#and mob acknowledges him...and comes to trust him

[anicream]

there's this light you keep on chasing

[causticsunshine]

.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-one: lost

word count: 4.1k

warnings: this chapter contains strong themes of grief and mentions unhealthy coping mechanisms. reader discretion is advised.

forty | forty-one | forty-two

Y/N didn’t cry much after that night.

Not because it didn’t hurt anymore — but because the pain had settled into something colder, something quieter. The hurt became a folded up little thing she could tuck into her pocket like a gum wrapper, the kind of thing you could carry around without anyone noticing. 

She became quieter too – though not in any obvious way. 

She still smiled at customers. Still made the drinks just the way people liked them. Still answered questions in class and turned in assignments on time. But everything was... dulled. Worn thin. Like the brightness had been turned down on the world and she didn’t know how to turn it back up again.

She spent most of her time at the café now, each of her shifts starting sooner and ending later than the one before. 

Her coworkers noticed the change.

The Y/N they knew — the one who used to hum while she brewed espresso, who always snuck an extra cookie to the regulars and let the college kids study past closing — was quieter now, tired in a way concealer couldn’t fix.

“You should go home,” Susie tried gently on her way out one night as she watched Y/N wipe the already-clean counters for the second time. “You’ve been here more than twelve hours.”

“I’m fine,” she waved her off, not looking up. And she was, really.

She wore clean clothes, answered emails, turned in assignments. She smiled when people expected her to.

She certainly functioned.

Yet there was a wall now — thick and soundproof — between her and the girl she used to be. The one who’d looked at him and seen safety instead of danger. The one who’d kissed a man she didn’t know was capable of murder.

That girl was gone. In her place stood someone quieter, someone less trusting. This new version of her flinched every time the front door creaked open at the café and had to see the face before she could breathe again.

He hadn’t come back.

Not yet.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

She didn’t know what she wanted more — for him to stay gone, or to show up and give her a reason to let him back in. What hurt more than the lies, more than the betrayal, more than the night she held a knife in her shaking hand was the part of her that still wished it could go back.

Not to fix it, not to forgive – just to freeze the moment before it all broke, when she still believed the man who held her was just a little strange, but still safe. 

Still hers.

Soon after, Y/N stopped coming home before dark. Started spending longer hours at the café, telling herself there was always something else to do — inventory, supplier calls, mop the floors again even though they were clean. She picked up more shifts than she needed. Said yes when her professor asked if anyone wanted to stay after and help sort research journals.

She told herself she was moving on.

Unfortunately for her, however, everything in her life was still steeped in his memory.

There was the mug he’d dubbed as his own still in her cupboard, their throw blanket bunched on the couch where they’d up napping one way or another. There was still the half-read book on the nightstand that he’d teased her about, still dog-eared on page 214. She couldn’t be certain if his fingerprints remained embedded anywhere in her apartment, but somehow, she could feel them. 

Y/N could’ve sworn they were still there.

She didn’t delete his number. She didn’t throw away the hoodie he left or scrub the memory of his laughter from her walls. 

That would’ve meant acknowledging what happened. 

And when she finally did come home — late, exhausted, too numb to think — she kept the lights low, brushed her teeth in silence, and crawled into bed without looking at the spot beside her.

The spot where he once slept.

He had taken something good — something pure — and twisted it with lies.

And now she was left sorting through the pieces of something she couldn’t fix, because she didn’t know what was true anymore. What memories were hers to keep, and what had been built on deception from the beginning.

It had felt real. And that’s what made it unforgivable.

At first, it was just a notification – one missed call from a familiar name lighting up her screen like a wound.

Frozen in some sort of trance, she simply stared at it until it stopped ringing.

Then came the texts.

liam!: Please. liam!: Just tell me your okay? liam!: I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need to know your safe. Read 12:55 AM

liam!: Y/N. liam!: I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. liam!: You don’t have to respond. But I’ll still always be sorry. Read Yesterday

She didn’t block him. She told herself it was so he’d know she was alive, so he’d stop worrying, so he wouldn’t show up.

But as fate would have it, he didn’t stop.

liam!: I shouldn’t of lied liam!: I don’t really know how to be who you needed. I just wanted to be near you liam!: You made me feel like I was more then the worst thing I’ve done liam!: Please let me explain. Please can I talk to you liam!: I can’t sleep. Can’t think strait liam!: I miss you Read 11:57 PM

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t block him. She couldn’t. She told herself it was because she wanted proof — a paper trail in case she needed to file something, explain something. But the truth was simpler.

She wasn’t ready to let go.

So she watched as the texts came in. One after the other.

liam! : Please talk to me

liam! : I didn’t know how to tell you. I never wanted you to find out like that.

liam! : I'm sorry

liam! : I miss you

liam! : Please. Just tell me youre ok

She didn’t answer. Not once.

But against her better judgement, she read every word.

She held her phone in her hand some nights, thumb hovering over the keyboard like maybe, just maybe, this time she’d respond. Maybe just one message. Just to say stop. Or I’m alive.

But she never did.

She’d walk into the café and feel her phone vibrate against her thigh and know it was him. Her thumb hovered over his name more times than she’d ever admit — but she never replied.

It only took a certain amount of concentration, she found, to not focus on the barrage of texts she knew awaited her the moment she would unlock her phone. So really, if she just focused on trying new recipes for the cafe or starting books she’d been meaning to read or walking Kika’s dog while she was out of town, then she wouldn’t have to even acknowledge the existence of those texts until she put her stupid phone on charging each night.

It was simple enough – stay busy, and she could go on pretending Lando never even existed.

Perfect.

The first call came two days after she told him to leave.

She didn’t answer it.

The screen lit up with his name — liam!, the way she’d saved it back when she still believed that’s who he was — and her hand hovered above the phone for just a second too long before she let it go dark.

He called again the next night.

And the night after that.

Eventually, he stopped leaving voicemails. Maybe he realized she wasn’t listening to them. Or maybe he couldn’t stand hearing his own voice echo into a void.

So he continued texting instead. AT least those, he knew, she read.

At first, they were long. Apologetic. Rambling things she never read fully. Things like “Please just let me explain,” and “I never meant for you to find out like that,” and “I swear, I didn’t plan any of it. Not with you.” He told her he missed her. That he couldn’t sleep. That the bed didn’t feel right without her.

She didn’t reply.

The messages kept coming anyway.

Over time, they got shorter. Less coherent. Frustrated.

liam!: I know you’re reading these. liam!: Please. liam!: Say something. liam!: Anything. liam!: I don’t care if you scream at me. liam!: I just need to hear your voice. Read Sunday

Eventually, she stopped looking at them at all.

But still — her phone buzzed at night. Sometimes just once. Sometimes over and over, until she had to silence it and shove it in a drawer just to breathe.

She never blocked him.

She told herself it was because she wanted evidence, just in case. Because cutting him off completely would’ve been stupid, unsafe.

But the truth was much crueler: perhaps some part of her wanted to know he was still trying.

The first time, she thought she was imagining the soft, hesitant knock at the door of her apartment at 11:47 PM. In the middle of getting ready for bed (or at least trying to), she just froze in place. She just stood there in the hallway, staring at the door like it might open itself.

Then it came again – softer this time, like he was worried about waking her, even now.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, broken. “I just… I wanted to say this in person.”

She backed away slowly, hand covering her mouth, breath caught in her throat.

Please, go. Just leave me alone. 

How much more are you going to hurt me?

“I know ’m the last person you want to see. I know I don’t deserve anythin’ from you. But I meant every word I said. Every morning. Every night. Every, like, stupid inside joke. That– that wasn’t fake. That was me. Fuck, I swear to god– It’s me. 

‘S the only real part I’ve got left.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I don’t regret meeting you,” he whispered, almost like these words were meant more for himself than for her. 

“I regret what I did to you. What I hid. But never you.”

Please, she begged. Please just go.

He did, eventually. Hours passed before she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, before she finally felt like she could breathe again.

Only for him to be back the next night.

Some nights he just knocked and called her name softly, on to leave after he got no response in return. Other nights, he sat outside her door for over an hour, saying nothing. She could hear the way he shifted, the soft sound of his back resting against the wall. If she listened closely enough, she could even hear  the occasional crack in his breathing like maybe he was crying again and trying not to.

It took everything in her not to open the door.

There were a few nights where her willpower waned, her hand hovering over the handle. Sitting there, directly opposite to where he sat on the other side of the door, her body would ache with the memory of him — the once-familiar weight of his arm around her, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the way he used to say her name like it mattered. 

Like she mattered.

It became a pattern after that – not every night, certainly not enough to be predictable. But it happened often enough that she started to expect it.

Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he sat there for five minutes, like just being near her was enough.

Once, she found him curled up against the door the next morning, fast asleep, as if the last thing he said had knocked the breath out of him and he hadn’t found the strength to leave.

She didn’t open it.

But she slid down to the floor on the other side and cried quietly into her sleeve. She cried herself sick, her own body torn between being repulsed by his betrayal and needing to be in his arms again like it was oxygen.

She could only cry harder when she remembered the way he kissed her shoulder when she fell asleep on the couch. The way he brewed her favorite tea before she asked. The way he laughed like he didn’t belong to a world so dark, even though he did.

She wanted to believe he could still be that person, but the truth was that he hadn’t lied about loving her. He’d lied about everything else. 

And no amount of heartbreak could make that okay.

On Thursday, she came home late, like always. The hallway smelled like floor cleaner and whatever her neighbors must have cooked dinner, and the lights above her door flickered like they always did.

Y/N stepped forward to open her door, looking down to reach for her keys when–

Lando?

There he was, slumped on the floor just outside her apartment, that familiar mop of curls resting against the doorframe, his arms limp at his sides.

He stood as soon as he heard her.

“Y/N—”

Her keys trembled in her hand. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she only gave him one long look – whether it was out of hatred or heartbreak, he couldn’t quite tell. 

A moment later, she just turned around, and walked back down the stairs, needing to be anywhere but there.

When she returned, Lando was no longer there. Unsure of what she felt was relief or disappointment, she’d nearly missed the small, brightly coloured sticky not stuck to her door.

But she wasn’t so fortunate. Memories of studying late at night, passing note back and forth with him on sticky notes much like this one to help pass the time. Reminders like i’ll take out the trash when i come by tonight or can we get the yogurt covered berries again? stuck to her refrigerator door, evidence of the way their lives had begun to overlap.

It made her angry. It made her furious, in fact, and for no real reason other than the fact that it was yet another reminder of him.

Y/N didn’t hesitate to ignore it in favor of pushing her door open and letting herself in, leaving the note to fall gracefully on her doorstep, unread.

It was nice seeing you today.

Sometimes when he showed up outside her door he’d talk — softly, like he thought she might be listening. Sometimes he told her stories about the café, little things he remembered, like the time she burned a whole batch of scones and tried to pass them off as “toasted." Other times he talked about his past, things she never knew. The kind of confessions that sounded like he was bleeding them out. That maybe no one else had ever heard.

And sometimes, he just sat there in silence.

One night, she heard a quiet thud and opened the peephole to see him curled up beside her door.

Asleep.

His body had gone lax like it’d given up out of sheer desperation, merely succumbing to the exhaustion of some invisible weight on his shoulders. In fact, he didn’t look relaxed at all, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication. He’s frame had also gotten scrawnier, as if maybe he hadn’t been eating well.

For a moment, a faint memory of warm food delivered at her doorstep flashed in her mind, but it went away just as quickly as it had appeared.

It’s not like that. He’s probably eating just fine. Don’t be stupid.

As she stood on the other side of that door, she tried quite desperately to convince herself of all sorts of perfectly reasonable things – that she should open the door to kick him out again, that she should shout at him, that she call the cops like she’d threatened to and tell them that he was harassing her. 

With her thumb hovering over the call button, the tear that slipped down her cheek and dripped onto her phone screen only confirmed the same cursed truth she’d been doing everything in her power to hide from.

That she simply couldn’t.

Because every night she came home and saw him there — wrecked, waiting — it took everything in her not to fold and forgive him, right then and there. It took everything in her not to remember the way he used to hold her like the world didn’t exist beyond the two of them.

Despite the twisting sensation in her chest, she still didn’t open the door — all because remembering what they were was easier than facing what he was.

It was overcast when she went.

Not raining, but the kind of heavy gray that made the whole world feel muted — like even the sky had the decency to keep its voice down. The cemetery was quiet. Clean. Rows of headstones lined up like a frozen library of stories no one would ever finish reading.

Y/N didn’t come here often.

Not because she didn’t miss Margot. But because every time she stepped between those stones, it reminded her that Margot was really, truly gone. There was no text waiting. No sarcastic note on the café register. No spare bobby pins or blister Band-Aids tucked into Y/N’s apron pocket without asking.

Just a name carved into cold stone.

And now she needed her more than she had in months.

Y/N didn’t bring flowers. Margot would’ve hated that. She wasn’t the type to coo over daisies or pretend roses fixed anything. She would’ve rolled her eyes and said, “If you’re gonna visit me, at least bring gossip.”

So Y/N brought a coffee instead. – hot and with no cream, just the way Margot used to drink it.

She found the grave — small, simple, covered with pebbles and a few crumpled flowers from someone else who remembered. She sat cross-legged in the grass across from the headstone, carefully setting the coffee beside it.

She looked down at the grass, chewing the inside of her cheek until it hurt.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice raw from disuse. “Sorry it’s been a while.”

The breeze stirred the dead leaves behind her. The silence filled the space between heartbeats.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and sat beside the grave.

“I miss you.”

The words came out cracked. Smaller than she meant them to.

“I know that’s not news or anything, but…” She shrugged. “It’s getting harder. Not easier. You always said heartbreak’s just grief that’s still breathing, and I didn’t get it until now. Except this time I don’t even know if I’m grieving the person or the lie.”

Y/N let out a long, shaky breath as she looked down at her hands.

“I don’t know who else to talk to about this.”

She swallowed hard.

“I found out Liam’s not Liam,” she said, quietly. “His name’s Lando.”

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t try to stop it. The words some to spill out now, bubbling over into the silence that finally held enough space to hold what she’d been keeping in for so long. The emotions poured out, hitting her like a wave, winding her with their realized intensity.

“Can you believe it? I fell in love with a liar. With a… with a fucking killer, Marg. A- A mob boss. The mob boss. The one they talk about on the fuckin’ news! 

The one who was there the night you died.”

Her throat clenched so hard she had to stop and force herself to breathe.

“I told him to get out. I meant it. I still do.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against her clasped hands. Angry tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, warm as the rolled down the cold skin of her cheeks. Hastily, she tried to wipe them away, like doing so would somehow wipe away this deep, burning frustration she felt.

It did no such thing.

The heat of her anger spread through her chest, heating up her flesh until she could feel it. What bothered her even more was how, deep down, she knew this anger wasnt directed at him.

It was directed at herself.

“I meant it, but… I fell for him. I fell so hard. Like, I keep thinking about how he used to stay on the phone with me until I fell asleep, remember? When the insomnia was really bad. Or– Or that time I had a panic attack before the final and he just- he sat outside my class building for three hours, like he didn’t have anything else to do until he knew I was okay.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. 

“And he’d help me study. He’d bring me snacks, too. He’d even let me nap on him when I was too wired to lie down alone. It was like- Like he made it feel easy to breathe, even when everything else felt too loud, y’know?”

Only silence answered in return. A bird chirped somewhere nearby, small and defiant.

Y/N drew in a breath, steadying herself.

“I keep thinking about what you’d say. If you were here, what would you tell me to do? Would you tell me to forget him? To hate him? Because every time I think his name, it hurts. Like, it actually physically hurts.” Her hand pressed lightly to her chest. “Because  every time I see him… my brain doesn’t think, like, mob boss or liar or- or murderer.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out anyway.

“It just thinks him. The man who held my hand when my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The man who stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep. The one who helped me color-code my exam notes even though he couldn’t care less about tort reform. The one who—” Her voice cracked. “The one who believed I could actually make it into law school.”

Tears welled up again, but she didn’t fight them this time. After all, maybe this grief would be all she ever had left of him.

“He had this crazy dream that I could do it. That I’d make it. Even when I didn’t believe it myself. He’d sit next to me on the couch and highlight things he didn’t understand just so I wouldn’t feel alone.”

She looked at the headstone.

“I think he really loved me, Margot,” she dared to whisper, the confession fracturing something in her.

She swallowed.

“And I think that’s what’s killing me the most.”

She leaned her head against her knees, curling into herself as the cold seeped deeper into her skin. The grass was damp beneath her boots. Her hands were shaking.

“I don’t know what to do.”

The wind stirred gently through the trees, soft and slow.

“I don’t know how to stop missing him.”

Y/N wiped her face roughly, smearing an ugly mix of tears across her face. It made her feel worse, and that only made her want to cry more.

“I hate him for that, you know? For being the one who believed in me most. For making me want things I didn’t even know I was allowed to want.”

She looked down at the headstone.

“If you were here… what would you say? Would you tell me to push him away?”

She reached out and traced Margot’s name with trembling fingers. The wind picked up again, rustling the trees behind her like applause in reverse. Y/N sat there a while longer, eyes closed, forehead bowed.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“But I don’t think you would.”

She blinked fast. Her throat burned.

“I think you’d say you get it. That you’d tell me I’m not crazy for still loving him even when everything in me is screaming not to.”

She swallowed, her jaw trembling.

“Because I do. Love him, I mean. I wish I didn’t, but I do. And it hurts, Margot. It hurts because all I see is what he did. All I feel is that betrayal, sitting in my chest like it’s going to split me open.”

Her fingers curled into the dirt beside her. Anchoring herself.

“But when I see him... when I hear his voice, or think about the way he used to look at me — like I was his safe place — I can’t un-feel it. I can’t un-know how much I loved him. How much I still do.”

She wiped at her eyes roughly, like she could scrub the ache away.

“And I hate that, Margot. I hate that he still owns that part of me. Because I don’t know how to forgive it. I don’t know if I can.”

Silence followed. There was only the wind, gentle enough to not knock over the now-cold cup of coffee that remained her only company as she let herself finally feel it all. 

Hours seemed to pass as Y/N sat there, letting herself miss them both, and wondering which ghost hurt more to love.

a/n: so i know i promised this chapter literal ages ago, but at least it's out? i really wanted to like this chapter, but i think i spent so long on it that i kind of got sick of, so... yeah. not really my favorite work i've put out, but at least it something. hopefully it's still the quality angst you guys deserve :)

[httpskuzuu]

Chuuya gets jealous because you flirted with another man on a mission

Jealous

i have had this request for about 4 months now¿ god

Chuuya x Reader

idk english

summary: the ask 😀

tw: I think nothing really

It was just a mission, just a mission. Easy, simple. Nothing to get nervous about.

You were just doing your job: getting the information. It wasn't your fault that the man was so kind to you, that he would throw nice words at you without even acknowledging Chuuya's presence. It wasn't your fault that the target asked you to dance.

But it got on his nerves. Oh, it's really been a long time since he hated anyone this much. He thought his limit was stuck with Dazai, but suddenly this stranger comes along, flirts with you in front of him, and breaks his record for how much he can hate a person.

Hate how he puts his hands on your waist, how he sticks you to his body. Chuuya was never so invasive with you when you first met, he never intruded on your personal space unlike this man.

He should beat him up, kill him, destroy him with his skill... But he has a mission to do and that is more important than his jealousy.

He trusts you completely, that's why he lets you do your job. If you need to accept his sugar-coated words and dance invitation to get the necessary information out of him, Chuuya won't interfere. 

You are a professional, his work partner. He trusts you not only as a mob executive, but also as his significant other.

Still, it's hard to control his temper with the horrible scene in front of his eyes. Besides, he dances much better than that man...

Finish the song and excuse yourself to rejoin Chuuya. You have all the information you need, that idiot just needed a couple of nice smiles and couldn't stop talking. You both walked out of the fancy restaurant without being seen, but just when you thought you were going straight to his motorcycle, Chuuya pushes off to the other side.

A dark alley, poorly lit by street lamps.

Honestly, you're not surprised when you end up with your back pressed against one of the walls. You're not surprised to see Chuuya so... possessive.

You had noticed his gaze, how his eyebrows furrowed, how his lips tightened. And in those moments you just wanted to laugh, to tease your boyfriend for getting jealous over a mission. You had to keep up the facade inside the restaurant, but now that it was just the two of you you could laugh in peace.

“What are you laughing at?!” his hands tighten on your waist, keeping your body pressed against his.

“Someone's jealous.” You scoff as you tilt your head to the side. Your hand wanders along his scarred jaw. You could tell how he gritted his teeth.

“Bullshit. That asshole can't even reach my ankles.” He keeps his face close to your neck, smelling the expensive perfume you give off. He slowly trails kisses up to your jaw, then moves to your cheek and finally to your lips.

It's a kiss that seems to take all the air out of your lungs. He makes sure to keep you close, just as you were with that man. But with Chuuya it's very different. Your body is less tense, with a smile that he doesn't need to force.

“Chuuya is jealous.” You say teasingly when you part.

“Shut up.”

[arcadia-smith]

MOB!Bucky x MOB!Female reader.

The hum of the city was still alive as she stepped into the dimly lit speakeasy, the heavy door closing behind her with a soft thud. She hadn’t been here in months—too much business to handle, too many enemies to watch. But tonight was different. The Black Lotus had been hit hard, their weapons gone, and their operation crippled. She and Bucky had both survived, and that alone felt like a victory of sorts.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached the bar, eyes scanning the room. The quiet murmur of conversations was a welcome contrast to the chaos of the last few days. She hadn’t said much during the operation, and neither had he. There had been no time for words. But now, in the quiet aftermath, she was forced to confront the fragile truce between them.

Bucky was already there, sitting at the end of the bar, his back slightly turned to her. He had a glass of whiskey in front of him, the amber liquid swirling lazily as he watched it with an unreadable expression. The moment she stepped into view, his eyes flicked over to her, acknowledging her presence without saying a word.

She walked up and took a seat beside him, not bothering with pleasantries. "I didn’t expect you to stick around."

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I thought we might have earned ourselves a drink after all that mess." He slid the glass toward her, a silent offer.

She raised an eyebrow, taking the glass and swirling it gently. "I didn’t think you were the type to celebrate with a drink."

Bucky’s lips curled into a half-smile, the weight of everything still hanging between them both. "I’m not. But tonight’s... different."

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, like the calm before a storm. They both knew this wasn’t just about the Black Lotus anymore. The way they worked together had shifted something. Maybe it was the way his men respected her or the way she knew when to step back and let him take the lead. Or maybe it was the way his eyes lingered just a little too long when she crossed the room.

She broke the silence, voice quieter than usual. "I didn’t think you’d be so... cooperative."

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her, his eyes dark with something unreadable. "You didn’t think I had it in me?" There was a hint of amusement in his tone, but also something else—something almost like a challenge.

She shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I’ve seen the way you run things. You don’t exactly play nice."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look away. "And you don’t either. But tonight we had a common goal. A rare thing, isn’t it?"

She took a slow sip of her drink, considering his words. "Maybe. But don’t get used to it. I’m not someone who forgets who the enemy is."

Bucky studied her for a moment, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his glass. "I’m not looking to make this permanent. But for now… it works." He turned slightly toward her, his posture more relaxed now, almost like he was waiting for something.

She met his gaze, both of them aware that the unspoken words between them had more weight than any agreement on paper. The past few hours had changed something—maybe it was the way they'd fought together, or the understanding that neither of them could come out of this unscathed. But there was also something about him, something that tugged at her, even if she couldn’t name it yet.

"Let’s just say I’m not in the habit of trusting anyone," she said, her voice low but steady.

"I don’t need your trust," Bucky replied, his voice equally quiet, "Just your loyalty, when it matters."

She glanced at him, weighing his words. There was no warmth in his tone, no real invitation for anything more than the arrangement they'd made. And yet, there was something about his presence that felt like a promise. A dangerous one, but a promise nonetheless.

The conversation drifted into silence again, both of them nursing their drinks, the weight of the unspoken pact hanging heavily between them. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, but neither of them spoke for several long moments. There was no need for more words—this, right here, was the moment of quiet understanding.

Bucky was the first to break the silence. "We’ll need to be ready for the fallout. The Lotus won’t let this go, and neither will anyone else who thinks they can take us down."

She nodded, gaze never leaving his. "We’ll be ready."

He stared at her for a moment longer, his lips curling into that familiar, dangerous smirk. "I’m not done with you yet."

She didn’t flinch, even though his words held a promise of something darker. "We’ll see, Barnes. We’ll see."

With that, they both finished drinks in silence. The fragile alliance that had begun with a simple, unspoken understanding still hovered in the air—fragile, dangerous, and uncertain. But as the night carried on, one thing was clear: neither of them was ready to walk away yet.

And neither of you could afford to lose.

Find the moodboard here.

[puzzleglum]

Since we still have about nine hours to wait for the update, I wanted to share a few predictions. Some thoughts about why Lanyon might be reminding Hyde of this story from their university years. I think maybe there are two points to it. One: Lanyon wants to convince Hyde to trust him. And two: he wants to make a point related to transformation. Specifically, that of Jekyll to Hyde, and vice versa. I’ll elaborate on both points. First, why would Lanyon need to convince Hyde to trust him? Because Hyde is obviously afraid.

Lanyon got closer, and properly entered the room instead of just standing in the doorway. Hyde, meanwhile, responds with clear panic. His heart is pounding. Note his stutter when he tells Lanyon to stay back. I don’t think we’ve ever seen Hyde stutter like that before, not once. Hyde has no idea what Lanyon’s intentions are with him, you see. But he thinks they can’t be anything good. Remember, Hyde was aware and paying attention for the immediate aftermath of the identity reveal. He saw the ways Lanyon reacted with shock and horror. Hyde expected that. The shock and horror was the point. Hyde revealed their secret to ruin Jekyll’s reputation, to destroy the “pure” and “good” image he had. Hyde heard everything Lanyon said about him, and about Jekyll, and wasn’t surprised by the anger, or disgust, or anything. He knew what was coming when he revealed that Jekyll and Hyde were the same, all along. Hyde knew he was ruining his own life to spite Jekyll. He didn’t care.

A public vivisection of Jekyll, yes. But also of Hyde.

In a sense, Hyde revealed the truth to show everyone: surprise! It was I, the evil Mr. Hyde, who was the monster in Jekyll’s story all along! And the thing about that is…it’s really not safe to stick around after you reveal yourself to be the “monster” of the story. People might attack you now that they can see you for what you really are, you know? But Hyde is trapped. Don’t forget about the police and angry mob right outside the door. Monsters are to be feared and hated. Hyde knows that’s how it usually goes. The pitchforks must be coming for him. Right? (Hyde here would be ignoring the fact the Society isn’t filled with people who follow convention. Rather the opposite. And it’s not like any of them turned away someone like Frankenstein’s Creature. On the contrary, the Society welcomed him! But internalized self-hatred has a funny way of making you believe there must be something uniquely bad about you. Even when the evidence suggests differently. So it is with Hyde’s self perception.) Now, Hyde, too, must suffer the consequences of the secret being out. And he must suffer them alone, since Jekyll decided to abandon himself and his own life. What the hell is Hyde supposed to do now? Be scared, of course. And so we come back to the present page. Hyde, afraid of Lanyon, because Lanyon is a Gentleman, and Hyde is a Monster, and there is no way Lanyon means well towards a Monster. Right? And so Hyde tries to remind him that Hyde is, supposedly, a monster: “you have no idea what I’m capable of!” Hyde’s telling him that he will bite, so back off. Only, it’s not intimidating in the slightest. His front of toughness is paper thin. And Lanyon sees this. He sees the fear in Hyde’s face. He hears the stutter in his voice. It’s painfully obvious how scared Hyde must be. How does Lanyon respond, after Hyde tries to intimidate him into staying away? He pauses. Note the ellipsis. Lanyon took a moment to consider his angle.

And he found his angle. Recognition. The gentle acknowledgment of familiarity. Lanyon realized, with Frankie’s help, that Hyde is a part of Jekyll. More than that, he’s always been a part of him. Making the related connection that Jekyll and Hyde share their memories would be easy, thus addressing Hyde as “you” when telling this story. After all, their memories being shared would perfectly explain why Hyde, a person Lanyon had seemingly never met before, acted like a scorned ex the first time they spoke.

The sudden, righteous anger was a shock to Lanyon. Why, oh why, did Hyde keep acting like he knew Lanyon? Why did he have a personal grudge against him? I’m sure Lanyon must have wracked his brain to try and figure it out. Try to remember if he had known Hyde, back in university. But no, he would’ve remembered him. It just didn’t add up…until now. Because you know who else acted like a scorned ex, only one night before the present day of the comic?

That’s right. Our dear Henry Jekyll. These two panels, their dialogue, have the exact same source: a feeling of being unloved, and uncared for. The resentment of heartbreak. The difference between now and then is that Lanyon finally has the context to know why Hyde held those feelings, back then. Because Hyde sees Jekyll’s memories as fully his own. Jekyll’s history is Hyde’s history. They are, and always have been, fundamentally the same person. What’s changed now, I believe, is that Lanyon has finally realized this. He’s realized Jekyll and Hyde share memories, and the implications thereof. And that’s why he’s correctly addressing Hyde as “you” when telling a story about their university days. To circle back, I think Lanyon has a point in telling this particular story to Hyde. His angle is to build a bridge. To build trust. To let Hyde know what Lanyon has realized. He’s showing Hyde that he finally recognizes him. That he understands Hyde is not a monster, or a stranger, or a demonic curse on Jekyll’s soul. None of that. He’s a part of the man he loves. And that means Lanyon is not going to hurt him. On the contrary. He’s here to help. But why this particular story? Because of this:

Jekyll is correct, Metamorphoses is indeed the source of Lanyon’s Latin quote. It’s a narrative poem, with a unifying theme of transformations. I think it’s telling that Jekyll immediately recognizes it. Him and Lanyon are both familiar with the poem. And so, naturally, they’ll talk about that a bit on the next page. Maybe Lanyon will have more quotes to share. Maybe Jekyll will have his own quotes that mean something to him. And if he does, I imagine they’d be relevant now. Transformation is an experience that Henry Jekyll has become intimately familiar with, ever since the first night that Jekyll became Hyde. And that, I believe, is why Lanyon is telling this story. Transformation is the connection. Metamorphosis. I don’t know the exact point Lanyon wants to make, but if I had to guess, it would be something like this: ‘I see that you have changed. You have transformed. But I still recognize you.’ Meaning, he both acknowledges that Hyde’s form, and outward personality, are obviously different from Jekyll. And yet, he is the same person. He is still Henry. Just a different facet of him. A side of the man that’s usually hidden from the world. But just because people don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Hyde, the parts that make him, have always been there, even before Jekyll separated Hyde from himself with the formula. Those parts just didn’t have their own discrete personality and consciousness to go with them, before. Before I end it here, I also want to share an alternative: that the Latin quote Lanyon has already shared here is the most relevant part, and all that other stuff I just said, about transformation, is not the point of him telling this story. If that might be the case, let’s take a look at a translation I found of the quote: "But a strange power draws me to him against my will. Love urges one thing: reason another." (“Cupido” here is translated to “love” but it can also be translated to “desire,” which might be more common in the few translations I’ve found.) It’s about internal conflict, that of either following your desires OR logic and common sense. Hm! Highly relevant to the conflict between Jekyll and Hyde. Hyde is all about discarding reason and following his desires. Jekyll, meanwhile, has other concerns. His reputation, mainly. Sometimes, we must sacrifice our desires to maintain our place in society, which is important to our survival. But what happens if we choose to sacrifice our deepest desires, constantly, for years? Never giving ourselves a break? Well…you get Henry Jekyll, a man so repressed that he’d rather separate himself from his desires completely than change the way he lives his life. So maybe that’s the point of Lanyon telling this story. He might recognize that Hyde is the embodiment of those repressed desires, and that’s what he’s leading up to. I could see it going either way, with him making a point about transformation or desire. Or hell, maybe both! It’s not like Lanyon can’t be making multiple points with this story. And that’s where I must end this. Also, I was a bit sleep deprived when I wrote this. So if any of what I said doesn’t make sense, or doesn’t quite connect, you are free to both point that out to me (I welcome all feedback!) and to blame it on that sleeplessness. Either way, thank you to those who read all my rambles to the finish! You are all wonderful folks, as far as I’m concerned. Seriously, thank you for reading. <333333333333

[artaxlivs]

I posted two snippets of this yesterday so if you want to check my page, you can see those two and it’s a three-for-one! It’s a Matt Murdock/Frank Castle established relationship and they both want to keep Clint Barton. I know you aren’t a big poly fan so this is just Frank coaxing Clint into letting himself be cuddled. Im putting that part UNDER the line so if you don’t even want to read the poly snippet, you don’t have to see it. In exchange, I’m gonna give you a snippet from The Ripple Effect which is a Winterhawk after Steve going back in time for Peggy. I miiiight try to make it fit into Thunderbolts, we’ll see. I gotta tag @kangofu-cb though because the Vigilante snippet is a dog mention 😂

Bucky hadn’t meant it rudely. He honestly thought that Clint Barton had retired to some farm after Thanos. The Avengers stopped existing and Bucky only really talks to Sam and Shuri anymore. Steve, when he can’t avoid it somehow.

So he’d honestly been surprised to see Barton, especially here in Central Park where he’s obviously been meeting with Steve on the same Fridays that Bucky has. Maybe the ones where Bucky doesn’t meet him, too.

“Sorry,” He says quickly when Steve’s eyebrows come together in disappointment. “I didn’t mean that how that sounded. Just thought you’d retired to your wife and farm.” Bucky shifts uncomfortably as Barton sighs and hands him one of the coffee cups he’s holding.

“It was a fake,” Steve answers when Barton doesn’t seem inclined. “They’re his brother’s wife and kids. He’d been keeping them safe.”

Then Bucky puts his foot in it again because apparently once wasn’t enough, when he says, “You’re not keeping them safe anymore?” And Barton stuffs the hand not holding a coffee cup into the pocket of his tattered jeans and looks away to hide the slight twitch of his left eye. It’s barely noticeable but Bucky learned through severe torture to notice every single change in his environment. “Sorry again. None of my business.”

Barton sighs and his shoulders relax from where they’d been tensed up near his ears. Bucky’s eyes flit across them with the motion. They’re kind of ridiculous, he realizes. Bucky's already clocked him as a threat but when his eyes linger on the well muscled shoulders and obvious strain of the material around Barton’s biceps, he has a fleeting feeling that he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. Just a flutter and then it’s gone before Bucky can actually acknowledge it.

“Nah, it’s fine, man,” Barton assures him. “Uhh…they all got snapped, my brother didn’t. He spent five years thinking about all the time he’d wasted being a deadbeat. Got his shit together - eventually. He’s taking care of them now.”

Didn’t Barton go off the deep end and murder a bunch of criminals and mob bosses for his dusted family? Bucky wants to ask, because he thought for sure that’s what Sam had told him but he’s already had both of his size eleven boots in his mouth in the last five minutes so he holds his tongue, nodding sagely like he knows fuck all about families anymore.

And the snippet from Vigilante Boyfriends:

Frank shakes his head and rolls his eyes, “I’ll scratch your head and you can tell me something boring.” He waves Clint over, rolling onto his back with the arm nearest Clint open in invitation.

“Nothing that I talk about is boring,” Clint says brashly, sitting up to stare down at Frank in mock annoyance. He hesitates, though, maybe trying to figure out what Frank’s angle is. Then he just scoots right into Frank’s arms as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Frank’s changed his mind, Clint’s not a cat. He’s a dog that thinks he’s a cat. Just a big goofy, dog that’s been kicked around all it’s life but still trusts that people are good somehow.

Frank wants to gather him up, keep him safe, and smother him with affection. Matt told him to take it slow though, that Clint’s been a wild animal for far longer than he was ever domesticated. If he ever was. Gotta take it slow. Like feeding any stray. Can’t push or he’ll run.

[gallus-rising]

opening this with the obligatory "AUs are fun" and "you can do whatever you want forever" i'm talking about the canon relationship and characterization vs a very common fanon. so without further ado i present:

Dimple Was A Friend: A Friendship Manifesto

the fanon in question is "Dimple as Mob's Dad/Uncle figure". in general i'm tired of the fandomized “Found Family” but in this particular case it totally fucks over an entire series spanning character arc and removes the interesting nuance from Dimple and Mob's relationship.

one of Dimple's big hang-ups is that he thinks all of his relationships have to be hierarchical in some way, but broccoli arc’s whole thing is that he actually wants someone to respect and acknowledged him as an equal.

normal humans can't see spirits at best and are terrified of them at worst. most other spirits we see have degraded to mindless monsters. espers more or less treat spirits as animals, specifically as pests or pets. spirits are dehumanized to the point that Matsuo doesn't seen any problem treating Human Man Mogami like a particularly unruly pet. so if Dimple can't be treated like an equal then he can at least try putting himself at the top of the food chain. no one respects him as a person, so he'll make them respect him.

Mob is in a very special place re: attitudes towards spirits off the bat. he's grown up with the supernatural as a normal part of life and sees no significant difference between humans and spirits. at first is doesn't seen like he's treating Dimple with any sort of respect, but in retrospect it's exactly the sort of thing Dimple wants. Mob doesn't treat him like a pest, he treats Dimple like an annoying guy that's following him around. even as their friendship develops Mob doesn't treat Dimple as though he's become useful, he trusts Dimple like he would Reigen or Ritsu or any other friend in a dangerous situation.

but despite his newfound Friendship Emotions Dimple still hasn't broken out of his old mindset. there must be an inherit hierarchy to the world, and while he can't afford to lose his spot, maybe he can trust someone to be by his side.

Dimple himself repeatedly states in the broccoli arc he wants them to become co-cult leaders. he doesn't want Mob to join him as a subordinate or apprentice or anything like that, he want's Mob to join him as an equal. father/son and uncle/nephew relationships are inherently hierarchical! that doesn't necessary make them bad, but it's not want Dimple wants.

if we accept that Dimple is a father/uncle figure to Mob then the broccoli arc concludes with Dimple realizing he doesn’t want authority over people in a malicious way, he wants authority in a nurturing way. not only is that still an unequal relationship, nurturing is definitely not a word that comes to mind when discussing Dimple.

it also means we must accept that Mob sees Dimple as some kind of authority figure which is simply not true. Mob never treats him with that elevated level of respect and even gets confused that Dimple thinks their relationship is weighted in one way or the other. all in all the father/uncle interpretation is straight up out of character for both of them and downplays mp100’s emphasis on friendship.

and then it creates a second problem. since Mob & Dimple have been shoved into the Family Box that means by order of elimination Reigen is Dimple’s closest friend (or more commonly romantic partner) compared to Mob for most of the mange Reigen doesn't really treat Dimple with the same human-to-human attitude. he frequently makes jokes about Dimple being a like pet, which to Reigen is just normal snark, but probably hits Dimple harder than he realizes for reasons stated at the start.

hell during the separation arc Dimple took Mob’s side and was perfectly fine ditching Reigen even tho he didn’t really have to. he was even mean about it!

during this short exchange they're both antagonizing each other but i feel like it's notable Dimple only leaves after Reigen starts shit talking Mob. Reigen is right that Mob won't use his powers in normal day to day life and Dimple knows he's right. Dimple's been following Mob around this whole time watching life a perfectly average life. and then Reigen, no psychic defenses, charismatic guy with an established following, offers Dimple join him! oh boy is that an easy situation to take advantage of!! (and also of an example of how Dimple's started to lose sight of his "villainous schemes", but that's a whole other tangent lol)

Dimple only reaccepts Reigen into his social circle after witnessing him and Mob reconcile. by downplaying Mob and Dimple’s friendship Reigen becomes Dimple’s closest connection by default which is just not true for most of the manga, but, and i'm about to have a grouchy aromantic moment here, most people are fine with it because Shipping. now Reigen and Dimple can be Mob’s dads together :]

the power of Reigen being a fan favorite typically causes people to elevate him, sometimes even in scenarios he's not all that involved in, but please allow me to point out how amatonormativity plays into this particular reading 😒 Dimple Is Mob's Dad/Uncle doesn't always go hand in hand with ekurei of course, but i see it happen often enough to be a trend. even though a family-esque relationship should logically still emphasize their personal bond just as much as a platonic one, in this case it still typically comes with shipping, and by extension Reigen, tacked onto it.

mean aro moment over. if it sounded like i'm dissing ekurei i promise i'm not! i like it just as much as the next guy! it's just that, like all ships in every fandom, sometimes it gets pushed to the detriment of other relationships and even characterization.

but anyways. in closing: guys. they literally call each other friends.

that's it! thank you for reading my rant ❤

if you've made it this far i wanna peel back behind the scenes for a sec (because i've been trying to write this thing for so long orz) and let you know the term "Friendship Manifesto" is a play on ye' olde fandom Ship Manifestos, which i think we need to bring back in new and exciting ways. classic shipping manifestos. friendship manifestos. qpp manifestos? enemies manifestos?? should we bring back the term "drift compatible" or perhaps even the quadrant shipping system???? we're not taking proper advantage of this meta format. we need to have fun and go crazy with it.

[teenage-mutant-ninja-freak]

Glory and gore go hand in hand part 2

Dark Fic!

Mob! Donnie x OC Ava Charles

Warnings: Violence, almost sexual assault, blood mention, fighting/fist fighting, Stockholm syndrome kind of, kidnapping, vomit mention, 

Summary: Loosely based on the film Red Eye. Ava thinks she’s found a way to escape after her failed seduction attempt, but the streets of New York can be more dangerous than she anticipated. 

A/N: Sorry it took me over 2 years to update it to a part 2. Hope it was worth the wait (It isn’t, trust me lol). If I ever get around to doing as part 3 there will be some NFSW stuff coming up, trust and believe. Much love to you all xox

The room was spinning. You took a quick glance at the clock next to the bed and saw “07:43″ before whatever was in your stomach threatened to come back up. Pulling the covers off your body you made a dash for the bathroom and puked up not much of anything. There was a throbbing inside your skull that you didn’t think would go away any time soon- a concussion, you guessed, was the cause of all of this.

Memories came back. Lips on yours, the warmth of a body pressed against you, sudden movement and then everything going dark. It was too much, you had to push that out of your mind. Picking yourself up from your knees in front of the toilet you made your way back to the bedroom. Donnie was waiting in there for you. He looked refreshed. He smelt like cologne and had clearly changed since you last saw him. You, on the other hand, had messy hair, clumps of sleep in your still tired eyes and your mouth tasted like bile. What a sight you must have been.

You climbed back into the bed without acknowledging him, he didn’t deserve it. The spinning had started to slow down and sitting still was the only thing stopping you from spilling your guts again.

“Good morning, sleepy head. I trust you slept well” There was mockery in his voice.

“Oh, like a log. Thanks to you” there was no hiding the resentment in your voice. You still weren’t looking at him but heard something get thrown on the bed. Looking over it was a single packaged croissant and a bottle of Gatorade- the blue one. Ugh. Begrudgingly you drank from the bottle and ate what he gave you. You hadn’t eaten since the afternoon the day before and it showed by the way you wolfed it down. Donatello watched you intently, much to your discomfort.

“Look, about last night...” you began

“You mean you pointing a gun at me and threatening to kill me? Is that what you’re talking about?”

So he wasn’t going to let it go. Shit. 

“Can you blame me?” you blurted out. Goddamn it, this guy really is holding you hostage, planning on killing your father (possibly you as well) and your one attempt to save your family is going to be taken as a personal slight against him? 

He looked thoughtful for a moment.

“No, don’t suppose I can. I can still be angry about it, however.”

“Makes two of us” you muttered. That elicited a smile from him, clearly your self hatred was amusing.

In the morning light you got to have a proper look at the room. It was lovely. Cream walls with sage green accents, a vanity table next to the window and a huge wardrobe and set of drawers. Your head was still spinning and your stomach hadn’t quite settled, still promising to twist and contort to make you puke up what you’d just consumed. His cologne wasn’t helping. The dude smelt like a perfume section at a department store, no, the smell wasn’t intensifying, he’d just gotten closer.

Now sitting on the bed, Donatello placed a hand on your thigh a looked into your eyes. He didn’t speak straight away, as if he was waiting for something from you but you didn’t know what.

"What?” you said rather indignantly “Why are you staring at me?”

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly into a smile, a devilish one at that.

“I think we need to set a few ground rules, to keep everyone happy. First rule, no making a scene. You involve anyone else in what’s going on, your dad dies. Rule number two, no leaving the hotel room. I think this one is pretty self explanatory. And rule number three is: you hold a gun to me again, I do worse than knock you out”

Who are these rules supposed to keep happy? You thought. They only protected him. But, he was looking at you expectantly.

“Sure, whatever” you muttered “Have your rules and then fucking kill me”

“Oh, I plan to. No be a darling and go clean yourself up. I can smell the vomit from here”

Embarrassed, pissed off and still, quite frankly, scared of this man you took yourself to the bathroom and had the longest shower of your life. Any way you didn’t have to be in the same room as him, looking at his smug fucking face.

________________________________________________

The day was much of the same, Donatello mostly took calls and conducted some kind of business online. You didn’t pay much attention, you didn’t really care. In your mind there was a countdown. 6 days. 6 days until his “employer” decided what to do with you and your father. 

By late evening you could hear your stomach growling, you didn’t want to go to the mini fridge in the living room because that’s where he was so you just suffered the hunger pangs and stayed in your room. Occasionally he would come to check on you. Sometimes he’d speak, most of the time he’d simply make sure you were still there. The final time he came in, he spoke again.

“I’m going to get dinner. What do you want?”

“Nothing” you sulked

He rolled his eyes and took a few more steps inside the room “you know you won’t starve to death in 24 hours, right? Might as well just take the free food”

“Fine. Something with Salmon”

At that he left. He left! The second you heard the door to the hall close, you were up and out of bed rushing to the handle but, it was locked. What the fuck kind of hotel locks you in your room? This made no sense. You knelt on the floor, an overwhelming feeling of despair creeping up through your body until it formed into tears. You were never leaving this room. You wondered how he’d do it- kill you, that is. Would it be quick? Painful? Who would find you? Would anyone ever find you? You weren’t sure how long you’d spent on the floor, forehead pressed against the door crying but that’s when you heard footsteps coming back towards the room. Fuck, surely he wasn’t back already? A knock at the door-

“Housekeeping, can I come in?”

Hope! You wiped away your tears and stood.

“Yes, yes come in! I’ve umm, I’ve lost my key. Can you let yourself in?”

The door gently opened and a middle aged, friendly faced woman stood there. Her name tag read “Sandy” and you’d never been happier to see someone in your life.

“Just here to change the sheets and such. Won’t be long, dear”

You grinned at her “Take all the time you need, I was just popping out, actually” with that you practically shoved past her and made your way, as quickly as your condition would allow, down the hall. Donatello would probably take the elevator so you took the stairs, looking over your shoulder at every little noise to make sure no one was behind you.Eventually you made it to the lobby, this would be the hard part. He could be back any second. All you had to do was make it out into the street, couldn’t risk using the lobby phone to call your father. From the door way, you scanned the lobby. Not many people, a queue of 2 lining up to be checked in, the clerk behind the desk and 3 people sat on a sofa in front of the fireplace drinking and talking. No Donatello. You took a deep breath and briskly walked towards the door.

The November air was unforgiving and in the rush of finding a way out you hadn’t brought your coat. You were freezing, had no idea where you were and no money. You didn’t think this through but at least you were out. Free! But apparently freedom meant risking hypothermia. You hustled down the street, unable to take in the beauty of the freshly fallen snow, or the gentle glow of the street lamps as you rushed under them. Maybe there was a coffee shop or somewhere you could ask to use their phone. Do you call the cops or your dad first? If you call your dad, he can call the cops, you supposed, and even if something happened, you’d get to hear his voice one last time. No! You pushed that thought out of your mind. You had to get to a phone.

Some little artisanal coffee shop stood on the corner, you rushed towards it trying to dart around the 3 men who stood in your path, that’s when you felt a hand gripping your arm. You spun around, partially from shock and partially from the hand pulling you towards them. It was the 3 men. They were big and broad and visibly drunk now that you got a closer look.

“sweetheart!” the one gripping your arm slurred out “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here in the cold? No jacket no nothing. Let me warm you up” He pulled you towards him. You tried to free your arm but his grip tightened.

You began to seize up, shivering out of fear as well as the cold. Suddenly the street looked emptier than you remembered, it was late, after all, and the terrible weather would keep most people in. 

“come on, give us a kiss” the second one said leaning towards you. You realised you hadn’t said a single word, it’s a if the fear had frozen your voice box. You put your free hand on the first guy’s chest and used all your strength to push him back, the alcohol made him not so nimble on his feet and he tilted slightly- loosening his grip just enough for you to free your arm and run. But you couldn’t run, not really. Every step you took made the stitches around your abdomen burn and cry out for you to stop. After two blocks, you had to stop running. 

you were ahead of them and they were drunk. There was a dimly lit ally to your left, maybe if you hid behind the dumpster there, they’d give up? It was worth a try.

Crouching, now, in your position behind a dumpster you tried to steady your breathing as much as you could. Footsteps approached and then voices.

“C’mon sweetheart!” One called out “We just wanna get you out the cold! I’ve got something nice and warm for you here” 

You shuddered shuddered at the thought but, before you could take another breath the third one jumped out at you.

“I got ‘er!” he screamed at the others, pulling you up from your crouch by the back of your shirt. 

They all cheered in unison and gathered around you. This was it. You traded one danger for another. They grabbed at you, trying to reach under your shirt, pawing at your body as you twisted and turned to try to escape but their grips on you were firmer this time.

“Not letting you get away again, little darl-”

Suddenly he was on the floor. There was blood on the snow around where his face lay and he was out cold. The other two let go of you and turned to face their aggressor, dropping you to the ground as they did.

You covered your face with your hands, you heard the second guy’s face collided with something hard, the dumpster was your guess. He gave out a pained cry as his skull was bashed into it again and again until you heard his body drop into the snow.

“L-look I don’t want no trouble” the third one said backing away. “It was just a little fun was all” You heard his squeal as whoever it was laid into him. It didn’t take long but he was begging and gasping for air before one final blow silenced him. You didn’t want to look, you couldn’t. Whoever this was surely had to be worse than what you’d faced already today. Your shoulders slumped and hot tears fell down your face as you hoped the cold would take you.

“You ready to go back?” A familiar voice asked you. 

Donatello.

You looked up, his face didn’t seem angry in fact, he looked almost concerned. The shadows that surrounded him made his look taller and bigger than ever. For once you were grateful to see him. He took a few more steps towards you, taking off his winter coat and draping it over your shoulders before reaching down to help you up. You don’t know if it was the cold or the shock or the adrenaline wearing off, but once you were on your feet, you wrapped your arms around his waist and sobbed into his chest. He held you back, learning down to press his face against your head.

“Come one, lets get you back into the warm” he said against your hair.

You nodded.

[witchspeka]

I dont think Mob is naive as much as he's socially unaware, like the reason why he trusts Reigen so blindly is a bit more complex than just him being naive

Cause Mob reached out to Reigen because he was desperate to find someone like him, someone who understood his psychic specific issues, someone that could truly know what he's feeling and going through and give him guidance and support

Post incident Mob's thinking process was something along the lines of my powers hurt people -> my powers are bad -> my powers (my emotions, my instincts, myself) cannot be trusted

So he lost all confidence and trust in his own actions, resigning to being as passive as possible to avoid any further damage to anyone else, thus he started doubting his own perception of reality too

He's a kid already struggling with being ostracised for being socially inept, who just got traumatised and all of his insecurity increased by the tenfold, he doesn't know how to process what he's going through. He needs help.

And here comes Reigen, seemingly reliable, a responsible adult in a child's eyes, someone who claims he can understand him

Even tho Reigen doesnt. But it doesn't matter, because Mob finds comfort in his words and takes them to heart

Even if Reigen doesn't fully get it, even if he doesn't see the bigger picture, even if his advice isn't always the best

Eventually, Mob grows up, realises Reigen isn't as honest as he seemed through his 11 year old perspective, but like most things, he refuses to acknowledge it on a deeper level

Mob knows, but never tells Reigen, never thinks about what all those lies mean to him (ofc until he forces himself to face those doubts regarding Reigen, to properly acknowledge both of their flaws and accept them as they are, I should scream into the void about Confession Arc more God)

Due to his lack of trust in himself, Mob has relied on Reigen for years now to shape his moral compass, his thoughts, his decisions

Because well, Reigen lies, sure, but he isnt a bad person. When he hurts Mob, it isn't intentional or with ill intent, he still wants the best for him, what's the issue?

Except that it stunts Mob's growth. He doesn't develop as a person, doesn't have goals or wishes or ambitions, can't make choices on his own, he doesn't even let himself acknowledge his own emotions, he refuses to let himself exist

But Mob realises in time that he wants more than that, he wants to become better and be independent and feel again

Still, he puts the acknowledgement of the lies on hold for as long as he can, unwilling to question the way things are

This can make him feel a little naive, he constantly relies on Reigen and trusts his decisions and raises questions rarely until separation arc when he finally puts his foot down

And I do think that moment is the most resounding proof we have that Mob knows and allows himself to be used by Reigen, not wanting to shake the status quo, until he gets fed up

I mentioned the social ineptitude at the beggining but idk if I should even elaborate on that, you've watched the show, you know what I mean

He's blunt and can't read social cues or tonality that well and can't speak in front of crowds and is overall pretty awkward and I do think some people conflate that with naivety

Mob is still a child, he doesnt fully understand how the world works at the ripe age of 14 years old, but some folks take that as him being inherently naive/innocent/whatever which I don't find true

[buckyownsmylife]

let him know - sam wilson smut

The one where you don't care if people tell Samuel what you've been up to.

Warnings: smut, mob boss au, exhibitionism, public sex, angsty open ending.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“Please, sweetheart.” Refraining from rolling my eyes, I decided to give Steve a little bit of acknowledgment by throwing him a look over my shoulder. The club was so packed, he had to stay close to make sure no harm would come my way - but not as close as I’d like him to be. “We can come back here another day. I’m sure Sam would even enjoy bringing you here, himself.”

Oh, yes. I was sure he would.

“Well, go on then,” I nodded and then turned my back to him again, focusing all of my attention on the bartender. “Call him up, let him know we’re here. I only plan on leaving the dancefloor tomorrow, anyway.”

I almost laughed at the pained groan my bodyguard released. I knew I was being difficult. I was also aware that he wasn’t the one who deserved my attitude, but as he was the one acting on my “boyfriend’s” orders, he’d have to suffer.

Just like I was suffering.

“A bottle of champagne, please.” The man behind the bar didn’t even ask for any of my information - a single glance at the blond towering behind me was enough. I was the owner’s property, after all. The very least they could give me was everything that I ordered, and that, they did.

With a complimentary caviar platter, apparently. Whatever.

Picking up my stuff, Steve was forced to give me some space so I could move from the crowded bar towards the VIP area, but I didn’t plan to stay long there. Scanning the room, I locked eyes with one of those trust fund playboys, and then it was just a matter of smirking and winking.

Hook, line and sinker. What a loser. But he’d do it for what I had in mind, even if it wasn’t the same sort of activities he might be hoping he could score later in the evening.

Unfortunately for me, Steve knew exactly what it was that I intended to do.

“Don’t,” he tried to warn me, pulling me by the elbow right when pretty eyes seemed to find the courage to come talk to me. One look at the giant hovering over me and that courage all but disappeared - he still sent me a sweet smile, one that said he’d try his luck if I was able to make my bodyguard for the evening go away.

“Why are you like this?” I sighed, turning away from the bar and moving towards the dancefloor, not needing to look over my shoulder to know Steve was following me closely behind. The way people parted as we walked through the crowd was indication enough, and I would have thought it was pretty cool if I wasn’t so damn pissed.

“What do you mean? Good at my job?” He looked satisfied with himself, having thought of a comeback, but all he got from me was a roll of my eyes.

“A pain in my ass.” I didn’t need to hear his laugh to know that was his reaction. Ever since Samuel Wilson had come into my life, I’d been making his men laugh and cackle at my antics, but it didn’t faze me.

“I’m gonna find a way to dance with someone tonight, Rogers. Or I will have to change my last name.” The man behind me shrugged.

“The boss has been trying to get you to marry him for ages.” I shivered, not wanting to be reminded of that. What Samuel Wilson wanted, he usually got, and for the last few months all he seemed to want was related to me, somehow.

“Hey, Rogers!” Someone called from a distance and both Steve and I turned to look, recognizing another of Sam’s men from a distance. “Need a little help here.”

Steve grimaced, already knowing what was going to happen. “Seems like I’ll get my dance, after all.”

“Is there anything I can do to get you not to do that?” He asked, much to my amusement.

“You could dance with me yourself,” I offered, only to receive another grimace in response.

“Hard pass. I like being alive and all.” It was the last thing he said before he left me, and not even five minutes later, the boy from before was back, asking me to dance with him.

“Told you I’d get what I wanted,” I whispered underneath my breath so the guy wouldn’t hear me, and followed him to the dancefloor, where people were busy grinding and moving all around us.

I started to follow their motions, turning around so that my back was to the stranger, and grinded against his boner for a little while until a much too familiar voice interrupted my plans for the evening.

“Step away from the lady.” I froze, not having expected him here so soon. Turning around, I found Sam looking down at the guy with death in his eyes, but the man didn’t seem to be all that brilliant, because he tried to make a move at Sam.

“Let me rephrase it.” Sam warned, having easily intercepted the punch the guy tried sending his way. “Step away from the lady and I’ll let you get out of this bar alive.”

That was enough to send the guy running, and really, who could blame him? That was much more trouble than a dance was supposed to bring him, and I was aware of that as I stepped into Sam’s embrace.

“I thought you were too busy trying to stop the police from figuring out your deal. Didn’t think you’d find the time in your busy schedule to be jealous about your favorite toy’s dance partners.”

Sam smiled that dangerous smile of his. “I’m not jealous, honey… For me to be jealous, I’d have to be scared to lose you. But I’m not.”

And just like that, two fingers penetrated me, right there in the middle of the dancefloor, with people still surrounding us despite the scene that had taken place only seconds before.

“You said it yourself…” He whispered in my ear, eliciting goosebumps up my neck. “You’re my favorite toy.”

And there it was - the simmering on the bottom of my stomach, that didn’t tell me if it was fear or arousal that was sparking up my adrenaline, raising goosebumps up my arms.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me?” The question escaped my lips right as my pussy contracted around his fingers, a sigh leaving me afterwards as he pulled the digits from me and wrapped his own lips around them.

The smile he sent me was dangerous, and I felt my stomach plummeting at the prospect of his answer. “Because you are still a toy.”

And wasn’t it sad, that after everything, the second he turned around to leave me there on the dancefloor, all I wanted was to beg him not to go?

[lazarusawakens]

Don't Mine At Night (Unless You’re Holding Hands)

Summary:

After the defeat of Malgosha, Steve returns to his pixelated world expecting peace. Instead, he finds his home glitching—walls flicker, torches hum with static, and strange memory loops echo things he never said out loud. With reality breaking down and something unseen stalking the code, Steve reaches out to the only person he trusts to make sense of it: Garrett, the real-world game whiz with a serious grudge against Minecraft and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge just how badly Steve missed him.

Now stuck in Steve’s shelter, side by side with a laptop, some haunted data, and far too many apples, they’ll have to debug a world that’s remembering too much—and maybe confront the feelings they’re both pretending not to have.

(But definitely not holding hands. Yet.)

Wc: 2.5k

Chapter 1: New Beginningd

Garett was counting the till when the lights flickered like they were winking at him. He scowled.

“No. Nope. Not today, Not again.”

The speakers let out a burst of static like a dying fax machine. Then came the pop—like bubble wrap under pressure—and something warped in the air near the back isle.

Then he heard it.

“Heyyyyyy, Garett.”

Garett froze.

No. No way. He refused to turn around. He was imagining it. Hallucination. Stress. Low iron. Something like that.

“I come bearing friendship and mild existential dread,” repeated the voice, far too upbeat.

He turned.

Steve was standing there. Or sort of standing—he flickered slightly, like a video buffering mid-frame. He still had the same smug grin. Same scruffy hair. Same objectively stupid blocky boots.

“You are not real,” Garett said flatly.

Steve gave him finger guns. “Eh, Debatable.”

Garett blinked slowly. “You are not supposed to be here, aren’t you supposed to be, you know… mining?”

“Neither is the glitch eating the biome back home, but here we are.”

“I don’t do this anymore.” Garett pointed a finger at him. “No more magic cubes. No more weird quests. I retired.”

Steve held up his hands. “Whoa there, Mr. Midlife Crisis. I'm just asking for a little help. You were the guy who saved the day last time.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” Garett jabbed a finger at him. “That passive-aggressive cheerleader thing. And—what did you say earlier? Something about being soulmates?”

Steve winced like he’d been caught saying something unruly. “Okay, yeah, maybe that was a stretch.”

“It was weird and unnecessary.”

“Got it.” Steve mimed zipping his lips, though the motion glitched and looped twice.

Silence.

Garett ran a hand through his hair, breathing through his nose.

Behind them, the coffee machine sparked and coughed out a cube of dirt.

“I think I might’ve brought some of the glitches through with me,” Steve said sheepishly.

“Of course you did.”

“So... you coming or not?”

“I’m not holding your hand again.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You tried.”

Steve gave a sheepish shrug. “It was a dark cave, and I have bad night vision.”

Garett glared. “Whatever. Are we gonna do this or not?”

“Most certainly, replied Steve, follow me!” He led Garrett outside the back of his shop, down a dim-lit alley.

Then he saw it, the portal.

It fizzled like a dying neon sign. Steve poked at it with a stick.

"Totally safe," he said brightly. "Well. Eighty percent."

Garett crossed his arms. "I feel like that number keeps going down."

Steve looked up at him with a grin. “I’ve crossed over with way worse odds.”

Garett muttered something unrecognizable and stepped forward.

His foot hit the grass.

But it wasn’t grass. Not really.

It looked like grass but was too smooth, like a game engine forgot to render textures correctly. There was no sound. No ambient birds, no mobs. Just silence and a sky that shimmered like a broken TV screen.

Garett turned in a slow circle.

Everything felt... off. It's like walking into a stage set where all the props are slightly too small.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I missed it!” Steve said, hopping up beside him. “Well, most of it. Not the glitch mobs. Or the cave bees. Those are new. And horrifying, listen to me when I tell you, You DO NOT want to get stung.”

Garett gave him a sideways look. “You are taking this way too well.”

“Adapt and thrive baby,” Steve said, slapping him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him into a chunk error. “Or adapt and scream. Both work.”

He strolled ahead, humming some awful, chirpy overworld music like a typical Tuesday. Garett followed, stepping around a floating pig frozen mid-oink, its body flickering in and out like a hologram.

“I’m not staying,” Garett said. “I just want that clear.”

“Absolutely,” Steve said. “You’re here to help me diagnose an interdimensional glitch, fix corrupted biome code, maybe fight a few eldritch horrors, and go home. Super casual.”

Garett stopped walking. “You’re joking.”

Steve turned around slowly, his smile slightly too wide.

“…Sort of.”

They stared at each other.

Somewhere in the distance, sheep baa’d backward.

Garett sighed through his teeth. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Steve patted his shoulder. “That’s okay. I’ve got extras.”

—-

The forest shimmered in the low light—sun slipping behind square-edged hills, casting long shadows between the blocky trees. The leaves rustled like static, and the grass flickered between two shades of green every so often, like the texture couldn’t make up its mind.

Garett ducked under a low branch, swatting away a glowing particle with a frown. “Is that... supposed to be floating?”

Steve glanced back. “Define supposed to. Some updates have... personality.”

“Is that your excuse for everything glitchy? ‘It’s just quirky’?”

“Hey,” Steve grinned, “quirky built this world.”

Garett stepped over a flower that dissolved under his boot like smoke. “Yeah? Well, quirky’s trying to kill my sense of depth perception.”

They walked silently for a while, their boots crunching on gravel, interspersed with occasional patches of what Steve mumbled were “just mildly cursed terrain.”

Garett slowed a bit, noticing the sky above them beginning to pixelate at the edges. Clouds jittered like bad buffering.

“You seriously didn’t think this was worth mentioning before?” he asked.

Steve didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead. “I noticed it a couple days ago. Thought maybe I was... seeing things.”

Garett narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess. You were also conveniently running on two hours of sleep and trying to solo-build a Redstone auto-farm simultaneously?”

“…Okay, rude, but yes.”

Garett huffed, adjusting the satchel strap slung over his shoulder. “Unbelievable. You ever think of asking for help?”

Steve shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d want to come back.”

Garett blinked. That stopped him.

Steve didn’t look back when he added, “I mean, I figured once you went home, that was it. Curtain call. Happily ever after, post-epic-quest fade to black.”

“I own at a game store in Chuglass,” Garett deadpanned. “There’s no ‘happily ever after.’ Just a lot of counterfeit game cubes and passive-aggressive receipts.”

That made Steve laugh—just a little. “Fair.”

They passed into a clearing where the light suddenly changed—just a shade off, like the sun was rendered in a lower resolution. Steve slowed, then pointed to a slight rise ahead.

“There. That’s it.”

A structure peeked from the hilltop: part cottage, bunker, cobblestone, and oak with a slightly lopsided chimney. It looked cozy—at first.

But Garett squinted. Something about it didn’t sit right.

“The shadows are wrong,” he muttered.

Steve looked at him. “You see it too?”

“I’m a visual thinker. Sue me.” He pointed. “The torchlight’s bending weird. And there’s something off about the door—it keeps jittering.”

Steve stopped just shy of the porch. “It was fine when I left it. Like... peaceful. Static-free.”

They stood there for a moment in the fading light, the silence between them stretching—not uncomfortable, but thick.

“You still sure you want to go in?” Steve asked, trying to sound casual.

Garett exhaled. “Well, you didn’t bring me here for a sightseeing tour, did you?”

“...I did consider that as a cover story.”

“I hate you.”

“You definitely missed me.”

Steve smirked and opened the door.

Inside, a faint light flickered, and the glitch gave another low, distant crackle somewhere more profound in the house—like electricity arcing in the walls.

Garett muttered, “...Okay. You weren’t exaggerating.”

“See?” Steve said, stepping inside and offering a hand. “Quirky.”

Garett didn’t take the hand. Just walked past him into the darkness.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if I get glitched into a decorative lamp, I’m suing you.”

Garett’s footsteps echoed in a way throughout the house that didn’t feel like it matched the room size. The interior looked fine—at first glance. Cozy wood-paneled walls, item frames here and there, a crafting table pushed into the corner, a few banners Steve probably made in a phase.

But the light… flickered wrong. Torches didn’t flicker, they looped. Every few seconds, they’d reset, casting the same exact flicker pattern again like a GIF on repeat.

Garett walked toward a chest in the corner.

“Do not open that,” Steve said quickly.

Garett paused, hand hovering. “Why?”

“Last time I did, it played cave noises in reverse and spawned a pig in the ceiling. Don’t ask.”

Garett stared. “And yet you live here voluntarily.”

“I have a strong attachment to the place!” Steve protested, then added, “…And nowhere else to go.”

Garett eyed him sideways but didn’t press it. Instead, he turned to the bookshelf nearby. The journals caught his eye first—sloppy handwriting, dog-eared pages, and one volume in particular with the title written sideways in blocky text:

“///MEMORY.LEAK.SHELTER//: DO NOT READ (Garett, if you’re reading this I’m fine probably)”

He picked it up.

“Hey—” Steve tried to stop him, but Garett had already flipped to the first page.

Nothing but scribbles. Frantic loops, numbers, lines that crossed themselves out violently. There was a sketch of Steve’s face—shaky and slightly warped like whoever drew it didn’t trust the lines to stay in place.

Then the next page.

“The sunset rewinds sometimes. The same skeleton shoots me in the same place every time. I think I’m stuck in a save file.”

Garett slowly looked up. “Okay. I take back the ‘quirky.’ This is full-on existential nightmare fuel.”

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I wrote that on day… uh, glitch-hundred? It’s all kind of blurry.”

Garett flipped to the next page—and this time, something hissed.

Like static in the walls.

The writing shifted. The words rearranged themselves on the page. Garett watched, stunned, as the letters twisted into a binary line.

Then a voice played.

Soft. Croaky. It came from nowhere and everywhere, like a broken record caught in a loop.

“Garett… come back… Garett…”

Garett slowly closed the journal and set it down like it might bite.

“...Did you record yourself being haunted?”

“That’s not me,” Steve said, voice tight. “I don’t know what that is.”

The room went quiet again. Garett turned, slowly taking in the house’s layout with new eyes.

The mismatched shadows.

The low glitch-crack coming from the empty furnace.

The way Steve’s reflection in the window blinked a half-second too slowly.

“…Okay,” Garett muttered. “This is definitely above my pay grade.”

Steve exhaled, finally slumping down into a chair. “Welcome back to Minecraft.”

Garett crossed his arms. “Yeah. Thanks. Thrilled to be here.”

Then, softer: “We’re gonna fix this.”

Steve looked up. “We?”

Garett glanced at him. “Well, I’m not letting you get turned into corrupted furniture or whatever. Besides, I never got to finish that absurd tower build.”

Steve smiled faintly. “The one shaped like a llama?”

“It was an architectural masterpiece, and you know it.”

Something clicked in the walls again. But softer this time. Like the house was… listening. Like it was waiting.

Steve’s eyes darted to the corner where a mirror used to be.

“It’s getting worse,” he said. “Faster.”

Garett adjusted his satchel, already pulling out a notebook and a USB drive that definitely wasn’t standard Minecraft issue.

“Then we better get to work.”

“Let’s see if I can connect to a metaphysical codebase that may not even exist.”

Steve leaned over the back of the couch. “You say that like it’s hard.”

Garrett shot him a look. “You get sugar from skeletons now, Steve. I don’t trust this world’s logic.”

The screen booted up with a faint ding, and he typed something rapid-fire. A small blinking interface appeared, overlaying blocky coordinates with jittery noise maps and a long list of corrupted chunk names that read more like a horror story than a debug log.

VOID_141-NOISE-MIRROR

SUNSET_REDO_03

SHELTER_ECHO

Steve peered at it, brows furrowing. “That one’s my house. Right?”

Garett nodded. “That’s the part that worries me.”

The room had dimmed considerably. The torches flickered out of sync, creating an almost strobe-like effect across the walls. Steve lit a lantern and set it between them, casting a warm, flickering glow across Garett’s concentrated face.

For a while, the only sound was clicking keys and the occasional sigh.

“...So what are you looking for?” Steve finally asked, half-curled on the couch like a large, anxious golden retriever.

“Anomalies. Patterns. Weird energy pulses. Anything that screams ‘the code is unraveling.’”

Steve watched him work for a moment, lips twitching like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Then: “You always work like this?”

Garett raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Frowny. Intense. A little... feral.”

Garett blinked. “Excuse you—this is my focus face, and you should have seen my face in 1998.”

“It’s also your ‘I haven’t eaten in ten hours’ face.”

“...Okay, fair.”

Steve got up and rummaged in a chest. After some light cursing, he returned with two apples and what might’ve once been a suspicious stew but was now just suspicious.

Garett stared. “Is that steaming in reverse?”

“I’m not gonna feed it to you,” Steve said and tossed him an apple.

They settled into an almost-comfortable rhythm: Garett typing, Steve occasionally poking at command blocks or muttering about chunk borders, both of them trying very hard not to look like they were glancing at each other more often than necessary.

A line of code blinked across Garett’s screen.

>> ECHO DETECTED: USER_ID_STEVE // REPEATING MEMORY LOOP INITIATED

Garettvfroze.

Steve leaned in. “What’s that?”

“...You tell me,” Garett said, voice low. “You have a memory loop running.”

Steve’s face paled slightly. “I—I don’t know what that means.”

Garett clicked into the log. A crude video file opened, pixelated at the edges.

It was Steve—standing outside the shelter and talking to no one. His voice warped, repeating the exact phrase.

“You can go home if you want. I get it. I’d leave me too.”

Then it skipped. Back to the start.

“You can go home if you want…”

Steve looked like he’d been hit.

“I never said that out loud,” he muttered. “I thought it. But I never—”

“You’re glitching your memories.” Garett looked up at him. “Steve, this place isn’t just falling apart—it’s remembering things you never said. And it’s replaying them.”

The lantern light flickered again. A little brighter. A little closer than it had been before.

They both stared at it.

“…Okay,” Garett muttered. “That’s new.”

Steve sat down beside him, closer than before. “If this place is reacting to me…”

Garett slowly closed the laptop. “Then we need to be careful what you think about.”

Steve’s eyes met his for a second too long. “That’s… going to be a problem.”

[isa-ghost]

May I humbly ask for more q!phil headcanons? 👉👈

Fuck yeah concrete >:D

Previous Sets: Set 1 Set 2 Set 3 Set 4 Set 5

M O R E

He'll go above & beyond for his friends for as long as it takes, but when a situation proves futile or hopeless, he gives up. And hates it. He feels guilty for it even when he knows there's nothing more he can do. He also HATES being helpless (it's part of why he's taking being grounded so hard)

Once his mind is made up, it's made up. It's very hard to change his mind. You practically need a PowerPoint of irrefutable facts & proof of why he should think another way

Yeah. He's stubborn. It can be infuriating. But it comes from a place of life experience, knowing what he wants, and a hint of paranoia for flavor. It's not exactly a flaw, but it does act as a detriment sometimes

And don't get him wrong, he doesn't always like being stubborn. Sometimes he just can't imagine things any other way than how he's picturing. He does feel bad sometimes about being the way he is. He has a hard time trusting things that aren't his gut or Rose

He's grown to like walks. He misses flying obv but walkies are pretty okay. He still gets to see neat stuff, and clear his head if his paranoia isn't too awful

He knows he's losing touch with reality slowly. He's just unaware there's words for it (derealization, dissociation). And he tries really hard not to think about it, it makes him sick with dread because once again, it gnaws at his ability to control his situation or himself

Btw that's one of his deepest fears if it wasn't obvious. Like yeah he has basic bitch fears that most other people have like losing loved ones or w/e, but his personal Big Fear is the loss of his autonomy. It's part of why he's an anarchist & hates the Federation, another part of why being flightless is killing him inside, and part of why Ender King scares him. Especially after Rose's most recent message (1/17/24) said EK has no vessel. Phil's mind shot right to "He needs a vessel and that vessel is me. That's what he wants."

He does NOT like acknowledging that to a degree, he & Ender King DO have things in common. He constantly rationalizes it in his brain as "I have crow brain, I collect the things that look shiny & cool. Ender King is malicious, it's not the same."

Lowkey hates the quiet. It's nice to get out of chaotic environments for bit, but that doesn't mean the silence will grant him peace. He starts getting lost in his own head, or winds up understimulated. Music is a good buffer. Ideally though, he likes having the kids or one person to bounce off of (& keep him mentally grounded when he's stressed). It's why he adventures with Fit so often.

Speaking of silence, and calling back to fears, there's something so inexplicably uncomfortable to him about footsteps that aren't his, esp in quiet. See, the admins invisible Federation workers that just monitor things, he can usually tolerate those bc it's easy to guess when it's them he's accompanied by & not an unknown presence. But man, when he knows he should absolutely be alone atm but hears movement that isn't his own, his adrenaline shoots through the roof. (Little does he know, that's Hardcore Instincts kicking in. He's used to that movement being a mob out to kill him)

Rose's Sanctuary is a fitting enough "altar" for her, so to speak. Even though she made it herself. The Goddess of Death however, Phil needs something for her. He has a locket with a wither rose engraved in it for now, he doesn't want to be questioned by his friends why there's a weird purple & black altar in his house when,,, he might have to tell them there's (an entirely different) purple & black motherfucker trying to maybe possess him who Is Very Bad. Also there's no way they'd believe he's married to a goddess. He can hear Fit laughing already.

He keeps getting distracted but he really wants to either build a practice range for bows or just. Go on a solo adventure shaking off the rust on his aim. He misses the rush of pride he gets when he snipes something so flawlessly. He also procrastinates on it when he's Not distracted bc he has the scythe & he's in love with it. (Also it's a symbol of Death Wife)

Every now and then he'll banter with the invisible Feds trying to bargain with them for the Good Shit(tm) Mexican food they had at Mexican Independence Day. Things have been so chaotic lately he hasn't gotten the chance to ask Chayanne to make them & like HELL he could successfully make them himself

That said, he's actually not a terrible cook like he claims. He just hates how laborious cooking can be LMAO.

Even so, he still really wants to cook for Missa. Purely for bonding reasons. He has no idea Missa would probably crush even harder on him, Phil still thinks they're mutually platonic.

[candyskiez]

i would love to hear more of ur thoughts about ???%… specifically surrounding teru cause it’s been on my mind lately

OHOHOHOHO you've awoken the beast. I am so sorry. I will specify. I love Teru. I love Teru so much. This makes it sound like I don't like Teru. I really like Teru. I am writing about ???%'s thoughts. I am studying him under a microscope. None of this is how I personally feel about Teru. Do not kill me. Please do not kill me.

I'm admittedly biased towards plural mob because. System. But I did write this with both plural mob and ???% as the repressed parts of Mob, so feel free to read it as metaphorical or Guy In Mobs Brain.

So. I've been thinking a lot lately about how Teru strangling Mob could've easily been the first time he almost died. Like. I don't think he almost died in that incident when they were kids, and I think Reigen would not be nearly as relaxed on jobs if he thought Mob would die. We've seen how he is when Mob's in any amount of what he considers to be serious danger. So I feel like it's very, very important to remember that when talking about how ???% reacts to Teru. ???% does not react to the literal terrorists as much as he reacts to Teru, because Teru was the first and one of the most personal.

I say most personal because well. For the others it wasn't about him, it was about a goal. Teru was just...fighting him, in Mobs eyes. Teru was operating on his own insecurities. It wasn't some big conflict, it wasn't some epic anime fight, it was just about Teru's insecurities and need for Mob to not be a threat to him and to be Better than everyone else. It was just two kids fighting. I think a lot about why ???% holds onto this so so hard, and a few reasons I think he has are

1. The shit listed above

2. The fact that Mob wasn't doing anything to instigate, was in fact actively asking him to stop, doing ALL the "do not stick out, do no harm" shit that made Mob repress ???% so hard in the first place, and Teru still hurt him. Mob repressed him for no fucking reason because people would still hurt him anyway.

3. This very well could've been one of the few times ???% has came out at all in a long time. I'm not sure how often ???% would've gotten to come out since it seems for a while he just came out when Mob needed it/when Mob wasn't around to stop it. So like. First memory in years and it's this guy strangling you. Would leave a pretty big impression.

4. Teru never actually apologized. Like. WE know he's sorry. But Mob and ???%...didn't? Mob was willing to let it slide. But like...those repressed emotions are gonna go somewhere. Mob might not want to think about it, but that event was traumatic for everyone involved. They almost died and Teru had his entire world view torn apart, got thrown into the SKY, and had to piece everything together lol over again. Like. ???% depending on your view point is Mobs repressed emotions or someone that literally formed to hold his repressed memories (save me plural mob, save me). ???% admits in the manga he doesn't trust anyone. How many times did he feel unsafe around him and wasn't able to do anything, because Mob liked him? Because mob cared about him and knew he changed, so it'd be unfair to bring it up, and besides HES the one who really hurt Teru, so it's fine! It's fine. <- Boy who isn't fine. How much was ???% just waiting for Teru to turn around and attack them again?

5. This also leads into my next thought: lack of agency. Some of these points will be less applicable if you don't view him as plural, but I think some of them still definitely work if you think of him as Mob but to the left: he feels like he didn't get a say in whether not they'd be close with Teru, he feels like Teru just Decided they were friends and didn't even acknowledge what happened and now he can't mention it or ask if he's actually changed or if he's even sorry because then he'll be an asshole so he just HAS to be quiet regardless of how he feels about it. He feels like everyone just decided Teru was SO good now and didn't even ask him how HE felt about it. He feels like Teru's moved on and just FINE, like he didn't almost fucking die. Actually I think almost all of this works if you don't view him as plural. Yippee I'm not accidentally alienating anyone here.

6. No seriously. Teru didn't apologize. Did ???% almost come out a few times at being around Teru. Did Mob get scared by Teru reaching towards him and ???% started to surface. How many times.

Okay okay. Now onto confession arc. I'm thinking about why he acted the way he did and like. He wanted to hurt him so bad. And it's so damn raw. Like. Teru is repeating the lesson Mob taught him, genuinely trying to help, but from ???%'s perspective it feels like a fucking joke. Teru almost killed him. Teru acted not even that different for YEARS, and he gets a slap on the wrist. But ???% messes up once and he's punished, for years? But Teru doesn't even have to apologize? Teru doesn't even have to try to get forgiven? But ???% was dutifully silent for four years. And he's still hated. I feel like that was kind of the point where ???% became WAY more destructive which. Very interesting. He went from "I need to see Tsumobi" to "I want to hurt this person." Also I'm thinking about how strongly he reacted to being told it was for his own good, that Tsumobi shouldn't see him like this, to calm down like. Okay. There's no way he hasn't heard all of that a million times. Like obviously I love it from a plural perspective but I'm gonna go into ???% is an allegory for a sec. Being told that you need to mask for your own good, that they just totally have your best interests at heart and that's why they never want to hear you complain or look upset or even slightly lose control of yourself or act even slightly abnormal. Let alone the fact ???% believes HES the real Shigeo. In his eyes being told to calm down and act like Mob again is being told to stop existing. He's being told to calm down the first time in YEARS he's let any of this out. And like. Tsumobi shouldn't see you like this. In his mind that's being told "Tsumobi shouldn't see YOU. People shouldn't see you. You're not desirable. People don't want to look at you. Just go away. Just be normal. Just be quiet. Calm down. Stop making such a scene. Get a clue." And that's obviously not how Teru meant it and ???% is doing serious damage, but like. He's having a breakdown. He seems calm in the mind scape, but he is Not Fucking Calm. He's having a breakdown. He feels so goddamn rejected by everyone and he's chasing the one good memory he got to make as ???%, not Mob. Which like. God from an autism or a plural perspective hits me so fucking hard. I remember being a kid and clinging on way too hard to my only friend because she didn't mind me acting autistic and getting so so terrified when she started drifting away from me. Watching it just feels like watching kid me panic because the only person who doesn't hate him isn't hanging out with him anymore. Being plural and autistic means this show will kill you. Anyways. What I'm saying is Teru basically took a mallet to every single one of ???%'s buttons and he took that Personally.

I'm gonna can it here because if I don't I'll never shut up. But I love Teru and ???%'s dynamic. So much. I love it. I have so many more thoughts on it, plural and non plural. You have no idea how much it's paining me to can it here. This fucking show, man.

[hippolotamus]

Seven Sentence Sunday 🥂

tagged by @weewootruck @eddiebabygirldiaz (definitely go check their snippets!)

Still in the rework phase. Please take this snippet of come close (let me be home) (prev snippets here) under the cut for the sake of your dash 😘

“I know it’s tough, kid. I’m sure this isn’t easy for you,” Bobby says, leading them through the crowd to a table near the back. “Athena won’t steer her wrong, though.” “I don’t doubt it, Lor- Bobby. I just didn’t think it would be this difficult, honestly. I want her to be happy, but–” “You want to keep her safe.”  “Exactly!” Evan accepts a champagne flute, noticing Bobby takes a lemonade for himself. “I guess I always felt like I had no say before, even though I knew Lord Kendall was a terrible choice. It’s difficult not to want to be more involved this time.” “That’s understandable. Commendable even.” Bobby pauses to take a sip of his drink before cryptically adding, “Sometimes no matter how much we try to protect the people we love, it’s never enough.”  Evan thinks there might be a story there, but doesn’t press for more information. He’s not going to ruin any trust being built by prying into his host’s past. He also tries not to think too hard about how true Bobby’s statement has been in his own life. Instead he shifts his focus back to where Maddie is talking with Athena, smiling at all the right times and looking like she’s genuinely enjoying herself. He walks with Bobby to rejoin their small group, handing a glass to Maddie.  “Anyone promising?” He asks, when suddenly a familiar face catches his eye across the room. It’s the man from the park, surrounded by a mob of enthusiastic socialites not so subtly shoving their dance cards at him.   “I know him,” Evan murmurs without thinking.  “Viscount Diaz?” Bobby questions.  Athena cuts in before Evan can answer. “I didn’t realize you had met. I know I certainly didn’t make the introduction. Bobby, did you?” “Not that I recall, my love.” “I, uh-” Evan gulps down the last of his champagne, feeling his cheeks flush. Apparently his etiquette has slipped his mind, causing him to forget how important it is that any introductions are made through Athena or Bobby. “I must be mistaken then.”  “He is handsome,” Maddie whispers, leaning in close.  “Y-yes, I suppose he is,” Evan mumbles, feeling his cheeks flush.  His sister’s observation isn’t wrong. Still, something about her acknowledging the obvious fact, coupled with the man – Viscount Diaz – being here at all doesn’t sit right under his skin.  “Your sister could do much worse than the Viscount,” Athena comments, looking quite pleased with herself. “He’s an honorable man with plenty of land and income. I daresay he would make an admirable choice. In fact, I’m not sure why I didn’t consider it before.”  “May I have this dance?” A gentleman – thankfully not the Marquis or the Viscount – approaches Maddie, extending his hand. He’s of average height and build with mousy brown hair and a forgettable face. As far as Evan can tell there is absolutely nothing noteworthy about him. Nevertheless, Maddie smiles and accepts his hand, letting him lead her to the floor as the music begins.

so many of you have recently posted so absolutely no pressure tagging @shortsighted-owl @stereopticons @elvensorceress @disasterbuckdiaz LOML @lizzie-bennetdarcy @vanillahigh00 @rmd-writes @welcometololaland @apothecarose @jesuisici33 @daffi-990 @callmenewbie @giddyupbuck @wikiangela @jamespearce9-1-1 @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @lemonzestywrites @thewolvesof1998 @steadfastsaturnsrings @loserdiaz @heartshapedvows @underwater-ninja-13 @fortheloveofbuddie @eowon @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @spagheddiediaz @chaosandwolves @wildlife4life @buddierights @911onabc @the-likesofus @spaceprincessem @fionaswhvre @barbiediaz @honestlydarkprincess @pirrusstuff @gayedmundodiaz @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @maygrantgf @statueinthestone @indestructibleheart and anyone else who wants to share 💖

[hintons]

🦻🏻 TEO!!!! And uh 🏍️,💎, and 🦭?

demon-witch05 💚

🦻🏻 — 70s pony with teo

"Big Bird?" Teo signs out the words as he says them, excited. He beams up at Ponyboy, who's already feeling the first signs of being tired out — even with Eve and Ace helping him out while Dallas and Antonio are in Palermo it's hard. He suspects the answer but won't acknowledge it as Teo signs, "TV?"

Ponyboy pushes his hair back, glancing at the clock. "Big Bird time is in five minutes. Let's get you to the bathroom first and get some snacks."

Teo is on his feet as soon as Ponyboy finishes the sentence, almost making a beeline to the bathroom. A little over twenty months and he's adjusting faster than what the doctors expect. It gives Ponyboy hope after everything with Tulsa that Teo is going to be fine. Out of all the children born there since the big heave up after 1972, Teo might be the one with least visible issues.

It takes him some time to help him wash his hands, wipe his face, and Teo about zooms through the leftover carbonara that Eve left them both last night. By the time it's time for Sesame Street to play, Teo is half leading Ponyboy to the couch, snuggling in close once Ponyboy has it on.

It's a nice little Sunday afternoon, and Ponyboy is so happy he can spend it with his boy, watching him look at the show.

🏍️ — biker dallas / convict pony au

It takes two weeks for Ponyboy to fully trust sleeping in Dallas' cot with him once the guards do their rounds. This is the kind of prison where they turn their heads for anything, and no one will lift a finger to keep him away from Dallas at night.

Dallas, for his part, just pulls him closer by his waist, his voice rough whenever he greets him. Sometimes they just go back to sleep, trying to push out the other sounds. Sometimes they stay awake talking and sometimes they just lie there, doing nothing. Sometimes, hands find their way onto bodies, sometimes Ponyboy finds himself biting Dallas' neck as his fingers do the work between his thighs, sometimes it's him on his knees, Dallas' hands in his hair as he sucks him off.

Most of the time, it's just talking as much as Ponyboy wishes it were different. They trade stories of their lives, of Ponyboy with four brothers out there, the Mama who cared for him and then died, the anxiety he felt over not being able to send his brothers money contrasted with Dallas living on the streets, then his time in Salerno, and the freedom of the road.

When Ponyboy gets released, he knows he could leave. He knows how some of these prison relationships go.

And still, he's there when Dallas gets out a month later, there to kiss him and ask him, "You wanna go hit the road with me?"

💎 — peepshowverse

"So what happened between you two?" Ponyboy turns his head on the bed, looking at Dallas's face, trying to pick out the emotions he's feeling. They've ordered their food for the night and Dallas seems more relaxed, now that he's taken off his everything but his half buttoned shirt. "You and Cherry?"

"Me and my ex wife, you mean," Dallas comes to sit down, sighing as he does it. He's got a sharp, handsome face and he seems to consider what he's saying carefully. Ponyboy waits patiently until he finally says, "I mean — We had a marriage I though was good. I brought her into the business, I showed her what to do. We had a good time. I thought.... I thought she'd —"

He struggles with the words, gives up and shrugs. "She didn't. Stole from my Father, one of the dumbest things to do and then decided she wanted to try and go legit with mob money. When I told her no, she went to Randy and I went to prison for sixteen months." Dallas shakes his head. "I think she just wanted a fixer upper. What about you and Randy?"

"He helped kill my best friend," Ponyboy is blunt, just as firm as before. "I don't need any other reason."

🦭 — selkie pony au (greekverse ver)

Dallas takes a breath. Looks down at the kid who has to be around six with huge brown eyes and a huge smile on his face with ears unmistakably like Dallas' own. Looks up at the man who's holding his hand, the man who Dallas hadn't believed initially when they'd met.

He does the math between when they'd last met.

"Is he mine?"

Ponyboy nods. "Why else would I be here? His name is Henry."

Dallas takes another deep breath. And then decides to shut the door behind him so no one can interrupt their talk.

And maybe to lean against it to not faint.