoping to lighten the mood and brighten his smile.

“Yes.” He was straightforward.

Your face warmed and you were partly relieved to see your bedroom door. His honesty flustered you to a point of wishing to hide from his affectionate gaze. How were you expected to respond? It wasn’t as if you planned your days around avoiding him. The brothers (and to a lesser extent, Diavolo and the angels) just required so much of your effort and time. You enjoyed being with them, sure, but you had to work towards securing your pacts in this timeline – for both your sakes. Solomon understood that. So, at times, he found himself sustained on scraps of your attention, indulging whenever the opportunity arose. This was a bitter sacrifice, but the sweetness in knowing you returned home and laid your head to rest so near his own offset some of that sickening loneliness.

When you touched the doorknob, something felt off – some benign trace of magic. Did you leave a cursed book or magical item in there before you left and simply forgot about it? Maybe Thirteen was testing a trap out on you. If that was the case, you didn’t have much to worry about. Whatever it was, it wasn’t strong or evil, so you opened the door. There was something amiss – or rather, there was something unexpected waiting for you. On your bedside table was a vase of black and red roses that weren’t there when you left for your date with Solomon. You pursed your lips and took a closer look.

Please let this be a magical delivery, you hoped. The thought of someone entering your room while you were out was unsettling – no matter how pretty the flowers were. Upon closer inspection, the bouquet contained six red and six black roses for a total of twelve: a message saying, “be mine,” which only made the sudden appearance of them in your room creepier. Furthermore, black and red was a confusing combination. Red was the color of love and passion, but black was typically associated with death or mourning. Did you have a creepy yandere on your hands or something?

There was a small card tucked into the flowers with a hand-drawn heart scribbled in with a black pen on one side. You reached for it and checked the back for a message. For my adorable apprentice, you read, sighing in relief before you continued, did you really think I wouldn’t throw my hat in the ring, too? It was partially my idea, after all, and I want your affection as much as anyone else.

You shook your head with the tips of your fingers pressed to your temple. The gesture of annoyance was contradicted by your smile and a laugh. “How did you even get this in here? I locked the door when I left.”

“A magician never reveals his secret, my dear.” Solomon beamed.

“You’re a sorcerer.”

“I could be both,” he joked.

“Well, you do pull out magic as a party trick a lot.”

“You love my magical party tricks,” Solomon laughed and let himself into your room. Coming up behind you, he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. He lifted one of the red roses slightly, holding the stem between two fingers. “So, what does my adorable apprentice think?”

“I’m not sure what you mean to say with the black roses. Were you just trying to be mysterious? Or am I dying, and this is how I find out?” you half-joked, earning a gentle sigh from Solomon.

“You know how the death tarot card signifies changes and new beginnings? Black roses are the same.” You felt Solomon nuzzle into your neck before he continued. “Being back in time like this – it’s a new beginning for us, in a way. I got to start in this time, already loving you – and with you already loving me, I hope.”

“I love you,” you interrupted his uncharacteristic self-doubt. Maybe he shouldn’t have had a second glass of wine with dinner.

“Good.” Solomon left a kiss on your neck. “I want you to be mine. I want you to trust and love and rely on me. I want you to choose me when it really counts. . . Did you notice that there are six of both colors? That’s because I’m yours.”

“Solomon.” You squirmed away from his grasp just enough to turn in his arms and hold his face in your hands. “Do you want to stay the night? Maybe we can do something about that loneliness of yours.”

#solomon #gn!mc #obey me series #obey me #oh no only three more characters left #obey me solomon #solomon x mc #solomon x reader

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