#wild and unchecked into the world

[guiltreservoir]

in spite of the way that it is ✧ read on ao3

⫘⫘⫘

when buck first brings it up, it's to everyone in the 118, or at least anyone who's willing to lend an ear. he saunters into the kitchen with a smile bright enough to account for the unseasonably grey weather outside, megawatt-beam elation radiating off of his body and bouncing into every corner of the station. the minute he starts blabbing about how tommy came to his place late last night, at least two ears are swiftly discounted — chim walks away with his hands firmly clapped over the sides of his head, saying, "la la la, don't want to hear it," much like a petulant kindergartener.

bobby finds himself suddenly very busy with noisily reorganizing the utensil drawer, but doesn't quite leave the area; hen immediately raises her brows and takes a pointed sip of her orange juice, knowing buck will continue unprompted. ravi, just coming up the stairs himself, has no idea what he's walking into, the poor guy.

and eddie — eddie knows better than to involve himself in this. he could easily extract himself now, fake a phone call with christopher's school, pretend like there's something imperative that he left in the locker room. instead, he remains parked at the table, piping mug of black coffee insisting that he needs mo' joe as it sits untouched in front of him. his own uncertain reflection stares back at him from the coffee's dark surface.

"i think i finally found someone who can match me," buck's declaring, cheeky grin still lighting up his face like a marquee sign. eddie can practically see the colorful bulbs flashing above his head, a giant neon arrow and the brazen announcement: this lucky guy got his brains fucked out last night!!

"bless that man," hen snorts, shaking her head a bit. ravi's brows knit together in confusion, and when he asks for details on what buck's referring to in the first place, hen's head shaking deepens. "ignorance is bliss, ravi, you probably don't want to know."

"buck got laid last night," falls out of eddie's mouth without him meaning to let it, and fuck, he hopes it sounded more casual than it felt, bubbling up his esophagus like bitter-hot bile.

ravi's, "...and?" is reassuring. eddie feigns a laugh, relieved his cover isn't blown. he glimpses at buck, whose gigantic smile hasn't faltered for even a millisecond, and ignores the mass of earthworms writhing beneath the tin lid of his breastbone.

"and it was seriously awesome!" buck pumps his fist into the air, triumphant and ridiculous, sunbeam personified, and god. buck may be the one getting railed into his mattress by his new boyfriend, but eddie is the one who's truly fucked.

⫘⫘⫘

when buck has eddie over for drinks at his place the next night and asks him if he wants to hear more about it, he convinces himself it's a fine idea. how much can really go wrong, anyway? it's just the man who cradles eddie's whole cowardly lion heart in his unknowing palms, telling him about the way that eddie's good, kind, unbearably hot friend fucked him so tenderly he cried.

it's fine. everything is fine.

buck's never been one to spare details, especially not when eddie allows him all of the space and time in the world to lay out how he got laid. the nearly-gone beer in his hand (on his lips, on his tongue, on the collar of his shirt where an errant drop landed) is fuel for his fire, rattling the confines of his inhibitions just enough to knock a few loose, get him spilling details like the belgian white down his throat.

"he was really good, eddie." the glint in buck's eye is evidence enough, but eddie wants more; he's curious, to a detrimental degree, a tabby cat scaling a tree to catch a sparrow whose wings will carry it to safety, leaving him hungry and without the knowledge of how to climb back down to level ground.

"yeah?" he presses, like he needs to.

"yeah," buck continues. the next pull he takes from his bottle is long, slow, draining it empty. eddie's eyes track the movement, the pink curl of his mouth over the bottle's rim, the wet flick of his tongue across the cusp, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows the dredges. "it was like he could just... tell what i needed."

eddie's stomach drops. he blames the beer. his mind offers, silently, i would know what you needed, too.

he blames the beer.

"he made sure to take it slow, to start. he's— he's not a small guy, you know."

flashes of tommy's sweat-slick skin offer themselves up readily in the eye of eddie's mind. all thanks to their sparring during muay thai, he knows how it feels to be pinned beneath that man, to feel the heft of his strong arms and legs and chest against his own, to feel so utterly surrounded. he can only imagine what it's like to have tommy inside, too. he says, rougher than he means to, "i know."

buck clears his throat, ducks his head. when he meets eddie's eyes again, his cheeks are flushed. "i... i don't have to tell you about this, man. maybe it's too much. i mean, he's your close friend."

"you're my close friend," eddie says thoughtlessly.

the expression that settles on buck's features is complicated, to say the least.

"buck, i told you it's okay. you can tell me whatever you're comfortable with me knowing." eddie's can of worms burst opened wriggles and squirms, a slimy tangle mucking up his chest cavity. he catches and clings onto buck's gaze and adds, unequivocal, "i'll tell you if i want you to stop."

if buck's face wasn't already rosy, it would be now. his mouth falls open before his response catches up to him, and the spit-glint of his bottom teeth against his tongue makes eddie grit his own together, lest he say something he shouldn't.

"are you sure?" buck asks, back turning to eddie while he reaches into the fridge behind him for a third round. when he turns around again he's got two cold bottles in his hands, tilting one towards eddie, an offering that eddie accepts as automatic as breathing.

the fizzzzz-clink of buck popping the beercaps punctuates eddie's answering, "yes."

"alright." another generous swig of buck's drink bolsters his nerve. "i didn't think he was gonna fit at first, eddie. i swear to you, it doesn't seem like it should work. it's not like i haven't had anything up my ass before, i mean, tommy's even been warming me up for the real thing. but."

warming him up, jesus. buck's nonchalance is staggering, even when frankly, this isn't even the first time eddie's been confronted with such imagery. he wishes he could forget buck telling him about the times taylor had used her strap with him. not because it wasn't an appealing thought — eddie might have complex emotions around taylor, but the idea of buck getting dicked down by anyone at all has always been one that twists his guts into feverish knots. hence the desire for selective amnesia.

he fails not to wonder exactly what the thick line of tommy's dick would look like snuggled between the cleft of buck's asscheeks and swirls his beer in its bottle before knocking back a good-sized gulp, saying, "i'm guessing you made it work eventually."

because how the fuck else is he supposed to react while he's busy painting a vivid mural of his two 'close friends' fucking on the ceiling of his overenthusiastic imagination? he might as well be michelangelo with the way he's filling in the blanks with such inspiration.

the sputtering laugh that comes from buck has no right being as charming as it is. "he did indeed get his dick inside of me, yeah, great job putting those pieces together."

"thanks, it was difficult."

"i bet," buck responds. his gaze separates from eddie's and drifts down the length of his torso, catching on the steady rise and fall of the breaths expanding his chest before continuing down his past his bellybutton. he focuses just below eddie's belt before skimming back up to peer into his eyes again. "he took his time getting me ready with his fingers, and even still i felt like he was gonna split me in half. he got maybe halfway inside and i was already seeing stars. thankfully he kinda paused and gave me a second to adjust."

"come on, man." eddie's heartbeat threshes his ribcage and echoes all the way up to his eardrums, frantic and heady, bass drum kicking a chaotic rhythm. he can't help but imagine tommy's big, surprisingly gentle hands working buck open before slicking himself up with lube to nudge inside. he wonders if it made buck gasp, if he cursed and clenched at the blunt shock and slow push and steady tilt of tommy's hips. he wonders if tommy's got claw marks on him somewhere from buck scrabbling for purchase while curling his toes and communicating without words that he needed a minute.

"too much?" the way buck's half-mast eyes glitter reminds eddie of a tiger slinking low through moonlight silver-soaked grasses. all at once he can sympathize with the position of a lone antelope lurking just beyond through the open plains, vulnerable and enticing.

he perks his ears forward, tilts his head down, looking into the eyes of the beast who's about to consume him, and says, "no."

the antelope places its fragile skull straight into the tiger's hanging maw.

⫘⫘⫘

when eddie makes it through the next couple of days without jerking off about it, he considers himself victorious. he's been doing a fine job of distracting himself, hanging out with his girlfriend, his kid. he's been reading before he falls asleep to keep his mind from wandering too far. he's been working out more, burning off the extra energy that's been vibrating through his entire nervous system since buck drenched his subconscious — and his conscious mind, who is he kidding — with the most luscious, arousing descriptions of sex he's ever heard.

he's doing fine, until he's leaving the station with buck after a long shift and tommy's there to pick him up. he's standing outside of his buck's jeep, conveniently parked next to eddie's truck, eyes crinkly with delight at the sight of them. his voice carries through the atmosphere and shudders straight down into eddie's molten core, a simple and swift, "evan! eddie."

"hi, tommy," eddie says at the same time that buck says, "hey, babe!"

evan.

babe.

eddie is going to dissolve into a cloud of nebulous vapor.

he autopilots his way through the rest of their short conversation, ears buzzing with static, cottonmouth setting in. he doesn't pay attention to the small talk, mind too busy reeling with potential. the moment he'd caught sight of buck's jeep, he was a goner.

where is tommy's car? did he stay the night at buck's, hang out at his place for the day just waiting to come play chauffeur and take him back home to pound him into the mattress while kissing him deep and lazy, like his lips are laden with ambrosia?

"catch you later, eddie," he hears tommy say over the ringing in his ears. buck knocks shoulders with him and nods agreeably, lashes fluttering and lips stretching into a pretty smile.

the best eddie can manage in response is a pathetic wave and a half-hearted, "bye, guys."

his drive home is thirty-six minutes too long. he relinquishes his willpower and allows the fog of his daydreams to creep in.

"tommy called me a good boy when he finally bottomed out," buck had told him around a drawn-out exhale, hops heavy on his breath, steaming the air between their faces. somewhere between the third and fourth beer the space between them had collapsed, eddie backed against the kitchen counter and buck looming over him, cool and collected and beautiful and dangerous, striped wildcat on the hunt.

"he told me how incredible it felt inside me, how i was all warm and tight. and god, eddie, you don't understand how crazy it felt. it was so much, but in the best way. it was warm and tight for me, too."

that's when eddie had spooked and bolted, yanking free from within the loose gape of buck's tiger fangs and nicking himself on jagged ivory edges. worms clustered and crawled up from his chest and into his throat as he stumbled away, wounded and wet. he'd choked out, "i can't," and buck had backed off without hesitation, no longer a fierce big cat but a helpless cub, saying, sorry and low, "i know, i know, i should've stopped sooner."

⫘⫘⫘

when eddie finally gets his hand around his dick, it's nearly enough to make him cry. the bittersweet reprieve of it, the way he's been craving his own attention while being even better at withholding it from himself — there's practically nothing he's more practiced at, but just because it comes fairly naturally to him at this point doesn't mean it is painless.

he sinks into a different brand of masochism found in the inviting expanse of his mattress, world narrowed down to the sensation of his slippery grip around his blood-rushed cock, to the white-hot fantasies splaying themselves out in the darkest meadows of his mind, absolutely resplendent. he tries to make his hand feel warm, tight, incredible, like buck's soft aching insides; he speculates whether or not tommy would talk to him like that, if they were to hook up. would he qualify as good, in tommy's eyes?

with barely a second thought, he brings his free hand down to play between his asscheeks, knuckle ghosting across the delicate skin of his hole. tommy's fingers are bigger than his, tommy's bigger all around. a moan wrenches itself free as he swipes up some lube from where it's dripping down his balls and presses a fingertip inside.

eddie's pace picks up along with his breathing, chest heaving like he's been running for hours, days, years. maybe he has been. maybe he still is.

"fuck," he grits out, rolling his hips up into his hand. his mind is playing through scenes of buck opening up for tommy, tommy so careful and confident, scenes of buck wrapping his limbs around him to draw him as close and deep as he can get, buck so open and wanting. buck, such a fucking good boy.

eddie's orgasm shreds through him gut to throat like the sharp starving blade of a hunter, come spattering across his stomach, stickying his fist.

there are real tears streaking down his cheeks, now, damp and unrelenting, a mix of relief and guilt and something else he can't figure out a name for.

he jams the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and thinks, i know, i know, i should've stopped sooner.

[princesseilish]

REAL PRIZE

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: crying, little angsty, fluff

synopsis: Billie comes home after the grammys empty handed, feeling as if she let her daughter down

The door creaked open quietly, far quieter than usual, as Billie stepped inside their home, the familiar warmth doing little to thaw the disappointment clinging to her like a second skin. She let the heavy Grammy night cloak fall from her shoulders, her hands empty—seven nominations, zero wins. The weight of it sat in her chest, heavier than any trophy could’ve been.

She didn’t expect to feel this crushed. She’d been here before—losses, wins, the whole rollercoaster. But tonight? Tonight stung in a way she couldn’t shake.

“Mama’s home,” Y/N’s soft voice called from the living room, gentle like she knew Billie’s heart was bruised.

Rosie’s little feet pattered against the hardwood before Billie could even take a step further. “Mama!” Rosie squealed, her curly hair bouncing as she sprinted toward her.

Billie’s heart clenched. She crouched down just in time to scoop Rosie into her arms, burying her face in her daughter’s neck. The sweet smell of strawberry shampoo filled her senses, grounding her in a way the loud, glittering Grammy stage never could.

“Hey, my baby,” Billie whispered, her voice cracking despite herself.

“I made you something!” Rosie announced proudly, wriggling out of Billie’s arms and tugging her hand toward the living room.

Billie followed, her legs heavier than usual, as if each step home was a reminder of the night’s empty-handed return. But when she entered the living room, the sight waiting for her made her breath hitch.

There, on the coffee table, was a crayon drawing—stick figures with wild green and blue scribbles for hair, a lopsided gold star above the smallest figure’s head. “That’s you, Mama,” Rosie explained, pointing to the stick figure with the star. “You’re the winner.”

Billie felt something hot prick at the corners of her eyes. She sank onto the couch, pulling Rosie into her lap, staring at the simple, beautiful chaos of the drawing.

“You didn’t win any trophies,” Rosie said matter-of-factly, like her tiny five-year-old brain was just stating facts. “But that’s okay. You win at being my mama.”

That was it.

Billie buried her face in Rosie’s curls again, the tears spilling freely now, hot and unchecked. She felt Y/N’s presence before she even saw her, the familiar weight of her wife settling beside them, arms wrapping around both of them in a protective cocoon.

“Hey,” Y/N whispered, pressing a kiss to Billie’s temple. “It’s okay, baby.”

Billie shook her head against Rosie’s hair, her voice muffled. “It’s not even about the stupid trophies. I just… I worked so hard, you know? And it feels like… like none of it mattered.”

Y/N tightened her hold, one hand threading through Billie’s hair, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. “It mattered to us,” Y/N murmured. “It always mattered to us.”

Rosie pulled back, her tiny hands cupping Billie’s tear-streaked face. “Don’t cry, Mama,” she said earnestly, her brows furrowed in concern. “You’re still the best singer in the whole world.”

Billie let out a watery laugh, the kind that shook her shoulders but eased some of the heaviness in her chest. “Thanks, baby,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to Rosie’s forehead.

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Billie’s ear. “You’re the best everything in our world,” she whispered. “Grammy or no Grammy.”

Billie let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she soaked in their warmth, their love. This—they—were the real prize. No award could ever compare to the feeling of Rosie’s tiny hands in hers, or Y/N’s arms around her, anchoring her when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

“I love you,” Billie whispered, her voice barely audible but full of everything she couldn’t say on that big, glittering stage.

“We love you more,” Y/N and Rosie said in unison, and for the first time that night, Billie believed it.

[mocharyc]

𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Invincible variants x reader ♡

☆ WC: 8k+ [Build off] ☆ TW: fluff (kissing with Mohawk!!)

☆ Authors note: Hello!! This is the spin-off from my main series on Invincible Variants x reader. However, this can be read separately as well :)  The first two chapters are fluff(kissing), then it’ll get spicy with Mohawk and Omni Mark, and maybe a few other variants to your guy's suggestions⸜(˃ᵕ˂)⸝♡

This is mainly cutesy stuff and slow plot build :3

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The alien sun cast long, golden fingers of light across the valley as Y/N stood surrounded by the variants, each a different version of the same man, yet wholly unique in their own right. The fortress in the distance glimmered like a mirage, its spires and walls catching the last rays of sunlight in a display that seemed almost deliberately welcoming.

"Should we explore our new home before nightfall?" Y/N suggested, her voice carrying easily in the pristine air of this untouched world.

Lensless Mark bounced forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Race you there!" he challenged, eyes bright with mischief. Before anyone could respond, he was off, a blur of motion streaking across the lush field, leaving a trail of flattened grass in his wake.

"Some things never change," Phantom Mark observed, the voice modulator in his mask unable to entirely mask the fondness in his tone. He turned to Y/N, head tilted slightly. "Shall we?"

"Not so fast," Omni Mark interrupted, his gaze fixed on the semi-conscious Angstrom still sprawled on the ground. "We need to decide what to do with him first."

Sinister sauntered over to Angstrom, crouching beside his prone form. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb the golden sunlight, transforming the bright colors into something molten and dangerous. "I have several creative suggestions," he offered, running a finger along Angstrom's mangled jawline with deceptive gentleness.

"No more death," Y/N reminded him, stepping forward to place a restraining hand on Sinister's shoulder. "Not here. Not in our new beginning."

Sinister looked up at her, conflict evident in his eyes—the killer he had been battling with something softer, something that responded to her touch like a plant turning toward sunlight. After a moment, he rose to his feet with fluid grace, capturing her hand before it could fall away from his shoulder.

"As you wish, dove," he murmured, bringing her fingertips to his lips. The kiss was gentle, contradicting everything his reputation suggested. His eyes never left hers as his lips pressed against her skin, warm and surprisingly soft despite the constant smirk that usually occupied them. Before finally releasing her hand with a reductant sigh.

Viltrumite Mark stepped forward, his white suit pristine against the wild backdrop of their new world. His features had softened since the conflict just hours before, "The fortress may have suitable containment facilities," he suggested, voice deep and measured. "I've seen similar designs across many worlds.

"We should contain him," No-Mask Mark suggested, his unprotected face openly displaying his concern. "His powers are too dangerous to leave unchecked."

"The fortress might have something suitable," Omni Mark agreed, stooping to lift Angstrom with ease. "For now, I'll carry him."

They set off across the field, the tall grass brushing against their legs like a caress. The vegetation wasn't quite like Earth's—each blade seemed to shift between emerald and azure depending on how the light hit it, creating rippling waves of color as they moved through the field. Small creatures, resembling something between butterflies and hummingbirds, darted away from their approach, trailing iridescent particles that evaporated into the air like tiny fireworks.

Mohawk fell into step beside Y/N, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed. Each casual contact sent a subtle current through her skin, awareness blooming in unexpected ways. He seemed different here—less coiled with rage, as if the very air of this new world was already beginning to work subtle changes in him.

"You doing okay?" His mohawk caught the breeze, strands dancing slightly as he turned to study her face with unexpected intensity, the brown of his eyes softened with an emotion that made her breath catch.

Y/N nodded, surprised by the genuine peace beginning to settle over her. "Better than okay," she admitted. "I feel... free. Like I can finally breathe."

Mohawk's fingers found hers, tentatively at first, then more confidently when she didn't pull away. His hand engulfed hers, calloused palm warm against her skin, his touch a grounding presence in this strange new reality. "I never thought I'd feel that again," he confessed quietly, the usual harsh edge in his voice softened to something almost vulnerable. "After I lost her—after I lost control—I thought rage was all I had left."

Y/N squeezed his hand gently, letting her thumb trace small circles against his skin. The simple gesture seemed to affect him deeply; she watched as his throat worked with emotion. "And now?"

A smile touched his lips—not his usual feral grin but something genuine that transformed his entire face, erasing years of hardness in an instant, creating dimples she'd never noticed before. "Now I'm thinking maybe there's more to life than breaking shit," he replied, the crude language somehow endearing in its sincerity.

When they reached the base of the hill leading to the fortress, Lensless Mark was already waiting, sprawled dramatically on the ground with arms and legs spread wide as if making an angel in the strange blue-green grass.

"Took you slow-pokes long enough!" he called, jumping to his feet with boundless energy. His enthusiasm was infectious, bringing reluctant smiles even to the most serious faces among them.

The fortress itself was even more impressive up close—neither fully ancient nor modern, its architecture seeming to blend elements from across time and space into something uniquely harmonious. Massive stone blocks formed the foundation, transitioning seamlessly into graceful spires and arches that defied Earth physics. The entire structure gleamed with an inner light, as if the stone itself was somehow luminescent.

"It's beautiful," Y/N breathed as they approached the imposing entrance. Massive doors of some unknown material—not quite metal, not quite wood—stood closed before them, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and change if watched too closely.

"How do we get in?" No-Mask Mark wondered, approaching the doors cautiously.

Before anyone could suggest a solution, the doors began to open inward, sliding silently despite their obvious weight. Light spilled out from within, warm and welcoming.

"It's responding to us," Phantom Mark observed, his masked face tilted in curiosity. "As if it was expecting us."

"Or built for us," Omni Mark added thoughtfully, adjusting his grip on the still-unconscious Angstrom.

They stepped through the massive doorway into a vast entrance hall. The ceiling soared overhead, supported by columns that resembled tree trunks, complete with intricate branch-like protrusions that intertwined to form natural arches. The floor beneath their feet was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the soft amber light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves rather than any visible fixtures.

"This place is fucking amazing," Mohawk breathed, his usual profanity softened by genuine wonder. His wide eyes reflected the amber light, making them appear almost golden as he took in the majesty around them. His grip on Y/N's hand tightened slightly, as if needing to ground himself in the face of such beauty.

Viltrumite Mark ran his palm along one of the columns, his face softening with appreciation. "I've visited a thousand worlds," he murmured, "and never seen craftsmanship like this. Even the Imperial Palace on Viltrum pales in comparison to this architectural harmony."

Lensless Mark was already racing ahead, darting between columns with delight. His laughter echoed through the vast space, untainted by the darkness that had consumed them all for so long. "There are rooms everywhere!" he called back. "Bedrooms, kitchens, libraries—this place has everything!"

"Libraries?" No-Mask perked up, his academic interests immediately piqued.

"Kitchens?" Sinister echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Do we even need to eat here?"

"We should explore systematically," Omni Mark suggested. Despite his logical approach, there was an undercurrent of wonder in his tone, a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there during the war. "First, we need to secure Angstrom, then establish our basic needs."

Y/N stepped further into the hall, drawn by an inexplicable feeling of familiarity. "It's like it knows us," she murmured, running her fingers along one of the columns. The surface was warm beneath her touch, almost responsive, like skin rather than stone. "Like it was designed specifically for us."

"Maybe it was," Phantom Mark suggested, his voice distorted yet thoughtful through his mask. "The multiverse works in ways none of us fully understand."

They found a secure room deep within the fortress—one with walls of the same strange material as the entrance doors and no windows to offer escape. They placed Angstrom inside, still unconscious but breathing steadily, and sealed the door behind them.

"He'll be contained here until we decide what to do with him," Omni Mark stated with quiet authority.

As evening settled over their new world, they gathered in what appeared to be a central living space—a circular room with comfortable seating arranged around a central firepit where blue flames danced without consuming any visible fuel. The twin moons were visible through a domed skylight overhead, casting silvery light that mingled with the blue fire's glow.

Y/N sank onto one of the cushioned seats, suddenly aware of the bone-deep exhaustion that had been held at bay by adrenaline and necessity. The events of the past days—the war, the decisions, the dimensional travel—crashed over her in a wave of delayed reaction.

Omni Mark noticed immediately, settling beside her with quiet concern. His movements were careful, controlled, as if afraid she might shatter if handled too roughly. "You should rest," he murmured, his voice gentle. "It's been... a lot."

She nodded, too tired to argue, yet reluctant to leave this moment—their first peaceful gathering in their new home. "I will. Soon."

Mohawk dropped onto the floor in front of her seat, leaning back against her legs with casual possession that somehow didn't feel presumptuous. The weight of him against her was solid, grounding, his mohawk tickling her knees through the material of her flight suit. He tilted his head back to look up at her, the blue fire casting shadows across the planes of his face, softening his usually harsh features.

One by one, the others settled around the fire—Phantom claiming a high-backed chair that accommodated his rigid posture, No-Mask sprawling on a chaise longue with uncharacteristic relaxation, Lensless perching on the edge of a seat before jumping up again to explore the room's perimeter. Viltrumite Mark chose a seat with a commanding view of the entire room, his posture still regal despite the informal setting. Sinister remained standing for a time, silhouetted against the firelight like a predator assessing new territory, before finally claiming a seat directly across from Y/N, his eyes never leaving her face.

"So," No-Mask broke the comfortable silence, openly displaying his curiosity. "What do we call this place?"

 "Home," Mohawk answered immediately, tilting his head back to catch Y/N's gaze, seeking confirmation. The blue fire reflected in his eyes, transforming them into something ethereal. There was a raw vulnerability in the way he spoke the word, as if he'd never truly understood its meaning until now.

Y/N smiled, her hand dropping almost unconsciously to his shoulder. Her fingers traced small patterns there, feeling the tension in his muscles gradually release under her touch. "Home," she agreed softly.

"Azure Horizons," Viltrumite Mark suggested, his deep voice carrying easily across the circle. When the others looked at him questioningly, a faint smile touched his lips, softening the imperial bearing that had become second nature to him. "For the blue-green fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. For new beginnings that hold infinite possibilities."

The conversation flowed from there—tentative at first, then with increasing ease as they began to explore not just their surroundings but each other. For the first time, they weren't enemies or reluctant allies bound by circumstance, but potential friends—even family—by choice.

Lensless broke into periodic fits of laughter as he recounted his race up the hill, mimicking the surprise of the strange creatures he'd disturbed along the way. His animated gestures and expressive face had even Phantom's shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

"And then this thing—" Lensless mimed something with multiple legs and a fan-like tail, "—it just made this noise like 'PFFFFFT' and shot straight up about twenty feet!" He demonstrated by leaping from his seat, nearly hitting his head on a low-hanging light fixture.

"Careful, you idiot," Mohawk growled, though there was no real heat in the words. A reluctant grin tugged at his lips as he watched Lensless hop around the room, still mimicking the startled creature.

Y/N found herself drifting, the gentle cadence of their voices washing over her like a lullaby, the warmth of the fire and the solid presence of Mohawk against her legs lulling her toward sleep. She fought it for a time, not wanting to miss these precious moments of normalcy, but eventually her eyes grew too heavy to keep open.

She wasn't sure when she slipped from consciousness, only that she became vaguely aware of being lifted, strong arms cradling her against a warm chest. The scent of clean sweat and subtle cologne wrapped around her—Omni Mark, she realized without opening her eyes. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear as he carried her through the fortress corridors.

"I can walk," she mumbled, the words slurred with exhaustion.

"I know," he replied, his voice a gentle rumble she could feel through his chest. "But you don't have to."

He carried her into a room she hadn't seen before—spacious and elegant, dominated by a large bed with covers turned down invitingly. The walls here seemed to glow with a softer light than the main halls, creating an atmosphere of peaceful sanctuary.

Omni Mark set her down on the edge of the bed with extraordinary gentleness, crouching before her to remove her boots. Each movement was careful, respectful, his touch clinical yet somehow tender as he eased her feet free.

"You should probably change," he suggested, nodding toward what appeared to be a wardrobe across the room. "There seem to be clothes here. For all of us."

Y/N blinked, trying to process this information through the fog of fatigue. "How is that possible?"

Omni Mark shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. "I don't know. This place... it's like it was waiting for us. Everything we need seems to be here."

He rose to his feet, towering over her for a moment before stepping back to give her space. "Rest now," he said softly. "Tomorrow we can explore properly. Figure out what this place is, what it means."

As he turned to leave, Y/N reached out impulsively, catching his hand. "Stay?" she asked, the single word laden with vulnerability she would never have shown during the chaotic days of the war. "Just... until I fall asleep?"

Omni Mark's expression softened, the permanent crease between his brows easing slightly. Without a word, he settled onto the edge of the bed beside her, still holding her hand in his much larger one. His thumb traced gentle patterns across her knuckles, the simple contact conveying more comfort than words ever could.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent that had already become familiar, already begun to register as safety in her mind. "Thank you," she murmured.

"For what?" he asked, voice rumbling through her where their bodies connected.

"For suggesting this. For giving us all a chance at something new."

His free hand came up to stroke her hair, fingers threading through the strands with careful tenderness. "We all deserved it," he replied simply. "Especially you."

They sat in comfortable silence, his hand continuing its gentle ministrations until Y/N's breathing deepened and slowed. Just before sleep claimed her completely, she felt him shift, easing her down onto the pillows with extraordinary care. The covers settled over her with whisper-soft weight, and then the ghost of lips pressed against her forehead—so gentle she might have imagined it.

"Sleep well, Y/N," Omni Mark whispered, the words following her down into dreams. "Tomorrow begins our real story."

Morning arrived with golden light filtering through windows Y/N hadn't noticed the night before—tall, arched openings that revealed a view of the valley below their fortress hill. She stretched languidly, surprised by how deeply she had slept, how refreshed she felt after just one night in this strange new world.

The wardrobe Omni Mark had mentioned stood open now, revealing clothing in various styles and colors—all seemingly her size. She selected simple attire—soft pants and a flowing top in a shade that matched the blue-green grass outside—before making her way back toward the central living area.

The fortress was even more beautiful in daylight, sunlight streaming through cleverly placed skylights and windows to illuminate the intricate architecture. As Y/N wandered the corridors, she noticed details missed in the previous evening's exhaustion—living plants integrated into the design, small fountains creating musical water features at unexpected intervals, artwork depicting landscapes both familiar and alien adorning walls of polished stone.

She found Phantom Mark in what appeared to be a training room—a vast space with weapons mounted on walls and a floor padded for combat practice. He moved through a complex kata with fluid grace, his masked face turned toward the ceiling as if in meditation despite the physical exertion.

He paused when he noticed her watching, body freezing mid-motion before relaxing into a more neutral stance. "Good morning," he greeted, voice slightly mechanical through his mask's filter.

"Morning," she replied, stepping into the room. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Some," he admitted, moving toward her with his characteristic grace. Even in this peaceful setting, there was something predatory about his movements—not threatening, but unmistakably powerful. "The mask makes it... complicated."

Y/N studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders despite his relaxed tone. "You know," she said carefully, "in this new world, you could take it off. If you wanted to."

His hand came up reflexively to touch the edge of his mask, fingers tracing the seam where it met his suit. "Perhaps," he acknowledged, voice softer now. "Someday. When I'm ready."

Without thinking, Y/N reached up to place her hand over his where it rested on his mask. "No rush," she assured him. "We have time now. All the time we need."

Even through his mask and his gloves, she felt the slight tremor that ran through him at her touch. His other hand came up to cover hers, sandwiching her fingers between his in a gentle hold.

"Thank you," he said simply, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity.

They remained like that for a long moment—connected by touch, by understanding, by the unspoken bond forming between all of them in this strange new world. Then, with gentle precision, Phantom Mark raised her hand to the eye-level of his mask, examining her fingers with apparent fascination.

"So small," he murmured, almost to himself. "So fragile compared to us. Yet so strong in all the ways that truly matter."

Before Y/N could respond, he pressed the lower part of his mask to her knuckles—the closest approximation to a kiss the barrier would allow. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, sending a flutter of warmth through her chest. Despite the unyielding material between them, she could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask's ventilation, the careful pressure of his lips beneath the barrier.

"The others are gathering for breakfast," he said, releasing her hand with apparent reluctance. "Shall we join them?"

They found the rest of the group in a spacious kitchen that opened onto a terrace overlooking the valley. The scene that greeted them was so incongruously domestic that Y/N paused in the doorway, momentarily stunned by the sight.

Mohawk stood at a cooking surface, cursing cheerfully as he flipped something that resembled pancakes with more enthusiasm than skill. He'd abandoned his suit for loose pants and a fitted tank top that revealed the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders, dotted with scars that told stories of countless battles. His mohawk was slightly disheveled from sleep, giving him an oddly endearing appearance.

"Flip, you little bastard!" he growled at a particularly stubborn pancake, brandishing the spatula like a weapon. His brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth as he focused with the same intensity he once reserved for combat. When he finally managed to turn it, revealing a perfectly golden-brown surface, his face lit up,. "Ha! See that? Perfection!"

No-Mask was arranging what appeared to be local fruits in a bowl, his precision suggesting the academic's approach to even the most mundane tasks. He'd exchanged his suit for simple earth-toned clothing that softened his appearance, making him look more like the college professor he might have been in another life. His expressive face revealed every thought—concentration, satisfaction, occasional frustration when a particularly stubborn piece of fruit wouldn't stay where he wanted it.

Viltrumite Mark sat at the head of the table, posture perfect even in this casual setting, peeling what looked like a star-shaped fruit with precise movements. His white suit had been replaced by more casual attire—a simple tunic and pants in pale colors that still managed to convey authority. The centuries of imperial bearing couldn't be completely erased, but there was a relaxed set to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. His brown hair was loose around his head rather than slicked back in its usual severe style.

"The composition of these fruits is fascinating," Viltrumite observed, examining a slice with interest. "The molecular structure must be quite different from Earth's flora to achieve these color-shifting properties."

Lensless bounced between the various food preparation areas, stealing tastes of everything with delight, earning half-hearted swats from Mohawk and exasperated sighs from No-Mask. He'd traded his suit for loose, colorful t-shirt and shorts that perfectly matched his exuberant personality. His hair stuck up at odd angles, giving him a perpetually surprised look that somehow suited him perfectly. His energy seemed boundless even in this peaceful setting, body in constant motion as if stillness was physically impossible for him.

"That's the third piece you've stolen!" No-Mask protested as Lensless snagged another piece of color-shifting fruit. "If you keep eating them all before breakfast, there won't be any left for the rest of us."

"Can't help it," Lensless mumbled through a full mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a shimmering streak across his skin that caught the morning light. "They're just so good! Like candy but also kind of minty? But also sort of citrusy?" He gestured wildly with the half-eaten fruit. "It's like a flavor explosion!"

Sinister lounged against a counter, observing the others with amusement while sipping from a steaming mug. Unlike the others, he hadn't fully abandoned his signature colors, wearing a black shirt with subtle yellow accents that emphasized his lean, powerful build. His hair was artfully tousled in a way that suggested careful styling rather than sleep, and his usual predatory grace remained intact even in this domestic setting. His eyes tracked Y/N the moment she entered, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Only Omni Mark was missing, likely still dealing with their prisoner somewhere in the fortress depths. 

"Well, look who finally decided to join us," Mohawk called, spotting Y/N in the doorway. His usual gruffness was tempered by obvious pleasure at seeing her, his entire face transforming when their eyes met. The crease between his brows smoothed momentarily, and that rare genuine smile—the one that created unexpected dimples in his stubbled cheeks—bloomed across his face. "Hope you're hungry. I'm making my famous galaxy-famous pancakes."

"Is that what those are supposed to be?" Sinister drawled, eyebrow arched in mock surprise. He set his mug down with deliberate grace, pushing himself off the counter in one fluid motion that reminded Y/N of a jungle cat stretching. His eyes— like dark chocolate in the morning light rather than their usual predatory gleam—never left her face as he moved, cataloging her expressions with the same intensity he once reserved for tracking prey. "I thought you were developing a new form of building material."

"Fuck off," Mohawk retorted without heat, flipping another pancake. A lopsided grin belied his harsh words, the camaraderie between them something entirely new and unexpected. He brandished the spatula like a weapon, flecks of blue batter splattering across the counter. "At least I'm contributing, pretty boy. What are you doing besides taking up space and looking decorative?"

"Quality control," Sinister replied smoothly, sauntering over to Y/N with predatory grace. His movements were deliberately unhurried, each step calculated to draw attention to the fluid power of his body.

"Good morning, dove," he murmured, leaning in to place a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth. The subtle scent of him enveloped her—something spiced and dangerous that somehow belonged perfectly in this peaceful kitchen. His lips lingered at the corner of her mouth, warm and soft against her skin, leaving a ghost of sensation even after he pulled away.

Behind them, Mohawk's spatula clattered against the cooking surface with unnecessary force. "For fuck's sake, some of us are trying to cook here," he grumbled, though there was more resignation than genuine anger in his tone. His eyes, however, tracked Sinister's every movement with the wariness of a predator recognizing a rival.

"Sleep well?" Sinister asked, seemingly oblivious to the territorial display behind him.

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks at the public display, acutely aware of the others watching with varying degrees of interest. "Yes, thank you," she managed, stepping past him into the kitchen proper.

Viltrumite Mark cleared his throat softly, "Perhaps you might allow Y/N some space to breathe before laying claim as you already tried to do so, Sinister," he suggested, his tone courteous yet leaving no room for argument. His fingers, continued their methodical work with the star-shaped fruit, though his eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold remained fixed on Sinister with quiet warning.

Sinister stepped back with exaggerated deference, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Of course," he conceded.

Lensless immediately waltzs over, practically vibrating with excitement. His movements were so quick he nearly collided with the counter, stopping himself with a theatrical windmilling of arms that seemed designed to make Y/N smile, "Y/N! You have to try these!" he exclaimed, offering something that resembled a cross between a strawberry and a starfruit. His eyes were wide with delight, face animated in a way that was impossible to resist. "They taste like cinnamon and sunshine!"

His enthusiasm was so genuine, his joy so uncomplicated, that Y/N couldn't help but smile. She accepted the strange fruit, taking a tentative bite. Flavor burst across her tongue—sweet and spicy and utterly unlike anything from Earth, yet somehow reminiscent of childhood summers and holiday desserts.

"It's amazing," she agreed, delighted by the way his face lit up at her approval.

"I know, right?" he grinned, bouncing on his toes. "I've already had like seventeen of them. No-Mask says I'm going to make myself sick, but I feel great!"

"Nevertheless," No-Mask interjected, approaching with his artfully arranged fruit platter, "perhaps moderation might be advisable until we understand the full effects of the local food on our physiology." Despite his words, his eyes were kind, his tone gentle in a way that suggested he was growing accustomed to Lensless's exuberance.

"Boring," Lensless declared, though he tempered his bouncing slightly in deference to No-Mask's concern. He reached up to ruffle No-Mask's perfectly combed hair, darting away with a laugh before the other variant could react, "You worry too much, professor! We're practically gods here—what's a little alien fruit gonna do?"

No-Mask smoothed his hair with dignity, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite his attempt at severity. "The term 'practically' is doing considerable heavy lifting in that sentence," he observed dryly, though his eyes crinkled at the corners with unexpected humor.

"Oh guys! I found a lake about two miles east of here. Crystal clear water, pink sand beaches, these awesome floating lily-pad things big enough to sit on. We should all go swimming later!"

"Let's get through breakfast first," Phantom suggested, the dry humor in his tone evident despite his mask's filter. He had positioned himself slightly apart from the group, still uncomfortable with communal activities despite the growing ease between them all.

"A swimming expedition sounds delightful," Viltrumite Mark commented. 

He offered Y/N a slice of the star-shaped fruit he'd been peeling, the gesture courtly despite the informal setting. "The most exquisite of the local fruits, in my assessment," he explained, holding it out with elegant fingers stained slightly purple from the juices. "Its flavor profile changes depending on the ripeness—this one should be at perfect maturity." 

They settled around a large table on the terrace, the spread before them a strange mixture of familiar concepts executed with alien ingredients. Mohawk's "pancakes" were more blue than golden, the fruit No-Mask had arranged shifted colors depending on how the light hit them, and the beverages Sinister poured had a subtle luminescence that would have been concerning on Earth but somehow seemed natural here.

As Y/N reached for a serving utensil, Viltrumite Mark smoothly intercepted it, "Allow me," he murmured, serving her. His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the filled plate, the contact brief yet deliberate. His eyes—ancient yet somehow youthful in the morning light—held hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

The moment was interrupted by Mohawk's gag. "Jesus Christ, your highness, it's breakfast, not a royal coronation," he muttered, though the annoyance in his voice couldn't quite mask the underlying insecurity—the fear that his rugged intensity might pale in comparison to Viltrumite's cultured elegance.

Viltrumite's lips curved into a smile. "Civility costs nothing, Mohawk," he replied smoothly. "Perhaps you might try it sometime."

Before Mohawk could retort, Sinister's low chuckle diffused the building tension. "Children, children," he admonished with mock severity. "Let's not fight at the table. It upsets Mother." he smiled as he glanced between them holding no genuine humor.

Omni Mark joined them moments later, slipping into an empty chair beside Y/N with quiet grace. He'd changed from his suit into simple clothing—a fitted gray shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and dark pants that seemed designed for both comfort and mobility. His hair was slightly damp, curling at the temples in a way that softened his usually severe appearance, suggesting he'd found bathing facilities somewhere in the fortress.

Y/N couldn't help but notice the difference in how he looked without his mask from when she saw him days before without it, must've been the usual attire—more human somehow, the perpetual furrow between his brows less pronounced in the gentle morning light. Their eyes met as he settled beside her, and something warm and private passed between them—a connection forged in those quiet moments when he'd carried her to bed, when he'd sat beside her until she fell asleep, and how he's guided her through everything.

"Angstrom is secure and stable," he reported, reaching for what appeared to be a coffee equivalent. His fingers wrapped around the mug, "He'll need more permanent arrangements eventually, but for now, he's contained."

"We could always just throw him off the highest tower," Sinister suggested with casual menace, spearing a piece of color-shifting fruit with unnecessary precision.

"No more death," Y/N reminded him gently. She reached across the table impulsively, her fingers brushing the back of his hand—feeling the subtle tension there, "We agreed Sinister."

Sinister's eyes widened fractionally at her touch, something vulnerable flickering across his face before the familiar predatory smile slid back into place. He turned his hand beneath hers, capturing her fingers with delicate precision. Sinister's eyes met hers across the table, something dangerous and hungry in their depths. 

"So we did, dove," he conceded, lifting her hand to his lips without breaking eye contact. The press of his mouth against her skin was reverent despite the danger that clung to him like a second skin before he released her hand and brought the fruit to his lips with deliberate sensuality. "For now."

Beside her, Omni Mark went very still, the only indication of his reaction the subtle tightening of his fingers around his mug. The tension in the air was palpable for a heartbeat before Viltrumite Mark intervened.

"We could build a proper containment facility," Viltrumite Mark suggested, cutting through the tension with practiced diplomatic ease. "I've overseen such constructions before. With our combined strength and the resources this world seems to offer, it would be simple enough."

No-Mask leaned forward, scholarly interest sparking in his eyes. "If I might suggest, the southeastern tower seems to contain materials that might serve our purposes. I noticed what appears to be a form of ultra-dense mineral similar to the containment cells the Coalition used on Earth-219."

"I'll help design it," Phantom offered unexpectedly, his voice carrying clearly across the table. "Security systems were my specialty... before."

The meal progressed with surprising ease—conversation flowing naturally between them as they discussed their new world, the fortress, their plans for exploration. There were moments of tension, of course—old rivalries and resentments didn't disappear overnight—but these were tempered by a growing sense of shared purpose, of collective possibility.

Y/N found herself laughing at Lensless's animated retelling of his morning exploration, something warm blooming in her chest as she watched them all—these broken, dangerous men gradually rediscovering parts of themselves long buried beneath violence and trauma. The sunlight catching in Mohawk's wild hair as he gestured emphatically; the subtle softening around Phantom's masked face as he listened; the scholarly interest lighting No-Mask's eyes as he theorized about the local fauna; the quiet contentment in Omni Mark's profile as he watched her laugh; the calculated stillness of Sinister that couldn't quite hide how his eyes softened when they rested on her; the imperial bearing of Viltrumite Mark gentled by something approaching peace.

"You've got a little..." Omni Mark gestured toward Y/N's cheek, where a drop of the luminescent juice had splashed as he reached out, thumb gently wiping away the droplet. The pad of his thumb was surprisingly soft against her skin, tracing an arc that lingered along her cheekbone with exquisite care. The brief touch lingered longer than necessary, his eyes holding hers with unexpected warmth.

"Thank you," Y/N murmured, suddenly aware of the depth of emotion in his gaze—something beyond desire, beyond possession, a tenderness that made her breath catch. For a moment, the bustling breakfast and surrounding variants seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the connection between them—fragile and new yet somehow profound.

Mohawk cleared his throat pointedly from across the table, dragging a hand through his disheveled mohawk with barely concealed irritation, the black spikes standing even more erratically after his fingers disturbed them. "What is this, a romance novel?" he huffed, though his scowl held more amusement than genuine annoyance. "If you're done getting handsy with Y/N's face, Omni, pass the not-exactly-maple syrup."

Omni Mark's expression shifted seamlessly back to its usual composed neutrality, though something warm still lingered in his soft blue eyes as he passed the requested syrup. "Of course," he replied evenly, though Y/N didn't miss the subtle way his knee pressed against hers beneath the table.

Fragments of conversation drifted around her and through it all, she noticed the subtle ways they positioned themselves around her—Omni's protective presence at her side, Mohawk's intense gaze returning to her face between animated gestures, Sinister's calculated angles that always kept her in his sightline, Viltrumite's courtly attentiveness to her needs before she could express them.

"More juice?" Viltrumite offered, already reaching for the pitcher with practiced grace. When she nodded, his eyes warmed when she thanked him. "It is my pleasure," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "Your happiness here is of paramount importance to all of us, Y/N."

After breakfast, they scattered to explore their new home—Lensless dragging No-Mask off to investigate the lake he'd discovered, Phantom returning to the training room to continue his morning exercises, Sinister disappearing on some mysterious errand of his own, Viltrumite Mark announcing his intention to map the surrounding territory from one of the higher towers.

"Would you care to join me for the aerial survey?" Viltrumite asked Y/N, his invitation formal yet hopeful. "The view from above is quite spectacular, and I would value your perspective on possible expansion areas." His eyes, held genuine interest rather than mere courtesy.

Before Y/N could respond, Mohawk stepped closer, his proximity a clear statement of intent. "She's helping me with dishes," he declared, the challenge in his voice unmistakable despite his casual tone. "Aren't you, Y/N?"

Viltrumite Mark's eyes flickered between them, "Another time, perhaps," he conceded with perfect grace, though something like disappointment briefly shadowed his features. He bowed slightly—a gesture that should have seemed ridiculous in kitchen attire but somehow retained its dignity. "Until later, Y/N."

Y/n sighed, a frown on her face as he turned back, finding Mohawk already at the sink. "You don't have to do that," Y/N told him, trying not to laugh as he managed to get more water on himself than the dishes. A particularly enthusiastic splash had dampened his mohawk, causing water to trickle down his temple in a way that made him look unexpectedly young and carefree.

"I want to," he insisted, vigorously scrubbing a plate with enough force to potentially crack it. His brow furrowed with concentration as if facing a deadly enemy rather than breakfast dishes. "Never had much of a chance for normal shit like this, you know? Before everything went to hell."

The unexpected vulnerability in his admission caught her off guard. Beyond his gruff exterior and violent tendencies, there was something achingly young about him in this moment—a glimpse of the boy he might have been before loss and rage transformed him.

She moved beside him at the sink, their arms brushing as she took over the rinsing. "Well, you have all the time in the world to practice now."

His hands stilled in the soapy water, his gaze fixing on her profile with unexpected intensity. Something shifted in his expression—the perpetual storm in his brown eyes calming momentarily, revealing depths of feeling he usually kept buried beneath anger and bravado. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Guess I do."

When he leaned in, Y/N expected another of his impulsive, passionate kisses—the kind that had characterized their interactions during the war. Instead, there was a question in his eyes—a hesitation that seemed foreign to his typically impulsive nature. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, silently seeking permission in a way he'd never bothered with before.

Watching her nod softly his lips met hers with surprising gentleness. The kiss was delicate, a stark contrast to the desperate, claiming kisses he'd given her during the war when every moment might have been their last. This kiss held something new: patience, tenderness, the luxury of time. His hands remained in the sink, not reaching for her, giving her the space to pull away if she chose.

But she didn't choose to pull away. Instead, she leaned into the kiss, tasting the sweet-spicy flavor of alien fruit on his lips, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against her skin. She lifted one hand to his cheek, fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jawline, feeling the subtle tremble that ran through him at her touch. For all his bravado and violence, he responded to gentle affection like a starving man offered water—with disbelief and desperate gratitude.

When they parted, his eyes remained closed for a moment, as if savoring the sensation.

"That was nice," he murmured, with vulnerability in his voice she'd never heard before. His forehead rested against hers, breath mingling with her own in the small space between them. This close, she could see flecks of lighter brown in his irises, the softness of his lips still slightly parted. "Different."

"Different good?" she asked, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw with soapy fingers, leaving a trail of iridescent bubbles against his skin.

His eyes opened, meeting hers with startling clarity. The raw emotion there took her breath away—hope and fear and longing all tangled together, unfiltered and exposed in a way he'd never allowed before. 

"Different perfect," he corrected, turning his head slightly to press a kiss against her palm. "Like I don't have to rush. Like we might actually have a tomorrow." 

"We do have tomorrow," she whispered, brushing another gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. "And all the days after that."

Something suspiciously like moisture gathered in his eyes before he blinked it away, replacing vulnerability with a crooked smile that couldn't quite hide the depth of his feeling. "Fuck, Y/N," he murmured, voice rougher than usual. "You're gonna make me go soft here."

She laughed softly, pressing her forehead against his again. "I won't tell anyone."

"Damn right you won't," he growled playfully, the familiar bravado settling back over him like armor—though thinner now, more transparent than before.

A throat cleared behind them, breaking the moment. They turned to find Omni Mark standing in the kitchen doorway, his expression carefully neutral despite the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers flexed once before settling at his sides.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, gaze sliding away from their proximity with deliberate courtesy. Y/N didn't miss the flash of emotion in his eyes—not anger but something more complex, a mixture of resignation and longing carefully contained behind his usual composure. "I thought you might like to see the library we discovered on the east wing. There are texts there—some in languages I've never encountered before, but others perfectly readable. They might tell us more about this place, its history."

Y/N stepped back from Mohawk, feeling a slight flush rise to her cheeks though she wasn't sure why. There were no established boundaries here, no expectations except those they created themselves. "That sounds fascinating," she agreed, drying her hands on a nearby cloth.

Mohawk seemed about to protest, then visibly checked himself. His fists clenched briefly at his sides before relaxing, jaw working as he swallowed whatever instinctive challenge had risen to his lips. The self-restraint was so unlike his usual impulsive nature that Y/N found herself studying him with newfound appreciation.

"Go ahead," he said, gesturing magnanimously with soap-covered hands. "I'll finish up here." His gaze shifted to Omni Mark, something unspoken passing between them—not quite challenge, not quite acceptance, but perhaps the beginning of understanding. 

"Just because I'm trying this whole 'sharing' concept doesn't mean I like it, Omni," he added, the familiar aggression in his tone undermined by the grudging respect in his eyes. "Just don't keep her all day. Some of us want to show her the cool shit we've found too."

Omni Mark's posture relaxed fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Understandable," he replied, the simple acknowledgment carrying weight between them—recognition of feelings too complex for either to fully articulate.

As they left the kitchen, Y/N glanced back to see Mohawk return to the dishes with determined focus, his profile outlined against the morning light streaming through the windows. There was something achingly vulnerable in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he handled the dishes now—as if practicing gentleness was a skill he desperately wanted to master.

As Y/N followed Omni through the fortress corridors, she was struck by the surreal normality of what had just transpired—domestic chores, a sweet kiss, gentle teasing between potential rivals. After the chaos and violence that had defined their relationship until now, these simple human interactions felt almost miraculous in their ordinariness.

"Are you alright?" Omni asked quietly as they walked, his stride measured to match hers perfectly. His perceptive gaze studied her face with gentle concern. "This is... a lot to adjust to. For all of us, but especially for you."

Y/N considered the question thoughtfully. "I think I am," she admitted. "It's strange, but not in a bad way. Just... unexpected. Seeing all of you like this, without the constant threat of violence—it's like meeting you all for the first time."

Something soft crossed his features, a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. "In some ways, perhaps you are," he murmured. "We're discovering pieces of ourselves long buried—who we might have been without the tragedies that shaped us." His hand brushed hers as they walked, fingers tangling briefly before releasing—a fleeting connection that somehow conveyed more than words could express.

The library, when they reached it, took her breath away. Vast and circular, its walls lined with shelves that stretched from floor to domed ceiling, accessible by a system of graceful spiral staircases and floating platforms that somehow remained stable without visible support. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows high above, casting rainbow patterns across the polished floor and illuminating countless volumes bound in materials both familiar and alien.

"It's incredible," Y/N breathed, turning slowly to take in the full grandeur of the space. "How many books do you think are here?"

"Thousands," Omni Mark replied, moving to a reading table where several volumes already lay open. His fingers traced reverently over the ancient bindings, scholarly fascination lighting his features in a way that made him look younger, unburdened. "Perhaps tens of thousands. And not just books—there are scrolls, tablets, data crystals that seem designed to interface with machinery we haven't fully explored yet."

Y/N approached the table, drawn by the obvious excitement in his usually composed voice. The open books displayed text and illustrations of breathtaking complexity—star charts of unfamiliar constellations, anatomical diagrams of creatures she'd never seen, mathematical equations that seemed to extend beyond the three dimensions she was familiar with.

"Can you read any of it?" she asked, tracing her finger along a line of elegant script that seemed to shimmer beneath her touch.

"Some," he admitted, moving to stand beside her. Unlike their breakfast proximity, which had been dictated by seating arrangements, this closeness was deliberate—chosen rather than circumstantial. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the clean scent that was uniquely his beneath the alien soap they'd all discovered. "Enough to understand that this fortress wasn't built by random chance. It was designed as a nexus point—a place where different realities could touch without collapsing into each other."

Y/N looked up at him sharply. "You mean like Angstrom's portals?"

"Similar principle, different execution," he explained, turning a page to reveal diagrams that reminded her of quantum field equations. His fingers moved over the complex illustrations with impressive dexterity, tracing patterns within patterns as he spoke. "His method tears reality. This place... it's more like a gentle fold, a place where the membrane between worlds is naturally thinner."

"So us being here—"

"Isn't coincidence," he confirmed, his expression softening with something like wonder, a rare unguarded moment that revealed the man beneath the leader—curious, brilliant, capable of genuine awe despite all he'd seen across realities. "Whether by design or cosmic chance, we were drawn to a place that could accommodate us—multiple versions of the same quantum signature existing simultaneously without causing universal collapse."

The implications were staggering. Y/N sank into a nearby chair, trying to process what this meant for them. "So we're not just lucky survivors," she murmured. "We're... meant to be here?"

Omni Mark's expression grew thoughtful as he settled into the chair beside hers. "I don't know if I'd go that far," he said carefully. "I've never been much for predetermined destiny. But there's a certain... elegance to how events unfolded. A pattern that suggests more than random chance."

He reached across the table, not for her hand but for a book bound in something that resembled leather but shifted colors like oil on water. "Look at this," he said, opening it to a marked page.

The illustration spread across both pages showed a circular structure remarkably similar to their fortress, surrounded by figures that, while stylized, clearly represented humanoid beings with extraordinary abilities. Above the scene, twin moons hung in a sky painted with pigments that still shimmered with lifelike luminescence despite their obvious age.

"It's us," Y/N whispered, fingers hovering over the image without quite touching the fragile page. "Or... people like us. Here, in this place."

"A prophecy? A historical record?" Omni Mark shrugged, the gesture surprisingly human coming from his usually controlled demeanor. The movement caused a lock of dark hair to fall across his forehead, softening his appearance further. Without thinking, Y/N reached up to brush it back, her fingers lingering against his temple. His breath caught audibly at the casual intimacy of the gesture, eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something soft and vulnerable. "I can't translate enough to be certain. But it suggests we're not the first to find sanctuary here."

Y/N studied the illustration more closely, noting details she'd missed at first glance—the varied appearances of the figures, the peaceful integration with the environment around them, the sense of community evident in their positioning. "They look... happy," she observed. "At peace."

"Yes," Omni agreed softly, his gaze shifting from the book to her face. His hand moved to cover hers where it still rested near his temple, gently drawing it down to rest between them on the table, his thumb tracing small circles against her palm. He'd removed his dark lenses, revealing soft blue eyes that contained a depth of thoughtfulness uniquely his own. Without the barrier between them, his gaze was startlingly direct—intelligent, perceptive, and unexpectedly vulnerable.

"Do you think that's possible?" she asked quietly. "For us? After everything we've—everything you've all done?"

His hand moved across the table, not grabbing hers but settling palm-up between them—an invitation rather than a demand. His eyes never left hers, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "I think," he said carefully, each word chosen with deliberate precision, "that peace isn't something you find. It's something you build, choice by choice, day by day."

Y/N placed her hand in his, feeling the strength in his fingers as they closed gently around hers. The contrast was striking—hands capable of devastating destruction holding hers with such exquisite care, as if she were made of the most delicate glass; offering connection without overwhelming, support without possession.

"Then we'll build it," she decided, unexpected certainty blooming in her chest. "Together. All of us."

The smile that touched his lips transformed his usually serious face, lines of worry smoothing away to reveal glimpses of the man he might have been in another life—one untouched by the weight of impossible choices and devastating losses. The smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners and lighting them from within.

"Together," he agreed, thumb tracing a gentle pattern across her knuckles. "One day at a time."

They remained like that for a long moment—connected by touch, by understanding, by the shared wonder of this strange new beginning they'd been granted. Then, with gentle reluctance, Omni released her hand and rose to his feet.

"Mohawk will be looking for you soon," he observed, a hint of dry humor in his tone. "And if I'm not mistaken, Lensless should be returning from the lake about now, bursting to show you his discoveries."

Y/N stood as well, touched by his consideration for the others' feelings despite whatever he might want for himself. "Will you come with me?" she asked impulsively. "To the lake? It might be nice to spend time together—all of us—without crisis driving every interaction."

Something soft and surprised flickered across his features before he nodded. "I'd like that," he admitted. "Though I should warn you—I haven't gone swimming purely for pleasure since... well, for longer than I care to remember."

"Then it's definitely time," she declared, taking his hand once more to tug him gently toward the door. "Consider it your first official lesson in rebuilding peace."

As they made their way through the sunlit corridors of their new home, Y/N felt something unfamiliar settling within her chest. For the first time since finding herself caught in the variants' chaotic orbit, Y/N felt truly hopeful about the future. Not because any single person had promised to protect her or cherish her, but because they were all choosing to build something new together—something that honored what they had lost without being defined by it.

They were broken, all of them. Damaged by loss, by violence, by choices they couldn't unmake. 

But here, in this strange new world that seemed designed precisely for them, perhaps they could finally heal—not by forgetting the past, but by building a future worthy of remembering. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hope you guys liked it <3

One more fluff chap, then I'm writing the smut y'all been asking for🙏

Who do you guys want first for smut?

Omni mark

or

Mohawk Mark

PT 2!!

PT.3 (smut with Mohawk)

Main series (✩ ‧ ₊ ˚)

[alwaysoutofpaper]

the livestock of haek (top) and haen'oi (bottom), found in and around the landmass/island of Tunib'sau

wanted to draw up some creatures because I haven't created much hae planet fauna. ramblings below the cut, but it's a lot. all you really need to know is all of these animals can be eaten :)

uli'ni are highly social, omnivorous pack hunters (or ambush predators in small numbers), used for pest control by haek. a village can have a near 1:3 ratio of uli'ni to haek, with the pack usually belonging to a single family, or being cared for communally in some cases. bright, soft coats are sought after by haek wanting a pet. there has been a trend of uli'ni being imported into the city as an exotic pet - mainland uli'ni are a lot nastier.

tade are like truffle pigs. they can sniff out root plants from under dirt and snow, so they are critical for farmers when poor weather conditions would normally make harvests miserable. they are usually eaten along with the plants they help harvest. their "wool" is used for bed, bedding, clothes, and other textile things that are otherwise difficult to create with limited fibers. most shed their coats seasonally, but a mainland variety is bred to grow them continuously like sheep.

rudon are the fastest growing, hardest to handle source of protein a haek could ask for. they burrow under the snow, and further into the ground when it isn't covered. raising them is more difficult than hunting them in the wild, but some haek still try, creating stone-lined pits they will fill with dirt to keep rudon contained. they can wreak havoc on any plantlife if left unchecked, so they are rarely raised in the same village as a root plant farm. their fatty tails are used for tallow, which can be sold at high prices or traded for goods if transportation is possible and a surplus is available.

ta'fer is essentially a much meaner lobster. they can pinch, bite, and smack someone around with their tail. they are aggressive to anything that isn't a ta'fer, and evasive when they feel threatened, which makes them difficult to handle without immense caution. the meat is worth it to most haen'oi, though, and just the act of raising them garners a whole lot of respect.

bibbits are some of the most abundant fish (calling them that cus they look like that) in the oceans, found all over the world with different variations. the bibbits found around Tunib'sau are very boney, but those bones are soft and thin, not removed unless necessary (like for baby haek, it could be a choking hazard - baby haen-oi don't have this problem). bibbits are usually smoked and eaten whole for haek, or eaten raw in the water by haen-oi. they are very flavorful, but don't keep well.

le'bul, or the "walking jewel", is a six-limbed nautilus-like critter. they have tentacle-lined arms like octopus, but lack the chromatophores of the same species. they instead rely on their shells for defense and camouflage, evolved to mimic different types of coral, depending on the region they're in. the le'bul shown above grows a shell resembling coral found almost exclusively in underwater caves. tracking them down is a difficult task, but they can be lured out with bibbits, so actually catching them is pretty simple. their shells are often used as decoration or storage depending mostly on the condition of it after the rest of the body is removed.

lastly, corin is basically just a really big tilapia. high in protein, low in fat. their meat is white and not the most flavorful, but it keeps well and their bones are good for making broth. there are much better, tastier fish out there, but these are the easiest for haen'oi to herd, hunt and trade, so it is the most popular option. they're the closest thing to a domestic fish you can get in those waters. some even let you pet them :)

[aventurineswife]

Can we have the Wuwa men of your choice in a platonic familial relationship with a Collei-like reader who's power tends to go out of control and hugs end up being the main way they calm them down even if they end up getting hurt

A Heart Beneath the Storm

Tags: Jiyan x Reader, Yuanwu x Reader, Collei like Reader, Platonic Relationship, Familial Bond, Comfort, Mentor-mentee Dynamic, Emotional Support, Healing, Character Development, Protective, Trauma, Trust Building, Support System, Gentle Touch, Mutual Care.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, Fear of touch, Emotional instability, Power struggles, Past abuse, Emotional breakdowns.

You had never known a home full of warmth—at least not until Jiyan came into your life.

The wind seemed to carry whispers of ancient winds whenever you stepped into the stronghold of the Midnight Rangers. It was a place of strict discipline and unwavering resolve, but there, amid the fortifications and stoic faces of soldiers, you found peace. Jiyan's leadership was beyond measure, and his calm was a fortress for everyone, especially you.

Having been an outcast for most of your life, your control over your powers had always been a volatile thing. Your resonance abilities were like the unpredictable storm—one second calm, the next surging with energy you couldn't manage. You’d learned to brace yourself and keep others at a distance. Touch was the most dangerous trigger, yet the one thing that soothed your soul was a simple embrace.

It was an afternoon, like any other, that Jiyan had found you in one of your more unstable states, the storm of power surging just beneath the surface. You knew it wasn’t safe for anyone to come near you; the air crackled with tension, and everything around you seemed to hum and vibrate in response to your emotions.

“Stay back, Jiyan,” you gasped, hands trembling as you tried to hold yourself steady. “I can’t control it!”

But Jiyan, in his calm and unyielding manner, was already stepping closer. His gaze was unwavering, his resolve even more so.

“You are not alone,” he said softly. “I am here.”

His hands reached out, and even as you recoiled instinctively, the intensity of your storm only grew. The emotions, the chaos—they threatened to overwhelm you, like a wave crashing on a shore.

But Jiyan didn’t stop. He gathered you in his arms, strong and warm, offering you the one thing you had been afraid of—touch. His embrace was steady, his presence grounding. Slowly, the energy within you settled. The electric crackle that had surged so wildly faded, and you could feel your breath steadying, the storm inside you dissipating.

“Shh… I’m here,” Jiyan whispered, his voice a steady, comforting rhythm. “You are safe now.”

The hug was not a simple act—it was a promise. A promise that even though the world might be full of unpredictability, you would always have a place in his arms, where you could find peace.

You, who had been cast aside, who feared the touch of others, found solace in Jiyan's quiet strength. In his embrace, you knew you had found a home, a family, in a place where your powers were not a burden but part of the bond you shared with him and the Rangers.

Training under Yuanwu was like stepping into the calm eye of a storm. Though his martial art was steeped in the fierce power of thunder and lightning, his demeanor was always composed, soft-spoken, and patient. You had come to his gym seeking guidance for your powers, powers that, like yours, often raged out of control when left unchecked.

Yuanwu had seen many people with volatile abilities before, but you were different. Your powers had a certain wild energy to them, like a fire too close to an explosive device. You feared losing control, as you had in the past, and pushing others away was your only defense. Yet Yuanwu never let you withdraw entirely. He would watch you with those wise eyes of his, always gentle, never hurried, allowing you to unravel your frustration with nothing but patience.

One day, after a particularly challenging training session, you were on the verge of collapse. Your power had flared out of control, and though you had tried to subdue it, it only seemed to spiral more. Yuanwu noticed this immediately.

Without a word, he approached you calmly, his arms extending as though they were a shield.

“You don’t have to fight this alone,” Yuanwu said, his voice carrying the same soothing cadence as a thunderstorm’s distant rumble.

Instinctively, you flinched, fearing that his touch might be too much for you, but Yuanwu did not pull back. His embrace was strong yet gentle, the weight of it not smothering, but supportive. The warmth of his body against yours helped steady your heartbeat. With every passing second, the tremors that had wracked your form started to ebb.

“You’re not broken,” Yuanwu whispered, his hands rubbing your back comfortingly. “You just need time, patience. And the right people to be by your side.”

Your powers, like a wild storm, slowly receded. You felt calmness spread through you—not because of any magic or external force, but because of Yuanwu’s unwavering belief in you.

He didn’t need words of grandiose reassurance. His actions spoke volumes. The silent, supportive hug became your lifeline—a reminder that even in your moments of fear and doubt, you were never alone.

Yuanwu remained a constant, not as a teacher who demanded perfection, but as a mentor who offered the space to grow, not just in strength, but in trust. Through his example, you learned the most important lesson of all: sometimes, the greatest strength lies not in unleashing a storm, but in learning when to let go, to accept the quiet moments in life, and to allow yourself to be cared for.

[mangaloversolar2000]

Belos: A Villain in Need of More Depth

Emperor Belos is one of the most compelling antagonists in The Owl House, embodying themes of fanaticism, deception, and the corruption of power. While his character is undeniably effective, his backstory and motivations could have benefited from further exploration to deepen our understanding of his psyche.

Origins & Psychological Profile: The Making of a Monster

Belos, originally Philip Wittebane, was a human transported to the Boiling Isles centuries prior to the events of the show. His Puritan upbringing instilled a rigid, binary worldview—one where magic was inherently evil and needed to be purged. While this explains his initial motivations, the show could have delved deeper into his psychological transformation. What exactly drove Philip to become the ruthless emperor we meet? Was it purely an ideological crusade, or did personal insecurities—perhaps a fear of his own mortality—play a role?

A deeper exploration into his early days on the Isles could have revealed the emotional and mental toll of isolation. His brother Caleb, who embraced the magical world, served as a stark contrast to Philip's fears. But what was the precise turning point that solidified Belos’s villainous resolve? The show hints at jealousy, betrayal, and an unrelenting need for control, but it never fully explores whether Philip struggled with any internal doubts before succumbing to complete tyranny.

Manipulation & Moral Self-Justification

Belos does not rule through mere force—he is a master manipulator, weaving lies to maintain control over his subjects. He convinces the people of the Isles that wild magic is dangerous, carefully crafting a cult-like environment where loyalty is rewarded and dissent is punished. However, the show could have explored his internal justification more thoroughly. Does Belos believe his own lies? Or does he secretly know his mission is rooted in his own delusions?

A fascinating angle could have been showing moments where Belos almost wavered, perhaps glimpses of self-awareness where he questioned whether his actions were righteous or if he was merely grasping at control for control’s sake. We know he despises witches, but the complexity of such hatred—its origins, his deeper emotional wounds—could have been expanded upon to make his character even more unsettling.

The Horror of Belos’s Transformation

One of the most visually disturbing elements of Belos’s character is his gradual physical corruption due to his consumption of palismen. The grotesque nature of his deteriorating form is an excellent metaphor for the consequences of unchecked power, but his descent into monstrosity could have been explored with more narrative weight. Did Belos ever fear what he was becoming? Did he rationalize his grotesque mutation as a necessary sacrifice for his mission?

Moments where he expressed regret or longing for his humanity—even if they were quickly suppressed—could have added emotional layers to his character. Instead, his physical horror is mostly treated as a consequence of his choices, rather than an element of psychological torment that could have added further depth.

[avelera]

Meta: Balancing the Ledger in Arcane S2

Whatever people might have thought of Vi and Jayce's actions in S1, Arcane Season 2 was definitely listening. The whole point of their arcs in 2.1-2.3 seems specifically aimed at them getting point by point retribution for everything they did wrong, intentionally or unintentionally, sympathetically or unsympathetically, in S1.

Vi:

Is hurt and abandoned by Cait in almost exactly the same manner that she hurt and abandoned Powder in S1. If you thought Vi got off too lightly for her treatment of Powder in S1, she has now experienced the full brunt of what it would be like to be on the other side of that fight.

Is attacked, terrorized, and made to feel helpless by the very undercity people who she led an attack against in S1 in which she overpowered, terrorized, and ultimately led to the death of a child as collateral damage. The escalating cycle of violence that she took part in came back to bite her, hard.

As for Jayce:

He was warned repeatedly that Hextech was dangerous. He is now seeing and experiencing first hand the risks of unchecked magical/technological progress, not only seeing how it damages the world he was trying to save, but personally experiencing the horrifying, reality distorting effects of the wild runes as of 2.3.

He left Viktor in order to pursue the higher calling of politics, ostensibly to support their research too, but it took him from his partner's side. He was also motivated by a woman, Mel, and his care for her in doing so. Regardless of intention, politics and Mel took him from Viktor's side at a critical moment when Viktor's life hung in the balance.

Now, Viktor has left Jayce, pursuing the shadow of a dead woman who inspires him now, pursuing a higher calling of bettering the lives of others in the Undercity, and while he doesn't have the same real world powers manipulating him as Jayce did, there are parallels between the Hexcore and the Council's ability to drag Viktor and Jayce respectively forward into dangerous territory, following the siren song of their ambitions to change the world for the better, away from the partnership that launched their innovations in the first place.

Jayce also took part in the rogue mission against the Undercity factory, and in the process, killed a child thus escalating the cycle of violence between Piltover and Zaun.

If you blamed Jayce for becoming a councilor, getting into a relationship with Mel while Viktor was dying, for abandoning Viktor and the lab for other pursuits, for killing that child in Zaun, or in general for escalating the cycle of violence between Zaun and Piltover, then S2 seems to have set out very deliberately to address each one of these.

Jayce is abandoned by Viktor in a similar way and for similar (if not the same) causes as Viktor now abandoned Jayce. Meanwhile, the mother of the child he specifically killed shows up to take her pound of flesh, escalating cycle of violence that has him and his loved ones caught up in it, having now arrived at his doorstep when once it was far away in Zaun, and Hextech has become everything that Heimerdinger (who he deposed in a coup d'etat in order to override his warnings and his power to stop Jayce) warned that it could be.

I stand in awe of how deliberately set up it all is, and offer this analysis of why the narrative took the time to so specifically address and bring retribution for Vi and Jayce for these specific sins, in an almost exactly eye for an eye manner.

Before Jayce and Vi can continue forward as our protagonists, we needed to wipe the slate clean.

These beats are so specifically addressed at their sins (real, imagined, or overblown) in S1 that it's impossible to say going forward that they haven't suffered the consequences of their actions. They have now both been intimately on the receiving end of the consequences of what they did to others.

Furthermore, in S2 we are seeing that Vi and Jayce were less outliers as far as people making mistakes but rather were simply ahead of the curve. Now they have seen both sides of the cycle of violence and deeply suffered the consequences of their actions, many of which were impulsive. Going forward, I think it's safe to say we're going to see Jayce and Vi become voices of reason as they continue to learn, grow and experience the consequences of the events that their S1 actions had a big hand in causing in the first place.

I think this is also why Jayce, humbled and wiser, is becoming a much more popular character in S2 while Vi is becoming a much more universally sympathetic one, though I loved them both in the first season as did many other people. But their actions were controversial in some cases and it's been fascinating to see how systematically S2 has addressed each one of their controversial actions from S1 before moving them forward as heroes and protagonists.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Welcome to Berlin

synopsis-> Leaving your own country for his, you discover a totally different world. But at least, he’s with you.

wc-> 800

a/n-> special edition 4 my man only >.< and new design’s coming for my whole blog!!

The crisp chill of an early Berlin morning instantly prickled your exposed cheeks as soon as you stepped outside, far colder than any late autumn day back in Japan.

Hugging your thick woolen coat tighter, you tilted your face up to squint against the bright sunlight glinting off the city's sleek modern facades and windows.

"You'll get used to the temperature swings around here soon enough, liebling."

Michael's low, honeyed rasp rolled out in puffs of vapor beside your ear. His arm snaked around your waist, palm splayed possessively over the small of your back as he tucked you firmly against his side.

"These German winters are no joke."

You offered him a wordless hum and smile, simply basking in the solid, radiating warmth of his toned striker's body enveloping you like a furnace.

Little daily moments like these hazy morning strolls still felt almost dreamlike - the fact you'd truly uprooted your entire life in Japan just to follow this tempestuous blond firecracker across the world.

Not that you had a single regret. You'd choose the leap into the unknown alongside Michael a thousand times over.

As if sensing the introspective turn your thoughts had taken, he paused to swing you around until you were directly in his path.

Those piercing blue irises danced over your face with unchecked wonderment, palming your jaw to tip your features towards the brilliant sunshine haloing his hair in coronas of incandescent gold.

"Beautiful."

Michael husked in an unguarded moment of worship, caressing the arch of one cheekbone with his thumb.

You could never resist the swell of affection that tugged your heart sideways at those rare candid displays.

"Alright hotshot," you chuckled briskly to diffuse the rapidly thickening tension charging the morning air.

Using both palms flat on his firm chest to apply backwards pressure, you side-stepped smoothly away.

"Weren't you just telling me the other day about some crazy delicious new Bavarian bakery around the corner here?"

He flashed you a wolfish grin - catching your unspoken deflection easily - before slinging one long muscular arm loosely around your shoulders to resume strolling.

That tell-tale smug glint in his eye was clear even beneath the shadow of his snapback as he dipped his face closer.

"Oh, is that what the lady's craving? Should've known it'd be something sweet."

You hip-checked him playfully as the two of you navigated through the maze of residential streets enjoying each other's familiar banter.

"What can I say? All this freezing northern weather instantly makes me crave warm, gooey carbs. Lead the way to that sugary promised land, mikka"

Every now and then, Michael would pause your leisurely pace to waggle a finger sternly at some foreign street sign or landmark, coaching the proper pronunciation in his deep, throaty accent.

Committing each phrase and vocabulary word to memory with an eagerness that never failed to make his chest puff up with masculine pride whenever you repeated them back perfectly.

He took such unabashed delight in meticulously guiding you through the ins and outs of his native tongue despite your initial shyness over how thickly accented your Japanese sounded to him at first.

Impromptu German lessons on the street had quickly blossomed into an impromptu tradition whenever the two of you went exploring his hometown together.

You would have thought back to the shy, timid girl you'd been before falling for this wild tempest of a German striker nervously struggling to string together the most basic hello and thank you in Japanese for his first month in Japan.

Now, Michael delighted in witnessing just how ferociously determined and adaptable you'd become in chasing after him wholeheartedly into the unfamiliar world of Berlin.

Eventually, tantalizing scents of butter, cinnamon and mouthwatering yeasty dough grew too overpowering to resist.

Michael chivalrously kept pulling the heavy oak bakery door open wide and ushering you ahead into the tiny shop's cramped interior.

Warm, cheerful lighting spilled across tidy glass cases displaying all manner of crusty breads and delectably glistening confections.

He hovered behind as you slowly perused each tantalizing offering - chest pressed flush along your back, muscular forearms caging you in bracketed along the counter's edge.

"So," Michael rumbled lowly into the sensitive whorls of your ear, eliciting a shiver you were certain he felt ripple through your whole frame.

"What looks like it'll hit the spot for getting my best girl all warmed up and satisfied this morning?"

Heat blossomed across your cheeks, equally from both the fluster over his suggestive tone as well as the rich, sweet perfume of baking spices and buttery pastries swirling tantalizingly.

You somehow managed to swallow thickly against the sudden tightness in your throat while motioning towards one particularly plump, sugar-dusted selection - "That...um, that one looks amazing."

Michael chuckled lowly, every exhale stirring the wispy hairs along your nape, before flagging down the kind elderly baker behind the counter to place your order.

You basked in the full-bodied bliss of inhaling the piping hot pastry's rapturous aroma with your first eager bite as you wandered back outside - snuggling ever nearer into the shelter of Michael's embrace.

Whatever grand adventure still lay ahead in this brand new country, you knew you were more than ready to face it all...so long as this fierce whirlwind of a hotshot striker never stopped making you weak at the knees like this.

[the-meat-machine]

An examination of Jane's Crockercorp brainwashing

You put on your highly fashionable UNREAL HEIRESS THOUGHTWAVE TIARATOP and flip it on. It immediately hums to life as its blazing fast processes mingle with your thoughts. It is the most efficient computing technology in the world by far, as long as you don't wear it for too long. But aside from a few migraines, you can't possibly imagine any OBEY drawbacks that CEASE REPRODUCTION could come with SUBMIT merging CONSUME your thoughts with EMBRACE YOUR CULLING experimental technology CONFORM TO SOCIAL ORDER from an STAY ASLEEP extremely powerful DIE corporation, wait what?

So, here's a fact: Jane has been brainwashed with Crockercorp propaganda from childhood.

Here's another fact: Jane is the heiress to Crockercorp and is being groomed to take over the company once she comes of age.

With that in mind, I'd like to take a look at the subliminal messages Jane gets brainwashed with. I want to consider what these messages mean both on a literal level and a broader societal level, as well as what they mean to Jane, specifically, as the heiress to Crockercorp. Because when Jane takes in these messages coming from Crockercorp, they don't just apply to her. They also represent the ideology she'll one day be expected to enforce once she takes over the company.

I'll organize this into sections based on the commands, grouping a few similar commands together.

SUBMIT / OBEY

The literal meaning of these commands is straightforward: submission and obedience to a higher authority; specifically, Crockercorp.

More generally, these commands are about the importance of hierarchy. They tell the listener that there are those in this world who must be obeyed without question.

These commands teach Jane to submit her will both to the Condesce and to the advancement of the company as a whole. Being bombarded with endless messages of SUBMIT and OBEY is presumably part of what made her susceptible to having her brain hijacked by the tiaratop entirely.

However, since Jane is the heiress to Crockercorp, these messages are also subconsciously teaching her that one day, she'll be the one people submit to and obey. She's being primed to be a leader, and an autocratic one at that. After all, a corporation isn't a democracy, least of all Crockercorp. The CEO gives the orders, and everyone else has no choice but to OBEY. The only thing the leader serves is the brand itself.

CONFORM TO SOCIAL ORDER

Self-explanatory. Jane is very, very good at this one. She will bury all of her desires deep within the darkest recesses of her brain in the pursuit of conforming to social order. In fact, she's so good at conforming to social order that she has managed to convince herself, her friends, and the entire fandom that she's "the normal one." Incredible.

She also tends to urge her friends to conform to social order, for example by pedantically correcting their grammar. As the future leader of Crockercorp, she'll one day be the one enforcing social norms, and I think she's a natural at it.

One other thing to consider with this command is whether the "social order" that the Condesce wants humans to conform to is actually the social order that humans will be picturing when brainwashed with this command. The Condesce wants humans to be more like trolls. But I highly doubt many humans would hear "conform to social order" and interpret it to mean that they should organize society by blood color and leave their children to be raised by wild animals!

CONSUME

The literal meaning of this one is to buy and consume Crockercorp products. And we see throughout the story that Jane is all-in on the Betty Crocker brand, even in cases where she knows that Betty Crocker products are inferior. She even directly acknowledges it at one point, admitting that BettyBother is significantly worse than Pesterchum, but that "brand loyalty is a powerful thing". I bet it is, Jane!

But beyond that… what this command teaches more generally is that unchecked capitalism is the highest virtue. And, look, I think there's a lot of evidence that Jane buys into that philosophy wholeheartedly.

Now, I wouldn't presume to know where exactly Jane stands politically. But it's hard to deny that she is, at the very least, fiscally conservative. She has no problem with the idea of society being under the control of a powerful corporation, as long as said corporation is her company. Crockercorp has wormed its way into all aspects of life in her world, and that's just peachy as far as Jane is concerned.

In fact, Jane wants Crockercorp to seize more power! Within a few days of her introduction, we see both that she wants to privatize the post office and that she's a believer in millionaire philanthropy. Obviously these pages are both presented as jokes, but I think they speak to her mindset. Jane is a wealthy girl who has never had any reason to question the privileges her wealth gives her or the power she's set to inherit.

And this mindset is reaffirmed in the credits, where Jane decides to reestablish her beloved Betty Crocker brand in the post-scarcity paradise she and the other kids created. It seems that she believes the only problem with Crockercorp was that there was a bad person running it, and now with her in charge instead everything will be hunky-dory! She doesn't appear to consider that there could be any systemic issues in having a god-run monopolistic corporation set up shop in utopia.

STAY ASLEEP

Metaphorically: stay ignorant. Don't pay attention to what's going on around you. Don't notice what Crockercorp is doing to you and to the world.

Jane does tend to reject facts that seem outlandish or improbable to her, and specifically spends a long time rejecting the notion that there could be anything sinister going on behind the scenes at Crockercorp.

Literally, this command could be a message directed at Jane specifically: stay asleep on Prospit. Don't wake up and see the portents in the clouds of Skaia, portents that may reveal things the Condesce doesn't want her to know.

EMBRACE YOUR CULLING / DIE

Literally, these two are directed more at the human populace of Earth: humanity is done for. Don't resist when the drones come to kill you.

Applied to Jane specifically, there are two possible literal interpretations. One is that she's being encouraged not to resist the Condesce, in case one day they end up fighting and the Condesce has to kill her. The other is that she's being encouraged to embrace death so that she can go god tier, which helps Jane herself level up while also being instrumental to the Condesce's plans.

Being constantly bombarded with messages telling her that she should die probably didn't do great for Jane's self-esteem! The Maid of Life's drive to survive can't be eliminated that easily, though.

On a broader level, these commands teach Jane that Crockercorp decides who is permitted to live and who deserves to die. Corporate control over life and death as the natural endgame of the corporate state. And of course, this means that as the head of Crockercorp, Jane will one day be in a position to decide whose lives are worth living.

CEASE REPRODUCTION

This is an interesting one when you look at the literal meaning. Because no matter how you think this command affected Jane, one thing it decidedly did not do is rid her of the desire to reproduce. Deep down—as revealed both in Trickster Mode and Crockertier—Jane really, really wants to have Jake's babies.

Personally, my headcanon is that this command left Jane with a massive breeding kink. For nebulous reasons she can't explain, she feels that reproductive sex is horribly taboo, more so even than sex in general. Meanwhile, she's desperately in love with Jake, and wants both to have sex with him, and also to have a nice heterosexual nuclear family with him (conform to social order!). And she's too repressed to express any of this to anybody, so it all builds up into this big impossible taboo fantasy of BABIES BABIES BABIES.

I also happen to think that the Condesce explicitly considers Jane an exception to this command. I've argued before that the Condesce is sincere in wanting Jane to be her heiress. She even goes so far as to allow Crockertier Jane to kidnap Jake with the intention of using him to sire children. And why not? Her heiress has gotta be able to have heiresses of her own. The royal line must go on. As is implicit in a lot of these messages, those who are in charge have the privilege of being exempt from restrictions that apply to everyone else.

There's also a broader implication to the CEASE REPRODUCTION command, and it's this: there are people out there whose uncontrolled breeding is a threat to social order. In this sense, it's a blatantly fascist message.

And… look, I've been avoiding referencing anything from the post-canon in this post so far, but if you'll allow me to dip into the Epilogues for just a moment: this, perhaps more than anything, is where the Condesce's attempted brainwashing of Jane really backfired for her. Because I would assume that one of the Condesce's goals is to perpetuate the troll race. And yet she allowed her human heiress to internalize the message that there are other people whose unnatural and disgusting methods of reproduction should be banned. Filtered through Jane's human mindset… well, from her perspective, it's probably trolls who have a bizarre and repellent way of reproducing. Seems like that might not work out so well for the trolls if Jane ends up in charge! Certainly it doesn't in Candy.

Conclusion

So there's the overview of what I believe are all the commands we see Jane get brainwashed with in Homestuck. If I forgot any, feel free to let me know.

Now, a lot of these messages are things Jane would have been internalizing regardless in her upbringing as a corporate scion. Hell, some of them are things that everybody in 21st century American capitalist society is going to be marinating in to some degree or other. And for some of the commands, like CONFORM TO SOCIAL ORDER, it's hard to tell how much is the brainwashing and how much is just Jane's natural personality.

But I do think all of these subliminal messages are very revealing in what they say about Jane's mindset, ideology, and unexamined biases. Because frankly, Jane never really reckons with any of this in canon. She never questions whether there was anything wrong with her upbringing. She continues to embrace the role she was raised to fill. Even after coming out of Crockertier, she's ashamed of how she behaved but never seems to examine why she acted that way. Instead she just goes right back to repressing everything.

After all, CONFORMING TO SOCIAL ORDER is what Jane is best at.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Don't you see that Spare Me Your Mercy was all about love from beginning to end? The only question was what kind of love.

Dr. Kan introduced a love that was wild, indigenous, communal, and, most importantly to the plot, extralegal. Here I discussed my observation about the rural-specific parallels between acceptance of death and acceptance of queerness, and now finished with the series I stand by it firmly. Tew had assimilated into an upstanding individualistic perspective as he left his rural upbringing for the metropolitan world to find acceptance for himself, the kind his mother had for him but few others amongst the male leadership in his hometown. Kan tries to offer him a perspective about connection to the world that would allow him to live in his hometown and withstand the grief and suffering of a queer life.

It struck me watching the finale, and hopefully struck many other viewers, that much of what Kan said about euthanasia's legality in his confession to Tew applies equally to the state of queer love historically: "Is the law wrong?;" "It's legal in other places," "The law never understands the inequality, the lack of resources, the suffering." Its an ethical view that puts others humanity first before society's rules.

The question looming over the series was how Tew would process his mother's death. As your local queer tragedian, I love the artistry with which the show answers the question (without killing off our gay lovers). Tew confesses his love as he drives his paramour to jail in handcuffs. That is the essence of Tew's love. His love is a prison for people to suffer in for his own pride. He's deeply selfish @respectthepetty pointed out in a conversation with @poetry-protest-pornography, and so is his style of love--or style of cathexis, as bell hooks (my rural buddhist scholar crush) might label it, adapting from psychologist M. Scott Peck. Cathexis is the investment of feelings or emotions into someone often confused with love, what's been translated in Buddhist literature as attachment. Acted upon, cathexis is obsessive, controlling, and possessive. Those tendencies might serve an emotional purpose in establishing the early stages of a relationship (puppy love is fun!), but left unchecked they can also lead to things like, you know, tapping your lovers' car and following them. Right, Tew?

That's what intrigued me about the development of the pair's relationship. It integrated the layers of paranoia inflecting Tew's character. His police investigation, his reticence about his own queer expression back in his hometown, and his egotistical approach to relationships all braided together. Kan loses the pen Tew gifted him, for example, and it ignites suspicions for Tew of murder, being outed, and Kan's fidelity all at once. Meanwhile, the doctor, whose demeanor and open flirtation mark him as out and comfortable with his sexuality, knowingly accepts Tew's double-dealings hoping while he's doing it the detective will discover the kind of love and acceptance (of queerness and euthanasia) that Dr. Kan has found.

The genre of BL that SMYM skirts made Kan's perspective seem especially possible, and I, for one, felt riveted by the real mystery of where the show would land between its bleak murder-mystery and romance genres. Personally, I think we BL fans need to become more comfortable with the breadth romance can truly cover rather than simply getting mad at tragic love and ambiguities. Shows like SMYM and Only Friends are delivering masterfully executed series, but our aversions to difficult characters, duplicitous writing, and tragic plot structures have people failing to recognize their skill or purpose, entirely. Let me tell you that having gay tragedies that aren't about people dying because of homophobia is JUST AS RADICAL as gays with happy endings.

SMYM depicts a variety of queer men's lives. They come from different backgrounds in different generations. They've faced different obstacles and led imperfect lives. They've hurt some people and helped others. And they've committed to different approaches to understanding how people are meant to help with the experience of suffering based on their queer experiences but not solely. This is the story of how their views come to a head. It's tragic and an exceptionally well-done detective series that provokes incredible questions if you're willing to let go of the idea that series are here to make you, personally, happy rather than something to engage with.

*Unrelated note to all this, but I'm also appreciating how the song used, Northern Breeze (thanks @thaisongsengsub for translating here), has a lot of relevance about the fleeting nature of love and life, but it's also the same tune as Daisy Bell (A Bicycle Built for Two) which was FAMOUSLY sung by the robot HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey when they euthanize it shut it down.

[renegadecantlife]

With the drop of my favorite game franchises newest title, Monster Hunter Wilds, ive been reinvigorated to post a new fic idea.

We all are very aware of how much our hunter in Monster Hunter Wilds is aura farming, from speaking very little and simply being badass enough to go toe to toe with monsters that others couldent ever dream of going toe to toe with. And i know some of use have seen the monster hunter movie, ans while the monsters looked good, i personally did not like the movie itself. But imagine this.

The 141 are on a deployment, just a regular mission when they get transported to the world of monster hunter. Now lost in this huge thick jungle they try to navigate to civilisation when their faced with a massive monster (anjanath, rathalos, etc you choose) scared as they are they try to protect eachother by shooting the beast charging in their direction when the hunter (add gender here) comes out of the sky shrounded by sunlight dropping directly into a mount with (weapon of choice) knocking the monster away and jumping off the land in front of the 141 squad, alma (the hunters handler) then emerges from the bushes with the hunters palico and mount and tells the hunter "you have permission from the guild to slay (insert monster here) in order to protect these strange newcomers" to which the hunter simply responds with a nod or a single word and proceedes to alay this monster without breaking nearly a sweat (because we all know hunters in the monster hunter universe would decimate an entire eco system if left unchecked) then lead the 141 to the base camp they inhabit.

Basically badass hunter x 141, and the 141 dont just pickup monster hunting on a whim (that shit clearly takes time years worth of time to learn to do) so they just get to watch in awe as this hunter takes on bigger and bigger monsters, elder dragons even until they can find a way back to their world.

[hellinistical]

fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 5375 a/n: ty for the support <3 additionally, there is now a map! its on the masterlist

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V: LOOSE BARREL

The northern beaches were a desolate expanse of jagged cliffs and weathered stones, where the cold wind howled and the sea churned angrily. The water, an icy shade of steel gray, lashed against the unforgiving rocks with a relentless fury, spraying salt into the air. There was no warmth here, no gentle sand to soften the harsh edges of the coastline—just sharp, uneven terrain that seemed to mirror the chaos of the storm brewing far in the distance.

The tide surged and withdrew, erasing any sign of life that might have dared to cross this isolated stretch of land. There were no footprints, no remnants of human presence. Only the sea claimed this place, its wild energy unchecked by time or tide.

Above, the sky hung low, cloaked in heavy clouds that promised no reprieve from the cold. Gulls circled high overhead, their cries swallowed by the crash of the waves below. In the distance, the faint silhouette of a ship bobbed on the horizon, but it was moving away, as if even the sailors knew better than to linger here.

The only sound was the relentless slap of the water against rock, an unending rhythm that seemed both soothing and ominous. This was a place that belonged to no one—untamed, unyielding, and as timeless as the sea itself.

Beneath the tumultuous surface of the northern waters, the world transformed into a murky graveyard. Twisted remnants of mankind's carelessness floated aimlessly, forgotten nets tangled with drifting planks, and rusted barrels spilled their secrets into the currents. Among the debris, a ship loomed in the shadows, its once-proud hull now a skeleton of rotting wood and corroded iron.

The ship's figurehead, once carved in intricate detail, was eroded beyond recognition, its haunting form half-buried in the silt below. Seaweed clung to every surface, swaying like ghostly tendrils in the cold currents. Portholes gaped like empty eyes, staring into the abyss of the deep.

Schools of fish darted through the wreckage, weaving around shattered beams and the skeletal remains of the cargo hold. Barnacles encrusted the jagged edges, and anemones pulsed with eerie life, taking refuge in the decay. The ship, forgotten by those who had once sailed it, had become part of the underwater ecosystem, a silent testament to humanity’s indifference and the ocean’s relentless claim over all that entered its domain.

Above, the faint shafts of light from the storm-darkened sky barely pierced the depths, leaving much of the wreck cloaked in shadow. But if one were to look closely, they might notice something unnatural moving among the ruins—something that didn’t belong to the sea or the remnants of mankind’s negligence.

The creature moved with an elegance that belied its brutality, each motion fluid and deliberate. A finned hand reached out lazily, snatching a fish with practiced ease. Its other hand deftly plucked the fins from the squirming prey, casting them aside to drift aimlessly into the watery void.

With sharp teeth glinting faintly in the dim light, the being bit into the fish. The snap of fragile bones and the crunch of cartilage echoed faintly, muffled by the dense water. A bloom of red blossomed from the wound, spreading like ink in the surrounding currents.

Its body moved like silk through the water, iridescent scales catching the faint light and shimmering in hues of blue and lavender. Long strands of violet hair floated around its head, framing its otherworldly visage like a halo of deep sea fog.

The creature paused mid-bite, its slit-pupil eyes narrowing as it surveyed the wreckage around it. The rhythmic motion of its tail was the only sound as it hovered silently in the darkened expanse, a predator perfectly at home in its haunting domain.

It cast aside the half eaten fish, moving along to inspect the ship more closely. 

The half-eaten fish drifted downward, its lifeless body caught in the slow pull of the ocean's depths. The creature moved on, its sleek form weaving effortlessly through the water, tail undulating with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

The rotting ship loomed before it like a forgotten monument, its decaying wooden beams splintered and overgrown with barnacles. Rusted metal fittings clung stubbornly to the remnants of the hull, and torn sails fluttered faintly in the water’s currents like ghostly shrouds.

It reached out, a webbed hand trailing along the wreck’s surface. Wood crumbled beneath its touch, breaking apart into a fine cloud of debris. The ship reeked of human folly—bottles, rusted tools, and broken chests lay scattered like remnants of a forgotten life.

The creature's gaze narrowed, sharp eyes scanning for something unknown. It paused to pry open a cracked crate, its claws making quick work of the weakened wood. Inside, a glint of metal caught its attention—useless trinkets to some, but perhaps not to it. The faint movement of a crab scuttling into the shadows drew no reaction; this was no scavenger hunt.

The ship was a tomb, but there was something here worth finding. Something it sought. It continued its exploration, movements purposeful and predatory, undeterred by the wreckage's quiet decay.

A series of sharp clicks and low chirps echoed through the water, reverberating off the broken walls of the sunken ship. The soundwaves danced through the gloom, painting a mental map in his mind—a predator’s sonar, seeking life or secrets hidden in the decaying wreck.

The clicks bounced back with muddled signals, disrupted by the ship’s rotting wooden beams and encrusted metal. But faint traces of movement flickered at the edges of his perception. Small fish, maybe, or something larger lurking in the deeper shadows of the wreck.

He moved closer, his iridescent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering from the surface above. With a flick of his powerful tail, he swam around a broken mast, weaving through a tangle of seaweed that had claimed part of the hull. The chirps grew sharper, faster, as he honed in on the disturbance—a lingering curiosity gnawing at him.

The water grew colder as he neared the heart of the wreck. A shadow shifted, barely visible. Something had been here, recently. He clicked again, the sound bouncing back with clarity this time.

He paused, narrowing his piercing gaze, the eerie calm of the waters around him amplifying the tension. Whatever was here might still be watching. Or waiting.

A series of sharp clicks and low chirps echoed through the water, reverberating off the broken walls of the sunken ship. The soundwaves danced through the gloom, painting a mental map in his mind—a predator’s sonar, seeking life or secrets hidden in the decaying wreck.

The clicks bounced back with muddled signals, disrupted by the ship’s rotting wooden beams and encrusted metal. But faint traces of movement flickered at the edges of his perception. Small fish, maybe, or something larger lurking in the deeper shadows of the wreck.

He moved closer, his iridescent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering from the surface above. With a flick of his powerful tail, he swam around a broken mast, weaving through a tangle of seaweed that had claimed part of the hull. The chirps grew sharper, faster, as he honed in on the disturbance—a lingering curiosity gnawing at him.

The water grew colder as he neared the heart of the wreck. A shadow shifted, barely visible. Something had been here, recently. He clicked again, the sound bouncing back with clarity this time.

He paused, narrowing his piercing gaze, the eerie calm of the waters around him amplifying the tension. Whatever was here might still be watching. Or waiting.

The sharp clicks reverberated once more, only to be met with a flash of movement. A female siren emerged from the jagged opening in the rotting wood, her sleek form twisting gracefully through the water. Her iridescent scales glimmered faintly in the muted light, but her toothy grin was anything but serene.

"Fancy seeing you here," she crooned, her voice lilting and sharp like the edges of broken glass. She twirled lazily, her fins brushing against the algae-covered hull as if mocking the ship’s demise.

He huffed, his irritation palpable, bubbles escaping his lips in a flurry. Clicking his tongue sharply, he folded his arms, his tail giving an annoyed flick that stirred up silt from the seabed.

"Do you ever have anything better to do?" he asked, his tone as cold as the deep-sea currents swirling around them.

Her grin widened, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. "Oh, but this is far more interesting than anything else. And you—you’re always so fun to watch when you’re brooding."

"Go play somewhere else," he snapped, his voice carrying the faint edge of a growl. "I don’t have time for your games."

She tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "Always so serious," she mused, clicking her own tongue in a mocking imitation. "What are you even doing here, hmm? Looking for scraps, or just sulking by the wreck?"

He turned away from her, his patience already threadbare. "None of your business."

Her laughter rang out, a haunting melody that echoed through the water. "Oh, but it is my business when you’re in my waters," she teased, gliding closer. "Careful, or you might make me think you’re hiding something."

Her laughter softened, curling around her words like seaweed around driftwood. Gliding closer, she plucked the discarded fish from where it floated lazily in the water, its half-eaten form a morbid offering.

"Tell me," she began, sinking her sharp teeth into the remains, a burst of crimson clouding the water around her lips. "How has it fared, hmm? Your meals so graciously given to you by that man?"

He stilled, his broad shoulders tightening at her words. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, flicked toward her, annoyance flashing in his bioluminescent eyes. "What are you trying to say?"

She chewed slowly, her grin widening as if she savored not only the taste but his irritation. "Oh, nothing," she replied with mock innocence, flicking her fins playfully. "Just curious. You’ve been... preoccupied lately. Swimming in circles, perhaps hoping for something new to fall into your net?"

His tail lashed, and the water rippled violently around him. "You don’t know anything," he growled, voice low and dangerous.

Her chuckle was dark, almost conspiratorial. "Don’t I?" she cooed, brushing a strand of violet hair from her face with a taloned hand. "Oh, I’ve seen you. Darting around the shallows like a curious pup, chasing a shadow that doesn’t belong in the water."

"Stay out of it," he snapped, his voice cutting through the water like a blade.

Her grin only grew sharper. "Touchy, touchy," she said, tossing the fish’s hollowed carcass aside. "I wonder what would happen if that little secret of yours found its way to more... eager ears."

He moved in an instant, closing the distance between them with a speed that made her flinch, his hand gripping her wrist tightly. His face was inches from hers, his voice a venomous whisper. "You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you."

For the first time, her grin faltered, though she quickly masked it with a sardonic smirk. "Fine," she drawled, twisting free of his grip. "But you should know, secrets have a funny way of slipping through the cracks—just like water."

Above the sirens, vibrations rippled through the cold, murky waters—strong, deliberate, unmistakable. He froze, his sharp gaze shifting upward as the disturbances sent faint currents cascading around him.

A ship?

It wasn’t unusual for the occasional vessel to drift far from its intended path, but here? In these treacherous Northern waters of Chronosia? No human dared venture this close to the Anbusas coast, not if they valued their lives. The stories alone were enough to keep even the most intrepid sailors away—rumors of sharp rocks hidden beneath the waves, sirens with haunting songs, and ancient, cursed tides.

And yet, the vibrations were undeniable, the slow, steady rhythm of oars or an engine cutting through the water, bringing the presence of something very alive—and very human.

The female siren reemerged from the shadows, her earlier amusement replaced by curiosity. "Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice now low and wary, her playful demeanor vanishing like a ripple dissipating on the surface.

He nodded, his gaze narrowing as he tilted his head to the side, listening intently. The clicks and hums of the ocean around them were muffled by the heavier, alien sounds above—a steady thrum of wood and iron clashing against the restless sea.

"No human comes this far north," he murmured, his tone more to himself than to her. "Not willingly."

"Yet here they are," she replied, her own bioluminescent eyes gleaming in the dim light as she swam closer to him, tension vibrating in her every movement. "Brave, aren’t they?"

"Or foolish," he muttered darkly.

The vibrations intensified, and a faint shadow passed over the water above them—a long, hulking silhouette cutting through the waves like a predator stalking its prey.

"Should we?" she asked, her sharp grin returning as her fingers flexed, claws gleaming.

He hesitated, his tail swaying as he considered the possibilities. It wasn’t fear that held him back; it was calculation. A ship this far north couldn’t just be a coincidence.

"Not yet," he said finally, his voice firm. "We watch first."

With a flick of his tail, he moved toward the ship’s path, disappearing into the murky depths as the vibrations continued to rattle through the water, signaling the approach of something unknown—and potentially catastrophic.

***

Above the waves, a massive ship cut through the restless waters, its size and grandeur almost defiant against the foreboding backdrop of the Northern seas. The hull was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, each plank carved with intricate designs—swirling motifs of sea serpents, storm clouds, and gods in battle, their forms interwoven in a way that seemed alive, almost breathing with the motion of the ocean.

The ship’s grandeur was undeniable, its towering masts stretching high above the dark water, sails taut and glistening with rain. Ornate lanterns hung from the railings, their flickering flames casting ghostly reflections across the wet, polished deck. This was no ordinary vessel; it was a thing of beauty and power, a stark contrast to the hostile waters it dared to traverse.

The ship’s bow was crowned with a figurehead, a towering depiction of a siren—beautiful and terrible. Her carved expression was one of agony and wrath, her arms extended toward the sea as though in a plea or a curse. Gold and silver accents glinted in the dim light, betraying the wealth of those who had sent this ship into such dangerous waters.

The crew aboard moved with purpose, their shouts carried faintly by the wind. They weren’t simple merchants or fishermen; their uniforms, weapons, and coordinated movements suggested something more deliberate.

An air of tension hung heavy over the deck, the men glancing uneasily at the churning water below and the storm clouds gathering in the distance. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, stood at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel with knuckles pale against the wood.

"The ship is too damn big for this," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"And yet here we are. Tell it to the captain." another man replied, his voice laced with dry humor, though his hand lingered nervously on the hilt of his sword.

The ship groaned as it pressed forward, the waves slapping against the intricately carved hull as if the sea itself were trying to push it back, to warn it away from the dangers it did not yet fully comprehend.

Marlon, a gruff man with sun-scorched skin and a permanent scowl, spat over the side of the ship, the wind catching the fleck before it disappeared into the sea. Rolling his strained shoulders, he muttered, "The captain won’t listen. Says it’s too good of a hunt waitin’ out here. Still don’t make sense why we took this boat—got imperial sigils all over it."

His tone was sharp, dripping with disdain as he jerked a thumb toward the intricately carved hull. "Like we ain’t already makin’ ourselves a big enough target just bein’ here."

The other man leaning against the railing with a hand near his sword, Ryder, chuckled humorlessly.  "A hunt, he says. As if the sea gives a damn about our quarry. Imperial sigils or not, these waters’ll swallow us whole if they’ve a mind to."

Marlon grunted, his brows furrowing deeper as he scanned the horizon. The heavy clouds above mirrored the unease in his chest. "Hunt or no hunt, I’m tellin’ ya, we should’ve stayed south. Ain’t no fish worth pissin’ off what lives under this stretch of water."

The other man didn’t reply, only tightening his grip on his weapon. The air seemed thicker here, heavier. It wasn’t just the threat of the storm—it was something deeper, something ancient. Even the ocean spray felt colder, biting through their thick coats like icy fingers.

Marlon’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. "And this boat? It’s too damn pretty. Too loud. If we’re not careful, it’s gonna bring somethin’ outta those depths we don’t wanna see."

Marlon turned at the sound of the low, gravelly voice, his eyes narrowing as Luke and Kieran approached. Their crow masks gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished beaks lending them an eerie presence.

"Gentlemen," Luke began, his tone cool and measured. "A problem?"

Kieran tilted his head slightly, the hollow sockets of his mask staring straight at Marlon, who felt a chill race up his spine despite himself. Ryder, the younger of the two men at the railing, cleared his throat nervously, but Marlon wasn’t one for being intimidated—not by masks, and not by men who thought them fancy.

He spat over the side again, the sound of it sharp against the restless waves. Straightening his back, he gestured toward the ornate ship with a rough hand. "Yeah, a problem. This whole setup’s a damn problem. I don’t like this boat, I don’t like these waters, and I sure as hell don’t like the captain’s obsession with huntin’ here. We’ve no business in these parts, imperial sigils or not."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable behind the dark visors of their masks. Kieran’s voice came low and slow, deliberate in its weight. "The captain’s orders aren’t up for debate. You’ll follow them, just like everyone else on this crew."

"And what’s the captain chasin’ that’s worth endangering us all, huh?" Marlon shot back, his tone sharp. "You can’t tell me he doesn’t know what’s down there."

Luke chuckled softly, the sound unsettling as it escaped the beak-like mask. "You think too much, Marlon. It’ll get you into trouble."

"Thinkin’s all that’s kept me alive this long," Marlon snapped.

Kieran stepped closer, his broad figure casting a shadow over Marlon. "Then think about this. You’re on his ship, in his waters. If you’ve got doubts, you’re welcome to take your chances overboard. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut and do your job."

The two masked men lingered for a moment longer, their presence suffocating. Then, without another word, they turned and disappeared into the ship’s shadows.

Marlon shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Damn fools are gonna get us all killed." Ryder, still tense, exhaled shakily beside him. "They might hear you," he whispered.

"Let ‘em," Marlon grumbled, though his eyes kept flicking nervously toward the dark waves below.

But just then-

A thunderous boom reverberated through the ship, sending Marlon and Ryder stumbling backward. The entire vessel groaned as if in agony, the sound of splintering wood rising above the waves.

"What in the hells was that?!" Marlon barked, clutching the railing for balance as the ship rocked violently.

Ryder scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed, his gaze darting over the edge of the railing. "Something hit us! Something big!"

The crew erupted into chaos, men shouting orders and curses as the ship listed dangerously to one side. The ornate carvings along the hull cracked and splintered, some breaking off entirely to be swallowed by the churning sea below.

From the shadows of the deck, Luke and Kieran reappeared, their crow masks gleaming ominously. Luke’s voice cut through the clamor like a blade. "All hands on deck! Arm yourselves!"

Kieran strode to the center of the chaos, barking orders with precision. "Secure the cargo! Watch the waterline!"

Another jarring thud rocked the ship, this time sending a shower of seawater and debris over the deck. Marlon gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles white as he scanned the dark waters below.

And then he saw it.

A shadow, massive and serpentine, slithered just beneath the surface, its form too large to comprehend fully. The water churned violently in its wake, glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue-green light.

"By the gods," Marlon breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. Ryder, standing frozen beside him, followed his gaze and let out a strangled gasp.

The shadow moved again, circling the ship with an unsettling grace. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human—or anything else Marlon had ever seen before.

From the depths, a deep, resonant growl echoed, a sound that sent shivers through every man aboard. The ship groaned once more, the ancient wood seeming to protest the presence of the beast.

Kieran’s voice boomed above the chaos, his calm veneer beginning to crack. "Stand your ground! Whatever it is, it bleeds!"

But Marlon wasn’t so sure. 

The crow's nest, high above the chaos, swayed dangerously with the ship's violent rocking. Its once-proud occupant, a large black bird, was nowhere to be seen—likely seeking refuge with the captain below deck, if not having flown off entirely.

Luke’s sharp tone snapped through the din. "You there! Secure the starboard side before we lose it altogether!" His crow mask turned sharply toward the men scrambling with ropes and barrels.

Kieran, ever the strategist, stood at the opposite railing, assessing the situation with an unshakable focus. "Reinforce the hull breach!" he commanded, pointing to where seawater was beginning to seep through splintered wood. "We’re not sinking on my watch!"

Another thunderous crash rattled the ship, the force throwing several men off balance and scattering loose cargo across the deck. The sound of grinding wood and the eerie groan of the hull filled the air.

Ryder stumbled, clutching Marlon’s arm to steady himself. "This thing’s playing with us," he muttered, voice trembling. "It could’ve sunk us by now if it wanted to."

Marlon gritted his teeth, his eyes darting to the waterline. "Don’t say that out loud, boy. You’ll give it ideas."

The shadow beneath the waves appeared again, circling slower this time, almost taunting. The glowing bioluminescence trailing behind it cast an eerie light on the ship’s underside, illuminating the intricate imperial sigils etched into the wood.

Luke’s head snapped toward the bow as the shadow moved. "Keep your weapons ready!" he barked. "No hesitation!"

Kieran turned sharply to face the gathered men. "We’ll lure it out," he said, his voice low but carrying over the chaos. "Make it show itself. Harpoons ready. Aim for the head or whatever it calls a heart."

"But what if it doesn’t have one?" a voice called out, trembling with fear.

Kieran’s masked face turned toward the voice, his tone icy. "Then we make one."

The ship groaned again, the vibrations resonating through every plank and rope. Whatever circled them wasn’t just a beast. It was something far more intelligent, something testing them. And it wasn’t finished yet.

A hand, slick and glistening with seawater, reached out and tightened its grip on the wooden rail, long claws digging into the soaked wood. The faint bioluminescent glow along the webbing pulsed like the heartbeat of the sea itself. With an eerie smoothness, it pulled itself up, revealing more of the creature that followed.

A scream tore through the night, sharp and panicked, as one of the crew caught sight of the intruder. "By the gods!" he cried, stumbling backward and tripping over a coil of rope.

The figure loomed over the rail now, its upper body humanoid yet alien. Iridescent scales shimmered in hues of violet and blue, reflecting the dim lantern light. Long, sleek strands of lavender hair clung wetly to its face and shoulders, framing angular features that were both beautiful and unnerving. Its eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing faintly, scanned the deck with an unsettling intelligence.

Luke and Kieran froze for a moment before snapping into action.

"Ready the harpoons!" Luke shouted, drawing his blade.

Kieran stepped forward, his stance steady even as the deck pitched beneath him. "Stand your ground! It’s just one. We’ve faced worse."

The creature tilted its head, watching the chaos it had stirred with an almost amused expression. Water dripped from its elongated fingers, each ending in a sharp claw, as it gripped the rail tighter.

Another man screamed, clutching a makeshift weapon—a gaff hook—and stepping back in terror. The creature’s gaze snapped to him, its lips curling into a sharp, toothy grin.

Marlon spat again, though his hand trembled as he held his harpoon. "Ain’t no fish I’ve ever seen."

The creature finally spoke, its voice resonating like the deep echo of waves in a cavern. "You... should not have come here."

The words sent a chill through the crew, the weight of their mistake crashing down on them like the waves below.

“Shuveyr… Shuveyr save us,” 

The hand, slick and glistening with seawater, tightened its grip on the wooden rail, long claws digging into the soaked wood. The faint bioluminescent glow along the webbing pulsed like the heartbeat of the sea itself. With an eerie smoothness, it pulled itself up, revealing more of the creature that followed.

A scream tore through the night, sharp and panicked, as one of the crew caught sight of the intruder. "By the gods!" he cried, stumbling backward and tripping over a coil of rope.

The figure loomed over the rail now, its upper body humanoid yet alien. Iridescent scales shimmered in hues of violet and blue, reflecting the dim lantern light. Long, sleek strands of lavender hair clung wetly to its face and shoulders, framing angular features that were both beautiful and unnerving. Its eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing faintly, scanned the deck with an unsettling intelligence.

The creature tilted its head, watching the chaos it had stirred with an almost amused expression. Water dripped from its elongated fingers, each ending in a sharp claw, as it gripped the rail tighter.

Another man screamed, clutching a makeshift weapon—a gaff hook—and stepping back in terror. The creature’s gaze snapped to him, its lips curling into a sharp, toothy grin.

Marlon spat again, though his hand trembled as he held his harpoon. "Ain’t no fish I’ve ever seen."

The creature finally spoke, its voice resonating like the deep echo of waves in a cavern. "You... should not have come here."

The creature's lips curled further, the expression both amused and terrifying, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth that gleamed like polished bone in the dim light. Her iridescent scales shifted with an unsettling fluidity, as if her body was part of the ocean itself. Her eyes—deep, endless pools of violet and pink—locked onto the man who had invoked Shuveyr, a slight glimmer of recognition flickering within them.

"Shuveyr?" Her voice was soft yet resonated with an eerie echo, as though the very sea had spoken. "A goddess to call upon in your desperation?" She tilted her head, her hair falling like strands of dark silk, glistening with droplets of seawater. "She does not dwell here... not where I reign."

The crew was silent now, the weight of her words sinking in. The terror among them was palpable, as if they were standing on the edge of something ancient and deadly. The deck creaked ominously beneath their feet, and the winds picked up, howling with the ferocity of a storm on the horizon.

"You’ve ventured too far," the creature continued, her voice lilting as she stepped forward, her webbed feet soundless against the wood. Her gaze flicked to the ship’s stern, where the rest of the crew stood frozen, some still clutching their weapons, others too afraid to move. "There is no safe haven in these waters. No gods, no prayers can protect you from the depths of the sea."

Marlon swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he gripped his harpoon tighter. "What do you want from us?" His voice cracked, and despite his bravado, the terror was evident.

The siren's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Your lives are forfeit. A small price for trespassing in these waters... but perhaps," she mused, her tone shifting to something more calculating, "perhaps I could offer you a trade."

The men exchanged uncertain glances, some hesitating, others desperate to find a way out of the nightmare unfolding before them.

"What trade?" Luke dared to ask, his voice steady despite the fear twisting in his gut.

"Let me think," the siren said with a tilt of her head, her smile never wavering. "You can give me what you value most—your pride, your treasure, or perhaps... your very souls."

Her gaze swept over the crew, pausing on each man for just a heartbeat too long. "Choose wisely," she added, her voice softening into a whisper, "for I know what lies beneath your skins."

The wind howled again, drowning out the crew's responses, and the ship creaked louder, as if groaning under the weight of its impending doom.

A heavy silence settled over the ship, thick and suffocating. The men stood frozen, eyes wide, hearts racing, as the siren disappeared beneath the waves. Her haunting eyes, filled with unspoken promises, faded into the deep, leaving only the echo of her voice hanging in the air like a curse.

For a moment, there was nothing—no movement, no sound save the relentless crash of the waves against the hull. The men held their breath, waiting, uncertain of what would come next. The stillness was so profound that it felt as though time had stopped.

And then, the barrels, unsecured by the chaos, began to shift.

A low groan from the ship's timbers echoed, the sound growing louder as the barrels, laden with supplies, began to roll and tumble across the deck. The men, still in shock, moved hastily to prevent the containers from sliding off the ship, but it was too late—several rolled to the edge and crashed overboard, splashing into the water below.

From the depths, something stirred.

The water around the ship churned violently as if something large was moving just beneath the surface, circling, waiting. The men froze again, eyes darting toward the waves, but there was no sign of the siren, no sign of what was to come next.

Then, the sound of creaking wood—a deep, groaning sound—came from beneath the hull. It was as though the ship itself were buckling under some unseen force, its timbers straining against the pressure.

Luke, his face pale, looked toward the horizon, his voice barely a whisper. "We're not alone."

And before anyone could respond, the sea erupted.

Massive, dark shapes shot up from the water, enormous and terrifying, their forms shifting in the shadows beneath the surface. Tentacles, black and slick, coiled and lashed against the ship’s sides, pulling with unimaginable strength. The ship lurched violently, a deep, ominous growl vibrating through the planks.

The crew scrambled, shouting orders and fear-stricken prayers, but it was clear that whatever had risen from the depths was far beyond their control. As the ship groaned under the assault, the unmistakable sound of tearing wood filled the air, and the men knew—this was no ordinary storm. This was the wrath of something ancient, something that had waited in these waters for far too long.

The captain was here.

But  something else.

The raven had made its appearance, cawing. Heavy foot steps sounded- thud, thud, thud. 

“Grab the nets.  I want a siren.”

copyright © 2024 Hellinistical all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

[lunchboxpoems]

TO BE BRAVE, I LOOK TO THE DAFFODIL

To be brave, I look to the daffodil. A stupid flower, I’ve always thought – too eager to enter a world not fully thawed. Shrinking  after just one cold night. I surround myself with pluck. Always one for adventure: running naked  across campus into a stranger’s car as rite of passage, jumping into the freezing bay. Hitchhiking home but afraid to speak in class. To order in my mother’s tongue, my mother’s food. I let the dark take on its own shapes, unchecked. No, I am not brave, but I like the people who are. Who never overprepare or let their anxieties  stop them. For whom things always work out.  I’m chasing the high from one novelty to another, wanting adventure but so unwilling to find it on my own. Instead, I lose myself in people who live unafraid. Bravery by osmosis. This might be the truest thing I say today and it scares me. To admit that on my own, I was never wild. All this time I thought the daffodil’s dropped  petals, the green leaves that remained, marked an ending.  But underground she is rebuilding for next spring.  For when she’ll dare, again, to push through the frostbitten earth. Year after year, it goes on like this.

SUSAN NGUYEN

[quirkwizard]

On the Matter of Quirk Counseling

So one of the hot-button issues of the fan base is the subject of Quirk Counseling. That it's this horrific practice done to "deviants" like Himiko to make them normal, and it's what turned her into the person she is today. And with the ending, people thought that Uraraka working to spread it out over the country was a terrible thing and was only going to make more problems. Naturally, this is something I disagree with. At least, to the extent the fanbase takes it.

We're told that Quirk Counseling is a program that helps the youth understand and adjust to living in modern society. However, as we see with Himiko and her flashbacks, this kind of process can end up isolating people who don't fit in with that society. A pretty grim perspective on the world. However, I don't think it's the most reliable one. This is the kind of perspective we get from Chitose, who is someone who is radically opposed to how society handles Quirks and wants to destroy it, and Toga, someone who was hurt by this same process. So I think that paints a specific picture of the practice. One that may not be entirely true.

Because in spite of being such a big part of a major villain, we know very little about what Quirk Counseling entails. We're told by Midnight that every kid goes through Quirk Counseling during elementary school. So every character in the series must have undergone this same process at some point. During Tamaki's flashback, we see something like this going on in middle school. People being taught how to use their Quirks, at least in a basic way. This is later reinforced during the Remedial Course Arc, where the whole point is the heroes helping to teach kids about their powers. All in all, it doesn't seem that terrible, and it seems to work with a lot of people in the world.

This all paints a different picture of what exactly Quirk Counseling entails. Because when we see it in action, it's mostly just teaching people how to use their Quirks and helping them understand their own powers. Which isn't a bad thing. Quirks can be very dangerous and wild, even from a young age. It's important you know how it works, whether it be how it functions or how to use it. Better yet, how not to use it. Because, as we have seen, the unchecked usage of Quirks is going to be dangerous for everyone involved. Values like this need to be put into kids at a young age to keep any kind of peace or stability in the broader world. And it seems to work.

Himiko is an odd case within the world. Someone whose Quirk had a potent effect on their interests and personality, more so than any other person we've seen. She is an outlier. A deviant. Yet she was still a little girl that needed help. Maybe, if she had gotten the right help, she wouldn't be the person she is today. And that is part of the tragedy of Himiko. That the concept of normality has been so enforced that they can't even hope to properly help Himiko. The problem wasn't the system itself. The problem came in its inefficiency to handle cases like Himiko. Outliers that couldn't handle possibly fit within the brackets of "normal." And when all that pressure comes down on someone, they will eventually break under it.

It's why I don't think that Quirk Counseling growing is the problem everyone tries to make it out to be. Uraraka's helping to expand the system that is meant to help and teach kids about their powers. We've seen how that can help troubled kids. The Remedial Course is the prime example of that, where it's something that works with the kids rather than trying to strongarm them. And with that system growing, it will help to prevent cases like Himiko. It can help the kids learn about themselves and their powers. It can show kids not how to be "normal." But what they're going through isn't something they have to be afraid of and can live with. Just as Himiko could have. Expanding this isn't disrespecting her. It's keeping other kids to suffer like she did.

[bliss-in-the-void]

Gege Akutami, You Do Not Understand Gojo Satoru, and Here is Why

I was reading this article to help me cope with the traumatic events of Chapter 236 when a certain portion didn’t sit right with me.

Long post, click to read the full analysis:

(this is probably the most important post I've made so far)

Now, we all know that Gege doesn’t like Gojo. They don’t make it a secret in the slightest. Which is fine in itself, as an author you are 100% within your right to hate a character you created, and I respect that—it gives dimension to the dynamic of a story.

What I don’t care for is the reasons Akutami lists for their dislike of Gojo.

Reason #1 as stated in the above blurb of the article: Gojo doesn’t have depth.

To me, this is a wild statement to make as an author, but especially as the one who wrote Gojo. Where does he lack depth? Genuine question.

I believe he is an incredibly complex character.

He is the first sorcerer in centuries to be born with the Six Eyes and Limitless techniques, which automatically sets up so many nuances. Coupled with the fact that Akutami has stated that he grew up spoiled, that right there should tell you some things about why he is the way he is. He has a bit of an inflated ego when it comes to his powers. And why wouldn’t he? From the time he was born, the people around him treated him like some sort of God. How else was he supposed to grow up? He’s told his whole life he possesses unparalleled power, and he’s going to believe that.

Even still, it really isn’t as unchecked as Akutami seems to believe it is. Despite his distaste for authority, Gojo still reports to the higher ups, goes on missions, exorcizes curses, and works collaboratively with his fellow sorcerers. If he was really the giant egomaniac Akutami argues that he is, he’d say ‘to hell with authority’ and run off to do whatever he wants like Yuki. I mean, COME ON, this guy is the most powerful modern sorcerer and he still attended all four years of high school. He could have easily never attended—who was going to stop him?

He has a peculiar sense of humor that can get inappropriately timed in certain moments, but it’s obvious that it’s a deflection and a coping mechanism for the horrors of a sorcerer’s reality. He doesn’t just joke about death and dying because he doesn’t care. He cares too much and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he suppresses and laughs it off. Moments like this are seen after Suguru dies in JJK 0 when he was clearly crying afterward, but had to put on a cheerful facade for Yuuta and the other students.

He is a very good teacher. It’s hard for a naturally gifted prodigy to effectively teach things which come automatically to them, and somehow he finds creative ways to do it. Teaching Yuuji to control cursed energy by using one of Yaga’s dolls and giving him a movie marathon? One of Yuuji’s favorite hobbies? Genius and so considerate for Yuuji. He’d just been thrown into the sorcerer world, learning all these new things, and Gojo decided to introduce a foreign concept to him through something familiar and comfortable to him. That is amazing, and the mark of a very kind, understanding teacher. He’s also really patient with his students. Yes, he gives them tough love sometimes by throwing them into missions, but it really is to make them strong. How else will they grow if they aren’t put under pressure?

His motivation for being a teacher is very selfless. He himself has stated that he isn’t suited to be a teacher, but that he has a dream to raise a generation of strong allies to prevent isolation from occurring like what had happened to Suguru. He felt guilty about growing apart from him, didn’t see the warning signs before he snapped, and regrets not being there for him more. His entire purpose now is dedicated to making sure the new wave of sorcerers have a tightly-knit network so that no one ends up alone and on a dark path like Suguru.

He constantly sticks his neck out for the helpless even when it’s far from his benefit. He paid off the Zenin clan to save Megumi, the child of the man who ruined his high school years and nearly killed him. He then raised him. He threatened the higher ups to keep Yuuta alive, and then did it again for Yuuji. He does this to preserve their youth, because his own was taken away from him. His whole life he’d been controlled by the higher ups and people around him because of who he is in the sorcerer world, so by waving his own status in front of authority to hold them back from his students, he acts as a sort of shield to take as many burdens off of their shoulders as he can so that they can remain carefree. As much as he can within his power.

With all of that being said, I really don’t understand where Akutami is coming from with lack of depth, but another argument I say to that statement is: well, you’re the author, give him the depth you think he’s missing. (Personally, I believe he’s one of the best-written characters in any anime I’ve seen).

Reason #2 is that according to Akutami, he doesn’t have a likable personality.

What about his personality is unlikable?

He is cocky, but not to the point where he stops caring about others, not to the point where he never considers how other people feel or how his actions affect other people, and not to the point where he never feels guilt and remorse about his shortcomings. Like I said, he lives his life trying to prevent his past from repeating itself, to save the fates of others.

I really don’t get it. In JJK 0, after Nitta gives her report on the shopping mall, Gojo thanks her and praises her. Would a cocky asshole do that? No. If you wanted to characterize him as unlikable, you could have made him dismiss her, or ignore her.

He makes pop culture references, he has endearing flaws like not being good at drawing, being a lightweight drinker, and overdoing it on the sweets. He’s funny, he’s kind, he’s considerate…he is a very likable character.

Honestly, the self-absorption he displays when he’s fighting is probably a result of his upbringing. Being told you have so much power you have so much power you have so much power over and over again instills this belief that yes, he’s needed by Jujutsu Society to fight curses as a weapon. As. A. Weapon. The Six Eyes & Limitless user is a formidable weapon, but what about Satoru Gojo, the person? The only time he feels useful is when he’s fighting curses. That’s where he gets his self-worth. We can see that expressed in this panel, from Chapter 236:

In the second half of Gojo’s second text bubble, he says, “でもどこかで人としてというより生き物としての線引きがあったのかな”.

This translates to: “But I wonder if somewhere there was a line drawn between being a creature rather than a person.”

Rather than having drew the line himself, being constantly treated like the strongest, being handed over the difficult missions, being relied on so heavily pushed him away from other people. It distorted the perception everyone had of him, and it distorted the perception he had of himself. He also believed he could never lose because he let his human side fade into the background. The world didn't need human Satoru Gojo, they needed sorcerer Satoru Gojo, the one who could bend rules to his will with his might, the one who could exorcise any curse and save the day no matter how bad things got. Why would he remain human when that part of him was treated as non-existent? The only person who did treat him as a person with weaknesses and flaws has been dead for eleven years. Of course that voice of reason is going to fizzle out.

How can you possibly vilify him for that? It would be a disservice to everything he has had to endure his entire life.

Reason #3 and the last point I want to touch on is when the article says, "Akutami believes that much of this adoration is based solely on his striking appearance, overshadowing his more abrasive personality traits."

Okay. Where to start?

Honestly, and I know this is probably not Akutami's intention, but that comes off as so condescending. It's so presumptuous. It's as if to say we're all going "ooh look at pretty man, pretty man do no wrong because too pretty" mindlessly with dilated pupils and drool coming out of our mouths. Uh. No.

Yes, Satoru is a good-looking character, but no, that is very far from why we like him so much as a character, and it's also very far from why he's so popular. Aside from all of the points I've made above explaining why he's so universally loved, I'll make another one that isn't superficial and tired.

He's so relatable.

This is a man so incredibly traumatized by his high school years that he is mentally and emotionally unable to move on. Suguru Geto was his very best friend, and for reasons he took too long to understand, chose to abandon their friendship for his own goals. For anyone who has grown apart from a best friend, this hits so hard.

Because of his upbringing it was hard to become close to anyone. But somehow, Suguru was able to break past his walls, and for that, he became entirely too dependent on him. This is common for anyone who finds it hard to make friends and get close to others. Once someone is allowed in, you cling so hard to them and imagine them being there for your entire life. So, when they leave, you take it entirely too personally.

Everyone has a right to live their own lives, and as we see with the divergence of Suguru and Satoru, sometimes our paths aren't leading to the same place. It's not personal. But Satoru took it personal, and that's so beautifully human. When you lose a best friend who was important to you, you think "I like being around this person, they put me at ease in a way no one else does", and you assume they feel the same way about you. So when they leave and show you that no, they didn't feel the same, it hurts. It's almost as if they're saying "I actually do think you're unlovable like everyone else, that's why no one likes you, you are too much."

Someone you thought was safe, isn't anymore.

That is such a relatable thing to watch a character go through! Especially someone as awe-inspiring and charismatic as Gojo! As an audience, we think, "he's just like me!" and we like him for it.

So, as I stated in the title, Gege Akutami, you don't understand Satoru Gojo at all. I commend you for writing such an amazing, iconic, universally loved character, but I will never understand nor respect the superficial way in which you perceive him.

[theseshipsshallsail]

For those in need of a distraction. Stay safe ❤️

PROVOCATEUR

Elio moans - much too loud for the paper-thin walls of their Morningside walk-up - and a running mantra of mine, mine, mine, echoes in Oliver’s head at the uneven gasps and hiccups that flow unchecked from his kiss-swollen lips.

“Sì, that’s it… dammi di più!” he demands, pupils blown wide as Oliver fingers his spit-slick hole. “Another, per favore! Stretch me… fill me…”

Clutching his knees, Elio opens himself further. And Oliver? He’s no stranger to following orders. Accustomed, as he is, to the impudent heathen beneath him. Truth be told, he revels in it. The bold, uninhibited way Elio rambles his inner-thoughts. How he’ll provide a ribald commentary of precisely what he wants Oliver to do, and later, precisely how good it feels whilst he actually does it. 

But he’s a force of nature, is Elio - chestnut curls strewn across the messy pillows - and a lightning-bolt thrill of excitement darts up Oliver’s spine as he slips his digits free with an obscenely wet pop. “Ready?” 

Elio grunts; a cherry-red flush extending from his hairline right down to his delightfully bare chest. “Yes, yes… put your cock in me… fuck me -”

“Christ, I love you…” Oliver groans, bringing his ruddy glans to Elio's greedy rim: craving the sublime tightness as he carefully nudges within. 

Slender legs wrap around his waist.

The kick of impatient heels saps his self-restraint. 

“Don’t stop,” Elio keens, reeling him in by the nape. 

“Never…” Oliver swears, dropping his brow to Elio’s freckled shoulder as he inches forward, claiming his fever-hot body in one, fluid glide.

Before Elio, he didn’t tend to be vocal in bed: before, that is, the myriad frustrations of a long-distance relationship funneled their filthiest desires into a steady stream of illicit phone calls. Expensive? Absolutely. But needs must when the devil drives, and after thirteen months of little alternative - not to mention the occasionallypornographic letters stowed safely in his bottom drawer - neither of them are particularly shy in holding back. 

“Look at you,” Oliver rumbles, far beyond the realms of mere arousal. “Skin like silk: mouth like sin…”

And, yes, alright, it isn't the most concise dirty talk on the planet, but wild horses couldn’t still his poetic tongue whilst buried balls-deep in Elio Perlman’s ridiculously perfect ass. It’s intoxicating - the way they fit together like Plato’s other halves - and circling his hips he licks the salty tang from his boyfriend’s sweaty clavicle; butterfly kisses soothing the residual stubble rash he’d left just earlier that morning.

“Won’t last…”

“Then don’t,”Elio pants succinctly; hands locked at the shallow dip of Oliver’s tailbone. “I want you to come,” he says, taking a pebbled nipple between his teeth. “For me… inside me… make me yours…”

Breathless, his voice grows increasingly disjointed. Hitching and stumbling over each jagged syllable. It’s enough to send him soaring - the subsequent waves of pleasure that massage his jolting length - and with a choked-off cry Oliver’s seeing stars: his entire focus narrowing to this very moment and the wondrous man in his arms; the only things that matter in this brave, new world.

“Say it,” he hears through the blood rushing in his ears. “Say it, my Elio…”

“You’re mine,” Oliver affirms, inveigling a palm between them, but from the sopping state of Elio’s belly it soon becomes apparent he’s already reached his peak.

“Pas nécessaire,” he hums; eyes closed in apparent exhaustion as he melts into the mattress, and brimming with smug satisfaction, Oliver sprawls over him in turn; lapping a stray streak of semen from his slowly bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“My beautiful boy,” he murmurs, muscles weak and twitchy. “How could there ever be anyone else but you, huh?”

Of course, the only time Elio’s not barking commands is if they’re basking in the afterglow, so rolling sideways Oliver rearranges their tangled limbs into some semblance of normality, bussing his dewy temple when all he receives is a snuffling snore in response.