#and she has had to use lethal force

[inamindfarfaraway]

I love how Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse said “Anyone can be Spider-Man”. I love how it inspired everyone to imagine their own Spider-People, saving the day in their own universes, with all kinds of cool, interesting personalities and aesthetics and mutations and life stories and relationships. We all put pieces of our soul into these homemade heroes. We had fun. We found community. And then Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse said, “Wow, great job! You’ve really taken our message to heart. Well, get ready for even more of everything you liked from the first movie and a new message to complement the first. Anyone can be Spider-Man… and anyone can be pulled into a cult.”

So now we all have to contemplate whether our lovingly crafted heroes would ever be on Team Mandatory Trauma Because Martyr Complex or not and why.

[muchanmocha]

Breakdown of Hyun Woo's Incident

That day, Luka was clinging to a troubled Hyuna while Hyun Woo tried to make him let go. Luka is either sweating heavily or crying here (unusually expressive and emotive for him) as he adamantly refuses to release her.

Hyun Woo is deeply upset and loses his patience. He resorts to violence.

In the ensuing scuffle between the two, Hyun Woo's head made lethal impact with a rock.

His death wasn't intentional — the rock was embedded in the ground.

(If the point was that Luka purposefully killed him, the rock would've been loose to imply it's a weapon he used to bash Hyun Woo's head with.)

Luka doesn't even seem to register or care about Hyun Woo's state. He's singlehandedly focused on the joy of being able to return to Hyuna now that no one is stopping him.

This is the main reason Hyuna resents him — he doesn't even acknowledge Hyun Woo's death and what happened.

Can she blame someone who doesn't know? Can she forgive someone who doesn't understand? She can only resent him.

"It's you who's in the wrong."

"Bet you had no idea."

— All-In

Now the question is why was Hyun Woo so upset? That's not the expression of an ordinary day-to-day conflict.

The answer:

Luka changed his behavior at some point. Specifically, this point.

Before this, Luka was aloof and unemotive. He cared about the two of course ("Your life is mine" (/matter of fact)) in his own way, but it's a drastic difference from the tunnel vision he gets later on where just the sight of Hyuna brings him an overjoyed smile regardless of circumstances.

This moment with Hyuna is the changing point for him. His controlling friendship (likely towards both Hyuna and Hyun Woo) and his entire world, is consumed by an unhealthily anxious love for Hyuna.

This abrupt development catches her off guard and she isn't sure how to react. She's certainly not okay with it.

Hyun Woo was worked up that day because ever since then, Luka has started to become obsessively clingy towards his sister and this is likely just the most recent in a series of incidents where he refused to let Hyuna go despite her wishes (Hyuna is looking at Luka as she raises her hand with a troubled face).

It's possible there's jealousy here feeling like Luka's trying to monopolize his sister, but I think it's more likely he was angry on Hyuna's behalf due to Vivimeng's repeated emphasis on how he has a strong sense of justice.

He also may have heard about Luka attempting to force himself on Hyuna and was agitated by the need to protect his sister and get him away from her.

Lastly, Wiege makes it clear that Hyun Woo and Luka both considered each other friends.

Luka's pov — The camera is low because he's looking up at them as the smallest one.

Luka's drawing — He's standing between the siblings and holding both of their hands.

[ageingfangirl2]

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 4: THEY FIND OUT ABOUT YOUR STALKER EX-PARTNER!

ONE TWO THREE FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN

You should have known you couldn’t hide behind fake smiles and fake laughs in front of Bonten wouldn’t last for long before someone decided to do some digging. And, of course, the member who decided to do the digging was Koko. He had hired you and knew most about your past, except one part you hadn’t told anyone. He knew you were in a relationship with a lawyer. It looked pretty normal and happy from the outside, but Koko was going to discover your boyfriend had stopped being your boyfriend a month ago, and he’s devolved into a stalker who wanted you back desperately. 

Instead of letting you know he knew, he got the rest of the members together in the meeting room when you’d gone out to grab some lunch. 

‘Guys, we have a serious situation on our hands. I know why y/n has been having mood swings, anxiety and moments of silence when they stare off into the distance when they think none of us are looking.’

Sanzu snorts. ‘So not girl problems then?’

Koko rolls his eyes. ‘The lawyer boyfriend is no longer her boyfriend, he’s her ex, but not the sort who goes quietly into the night. He’s stalking her, being a sinister creep who appears to be escalating to something more dangerous.’

Everyone stares at Koko in stunned silence, letting his words sink in. No one laid a finger on anyone related to Bonten, and that included their receptionist. Of course, Koko had already started making his own plans, getting your ex’s financial documents, and learning everything about his perfect, clean work record.

Mikey says absolutely nothing when he hears. Just leaves the room. Later, someone notices the pressure in the air shift — a kind of lethal stillness. Mikey walks by the front desk, eyes on your face. ‘If someone’s hurting you, you should say something.’ You give him a soft laugh and shake your head. Mikey wasn’t buying your fake laughs anymore.

The second he finds out, Sanzu is pissed. ‘Why didn’t she say anything? I would’ve handled it.’ He’s halfway to grabbing his guns before anyone stops him. When he tries to talk to you about it, you just laugh nervously and say, ‘It’s fine, I’ve got it under control.’

He grins at her, but it’s all teeth. ‘Sure you do, sweetheart. Just don’t be mad when I kill someone for you, okay?’ You’re unsure what to make of his comment; Sanzu was a wildcard.

Ran is quiet when Kokotells him. Too quiet. The next day, he leans on your desk like usual. ‘You know, if someone’s bothering you... you could tell me.’ You give him a bright, practiced smile. ‘You worry too much!’ He tilts his head, smile gone. ‘Nah. I just know what fear looks like, even when it’s hiding behind lipstick and coffee cups.’ Then he walks off — and starts hunting for the guy himself, just in case.

Rindou is tense. Jittery. Keeps watching you more closely now — every time you flinch at your phone buzzing, every time you force a laugh. When he asks gently, and you brush it off, he doesn’t push. But that night, he and Ran are combing their contacts for anyone with ties to the guy. ‘If she won’t say it, we’ll say it for her.’

Kakucho takes it personally. He was the one who told you it was okay to not always smile. Now he realizes you were probably hiding fear, not just sadness. He approaches you gently, ‘You know you don’t have to pretend with us, right?’ You deflect with a bright, ‘Who, me? I’m fine!’ His jaw clenches. ‘Then let me be ‘fine’ for you. Just give me a name.’ You don’t. He finds it anyway.

Akashi is old-school pissed. He pours a drink he doesn't even sip. ‘Why didn’t she tell someone? Does she think we’d just sit back?’ He corners you later, not unkind but firm. ‘That fake smile’s not fooling anyone anymore. You’ve got backup now — use it.’

You laugh him off, but the next morning, you find a burner phone in your drawer labeled: Emergency. Use it. No questions asked.

Mochi was Angry in that gruff, dad-bear way. ‘That little bastard’s lucky she didn’t say his name out loud. I’d have buried him under the damn parking lot.’

When he tries to bring it up, you wave him off with a smile. ‘You’re sweet to worry, but I’m okay.’ He grunts. ‘You don’t gotta be okay for our sake.’ Then, he stations himself near her desk for the rest of the day, just ‘coincidentally’ working there.

That night, when you leave and say goodnight, the members gather back in the meeting room. Mikey cleared his throat, ‘so we’re all in agreement, we’re killing this guy.’

Once Bonten set their mind to something, there was no way of stopping them. 

[littledoot]

I think about fox and the corries a lot. Something that always strikes me as strange is when people hate him and want him dead.

We see fox for around 4 minutes 30 TOTAL in the show but there are a few things that really stand out to me and something that happens in the comics.

Fox doesn't bend to Anakin at the start until Anakin straight up pulls rank. Should Anakin have gotten in? No. Was he angry and an active threat to Fox's men? Probably. So Fox folds there and lets him in.

When Ahsoka "breaks out" Fox goes for the non-lethal option until she "kills" some clones at which point Anakin has to command Fox and his men not to use lethal force.

It's completely reactionary and with the speed and minimal protest Fox gives it's almost strange. Fox is scared of something but he cares greatly for his brothers.

So the question becomes: what is Fox so scared of?

He was willing to stand up to Anakin as a random commander but not as a Jedi. Does Fox know what damage can be dealt by a lightsaber? Does he think that all force users will kill as they please?

With that fear and that care in mind I ask you to take a look at Fives' death. Fox and company got there when Fives was begging. The were too late to hear the explanation but they heard him plead to be understood.

And what does Fox do?

He stops behind crates for a second when Fives doesn't even know he's there, he asks Fives to not fight back, he does not fire the first shot. He asks Fives more than once to surrender. Fives knew he was dead either way but there was no way for Fox to know that.

Or maybe he did and had a plan.

In the comic we can see the Corries march on the temple and some of them shoot at Vader thinking him to be a Jedi.

Fox pleads their ignorance, Fox pleads for them not to be punished for a mistake they did not make, Fox dies asking leniency for his men.

These are not the actions of a proud man who believes in his cause.

These are the actions of a man who has nothing left and no other actions he can take trying to keep his family alive at any cost but knowing he will never manage it anyway.

So, yeah. I don't understand the hatred for Fox but if you want to tell my your view I will listen anyway

[polaris-daydreams]

like calls to like

pairing : dark!benjamin poindexter x dark!reader

warnings : DARK CONTENT ❗❗stalking, blood, murder, background character death, severed hands, unhealthy dependency, delusional thoughts, religious themes and imagery. DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18❗❗

summary : dex starts spiralling when he thinks reader is slipping away from him. but what dex doesn’t know is how deep reader’s jealousy runs.

w/c : 2.3k

a/n : special shoutout to @thevillainswhore bcs we were literally twinning with the same dex fic ideas in chat, it's crazy !! this has been sitting in my drafts for a bit, but i kept rereading her encouragement on this piece and finally finished it. make sure you read mollie’s work when it comes out ! gif credits: @novagif. warning/support divider credits: @cafekitsune. bullseye divider credits: @uzmacchiato. likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated, hope you enjoy <3

Dex wishes he never agreed to Ray’s invitation.

He’s trying his hardest to keep his focus on you across the ballroom. Your eyes shine while listening to Ray’s retelling of a mission, delicate hands hypnotizing him as you get too engrossed in explaining your version of the story.

This would've been a pleasant night for Dex. Him keeping a watchful eye on you from afar as you go about your daily life. Just like he used to do before the two of you got together.  A fateful meeting when he realised what a gentle soul you had. It was hard to miss considering the both of you worked as FBI agents. That sort of soft hands and a warm heart didn't belong in your shared line of work. Didn't last long.

Just like how Dex won’t last any longer if this reporter kept clinging on to him. Some amateur writer eager to get a juicy headline instead of a hard hitting story. Dex barely remembers her name but she’s hanging off of his arm, going on and on about how excellent of an agent he is. He doesn't need telling, Dex knows. But he also knows this is a social networking event. Knows that there are cameras all around taking pictures of this interaction. Dex runs his hand down his face, thinking about how the media will spin it this time around.

The woman is too close, too much and too unlike you. Dex's mind is screaming at him. It's taking everything in him to not lose control and throw the glass he's holding to the wall. The grip on his drink makes his knuckles turn white. 

Dex remembers his mantra to be good, good for you. He can't lose control in public or leave a trail of dead bodies again. Not when your teary eyes and wobbly lips flashes behind his eyes every time some dumb motherfucker tries it. The memory of you being the only one there for him, besides Ray, when he was being used as a scapegoat. The evidence on his side was flimsy, and yet you stood strong beside him. Letting the goodness of your heart blind you to his true nature.

His violent tendencies remain shackled only because of you, your pretty hands and soft smiles that bring him back into the light. But it's so hard to be good when the reporter won't take the hint and loops her arm with his. Dex has to close his eyes and think of your perfectly imperfect smile, the melody of your laughter. His other hand not holding the glass faintly twitches, as if he's reaching out to your body in his prayers. But when he soothes the urge to throw something and cracks open his eyes, you aren't in his eyesight anymore.

There’s a faint buzzing in his ear.

He politely (as politely as he can, rage thrumming beneath his fingertips) separates his body from the reporter. Putting on his mask of a charming smile, spouting an excuse about “duty calling” as Dex points towards his boss.

The mask immediately drops as he turns back, shuffling his feet quickly over to where Ray is.

“We caught the culprit in- oh Dex?”

“Where is she?”

Colleagues stiffen at his interruption, stories of his eagerness to use lethal force spreading easily around the office. Ray takes notice of Dex’s rapidly blinking eyes, knows how much he depends on you.

“You just missed her, man. She left for the restroom, it's on the left past the hallway.” Ray supplies it with an easy smile, hoping to calm Dex.

He mutters out a thanks before making his way over to the restroom area. It’s more quiet in the hallway, thick walls muffling the jazz music in the ballroom. Dex thinks he hears a hint of an impact landing and frowns. Picking up his pace, he rounds the corner on the left just as you pull back the door to the ladies.

Dex feels his shoulders relax.

The furrow in his brows vanishing.

Buzzing softening in his ears until it's completely silent.

“Oh!” You jump slightly by his sudden appearance.

“Thought I lost you back there angel. You alright?” 

“Of course, my love. Just had to touch my makeup real quick.” A pretty smile forms on your lips, Dex feels like a lovesick teenager as the nickname falls from it.

Nothing he had worry about, Dex smiles to himself.

Except when you pull the door back a little wider to join Dex outside, his eyes flick up past your head. 

One of the sink mirrors is shattered, he notices.

A glance that ends as quickly as it started, as you tug his arm along. Leading the both of you back to the ballroom, your heels clicking against the hallway floor.

The confusion breezes past his mind when your familiar warmth envelops his bicep. Dex had nothing to worry about.

Dex has everything to worry about. Your routine’s completely changed the past 2 weeks. It started off small. The first week was closing your browser whenever he came around your office cubicle. Turning your phone off and setting it screen down on the table as he joined you on his couch. Dex’s jaw clenched everytime it happened.

The next week had him rescheduling your night dates. Citing extra workload and last minute cases. Dex would stare at your messages, as if burning holes into his phone would make you change your texts.

- My Angel -

sent Tuesday, 5.43 P.M. 

“my lovee, im so sorry but boss just pulled me in a meeting. think its a case briefing, can we reschedule? :((“

sent Thursday, 6.14 P.M.

“sorry lovey !! rookie from forensics messed up the field report and boss is being bitchy. gonna have to move our date.“

sent Sunday, 8.22 P.M.

“dex sorry but i had to go over to rays real quick. his wife called because sammy’s sick and ray’s obviously on that mission with you. don't wait up for me.”

Dex?

Since when the fuck did you call him Dex?

He’d read this specific message over and over. Grip tight around his phone. Not just because of you forgetting the nickname, but because Dex knew Sammy wasn't sick that night. He had bumped into Ray in the locker room while the married man was facetiming his wife. His partner in justice was the only friend he had, so Dex had begrudgingly gotten into frame when Ray beckoned him over. Even shyly entertained his wife’s questions about inviting you over for dinner again. Sammy had popped into frame at the mention of you, complaining that it had been too long since you had showed off your kitchen skills.

“Can she help teach dad how to butcher a turkey properly when you guys visit again? It was like a murder scene when dad tr- Ow!” Sammy’s rambling getting cut off by a soft smack on the head.

This morning was what pulled the last thread of his sanity apart.

Dex tried not to be overcontrolling and paranoid once you had accepted his (obsessive) love, and had started sleeping over at his black and white home sometimes. But that's proving difficult now, the 2 past weeks rattling the system in his brain. The wires fraying, close to snapping. 

Especially when a prime opportunity presented itself.

You were rushing to work on his off day, moving around too fast to notice your daily journal being left behind. It was unlike you to be late, but you'd been more tired lately. Yawning in the office, head drooping in meetings. You take 3 coffees now instead of 2. 5 shots of espresso now instead of 3. 

Dex wonders what's been keeping you away from sleep recently. He wishes he could go back to when he was stalking you. The time he knew where you were, what you were doing throughout the night. Was sure you were safe because he kept an eye on you himself.

His fingers twitch. The urge to reach out and just read your secrets growing.

Dex is just keeping you safe.

Yes, that's right. He’s doing this for your own good.

He gives in to the voice, opening your worn journal. Flipping to the past week and checking your whereabouts.

The buzzing is back.

Tuesday : 

Dunkin Donuts !!

Office - rmb to check evidence and restraining order for case #2937

The Bulletin 

Pizza hut

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213

It festers at the back of his mind.

Thursday :

Jimmy’s Breakfast Stop

Office 

Home Depot - supply run

Josie’s

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213

Drapes itself over his brain, darkness clouding his judgement.

Sunday :

Krispy Kreme

Office

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213 ♡

Dex can’t hear his heartbeat anymore.

He’s spiraling. The thumping of his heart clawing its way into his throat. The buzzing in his ears won't stop even when he presses his palms to his eyes. Dex is losing you. He’s lost you. So he lets that darkness guide him in the absence of your light. 

The familiarity of the scene doesn't surprise Dex. Him waiting out in his car to catch a glimpse of you. It does, however, make him nauseous. He thought he had made so much progress with you. For you. And now Dex is back to stalking you from afar. 

As if you hadn't looked up at him with gentle devotion.

As if you hadn't cradled his face, leaned your forehead against him in an act of sincere adoration. 

As if you hadn't interlocked your hands with his. His hands that he can never truly wash the blood off of. The interlocked hands that you kissed, like you could absolve him of the blood he’s spilt.

Dex inhales sharply when he spots you. Despite his mind descending into madness, he still recognises your shape, your white dress, you. Dex checks his gun one last time. It's not for you. No, never. He could never lay a hand on you. The bullet is for the other person. Whoever that stole you from him. You couldn't have initiated this. No, no. You must have been manipulated. Yes. Yes that must be it. You were coerced into this, and Dex is here to save you. Of course he is. How could you ever live without him ? How could he ever live without you?

A total of 10 minutes has passed. Dex figures now's the time to catch you in the act. Catch his angel by the wings.

He exits the car, gun safely tucked into the side of him.

Dex calmly makes his way over to the building. Thoughts hovering in his clouded mind.

How would he do it?

Dex presses all the buttons on the intercom, someone’s always waiting for someone.

Should he do it fast, a bullet through the heart?

The buzzing of the gate mixes with the buzzing in his head, and he enters the building.

Or make it slow and painful, throw a knife into the aorta.

The elevator carrying him ascends, as Dex’s grip on reality descends.

Maybe he should …

The door is ajar, like somebody broke in.

The buzzing in Dex’s mind makes him woozy, his body moving on autopilot to reach you. Forced entry? Are you okay? Is his angel okay?

Dex nearly launches himself at the door. His knees could give out with how relieved he is to see you. But something's wrong. Your dress is red now. You're all bloody. No. No. You're injured. Someone hurt you. Someone hurt his. He moves without his body even realising. Like a machine going back to its default setting. Taking care of you. Dex nearly trips over something but he doesn't care. All that matters right now is you. His angel. He scans your face and gets the blood splatter all over his hands. He’ll kill whoever was responsible for hurting you. He’d kill himself if he was the reason for this.

But something’s not making sense. Dex can't figure out where the blood is coming from. And you don't seem hurt, distraught or even surprised that he knew where you were. In fact, you look like you're glowing. Like you're coming off from a high. Dex tries to take a step back to examine you as a whole, but he feels something beneath his shoe.

It's a hand.

The buzzing reels back, slowly unveiling his eyes.

Two hands to be exact.

It untangles the claws in his brain.

Sitting in a sea of red.

Retreats to the back of his head.

Dex flicks his eyes to the right.

To the body.

It's the reporter.

Finally, silence.

"Well I figured ... if she couldn't keep her hands to herself ... then she didn't really deserve to have them no? That should teach her a lesson to not touch what's mine".

The words falling out of your mouth should send a chill down dex’s spine. Warning bells should sound off in the back of his mind. But Dex thinks you've never been more beautiful than at this moment.

Your white dress, a canvas for the blood that's still fresh and dripping down from the hem. The bloodlust in your eyes, sparkling with hunger. Chest heaving, sweat trickling down your face from the physical exertion. Your smile is sickeningly sweet.

The clash of your voice against the image of you, like sweet little red riding hood masquerading as the wolf in the enchanted forest.  

Dex removes his hold from your cheeks, letting them fall. He interlocks his fingers with yours, more blood smearing onto his hands. Bringing them close to his lips, he leans down a little. Planting a kiss to your bloody knuckles.

You were Dex’s salvation. And now he’ll be yours. 

A fallen angel. His fallen angel. Dex wants to trace the scars from the wings on your back, get lost in the void of your sinful eyes. Dex would gladly fall down, down, down into the depths of depravity if it meant he could burn right alongside you.

a/n : hehe did you catch the easter egg of jessica jones's childhood home address ? hope the sprinkles of reader's true nature peeking through was easy to understand too :)

no pressure tags for beloved moots : @callsign-fangirl @kyamiia @thevillainswhore @millennialtrashjigglypuff @htchnr @monicfever @melaninjoys

[k3n-dyll]

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 | 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠; 18+ interactions only, wlw, omg i wrote something SFW!

Sevika being "not good with kids" but kids loving her anyway. She doesn't hate children, of course - she's just awkward around them. Sevika's generally not much of a talker and kids tend to talk a lot, so being left alone with a kid to entertain isn't ideal for her. Not only that but she's big and has a (also big) mechanical arm modified with sharp weapons. The control she has over her arm is unmatched, obviously but the subconscious fear that it's going to malfunction or something too close to a little one is always in the back of her mind when they're around. It never does. Because duh.

Kids though? Oh, they love her. She's quiet, but she's great at "pretending to listen" (as she calls it). As much as she doesn't want to admit it, some of the things kids talk about are deeply entertaining. One time she was 'forced' to listen to a six-year-old daughter of one of Silco's goons talk to her about a game of house that went wrong and the drama between the kid who played the mom and the kid who played the dad was so intriguing she started asking questions like she was watching a reality TV show.

Her height, her strength, and her arm? To any other adult those qualities make her a lethal tank of a soldier. To a kid? Free jungle gym. Kids that sometimes come around her quickly figured out that the most she would do is scowl at them and gently place them back on the ground if they started climbing up onto her, and the scowling doesn't even happen often anymore because one time she made a little girl cry. Now she just rolls her eyes, and entertains it for a little bit before making them get down.

One of the funniest things she discovered she could do is straight up lie. Children lack that filter between their brains and their mouths that blocks adults from saying whatever the Hell they want so they frequently ask about her arm. At first she just dismissed the question, then one day she thought about it and realized...they don't know. She could say whatever she wanted and what were the kids gonna do? Tell her it didn't happen that way?

"Where'd your arm go?"

And then her answer would be something different for each kid:

"It got bitten off by a shark" "I lost it battling a dragon" "This is my arm...I was born with it" "It just didn't wanna be there anymore....seriously, just got up n' walked away from me one day." (a favorite she had to stop using because one day a kid spent the rest of the day clutching his arm in fear that his arm would decide it didn't like him anymore and walk off)

Have y'all ever seen those videos of dudes holding babies weird? Doctors will come on the internet and say it's good for the baby, which, slay, but it's still a weird way to hold a baby, right? That's how Sevika holds babies. She will do everything but hold them 'correctly' for some reason. I once saw this video of a guy carrying his baby by the back of its onesie like cats carry kittens by the scruff of their necks and I could 1000% see Sevika doing just that (obviously once the baby can like, hold its own head up). Or like carrying the baby on their stomach on her forearm (I think it's called a football hold?). It's always a little anxiety-inducing to see but also a little funny because the baby would just be chilling and looking around, not caring how precariously it's dangling in the air.

I dunno what made me do this at 7 in the morning but uh...yeah

Donations 4 Palestine - Arcane Masterlist

Taglist; @archangeldyke-all, @delinthecut @sevsbaby, @half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery,  @strawberry-shortcakey , @abvisionss , @urbayolet,

@Sillygirl-lol

[chvoswxtch]

an olive branch

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: matt’s efforts to find out what he’s gotten himself into don’t go as planned.

warnings: swearing, more angst than me as a teenager, fury being fury, matt being the sassy lil shit he is

word count: 4.4k

a/n: it's only been three days since the born again finale and i'm already having withdrawls. if you are too, here's some matty for you. <3 as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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“Agent Y/L/N.”

Fury gave her a subtle dismissive nod, which she returned with one of her own, a silent communication passing between them before she turned to slip back into the elevator. Once those doors closed, Fury gestured towards his desk with his hand.

“Please, have a seat.”

Instead of taking a step towards one of the two leather chairs in front of the desk, Matt stayed exactly where he was and decided to cut straight to the chase.

“What am I doing here.”

“I wanted to talk to you. I understand you and Agent Y/L/N had a bit of a…misunderstanding last night.”

Matt let out a dry scoff as a tiny humorless smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, and his dark brows raised above the rims of his red tinted sunglasses.

“Misunderstanding? She tased me and knocked me out.”

“You got in her way.”

The coolness of his tone made Matt tighten his grip around his cane. Fury casually turned to walk back to his desk where he made himself comfortable in the plush leather seat. There was a faint creak when Fury’s leather jacket rubbed against the leather of the chair, and it made Matt’s jaw clench as he grimaced. The Advil hadn’t kicked in yet, and his throbbing headache made his sound sensitivity worse.

“I didn’t agree to be an accessory to murder.”

“And you won’t be.”

Folding up his cane with a little more force than necessary, Matt stalked towards Fury’s desk.

“You really expect me to just stand aside while she-”

“Mr. Murdock, I understand that you argue for a living, and I understand that you’re good at it. But I'm a very busy man, and I'm pressed for time. Agent Y/L/N and I had a little chat while you were out, and we’ve come up with a compromise.”

Matt cocked his head slightly to the side, confusion nestling between his dark brows.

“A compromise?”

“While the two of you are on missions together, Agent Y/L/N will do her best to not use lethal force. But, if there is no other alternative, she will do what she has to do, and you will not intervene. Understood?”

Matt tossed his folded cane into the closest leather chair next to him, and he placed one of his hands on his hip while his other came up to pinch the bridge of his nose and adjust his sunglasses. 

“Why did you drag me into this?”

Fury’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly at Matt’s question, but they quickly furrowed in an entanglement of confusion and annoyance a moment later.

“Drag you into it? Mr. Murdock you were already waist deep in the middle of it. I just thought you’d wanna be part of the team”

“A team of killers.”

Fury let out a deep exhale through his nose, a subtle sign of his patience waning. Resting his elbows on his desk, he interlocked his fingers together as he took a moment to regain his neutral composure. A brief thought flashed through Matt’s brain that Fury may be to blame for Y/N’s unwavering and irritating calmness. 

“What is it you think we do here?”

“I thought you protected people.”

“We do. By any means necessary.”

Matt dragged his palm down the lower half of his face in frustration, the coarseness of his grown out facial hair scratching against his palm as if he were caressing the needles of a cactus. He hated the growth stage. The smoothness of a clean shave never lasted long enough, and the time frame between prickly stubble and a tolerable beard was too long. 

“There’s a system-”

“And it’s broken. You know that better than anyone. Justice isn’t always blind, and some people never get it. That’s why you go out and take it by force at night, isn’t it?”

Matt abruptly paused, his words dying on his tongue. He had no rebuttal for that. And it pissed him off. Seeing Matt’s own patience fading quickly, Fury let out another deep exhale and leaned back in his chair.

“Look, you care. About this city, and about the people in it. That's why you protect it. This is personal for you.”

Matt was quiet for a moment, running a hand stressfully through his hair before placing his hands on his hips and shifting his weight to his other foot.

“Yeah. It is.”

“It’s personal for her too.”

Matt’s ears perked up at that. He tilted his head to the side, puzzlement evident in his expression.

“What do you mean? Personal how?”

“It’s just personal.”

Jesus Christ, these people were brick walls. Nothing was ever a simple answer. And every single answer was calculated and infuriatingly indeterminate. Matt threw his hands up in exasperation and let out a bitter dry and humorless laugh that echoed with incredulity. He turned away for a moment, cracking his neck and shaking his head, and when he turned to face Fury again, his tone was rough and snarky as his temper flared. 

“That's not good enough. You can’t keep leaving me in the dark. You have to give me something-”

“I don’t have to give you a goddamn thing.”

Matt’s nostrils flared when Fury abruptly shut him down with that combative statement. He let out another dry laugh, clicking his tongue against his cheek as he shrugged his shoulders and forced a tight lipped defiant smile on his lips.

“Then I’m not doing this. Not unless you tell me what’s really going on.”

Matt pointed his index finger in Fury’s direction and took a step closer.

“I don’t trust you, or her, and I’m not partnering with someone who can so casually take a life.”

“It wasn’t an issue with Frank Castle or Elektra Natchios.”

There it was again. That simple delivery of something personal about him with an undercurrent of what could either be a taunt or a threat. Her words echoed in his ears as he visibly stiffened.

Just assume we know everything.

Matt’s skin felt like it was crawling with invisible wrathful insects slithering under the surface. Fury might as well have brushed the sharpened tip of a steel blade against the back of Matt’s neck the way his spine straightened and the soft hairs stood to attention pin straight.

Knowing about Frank was one thing, that was easily explainable. Frank and Matt had come to one another’s aid once or twice, and Daredevil crossing paths with the Punisher was something the people in the city noticed. Neither one of them were exactly subtle.

But Elektra…that wasn’t public. That wasn’t connected to Daredevil. That was connected to Matt. Whoever knew about her either had been watching him longer than he thought, or they were really good at digging up things that should stay buried. Either way, Matt was unsettled, and immediately went on the defense with his hands clenched in tight fists at his sides.

“That was different. I didn’t condone what they did.”

“But you weren’t bitching about it in someone’s office either.”

A muscle feathered in Matt’s jaw as he clenched it, and Fury eyed him silently for a moment before slowly rising from his chair, placing his palms flat on his desk as he leaned forward slightly.

“Tell me something, Mr. Murdock. When you beat that man within an inch of his life all those years ago, and you sent him to the intensive care unit where he had to eat through a straw for a month, did you feel remorse? Or did you sleep better at night, knowing that the son of a bitch couldn’t sneak into his daughter’s room anymore after his wife went to sleep?”

Matt’s blood had felt like molten lava pumping through his veins up until the moment Fury brought up that night. It was the night Matt had become a vigilante. He hadn’t been the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen yet. He’d just been the man in the black mask. Fury’s words floated across the space like an unforgiving winter wind, their briskness making his skin prickle with goosebumps and the cold verity of them freezing everything inside him, making the color drain from his face.

Fury’s footsteps were calm and measured as he rounded the desk, but in Matt’s ears, the sound of his boots against the marble floor were like explosives going off in a minefield with each step. Sitting on the desk directly in front of Matt, Fury grabbed the edges on either side of him, his relaxed posture the polar opposite of Matt’s rigidity. 

“You felt better, didn’t you? Knowing you served that little girl justice when the system didn’t. They failed her, everyone else failed her, but you were there.”

Matt swallowed thickly, his hands still clenched tightly at his sides. His fingers were starting to tingle due to lack of circulation.

“I understand that you’re a God fearing man. You have a set of morals, a code, I can respect that. But we do not abide by your rules. Your self righteousness and your hypocrisy have no place in this agency. I am doing you a favor-”

“A favor?”

Matt’s face was twisted up in vexation, caught between incredulity that Fury truly believed that and frustration that he thought any of this was a favor to Matt. 

“And what part of this do you consider a favor, Fury? Invading my privacy? The extortion?”

“Extortion is a bold claim. We didn’t force you to do anything.”

“Not explicitly, but the threat was loud and clear. We know who you are, we know everything about you, comply or suffer the consequences.” 

“Well now you’re just being dramatic. We aren’t holding anything over your head, Mr. Murdock. We simply leveled the playing field. We know who you are, you know who we are. You were already working on a lead we were pursuing, we offered you an in.”

“I didn’t need your help-”

“You are an unsanctioned vigilante, and a civilian. I have given you confidential information on The Red Right Hand, and I am putting my ass on the line allowing you to be a part of this investigation. I didn’t have to do that. And I could have threatened to expose your temperamental ass if you didn’t back off, but I didn’t. Because someone thinks you’re worth a damn. Someone stuck their neck out for you, and put their own reputation on the line, because they believed in you-someone that I trust, and that is not an easy accomplishment.”

Matt’s mouth snapped shut as Fury’s words settled between them, once again leaving him with more questions than answers. Fury’s patience with Matt had clearly run out, and Matt could feel that this conversation was over whether he was ready for it to be or not.

Satisfied with Matt’s silence, Fury slowly stood up straight, and there was an edge of warning to his voice when he spoke.

“Now, I am offering you an olive branch. You’d be wise to take it.”

��»———　　———««

The buzzing of Matt’s phone against the wooden dining table alerted Matt to an incoming phone call before the automated voice did.

“Incoming call, unknown number.”

Matt’s fingertips brushed over the last few Braille bumps of the court document he was reading before reaching over to tap the phone screen.

“This is Murdock.”

“Did you find the present I left you?”

Matt’s concentration was sufficiently broken when he heard her voice. The document was left momentarily abandoned beneath his fingers as creases of confusion settled in his forehead.

“How did you get my number?”

“I knew your address, you think I didn’t have your phone number?”

The amusement in her voice was clear, as if she were standing right next to him instead of on the other end of the line. Her original question made him sit up a little straighter, focusing his senses on his front door. He didn’t notice anything.

“Wait, what do you mean present you left me? I haven’t gotten anything delivered.”

“I left it in your closet.”

Matt snapped his head in the direction of his phone. His expression immediately shifted from mild confusion to full blown annoyance. 

“How the hell did you-, I locked the rooftop door.”

“And I told you I can pick locks.”

“Stop breaking into my fucking apartment.���

An exasperated sigh tinged with a twinge of playfulness floated through the phone speaker.

“Just go check your goddamn closet.”

Letting out a deep exhale through his nose, Matt angrily swiped his phone off the table, his chair screeching against the floor when he abruptly pushed it back to stand up. When he stepped into his walk-in closet, he tilted his head to the side, using his senses to locate the box sitting on one of the shelves. He hadn’t noticed it when he came home. Granted, he hadn’t even come into his bedroom yet. He’d immediately sat down to go over his closing statement for court on Thursday.

Setting his phone aside, he slowly reached out to brush his fingertips over the slender rectangular box. The wrapping paper was smooth, and there was even a bow tied around it with soft silk string. 

“You tie this yourself?”

“I did.”

“How thoughtful.”

Matt’s dry sarcasm didn’t quite match his internal reaction. Brushing his fingertips over the silk string and following it towards the center where an expertly tied bow rested, a subconscious smile ghosted over the edge of his mouth. Despite him being an ass about it, it was actually thoughtful. Not that he’d ever tell her that. 

After pulling the bow loose and unwrapping the box, he lifted the top off, and his face scrunched in curiosity and uncertainty feeling cool metal touch his fingertips. There were four slender pieces of it side by side, the one on the far left wrapped in smooth leather with grooves for an easy grip. For how firm it felt, it was surprisingly light when he picked it up, almost weightless. 

“What is this?”

“You can’t tell with your super senses?”

“They’re not super. They’re heightened.”

As Matt inspected the object, he felt a sense of familiarity. Brushing his thumb over the bottom of one of the slender pieces, it seemed to click in his brain. One by one, he locked each piece into place, straightening them out vertically. He rubbed the thin silk rope at the end of the handle between his first two fingers and his thumb, the opening wide enough to wrap around the pieces to keep them bundled, or to hang up by his front door.

“Is this a cane?”

“With a tracker. I installed the tracking app on your phone.”

“What? How did you even-”

“You were unconscious for quite a while.” 

Matt let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he continued to glide his hand slowly over every part of the cane.

“So you’ve broken into my apartment God knows how many times, you took my suit, and my phone. Anything else?”

“Well, I was gonna swipe your card and treat myself to a nice dinner, but according to your bank account, you’re one of those lawyers that actually cares about people, not money.”

Matt could practically hear the smirk in her voice, and it made one tug across his own mouth.

“Unlucky for you.”

“Mhm. Owens, on the other hand, gets a pretty nice payday from the government. I put it on his tab instead.”

Matt was quiet for a moment, trying to decipher the intention behind this unexpected gift. He couldn’t think of one. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Why did you get me a cane with a tracker?”

“Because littering is illegal in New York.”

Matt couldn’t stop the amused snort that escaped even if he’d tried.

“And I didn’t get you a cane. It was custom made. Feel that button on the handle?”

Matt’s hand glided down the smooth surface until he felt a small circular button just a few inches below the handle.

“Yeah?”

“Well press it.”

“How do I know it’s not gonna explode?”

A laugh sounded from the other end of the line, and it caught Matt off guard. He wasn’t sure why, but he had an urge to hear it again. It humanized her otherwise artificial demeanor.

“Wow, guess those senses really aren’t super. “

Pressing the button, the top two pieces merged into one, as did the bottom two, leaving a string of material between them. It happened so quickly Matt nearly dropped the two pieces he was now holding. They felt like…his batons? Rubbing the thin string of material connecting them between his thumb and first two fingers, his dark brows furrowed. It was some kind of smooth metal, but he couldn’t place it.

“What is this made of?”

“High-tensile steel fiber composite cable. It’s virtually indestructible, so it shouldn’t snap no matter what you do with it. The cane itself is made out of Vibranium.”

Matt’s hand suddenly paused its exploration, and he cocked his head to the side.

“Vibranium? Like…Wakandan Vibranium?”

“Is there another kind?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Yes, Vibranium is only sourced from Wakanda. Are you familiar with kinetic energy?”

Matt rolled his eyes as he pushed the small button again, the two split batons morphing back into a cane.

“I’m a lawyer, not a scientist.”

“You graduated Summa Cum Laude from Columbia, but you don’t know basic science? I’m disappointed, Matthew.”

The playful tease in her comment had Matt fighting the smirk that threatened to cross his lips, betraying his own stubborn defiance. He clicked his tongue against his cheek as he broke the cane down into four pieces again, wrapping the thin silk rope around the bundle.

“Aw, sweetheart, I’m gutted. How am I gonna live with your disappointment?”

“I’m sure you could make a compelling case for my forgiveness, Counselor. I’ll even trade for it.”

Matt let out a dry chuckle and shook his head, taking the phone off speaker to bring it up to his ear, dropping his voice to a lower octave.

“No, see, forgiveness isn’t a transaction. That’s your first mistake. Although I wouldn’t expect someone who seems incapable of feeling guilt to understand the fundamentals of forgiveness. But you’re welcome to come to church with me one Sunday, learn a thing or two.”

“Oh I don’t know, Matthew. I think I’d have to clear an entire day just to sit through your weekly confessional.”

“Well I’m sure if you were to go in, you’d probably never come out.”

The momentary silence on the other end felt like a little triumph. He’d won this round. He’d managed to tip the scales back in his favor. 

“Now, you gonna tell me what the point of this science lesson is?”

“Vibranium absorbs kinetic energy. Whatever hits the metal takes, it stores, and that energy can be released.”

“Released?”

“Think of it as a boost to pack a really powerful punch.”

Matt’s thumb absentmindedly brushed over the gift, contemplating his next question. When he spoke, there was no attempt at banter, no sarcastic remark, just pure curiosity.

“Why did you have this made?”

“So you can vigilante on the go.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not a real one. He’d dropped his guard for a second, allowing a snippet of vulnerability into the conversation, hoping for raw honesty. As much as she frustrated the hell out of him, and as much as he didn’t trust her and wasn’t sure if he even liked her, he wanted to understand her. He didn’t know why, but he did. And she was giving him nothing. 

“Right.”

Matt’s disappointment was palpable even through the phone. An uncomfortable moment of silence passed before a quiet sigh sounded from her end.

“Look, it’s a peace offering.”

“Because you need my help-”

“No. I don’t. But I want it.”

That surprised him. That was the last thing he expected her to say. It made him pause, considering the sincerity in her words. I want it. That was something. Real, honest, vulnerable. But it didn’t make Matt any less weary of her.

“I have conditions.”

“I already agreed to Fury’s compromise-”

“I have more.”

This time her sigh was tinged with exaggerated exasperation, and it made him roll his eyes.

“I’ll start knocking.”

“Don’t tase me again.”

“Don’t give me a reason to.”

Matt let out a deep exhale through his nose, reaching up to pinch the bridge of it. He didn’t know if he’d ever met someone so insufferable. And he knew Frank Castle.

“You know, if we’re gonna work together, you’re gonna have to at least pretend you trust me.”

Matt let out a genuine laugh at the audacity of her statement, and he shook his head as he switched his phone to his opposite hand, raising it to his other ear. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t get to pull the shit you did the other night and talk to me about trust. You haven’t exactly given me a good impression so far. I also know virtually nothing about you, which puts me at a disadvantage, because you know everything about me.”

“I don’t know everything about you.”

“I thought I was supposed to assume you knew everything?”

Matt’s voice was mocking as he repeated those irritating words he was tired of hearing.

“Assume, yes. That doesn’t mean that I do.”

All at once, bewilderment washed over him. Matt stood there in his closet, letting those words sink in, finally blinking a few times to chase away the dryness that had glazed over his sightless eyes in his stupefied state. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Let’s start simple. What’s your favorite color?”

Matt was still trying to process that she didn’t actually know everything, she’d just led him to believe that. And he had. Pressing his lips together in annoyance, his voice was dry and flat when he answered.

“I’m blind.”

“So? You weren’t always blind.”

Dropping the phone down to his side for a moment, Matt tilted his head back and dragged his top teeth across his bottom lip, letting out a quiet grunt before cracking his neck and lifting his phone back to his ear with a disgruntled deep exhale. 

“Red.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

Matt’s eyes rolled so hard he thought for a moment they’d stay stuck in the back of his skull.

“Well, why?”

“Why what?

“Why is red your favorite?”

Matt’s feet carried him out of the closet and over towards the edge of his bed where he sat down, trying to decide how to answer. There were a million different ways he could, but most of those answers were personal, too personal for him to feel comfortable telling someone whose intentions he was still trying to figure out. His intrigue about her was muddled by his suspicion that had only continued to grow with each encounter.

“My dad was a boxer. It was his color.”

“Do you remember him?”

Matt tensed slightly at that question, and he immediately redirected the conversation.

“It’s my turn to ask a question.”

“Alright, fine. Go ahead.”

A hundred questions flashed through his brain, but he knew he had to be intentional about which one he chose. Trying to get an answer out of her that wasn’t yes or no or annoyingly vague was like pulling teeth. So he played it safe and smart and threw her own question back at her.

“What’s yours?”

“What?”

“Favorite color.”

“Green.”

There was a small pause, and then her voice sounded again.

“Emerald green.”

“Huh, that’s not what I expected. Why?”

“It’s calming. It reminds me of something…something good.”

There was a hesitance in her tone, an uncertainty that made him stay quiet, picking up on the fact that she seemed like she wanted to say more but was conflicted about it. He wanted to know, so he gentled his own voice to give her a little push.

“Yeah? Like what?”

The silence that passed stretched for so long Matt thought she might have hung up on him, but then her voice came through, and it was the softest he’d ever heard it.

“I have these…glimpses I get sometimes. A place. A woman.”

The electricity buzzing throughout the building, the conversations happening on the floors above and below him, and even the lively sounds of the city outside seemed to fade completely as he solely focused on her voice. 

Matt was hesitant to push too far and make her shut down. He didn’t know if she was intentionally being more honest to prove to him that she was trying and making an effort, or if the question brought up a memory she’d seemingly gotten lost in, but he was going to take full advantage of this rare moment.

“Are these…memories?”

“I think so. I think it’s where I grew up. Somewhere with a lot of trees and grass. Cherry blossoms. And the woman, I can’t really see her face, but I think she’s my mother.”

Matt never once stopped to think about where she came from, or who she was outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d been so focused on who she was currently that he hadn’t even thought about who she had been. But that hint of grief was an almost imperceptible crack in her perfectly crafted exterior, and he recognized it. 

Because he felt it, every single day. He’d been haunted by it ever since that tragic night that had left him completely alone in the world.

Matt let out a soft breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he tilted his head downwards.

“You lost her.”

“Yeah.”

Her voice was so quiet, and there was a rawness to it he wasn’t expecting. It was what he’d been wanting, but now that he had it, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For every answer she gave, he had thirteen more questions. He’d never had such a hard time trying to get a read on someone before.

“You know, I think that might be the first honest thing you’ve said to me.”

“I thought you knew when I was lying.”

A fleeting smile graced Matt’s lips, and as the volume of his voice lowered to match the sudden intimate nature of the conversation, his retort was interlaced with the truth that neither one of them seemed to find amusing.

“You’re a good liar.”

Another moment of silence passed before she spoke again.

“I was trained to be.”

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadful-secrets @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake@raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world @yomnajir @Fries11 @groovycass

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Co-Star (Roman Reigns)

Juliana “Juju” Hamilton, a celebrated TV star, and Roman Reigns, a former WWE icon stepping into his first major acting role, play star-crossed lovers on a hit series. But as they prepare to film their first sex scene, the lines between fiction and reality begin to blur.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Actress Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 4.5k

King, Season 1

Ramona Kane is the heiress to the Kane Hotels & Hospitality empire and the mastermind behind the biggest illegal arms syndicate in the West Coast. They call her ‘King’, because everyone thinks it’s a man calling the shots. Using the hotel chains as a front, she immerses herself in the dark, ruthless, cutthroat underworld to avenge her parents, aiming to become powerful enough to ultimately take down the drug lord who brutally murdered them. 

Logan is a mysterious Black Ops agent who falls in love with Ramona, but he soon discovers her ties to the entity he has been tirelessly hunting down for years.

It’s a great script. Juju was hooked from the first page. She was also happy to report that her love life was not as complicated as that of her character. But that would mean she currently had a love life, which she absolutely did not.

The King set is bustling, yet Juju Hamilton feels like she’s moving through molasses. Her nerves are high-strung, her mind circling the same thought over and over again: Today’s the day. She’s been in the industry long enough to handle big scenes, intense stunts, even emotionally grueling moments. 

But this? A sex scene with the Roman Reigns? 

That’s another beast entirely.

“The very first sex scene,” Sienna chirps from the couch, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Her excitement only adds fuel to Juju’s already fraying nerves. “Are you ready?”

Juju forces a laugh, smoothing her hands down the fabric of her dress. “Born ready.”

Sienna waggles her eyebrows. “And Roman? You think he’s ready for you?”

Juju shoots her assistant a playful glare, but her stomach flips at the mention of him. Roman isn’t just her co-star...he’s a complication. A magnetic force who commands attention without even trying. She had assumed his wrestling background would make him stiff or overly rehearsed in front of the camera, but instead, he’s been disarmingly natural. His instincts are sharp, his presence undeniable. And, admittedly, maddeningly attractive.

Too attractive.

She’s spent months keeping things professional, pushing aside how effortlessly he flirts, how his deep voice lingers just a second too long when he says her name. But now, they’re about to strip down—literally and figuratively—in a way neither of them can take back. And for the first time since meeting Roman Reigns, Juju isn’t sure if she’s ready for him.

She stands in front of the full-length mirror in her trailer, smoothing the neckline of the custom-made evening gown that clings enticingly to her curves. The material shimmers under the dim light, the design sculpted to showcase Ramona Kane’s lethal elegance and sensuality. The dress is stunning, undeniably powerful, but it feels like a weight tonight, one she knows will literally fall away in the course of filming. The script demands it. She closes her eyes briefly, shaking her hands to dispel the rising tension in her chest, but the thought still lingers, as potent as the role itself.

She’s acutely aware of what’s coming. Every glance, every deliberate touch, every heated whisper that will lead to Logan stripping Ramona bare. 

She runs her hands over her dress one last time, as if to anchor herself, before meeting her own reflection with a steadying gaze. For a moment, she’s not Juju anymore. She’s Ramona Kane, poised and unapologetically seductive, ready to make the world—and Logan—kneel.

The scene unfolds in a lavish hotel suite, one of Ramona's, where floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline, sparkling under the night sky. The suite exudes luxury, just like Ramona, with plush velvet furnishings, gilded accents, and a crystal chandelier casting a warm golden glow across the room.

Roman stands near the grand piano, tall and commanding in a sleek black suit, the jacket gone and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His dark, piercing gaze is fixed on her. He embodies Logan completely: calculating, enigmatic, and hopelessly captivated by Ramona even against his better judgment.

“And…action!” the director yells, and the room plunges into a charged silence.

Juju steps into the scene, slipping into Ramona’s skin as if the weight of her secrets has always belonged to her. Across from her, Roman transforms into Logan—rigid, betrayed, simmering with fury barely held in check. The truth has detonated between them, and now, there’s no turning back.

“You lied to me,” he growls, his voice rough and edged with something rawer than anger; something dangerously close to heartbreak. His fists flex at his sides, his entire body wound tight like a coil ready to snap.

Ramona feels the accusation hit like a bullet to the chest. Her composure crumbles, her lips parting as if she can swallow back the truth, but it’s too late. “I lied to protect you,” she says, voice thick with desperation, heavy with regret. “You wouldn’t understand-”

“Bullshit!” Logan spits, his voice cutting through hers like a blade. He steps forward, and instinctively, she retreats, her back pressing against the edge of the desk. But there’s no escaping him. His anger, his presence, his damn-near palpable heartbreak pins her in place just as surely as his gaze does.

“It’s not bullshit! I lied to save your life!” Ramona pleads, her voice rising, cracking under the weight of her guilt. “If they found out who you were, you’d be dead! And if you knew who I was…” Her breath hitches.

“And who are you? Huh?” His voice is quieter now, but no less lethal. He reaches out, gripping her arm; not cruelly, but with an unyielding force that makes it impossible to run. His touch burns through the fabric of her sleeve, sending her pulse into a wild staccato. “Tell me what you’re part of, Ramona. Tell me the truth.”

Juju moves as if the weight of the scene is pressing down on her, her every breath heavy with Ramona’s turmoil. She rips her arm from his grasp, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “I’m not just part of it, Logan,” she confesses, her voice shaking but unyielding. “I am it.” 

The words land between them like a death knell. “The entity you’ve been hunting, the one you’ve risked everything to bring down…King…” Her breath shudders. “King is me.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. This revelation has shattered everything, and now they stand on the wreckage of trust, trying to find footing where none exists.

Logan exhales sharply, his expression flickering—disbelief, rage, and something far more dangerous. Hurt. 

“You…” He stops himself, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. A bitter laugh escapes him, sharp and humorless. “You shoulda told me.”

Her lips part, but she says nothing.

“You should’ve told me,” he repeats, and now his voice is raw, fractured. “You let me hunt you down. You let me look for a monster, knowing the whole damn time it was you.”

Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks them away. “If I told you, Logan, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” he snaps, furious. “You think I can’t handle myself? That I needed you to play God with my life?” His jaw clenches. “I’ve been in the crosshairs my entire life, Ramona. I didn’t need your protection. I needed the truth!”

Ramona shakes her head, pressing a fist against her forehead as if trying to hold herself together. “You don’t understand! If I didn’t lie, they would have used you against me. They would’ve killed you just to hurt me.” Her voice cracks. “I had no choice!”

Logan steps closer, and suddenly, it’s like the entire room disappears. The heat between them is unbearable, suffocating. He looks at her like he’s trying to memorize every line of her face, like the truth is burning through him but still—still—he wants her.

“And what about me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, yet thick with emotion. “What if I wanted to fight for you? What if I would’ve risked everything just to keep you?”

Her chin trembles, as does her voice.

“You shouldn’t,” she whispers, “You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I want to.” His voice is barely more than a breath, but his pain, his longing…it’s all there, simmering beneath the anger. “And you hate it, don’t you?” 

He should be mad. He should hate her. But standing here, looking at her, all he can feel is the crushing weight of knowing that none of it changes the way he feels. 

He’s in love with Ramona.

His fingers twitch at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for her. “You hate that you feel the same way I do. Because it makes you vulnerable. Makes you human.”

Tears fill Ramona’s eyes. Another shuddering breath. “I don’t hate it,” she confesses, “I hate that I can’t stop it.” Her eyes lock onto his, glassy with unshed emotion. “I hate that I can’t stop what I feel for you.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, his expression torn between anger and something softer, almost fragile. He exhales, his head bowing for a moment as if he’s trying to regain control.

“Logan…I…” she begins.

“Don’t,” he cuts her off, shaking his head. “Don’t say it. If you do, there’s no going back, Ramona.”

It’s almost a threat, and she understands exactly what he means. But the walls have crumbled already. Finally, she takes a step closer, lifting her hand to his chest. Her touch is light, hesitant, but it sparks something in both of them.

“I love you,” she says, her voice barely audible, a plea and an admission all at once. “I tried not to. God, I tried…”

Logan’s shoulders sag, his eyes closing as if the weight of her words is too much to bear. For a moment, she thinks he’ll walk away, finally let her go. But then his eyes snap open, blazing with emotion.

“Dammit, Ramona,” he says hoarsely, his hands coming up to cup her face. “I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen. I told myself I couldn’t love you—but I do. I do.”

Juju can barely keep her composure. Roman’s proximity is intoxicating, his scent, a mix of cologne and something warm, something distinctly him, pulling her under. The script calls for a kiss, but the moment he leans in, the air shifts. The line between fiction and reality dissolves.

His lips crash against hers, and instinct takes over. Her fingers tighten around his shoulders, his grip firm at her waist. The kiss is raw, desperate—full of something neither of them are willing to name. It’s supposed to be just a scene, just acting. But the way his mouth moves against hers, the way her body melts into him, says otherwise.

“And cut! End scene!”

The director’s voice slices through the moment, sharp and commanding, but neither of them react right away. Their lips linger, the ghost of the kiss still hanging between them. Roman is the first to pull back, just an inch, his breath hot against her mouth. His dark eyes flick to hers, still half-lidded, still caught in whatever that was.

Juju swallows hard, her chest rising and falling in sync with his. The air between them is thick, charged…dangerous.

Roman’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Juju forces herself to take a step back, but her fingers are still curled into his shirt like she’s forgotten how to let go.

The scene transitions to the bedroom, where Logan and Ramona’s turbulent emotions ignite into a raw, unrelenting passion. Juju lies back on the bed, completely bare beneath him, her body exposed and vulnerable under the soft glow of the set lights. Roman moves over her, equally nude, his skin warm and firm against hers. His hands glide over her bare curves, deliberate yet trembling with a restrained intensity. Despite the boundaries they’d discussed, his touch feels unguarded, electric, each brush of his fingers sparking a fire in her veins.

“And…action!”

Juju barely has time to inhale before Roman is on her, his body pressing her into the mattress with an intensity that makes the scripted moment feel anything but staged. His breath is hot against her throat, his lips dragging over sensitive skin before parting to press an open-mouthed kiss just below her ear. She shivers—an unplanned reaction, one that isn’t in the script—but it doesn’t matter. It fits.

His weight settles over her, heavy and consuming, and the slow roll of his hips sends a shockwave through her core. The modesty barriers between them—the flesh-toned strap securing him inside his boxers, the seamless covers shielding her chest—should make this feel clinical. But they don’t. Because when he thrusts again, slow but firm, she feels him. Feels the hard length of him pressing exactly where her body craves it, even through the barriers.

A moan spills from her lips, raw and breathless, and the sound seems to trigger something in him. His grip tightens on her hip, fingers digging into the curve of her waist as he moves faster, more desperate. The bed creaks beneath them, the set fading into nothing as their bodies move in sync, grinding, needing.

Her legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him closer, urging him to keep going. And he does. His forehead drops to hers, his breath coming faster, rougher, as his hips stutter just slightly. His dark eyes burn into hers, and for a split second, the question in them is real. Is she feeling this too? Is she lost in this the same way he is?

“Cut! And that’s a wrap, people!”

The director’s voice slices through the haze, forcing them to stop. But their bodies remain tangled, breathing ragged, sweat beading at their skin despite the cool studio air.

Then, reality crashes back in.

Roman lifts himself off her, his arms shaking slightly as he steadies himself. Juju remains beneath him, her chest rising and falling, her body still buzzing from something she can’t name.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, like a whisper meant only for her.

Juju nods, though her pulse is erratic, her body still buzzing from his touch. “Yeah. You?”

His lips curve into a slow, devastating smile, his dimples deepening as his gaze holds hers. “Never better.”

The words linger between them, weighted with meaning she doesn’t dare acknowledge.

The rest of the set is silent. No one dares to speak.

Because whatever just happened between them…

It wasn’t acting.

Juju sits on the edge of her trailer’s narrow bed, her fingers gripping the hem of her robe as if that alone will anchor her. Hours have passed since they wrapped for the day, but her body hasn’t forgotten. The heat of him. The way his weight felt pressing her into the mattress. The way he had moved against her until the lines had blurred.

She lets out a slow, measured breath, but it does nothing to steady her pulse.

This is stupid. She should let it go.

Tomorrow, they’ll be back on set, pretending like nothing happened. That’s the unspoken rule. What happens under the lights, in front of the cameras, stays there. Professionalism. Boundaries. Distance. But none of that explains why her skin still tingles where he touched her. Why her body reacts as if he’s still there, his breath ghosting over her neck, his voice rough with need as he rasped her name.

She stands abruptly, pacing the small space of her trailer.

If she goes to him now, what happens next? Would they fuck just to chase away the tension? To get it out of their systems? Would it ruin everything? Or worse…would it make things unbearably real?

The whispers on set would start the moment someone saw her slip out of his trailer in the morning. It would be all they talked about. And the aftermath. God, the awkwardness. That post-nut clarity that only comes after you’ve given in to something you can’t take back.

She grips the doorknob, hesitating.

She should go back to bed. She should forget this.

Instead, she exhales, opens the door, and steps out into the night.

The air is crisp against her overheated skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire burning in her veins. The camp of trailers is silent, save for the faint hum of a distant generator, the occasional rustle of wind against metal. She moves quickly, her bare feet barely making a sound against the pavement.

When she reaches his trailer, she hesitates just long enough to hate herself for it.

Then, before she can change her mind, she knocks. Once, twice. 

The door opens, and there he is; damp hair curling against his neck, a loose T-shirt clinging to his broad chest, sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“Juju.”

Her name in his mouth is thick, warm, like honey over gravel. But his expression, half-surprise, half-knowing, is impossible to read.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is lower than usual, rougher.

She shakes her head. She’s not sure she’s slept well in months.

Roman steps aside, and she moves past him into the trailer, barely aware of the door clicking shut behind her. The space shrinks with his presence, heat rolling off his body, thickening the air. It hums between them, the same volatile energy that’s been sparking since their first chemistry read. The same current that made the director say, Jesus Christ, you two are money!

Juju shifts on her feet, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I…I couldn’t stop thinking about the scene.” The admission scrapes out of her, barely audible.

Roman swallows. Hard. “Me neither,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t miss the way his jaw flexes, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for her. She wants him to.

Then, low, nearly guttural, he says, “I can still feel you.”

Her stomach tightens.

He steps closer, just enough for the air between them to thicken. “Your legs around my waist,” he continues, his tone edged with danger, lust. “Your nails in my back.” His eyes drag down her body, slowly, deliberately. “The way you moaned for me.”

Juju’s breath stutters.

Roman’s hand lifts, his knuckles ghosting along her jaw. “Even through the pads…even through all that fake shit they had us wear…” His thumb drags over her bottom lip, gaze dark and locked onto hers. “I could feel how wet you were.”

A pulse of heat licks up her spine.

Then, like a dam finally bursting, they crash into each other.

His hands framing her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. Her fisting his shirt, pulling him flush against her. He groans into her mouth, his fingers slipping beneath her robe. It parts easily, and his hands find her bare skin, gripping, kneading, burning his touch into her. There’s nothing tentative about it. This isn’t slow, or sweet. It’s raw, a collision of lips and tongues and unspoken need.

Her head falls back against the nearest wall as he presses against her, solid, unyielding. The hard length of him settles between her thighs, and she welcomes it, gasping softly as he grinds against her, as he pulls her leg up to hook around his waist.

“Baby girl,” he rasps against her lips, his breath ragged. “Tell me to stop. If you don't want this...”

Juju digs her nails into his shoulders, her response immediate, breathless.

“Don’t you dare.”

They’ve been fighting this for months.

No more.

He lifts her with ease, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carries her to his couch. The kiss turns feral, their mouths devouring as his hands explore her body, reverent yet insistent. When his lips trail down her neck, her breath catches, and she presses closer, needing more.

Clothes fall away in a blur of heat and urgency. Roman’s skin is hot against hers, his muscles flexing under her touch. He lays her down, his hands and lips leaving a trail of fire along her skin. Her body arches into his as if they’ve done this a thousand times, as if they’ve been waiting for this moment all along.

Roman’s mouth never leaves hers, the urgency in his movements igniting something deep within her. He holds her with deliberate care, as though she’s precious, but the look in his eyes tells her he’ll be anything but gentle tonight. His hands skim her thighs, spreading her open as he climbs over her, their bodies flush with each other.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick, sending shivers racing down her spine. His fingers trace the curve of her hip, then move to her breast, teasing her until she gasps. “I’ve been wanting to touch you, really touch you, like this, Juju. You don’t fucking know what you do to me.”

Her breath catches as his lips press against the hollow of her throat, dragging down her chest. “Roman…” His name comes out in a breathless plea, her hands finding their way into his damp hair, tugging him closer.

“You like it when I touch you, don’t you?” he growls against her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple before his mouth closes over it, sucking until she arches off the bed. “Say it, baby.”

“Yes,” she gasps, her voice trembling as heat pools in her belly. “Fuck, yes!”

“Good girl.” His voice is a dark promise, and he kisses her again, devouring her like he can’t get enough. His hands are everywhere; cupping, squeezing, gripping her body like he’s memorizing every inch of her. He kisses a path down her stomach, taking his time, his beard rough against her soft skin. When his face hovers between her thighs, she forgets how to breathe. He spreads her wider, his thumbs pressing into her soft flesh as he looks up at her with a sinful smirk. 

“I bet this pussy taste as good as you look,” he taunts.

Before she can respond, his mouth is on her folds, his tongue moving with precision, dragging over her in ways that make her back bow and her toes crack. He groans against her pussy, the vibration making her cry out, her fingers clutching at the sheets.

“Roman…oh god…”

“That’s right, baby girl, lemme hear how much you love it,” he murmurs, his voice husky as he kisses the inside of her thigh before diving back in. 

She’s trembling beneath him, the coil in her stomach tightening with every flick of his tongue, every slow circle he draws. When she shatters, her release comes in waves, pulling her under as she gasps his name like a prayer.

He doesn’t give her time to recover. Moving over her, he positions himself between her legs, his body radiating heat and power. His dark eyes meet hers, and the raw hunger there makes her heart palpitate.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, kissing her long and deep. “You have no idea how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands off you.”

“Then don’t,” she whispers, her hands sliding down his back, nails scraping lightly over his skin. “Don’t hold back, Roman.”

He groans, the sound primal, and he slides his dick into her in one fluid motion, making her cry out. The stretch is exquisite, and she clings to him as he moves, his pace unrelenting. The couch shakes beneath them, rocking forwards with each of his powerful thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he growls against her ear, his teeth nipping at her lobe. “You wanted me to fuck you like this? Hard and deep until you can’t think straight?” Without warning, he winds his hips, hitting a spot that makes her mouth drop open. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, baby,” she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck, Roman…”

He leans down, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss, moaning when her hands slip south to knead the firm skin of his ass. Their bodies move together in perfect rhythm, her moans and whimpers mixing with his groans as they both get dragged closer to ecstasy. The friction, the heat, the intensity; it’s all overwhelming, incredible. 

When she falls apart again, her climax hits her like a tidal wave, her entire body trembling as she cries out his name. Roman follows moments later, his thrusts faster and harder until he freezes abruptly, his hips jerking as he spills into her, his groan low and guttural from the incredible sensation.

For a moment, neither of them moves, their bodies still fused with the aftershocks of pleasure. Their breathing is uneven, mingling in the small space between them, the air thick with sweat and something intimate.

Roman’s fingers trace slow, lazy circles along Juju’s spine before he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, his touch unexpectedly tender as he brushes damp strands of hair from her face.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice husky, still laced with the remnants of desire.

Instead of answering, Juju tilts her chin up and captures his mouth in a slow, drugging kiss, all tongue and lingering heat, a noisy, post-coital indulgence that neither of them is ready to break. She moans softly into his mouth, her toes curling as his tongue sweeps against hers, deep and unhurried. Roman growls low in his throat, his grip tightening on her hip as if already debating whether to take her again.

With great reluctance, Juju breaks the kiss, her fingers trailing down his back, feeling the rise and fall of their joined breaths. “Never better,” she smirks, throwing his own line from earlier back at him.

Roman chuckles at that, his dimples flashing as he carries her from the couch over to his bed area, her ass firm in his grasp. “Good, because I ain’t done with you yet. We fucking all night, baby.”

Her laugh is breathless, but her body sparks to life again as his hands begin to wander, gearing her up for another round of earth-shattering passion.

The next morning, they arrive on set together, both of them glowing in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed. When they approach the director, Roman speaks first.

“So look…about yesterday’s scene…”

Juju finishes his sentence, “We think we can do it better.”

The director raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “If that’s what you want.”

As they take their places on set, Juju catches Roman’s eye. He winks at her, and she feels her heart flutter. The line between Ramona and Logan, Juju and Roman, is gone. All that’s left is the undeniable connection between them…and the knowledge that they may have crossed the point of no return, but boy, was it a fun trip.

THE END

Thoughts? How was it?

Roman gif by @dejameflorecer

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[rogueddie]

There are a lot of rumors about Eddie Munson. From his sexuality, to his religion, to him being some sort of supernatural creature.

Steve doesn’t put a lot of merit in most of them. They’re usually just bullshit people make up to entertain themselves with whilst beating down on the weird kid. Steve thinks it’s boring… usually.

He’s seen enough weird things happen around Munson to know that something isn’t right. Something about him is unnatural. And Steve is staying clear out of the way of whatever the hell he is, or whatever the hell he’s messing with.

Unfortunately, his friends haven’t gotten the message.

“Do it at your own house!” Steve complains, though he makes no move to stop them. He’s sure it’s nothing, that it’ll only lead to an annoying clean-up job, but there’s a nagging sense of dread writhing in his gut. “This shit is bull anyway.”

“If it’s bull then what’s the problem?” Tommy counters.

“Because none of you dickheads are going to help clean this shit up!”

“I promise to help you clean up,” Carol says. “There. Problem solved. Right?”

"It's still stupid," Steve mutters, glaring at the janky make-shift pentagram they've made. "And a bad idea."

It's drawn on nine pieces of paper- they wanted to draw it big on the floor, but Steve had but his foot down. He lets them use some of his moms candles as a compromise.

With the lights off, sitting with the two of them in a circle, it suddenly feels too real. Even Carol looks suddenly nervous.

Tommy is the only one still smirking, though Steve is sure that it's forced. His voice shakes a little as he begins reading off the paper he'd torn out a library book. His Latin is clunky.

At first, nothing happens.

Long enough that Carol says, "did you even say it right?"

"Yes, it even has-" Tommy starts.

The candles all blow out, suddenly. The light Steve had left on in the kitchen flicks off too, plunging them into complete darkness.

After a horrible moment, where they're still and silent, Carol yelps.

"Don't grab me, Tommy, that's not funny!"

"I didn't grab you."

"Wh- Steve?"

"No," is all Steve can get out.

"I'm turning the lights on," Tommy says. "This is ridiculous."

Steve listens to his footsteps and, when he sounds like he's almost at the light switch, he yelps.

"Fuck this," he says.

"What the fuck, Tommy!" Carol yells when they both hear him running past them. She's up on her feet immediately, chasing after him.

He wants to scream after them, plead with them to come back, that they shouldn't be abandoning the circle.

But, the same gut instinct that insists he stay where he is, keeps his mouth shut. Everything in his being is telling him that if he leaves, if he speaks first, horrible things will happen to him.

Something tuts, like a parent admonishing a child.

The living room light flicks on, so bright that Steve has to blink a few times to clear away the white spots.

Eddie Munson sits in the space they left empty.

"Someone didn't read the terms and conditions," he snickers.

"What..." Steve pauses, clearing his throat. "What are the, uh... terms and conditions?"

"Oh, they're simple, really. Look," he holds up the page Tommy had read the incantations from, pointing to the little paragraph at the end. "They even translated it to English! But all you need to know, big boy, is that you are A-OK."

"And... Tommy and Carol?"

"Eh, they're fine. Lucky, really. I'm trying to relax up here. I'm only gonna pay them back with a minor curse or two. Nothing lethal."

"Fuck."

"We haven't even got to you yet!" He spins around so hes laying on his belly, resting his chin on his palm. "You didn't technically summon me so you can just tell me to leave... or."

"Or?"

"Deal with no consequence, baby. One wish, whatever you want, free of charge. Well... I'd want your silence about the whole... summoning thing. Let's consider that payment."

He doesn't need his gut or book to warn him that it's a bad idea. Munson could be lying, easily. There could be fine print. It's a bad, very bad idea.

"There's... definitely no consequences? I won't, like, go to hell for this?" Steve finally asks.

"Do some charity work for a week, you'll be fine," he says, waving his hand around. "What do you want, King Steve?"

"Could- could you make someone love me?"

"Oh, ho ho ho! Who's the unlucky lady who said no to you?"

"No, it... it's not like that. I mean, um... my mom."

Munsons smile drops. The temperature drops with it, making a chill run up Steves spine.

"Your mom," he repeats.

"They're busy like, all the time," Steve automatically defends. "And they're barely here so, uh... of course they wouldn't- I mean, it's normal, right? You can't love a stranger or... whatever. It's fine. It's just... I don't know."

"Steve..." Munson pauses.

He groans, throwing his head into his hands, dramatically. He almost immediately flings his head back up, hair flying everywhere, giving Steve wide and pleading eyes.

"I can't make people fall in love or any shit like that. I can make illusions, that's it. Love is, like... way out of my jurisdiction."

"I- I'm ok with an illusion. Like, just one day or something."

"Steve, baby, you're breaking my heart."

"Please?"

"Jesus- ok!" Grumbling, Munson shifts so he's kneeling. "And in return, you won't say shit about any of this. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Great. Ugh. This next part is... weird."

"What do you mean, weird?"

"It's weird, I don't know. Deals about, like, love are sealed with a kiss."

"You're joking."

"Nope, and that's not even the weird part. Now, come on and pucker up, let's get this over with." He gestures for Steve to shuffle closer, waiting until they're sat close enough that their knees almost bump together. "You can still change your mind. Anything at all, Steve. Anything."

"I thought you wanted to get this over with?"

"On your head..."

Munson leans forward, kissing him. It's just a peck, simple and easy. No big deal, right?

Steve feels possessed. It's like someone lit a match in his stomach, leaving him lightheaded and confused. He's not sure how he ends up in Eddie's lap, clutching onto his shoulders, desperately trying to lick into his mouth. He feels so-

He wakes up in his bed, the morning light blinding him.

"What the fuck..." he mutters to himself, grabbing at his throbbing head.

At first, he thinks he's hungover. That he'd just had a weird dream... but he's wearing the same clothes. And, sat on his stomach, is a guitar pic. It's got 'corroded coffin' written on it too- Eddie's band.

"Steve!" He hears his mom call. "Time to get up!"

He scrambles out of bed, dashing down the stairs.

She smiles when she spots him, so bright and warm. She even raises an arm, laughing when he practically throws himself into her side and hugging her tight.

"Morning, sweetheart. Good dreams?"

"Yeah. Yeah, great. But, uh... I feel sick."

"Oh no," she frowns. She puts her hand to his forehead, cooing when she brushes his hair out his face. "Is it your stomach?"

"Yeah. Just... might be better to stay home today. If that's ok?"

"Of course it is. I'm sure we can find something fun to do together, yeah? How about we get a vhs movie, hm?"

"I'd love that."

"Great. Well, if you're feeling up to it, I've made breakfast." She steps away, plating the food she's cooked up. "Oh, did I ever tell you about Paris? It was beautiful, you would have loved it. We should bring you, next time we go."

Steve can't stop smiling. He's sure that his cheeks will be aching by the end of the day.

He'll have to thank Eddie- as soon as he can even think about him without blushing. He'll need to ask if it's normal to still feel... affected, even after the deal is done.

Part of him knows it isn't the deal. Part of him is too curious about how Eddie will react.

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (16) - When All Things End

Summary: Astarion would never forgive himself for having you die by his hands, even if indirectly. A choice is to be made, and one he has no control over.

Rating: Explicit/18+

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav

Warnings: Character death. Trauma. Gore

Word count: 5.1k

Series masterlist. AO3.

Thump.. Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…

If regret could kill, Astarion reckoned he would be buried underground with, at the very least, several hundreds of layers of scorching dirt imprisoning him. And deservedly so. He would seldom bother concocting antidotes, considering how little use he’d have for them. After all, he aimed true and with purpose whenever he coated his blades in lethal poison, never intending for his targets to live long enough to tell the tale of their vapid encounter.

And now he was paying the price for such… arrogance. 

Both men holding him and keeping him at bay, quickly fell limpless on the ground when the familiar blinding rays of yellow hit them mercilessly.

Shadowheart.

Through roars of hurried incantations and deafening screeches of pain, the former servants of Cazador Szarr met their doom by daring to cross you.

Pain and anguish quickly took over him, as he managed to pick up his dagger before hurrying towards you, almost losing his footing as his senses blurred.

“No.”

The word kept tumbling from his lips like a prayer. The Gods above never took notice of his pleas – and if they did, they never bothered intervening. However, you weren’t him. He could perhaps understand now why such grace and benevolence wasn’t extended to him. 

But you weren’t him.

Please…

You were you, and you didn’t deserve this fate.

“No.”

You didn’t deserve to have your last breath being drawn because of his past deeds.

Eyla still held on to you, blade fully lodged in your body and blood pouring out in an obscene quantity, drenching the fabric of your gown in an ever-growing stain. 

The sight itself was enough to make his steps falter, but when the scent of your blood hit him, he audibly cursed. Unfortunately, his sanguine hunger was very much bound to you. Even in this moment of distress, he could feel his nature as a vampire being pushed to the surface, urging him to succumb to his desires.

It was enough to root him to the ground for a brief moment. 

“Astarion!”

Shadowheart had clearly taken notice of this, her face of pure focus immediately shifting into something akin to sheer frustration.

His head snapped in her direction, and he almost lost his balance again as waves of disgust met waves of hunger within him. A raging war taking place as he tried his best to reach you.

Once he managed to lock eyes with your lifeless form lying next to Eyla, Astarion knew there and then that it was too late.

The realisation hit him hard, and he felt cool tears streaming down his face.

He was a master at poisons. No decent rogue could call themselves a deadly assassin if they couldn’t brew the deadliest of poisons. It was an art, but one that sought only to wreak pain and misery.

With the entire blade having been coated in it, there was no way you could survive it.

You were… gone.

Silence encased him at once, and he wasn’t sure if it was his mind blocking out any distractions, or if it was merely the sign that Shadowheart’s wrath was finally spent.

“You may kill me, but she goes down with me.”

Astarion gripped the handle of his dagger with such force, he feared he might snap it in half. His feet began moving once more, on their own accord, and he found the hunger inside him give way to something more primal.

Something he hadn’t felt since he had carved Rhapsody in Cazador countless times – a welcome source of immediate release that allowed him to find a semblance of revenge. 

He wasn’t going to kill Eyla. 

No.

That would be too kind, all things considered.

He would take his sweet time making sure she wouldn’t part this world until she was begging him for it.

The cruelty that was taking hold of his mind almost blinded him, and he found himself baring his fangs, embracing the creature he truly was. Over the past few weeks, he had learned how to conceal his more questionable emotions, locking them away inside. 

But there’s only so much anger one can bury before it starts overflowing.

His steps quickened in her direction with a newfound purpose. Blinding rage swallowed him whole as he gained speed. 

But before he could deliver an incapacitating blow, Eyla’s neck met the blade of a longsword, which effectively severed the head from the rest of her body.

“Tsk'va…”

Ropes of blood spurted from Eyla, as the head rolled over across the grass, painting it in crimson red.

Lae’zel was quick to kick the decapitated body away from under you, rushing to cradle you in her arms.

His knees wobbled momentarily once he reached the bench, greeted with a sight so revolting it made his stomach lurch dangerously, threatening to spill its contents.

Eyla’s warm blood was spread along your limpless face in a thin layer, and he wanted to hold out his hand to clean it off of you, but decided against it. He was still very much a vampire and his senses were now betraying him and urging him to feed. 

Blood is the gift of life and… death, child.

Cazador’s words rang inside him and he stilled his movements at once, realising just how hard it was to deny his instincts, especially since he hadn’t properly fed in so long. 

“Astarion…”

Lae’zel’s voice was a low, warning snarl, but it was enough to snap him from the haze that was quickly taking over his mind.

“Don’t remove the blade just yet.” Shadowheart was by Lae’zel’s side, assessing the situation with shaky hands.

“She’s going to die.”

Lae’zel wasn’t one to dance around inconvenient truths. It was a simple and clear statement, because anything other than the obvious would lead to unnecessary pain.

As if pushed down by an invisible force, Astarion finally dropped to his knees. 

He wished he could take her place and be the one holding you instead, but he couldn’t bring himself to even suggest such a thing. Not when he could see your open eyes fading as your breath slowed down, small whimpers of pain getting stuck in your throat as life spilled from you, drop by drop.

Suddenly, your eyes found his and he wasn’t sure if it was the faintest of smiles that was ghosting along your lips.

A shell of that smile that had ruined his plan all along.

He had heard your footsteps and couldn’t help but to inwardly grin when you finally made your presence known by softly clearing your throat. Were you in search of some late night company? Had you found what you were looking for?

After all, the two of you had grown quite close over the past few weeks.

In fact, he found himself enjoying your company more than he cared to admit, much less voice it out loud. You had become more than just the person leading this group of… worm-brains while occasionally giving him access to your delectable blood. 

But more importantly, you had begun to crawl your way under his skin, tugging persistently at the needles of his moral compass. What had started out as a mere plan to have you fall for him in exchange for protection – and mayhaps a little aid when it came to facing Cazador, if luck would have it – soon morphed into something he had never experienced before. Granted, his vampirism had warped his memories before he was turned, but he was certain that such a feeling wouldn’t be so quickly forgotten.

He wasn’t sure there was a name to describe how you made him feel. Obviously, it wasn’t love. The mere thought of ‘love’ nearly caused him to laugh aloud. 

Affection seemed like a more appropriate term. 

Whatever it was, it was weighing down on his conscience as time went on, causing him to question the very foundations of his being.

“Maybe one day you could teach me how to brew a poison.”

Oh.

How very… dull.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and gave you a dismissive scoff instead. “Whatever for, my dear?”

You crouched next to him as he readied the campfire for nightfall, your penetrating gaze never faltering.

“Well, I think it would be rather advantageous to…” you started off rather sweetly, gentle fingers reaching for the satchel he had by his feet, “... you know, share some of your knowledge as a silent assassin.”

But before your fingertips could touch the vials carefully lodged in it, he caught hold of your wrist, abruptly stilling your hand.

“Poisons aren’t to be trifled with, nor are they bedside toys for unsuspecting children,” he said, his tone coming out harsher than intended, which he immediately regretted when you withdrew from him at once, as if burnt by his very words. “I… apologise.”

There was still a glimmer of kindness in disappointment when you gave him an understanding smile as you held his stare.

Astarion wished you would have been offended or hurt instead by his rash words. It would have made it easier to ignore the constant voice inside his head that kept goading him towards you. On good days, he was able to fully ignore it. 

But whenever you were too close… whenever you displayed random acts of kindness around him… whenever he could almost hear the blood rushing through your body… he wasn’t as strong to resist the temptation. 

After all, your blood had been his first.

He didn’t let go of your wrist, and instead glided his thumb to rub slow circles along the warm stretch of skin.

Your smile promptly widened, as he stilled the pad just above your artery, feeling its pulse quicken with each passing second. 

He knew that smile and the offer that came along with it.

“You can feed on me tonight.”

The grip around you tightened. 

On days like this, Astarion wished you hadn’t such a hold on him; that the two of you had never crossed paths, because he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tolerate your absence if you were to leave him now.

With your free hand, you undid the laces of your chemise, exposing your neck to his gaze. Your heartbeat quickened and he could hear that delicious thumping he had grown so fond of.

Thump… thump… thump…

“Take her. All of her,” the voice taunted.

And so he did.

Astarion couldn’t bear looking in your eyes any longer, so he had no choice but to avert his gaze at once. 

“No. Don’t you dare,” Lae’zel snarled in a menacing tone. “You don’t get to look away from what you’ve caused.”

Shadowheart’s voice was louder, still. “We must act fast, if there is any chance!”

Lae’zel didn’t seem quite as convinced of such urgency, and reluctantly lay your body along the blood-soaked bench. 

“She’s not going to make it unless there’s an antidote,” she hissed, staring at Astarion. “Do you have one? Quick!”

Shadowheart had her palms spread across your chest and abdomen, uttering words of healing, as frosted beams of light surrounded the dagger lodged inside. 

“Astarion!”

He shook his head faintly in utter defeat. “There isn’t one.”

Lae’zel grunted in response, cradling your face in her hands, her forehead touching yours, as your breathing slowed down and your blood stilled with each failed beat of your heart. 

He had learned to listen to your heart long ago, out of necessity at first to ensure he could keep you out of trouble, but soon it turned into a meek way to connect with you when everything else about the two of you had crumbled down. 

And now he had nothing left of you.

And it had come by his hand.

“Could you try a scroll of Resurrection?” Lae’zel suddenly suggested, caressing your cheek.

She laced her fingers together in prayer, keeping the magic afloat along your body. “It would only work if her body was whole, and she has lost too much blood.”

Thump….. Thump…… Thump…..

Your heart was giving up on you as his poison quickly took over.

“What can we do?” Lae’zel asked.

Shadowheart shook her head, brow furrowed in extreme concentration as foreign words spilled from her lips. 

Astarion had never felt as useless as he did now. He could barely recognize the scent of your blood, since it was no longer yours. His poison was corrupting you from within.

“We might have a shot if we get Gale,” Shadowheart said after a while, sweat drops rolling down her forehead. “We need to portal Halsin.”

His head snapped in confusion. “Halsin?”

But Lae’zel was already gone, heading towards the house at lightning speed.  

Shadowheart’s lips were pressed into a fine line and her hands moved past your neck, palms now pressed against your skin that was now losing all its warmth.

“The healing she requires is beyond my skill.”

Astarion felt a glimmer of hope burst within him, quickly dragging his knees across the damp grass, bringing both hands to frame your face.

“You’re the most competent cleric I know of.”

She gave a constricted snort, looking somehow less tense. “And how many clerics do you know of?”

“That’s beside the point,” he promptly said. “Why do you think Halsin can help?”

“Well, it just so happens that he's in tune with nature in a way I am not as he’s a druid.” She then turned to him. “You brew your poisons from plants and flowers, don’t you?”

Brilliant! 

Astarion felt an uncontrollable urge to kiss Shadowheart for always being the brain whenever the situation called for it, but quickly decided against it. There had been enough casualties without the need to add another one.

Thump……………..thump……..

“There is a chance.”

He nodded.

Astarion wasn’t sure whether she was saying that because she truly believed it, or because she wanted to convince herself.

He glanced down at you, and he could have sworn he saw your lips twitching as he caressed your forehead with the pad of his thumb. Tears didn’t come easy to him these days, but he could feel the prickling in the corners of his eyes. Over centuries, he had committed acts that still haunted him, but he realised nothing would ever compare to this.

Shadowheart was struggling to keep her magic afloat, and it wasn’t enough to keep your heart from beating its last beat.

Thump.

And the silence in his head had never been so loud.

The sharpest of pains tore through you to the point of agony, stirring you awake at once. You tried to blink away the discomfort from the flashes of light high up above you, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. In reality, you weren’t sure if you could muster the strength to move, and felt as though an invisible weight kept you pinned down to the ground. 

A warm breeze ghosted over your face, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of rain and… smoke?

Was something burning?

As the humid haze intensified, a jolt of alarm had you moving your legs and arms in an attempt at fleeing whatever was headed your way.

You blinked once more, and had to squint hard for a moment to help your eyes adjust to the new environment, and just as you had managed to get on your knees and hands without losing balance, you realised you weren’t in Baldur’s Gate anymore.

In fact, you weren’t quite certain you were still in Faerûn.

“What the-” 

But your words were cut short as dust caught in your throat, causing you to cough violently, as your fingers dug through sand. Roars of thunder and flares of lightning slowly filled your field of vision, and you felt your body convulse slightly in place.

The wild magic within you stirred lightly as if rising from a deep slumber along with your numb senses.

Lightning came first, quickly followed by Fire.

Embers engulfed the palms of your hands and you felt despair overtake you.

It had taken you decades to master the chaos that you had been born with. Much to your dismay, the same lack of control you once felt as a child was now taking over, the elements no longer bending to your will. 

“Please. No… no…”

The embers morphed into liquid fire that was now beginning to pool around you, and in a flash of panic, you tumbled backwards to escape it. You had realised at a young age that you had been graced with the chance to wield the elements, but also knowing you could fall victim to them. 

Another gust of wind and the flames along your hands turned into erratic bolts of lightning, and you felt the familiar cool of water coursing through your body barely giving you any time to adjust.

You whispered spells and words, seeking desperately to gain back any sense of control.

But then, up ahead in the distance, you witnessed a waterfall of molten lava falling into a pocket of air, which then quickly turned into a whirlwind that swirled across the jagged beds of rocks and trees. The sky rumbled with storms and thin layers of light that seemed to pour from the stars above. There was no sun or moon. No night or day. The sky was split in a vast array of dulled out colours.

None of it made any sense.

With much effort and no less amount of willpower, you managed to get on your feet, pausing briefly to steady yourself. Luckily, the sparks that were bursisting from your hands had come to a halt, and you could feel the conglomeration of elements inside you begin to simmer down.

Another burst of pain in your abdomen had you bending over, a hand instinctively coming to apply pressure. 

And that was when you remembered.

You had died.

At least, you should have.

Tentative fingers prodded at the tear in the fabric of your nightgown, finding jagged edges that stretched along your skin from a blade. Upon glancing down, you saw no blood. And while the magic inside you had soothed into a lulling whisper, you knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

“I am sure you have many questions.”

You turned so fast towards the sound that you promptly fell on one knee, hissing in sheer pain once more. 

Before you stood a young woman wearing simple robes and hair neatly pulled into a hairdo, loose strands swaying in the sandy breeze. Her body was slightly translucent in a hue of blue, and you could see the line of the horizon behind her where more fire whirlwinds emerged from every direction.

She remained still, waiting for you to compose yourself, and once you did and your vision cleared up, you realised you were actually looking at.

“Mother?”

A tender smile curled her lips, as she nodded curtly.

Back on your feet, the elements that had started to become dormant, flared up to the point you felt as if about to burst.

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

At this point, you were in full panic mode, glazing around and looking for an exit strategy. 

Your mother was dead. She had been dead ever since you were merely seven. Whoever was standing in front of you had to be the result of some cheap trick. From the Hells? A curse? Was this the afterlife?

The figure took a few steps towards you. “You’re not dead, but I can assure you that fleeing will drain you into unconsciousness.”

Was that a threat?

“Where am I?”

Thunder cracked above your head and you flinched as she came to a stop. “You were always such a curious child. Want to take a guess?”

Anger snapped you straight. “I don’t care to play games.”

“Very well, then,” she said, lacing her hands together over her abdomen. “You’re in Limbo.”

You blinked twice in sheer perplexity.

Limbo.

The name triggered crumbling memories of old from when you were far too young to rummage through books that spoke of distant lands from this world and the next. And others that lay somewhere in between. 

The Ever-Changing Chaos of Limbo.

In that moment, you felt tiny - so incredibly tiny you might slip through the grains of sand under your bare feet. 

This revelation transcended you. There was no rhyme or reason to this plane, and it was evident by its chaotic nature that so fiercely rivaled your own wild magic. Elements were at war here, merging and bursting within each other, as if fighting eternally for dominance.

“You’re in the safe zone,” she spoke, snapping you from your thoughts. “Its size is dictated by the intelligence the individual controller possesses.”

You remained silent, assessing all this information that was coming back to you in bits and pieces. A quick glance around revealed a circular zone that evidently seperated the two of you from the utter chaos outside.

A delicate smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Fortunately for you, you didn’t take after your father.” She then extended one arm, and your gaze followed the swift motion, as an invisible force circled both of you, keeping the majority of the mayhem at bay, with only the occasional breezes and droplets of water passing through. “So long as you stay within the safe zone, no harm shall come to you.”

At last, you take in the image of the woman who looks exactly like your mother once did when she passed away. Not a day younger or older. In fact, you were now around her age, which only served to make the concept of this encounter even harder to grasp.

So much of you was from her, save for the eyes. Those were your father’s. Even though she appeared translucent, it didn’t lessen the pain of gazing at her once again.

“Who are you?” 

“Your mother.”

You swallowed hard and balled your fists in defiance. “My mother is dead. Whatever trick this-”

She raised one hand and you fell silent. “I’m a projection of your mind, hence why I look this young. As such, my spirit lingers here and it’s given corporeal form by you.”

Somehow, the answer felt disappointing, even though it was the only logical explanation. Even then… “Why is your spirit here? Why am I here?”

She too was barefoot as she strode around you, keeping her distance. “Let’s just say that I meddled with what I shouldn’t have when I was younger. There are forces here that I cannot explain, nor do we have the time to exhaust such options.”

“Why not?”

More bursts of thunder burst overhead as she placed her hands behind her back, drawing closer with each step she took.

“You’re my daughter and they killed you.”

There was a hint of a sadness in her voice you hadn’t heard in such a long, long time.

And you were reminded of what had led to such a turn of events.

Astarion.

You expected a familiar skip of a beat that always came at the thought of him these days, and then you quickly understood why something felt off. Your heart was still beating, but at a much slower pace nigh imperceptible, to the point you could hardly feel it even when you placed your palm on your chest; your skin was tepid at most, and your breaths were shallow and spaced out. 

“You’re fading, but you don’t have to,” she said with the same kindness from your childhood. “It matters only if you wish to go back.”

The proposition took you by surprise, mostly because while there were ways to cheat death, they weren’t cheap or easy to come by, and such graces were seldom handed out freely.

Seeing that you offered no response, she went on, locking eyes with you. “Or you can choose to stay.”

A deep-seated fear had taken root inside you, giving way to despair. 

And if there was a chance…

“I want to go back,” you said firmly at once. “This is not living.”

Her expression softened in a way that brought memories of her breaking the news that playtime had prematurely come to an end. “It isn't dying, either. Hence the name Limbo.”

Your nails were digging into the palms of your hands, and you could feel it nearing the point of breaking skin and drawing blood.

“Let me out.”

She now stood so close you could see all the details on her face, and it was as if staring in a mirror. A few freckles dusted across her cheeks and nose and the same tender smile you remember Astarion adoring.

“If only it were that simple, child.”

“Was that what happened to you?” you said, your growing anger nearly bursting at the seams. “When you suddenly dropped dead in front of me? You had a choice and you chose to leave your child?”

For once, she was taken aback, her face twisted in a mix of pain and outrage. “Long before you were born, I made the foolish mistake of seeking answers in worlds that weren’t meant for the mortals, even those who treaded paths of pure magic such as us.”

You waited for her to go on.

Her voice faltered momentarily and she heaved a deep sigh. “I had read about this place and my stubbornness landed me here. At the time, I was pregnant with you, but I didn’t know it yet, and those who rule this place offered a bargain.”

The more she talked, the more it dawned on you that wherever she was headed with this conversation wasn’t a pleasant place, and at this point you weren’t so sure you wanted the answers to the questions you’d asked. 

Still, you remained silent, simply crossing your arms.

“Those who come here aren’t offered a way out unless there’s something of value to be traded,” she said. “All those years ago, I was offered a way out if I allowed them to meddle with you.” Her eyes widened in alarm, realising the conclusion you’d immediately drawn. “I only learned about you that day. They knew of my wild magic and how powerful it can be, but there is never a certainty that it’s passed off to an offspring.”

The implication that dangled from her words was enough for you to figure out what was coming next.

She looked at your almost pleadingly, hands brought together close to her neck. “It was either that or I would have remained here and perished, and you along with me. So I agreed with the terms, and they branded you to ensure you’d have wild magic coursing through you.”

You tried to muster any words, but you couldn’t speak. It was too much to digest all at once, especially given the current circumstances. 

She made a move as if to grab your own hands, but you immediately pulled back and away from her touch.

For a few seconds, you allowed silence to fall between you two, only occasionally broken by the elements that were trying to break into the safe zone.

“But when I left this place, you took something with you,” she said, curling her arms back against her chest. “Unbeknownst to them at first, but it didn’t take them long to realise they had made a mistake by embedding such power in you.”

Each revelation proved to be worse than the latter. “Took what?”

“Your magic manifested itself even during the pregnancy. I could feel it. Hells, even your father could. It wasn’t normal. I had no answers, but I knew it was related to this place.” She paused and you saw tears outlining her eyes. “You were born and it took all of my own magic to keep yours at bay. All the while I kept searching for a way to sever your connection to this place.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and for a split second you wondered if this wasn’t the work of some cambion merely playing mind tricks on you.

Then, surprisingly, a faint, sad smile settled on her lips. “As expected, they found out about it and I had to trade my life for yours. My magic wasn’t as valuable to them as yours, but it was enough to deter them from you until you one day died, and regardless of whether it was a timeless death or otherwise, you’d end up right here.”

It was all too much to process, and you weren’t sure how to feel about the woman you had mourned for years, wishing every day you had been strong enough to keep her from dying.

“You can loathe me and I expect it,” she went on, voice but a whisper. “But in the end, you can now take advantage of this and get a second chance at life.”

“So I should thank you?”

She shook her head. “No, but you can choose to go back and forfeit the afterlife.”

“So…” you drawled out, half perplexed and half outraged, “is that what you’ve come here to tell me? That I have to trade something off?”

She nodded.

“What is it?”

Before she replied, she took a look around. “The safe zone is shrinking. Time is running out.”

At this point, you were sure that if there was a chance you might go back and live the life that was robbed from you, you would take it.

“What is it they want?” you pressed, feeling yourself grow weaker as the barrier that kept the chaos at bay was now fading with each passing second. 

Still not glancing at you, she spoke, “Your magic.”

This time, you did feel your heart skip a beat. “How so?”

Your mother looked you in the eye with that nurturing expression on her face that you adored so much growing up. 

“If you go back, you will no longer possess magic,” she said. “If you stay, you can still wield it and learn to roam these lands under their watch. Or…” She paused again, “you can choose to pass on and fade away.”

Drop by drop, it started to pour, and in a few seconds you were drenched from head to toe. An uncomfortable jab in your upper abdomen stirred you from your state of shock.

“You’re bleeding.”

You pressed a hand to the open wound, feeling thunder and fire and water coiling under your skin, wanting to burst free. A quick glance down and you saw rivulets of blood seeping through your fingers. 

“Tell me,” she said, closing the gap between you two, and pressing her hand atop yours, “what do you want, child?”

Your vision began to blur and your knees gave up under you.

“I want to live.”

AN: I have taken some liberties with DnD lore in regards to Limbo and healing/wild magic. For plot purposes, and because I believe that's the most fun you can have with DnD! Homebrew your own adventures hehe

Thank you all for the lovely comments and for waiting so patiently. I am still very much in love with this story!

[r-memberme]

sharing type | k.p

⎯⎯ He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

warnings: fluff

The Mystic Grill buzzed with its usual half-hearted charm—dim string lights flickering overhead, lazy country music floating from the jukebox, and the scent of onion rings clinging to everything like a curse. You sat beside Elena in a corner booth, sipping a strawberry soda through a striped straw, one leg curled beneath you as you listened to her recap the latest Salvatore drama.

Kai and Damon had wandered off to the bar to pretend they could stand each other for more than ten minutes. So far, no blood had been spilled. A win, in your book.

You gave her a sly grin. “They’re growing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

Elena glances at you the moment the shadows fall across your table—two strangers, tall, arrogant, too sure of themselves. They lean in, leering, stinking of cheap cologne and worse intentions, voices slick with the same tired charm they’ve probably used on half the bar.

You don’t even blink. Just sip your drink and exchange the look.

That silent, unimpressed look shared only by women who’ve seen gods bleed. The do they have any idea who our men are? look. The should we warn them or let them die oblivious? look.

You sigh—long, theatrical, drenched in boredom—and place your glass down with deliberate care. The straw shifts like a white flag in the cup. Then you twist in your seat, letting them see the full force of your disdain. Your expression could cut glass.

“See that guy over there?” you say, voice feather-light, motioning with your chin toward the bar.

Kai hasn’t looked away since the moment the men approached. He’s perched on the stool like a lounging serpent, elbow on the counter, eyes glinting beneath lazy lashes. Still, there's nothing lazy about the way he watches. His gaze is lethal—like a knife dipped in something slow and fatal.

He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

“The one who looks like he’s moments from setting someone on fire with his mind?” you continue sweetly, tilting your head just so. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Elena, perfectly timed, gestures at Damon—who’s swirling his bourbon like it holds the last nerve he has left, already glaring hard enough to burn holes through both men.

“And mine’s the one who’s murdered people for less,” she says with a bright, innocent smile.

The men freeze.

Smirks falter. Confidence flickers.

One of them clears his throat, the sound dry and nervous. “Oh. Uh. You’re with… them?”

“Mhm,” you chirp, rising from the booth like it’s a stage and you’ve just been cued. Elena moves in tandem, the both of you calm, polished, rehearsed.

The strangers barely have time to stammer out an excuse before Kai shifts.

He doesn’t move much—just turns to face them, slow and serpentine, one brow arching with something between amusement and malice. His fingers twitch like he’s already chosen which spell to use. Not if—which.

The men take one look at him—truly look—and bolt like someone shouted fire.

Cowards.

You and Elena stroll back to the bar like you’re returning from a casual walk. Damon spares a glance over his glass and mutters, “Trouble?”

Elena shrugs. “Handled.”

Kai is still watching you, eyes narrowed, chest rising a little too slowly. You reach out and press your hand to his sternum—firm and warm beneath your palm.

“They weren’t worth it,” you murmur. “Just two boys playing brave.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” he lies.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I was just mentally planning their funerals,” he amends, with a slight pout. “That’s different.”

You grin, rising up on your toes to kiss the edge of his mouth—the corner, barely there, featherlight. He sucks in a breath like it startles him every time. Like the softness always strikes harder than the fire.

“You’re adorable when you’re unhinged,” you whisper.

Kai huffs. But you see the way he glows under your praise—subtle, hesitant, like he’s not quite used to being loved this way. Not yet. But he wants to be.

Damon groans something foul about lovebirds, but neither of you hear him.

Kai’s already tugging you gently toward the door, his fingers tangled through yours with an urgency he can’t mask.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, low and rough into your ear. “Before I accidentally test a fire spell.”

༊*·˚

The door barely clicks shut behind you before Kai’s already kicking off his shoes, peeling off his jacket, and sprawling dramatically across your couch like he owns the place.

And to be fair—he kind of does.

He’s been slowly overtaking your space like ivy: leaving books open on your counters, jackets slung over chairs, a set of rings on your nightstand that you’re pretty sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. His toothbrush showed up in your bathroom three weeks ago without a word.

You haven’t asked him about it. He hasn’t offered. But he’s here more often than not, and you like it that way.

“Movie time,” he announces, claiming the middle cushion like it’s a throne and opening his arms wide like he expects tribute.

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean our movie night? The one where I pick the movie because last time you picked The Shining and then asked why I don’t sleep with the lights off anymore?”

Kai shrugs, wholly unbothered. “Not my fault Jack Nicholson is a cinematic genius.”

“He tried to murder his family.”

“With style,” Kai says, deadpan.

You throw a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him dramatically, like you’ve wounded him. Flops sideways and groans, sprawled like a fallen king.

Eventually, you settle on something safe and cozy—an old rom-com, something where no one dies and everyone ends up kissed. Kai grumbles at first, makes sarcastic comments for the first fifteen minutes, but his hand finds yours anyway. Lazy fingers playing with your knuckles. Thumb brushing over your wrist like it calms him to feel you breathing.

It’s not long before he shifts closer. And then closer again. Until your legs are tangled and his head is buried against your shoulder, nose in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in.

“You smell good,” he mutters into your collarbone.

You hum, threading your fingers through his hair. “Better than popcorn?”

“Better than blood.”

You snort. “Romantic.”

He grins against your skin. “I’m serious. You smell like… peace. And cinnamon. And that one shampoo that says it’s made of like, eleven herbs and doesn’t specify what any of them are.”

You laugh and tip your head back, letting it rest against the cushions. Kai just watches you for a moment. Soft-eyed. Quiet. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And maybe he can’t.

He shifts again, tugging the blanket over both of you. His arm winds around your waist, snug, protective, heavy in a way that feels more grounding than suffocating. His voice is softer now, low and earnest:

“Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For not running away. For… making room for me. Even when I make it hard.”

Your hand curls instinctively into his shirt.

“You make it easy, Kai.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days. You lean in, press your forehead to his, let silence bloom soft between you. The only sound is the TV droning on in the background and the quiet rhythm of your hearts.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I’d kill anyone for you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I know.”

“And I’d only sort of feel bad about it.”

“Progress.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I’m working on it.”

You kiss his temple, slow and fond. “I know.”

And then you both fall silent again. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in each other.

Kai Parker—terrifying, reckless, half-reformed mess of a man—falls asleep on your chest twenty minutes later, soft snores muffled against your t-shirt.

You don’t move.

Not even when the credits roll. Not even when your arm goes numb.

Because it’s Kai. And for once, he feels safe. And more than that—he trusts you.

You’re not moving. Not yet.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

thank you to @sc4rrc for the request <3 I hope you enjoyed it!!

feel free to request fics with kai again! <3

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[ethereal-moonglitter]

┊ ┊ ┊. ➶ ˚ 

┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✧ 

┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁ 

☁ 

Down, boy!

A Dazai and Chuuya (separate) x Fem! reader

Author's note: I hit the idea from @hidden-oracle ! Ori and I were brain rotting about our selfship and she sent me a picture of that viral "Down boy!" image so here we are <3

One might assume he holds all the power—that he is the master. That his lover is wrapped around his little finger, hanging onto his every word, ready to obey without question. His charm is unmatched, he has had people on their knees. He had people begging for a smidge of his attention. After all, his strength is legendary, his presence commands both fear and awe. He stands unrivaled, untamed. How could someone like him ever be conquered?

The very thought is absurd. It’s impossible! A man so terrifying, so ruthless as him. And yet…

Yet that is far from the truth. The power does not rest in his hands but in hers. His lovely queen, the only one who can bring him to his knees with nothing more than a glance, a whispered word. The world may see a monster, feared and revered, but in her presence, he is something else entirely. A man so devoted, eager, so hers. And oh, how he loves to follow her every whim, to give himself over to the only one who could ever truly own him.

➤ Dazai Osamu

Old habits are hard to forget.

Violence is in his being as much as blood is. It’s a part of who Dazai Osamu is, of who he has become. It’s what he is known for. He didn’t become the youngest executive for nothing. Death follows him everywhere, a lingering shadow he can never quite escape. Even now, as a member of the Armed Detective Agency, his body still remembers the rhythm of battle, the instinct to strike first, to eliminate threats without hesitation. The path of bloodshed he once walked is not so easily left behind.

Sometimes, that past claws its way to the surface, unbidden, leading to moments of discomfort. The awkward pauses when his reactions are just a little too sharp, a little too lethal. Even when the agency is forced to collaborate with the Port Mafia? The ghosts of his old life press in even closer. Because no matter how much he tries to change, one truth remains. The darkness never really leaves him.

Especially now, with his beautiful girlfriend watching. He shouldn’t slack off, not when her gaze was on him, sharp and expectant. He could feel it, burning into him like a silent challenge, urging him to put on a show. And really, how could he deny her that? He glanced at her briefly, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. Just a little distraction, nothing more. But his opponent was quick, seizing the opportunity.

The strike came fast. The stranger was using a knife. It was efficient, practiced, lethal, aimed in between for his ribs, pircing the lung. The strike would've left anyone gasping for air. But to Dazai, it might as well have been moving in slow motion. His body reacted before his mind even needed to register the danger. With an effortless shift of his weight, he sidestepped, letting the attack slice through empty space as though he had never been there at all. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he rolled his shoulders, shaking off the moment as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Tsk, tsk,” he mused, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Taking advantage of a distracted man? How cruel.”

The enemy grew restless, fists tightening before launching another attack—this time a punch, wild and desperate. But alas, Dazai was faster. A smirk played at the brunette’s lips as he leaned back just enough for the strike to miss.

“Is that all? Really?” His voice was light, almost disappointed. “I was hoping for a bit of a challenge, you know.”

His opponent barely had time to react before he moved. Dazai was quick, precise, with no wasted effort. Fingers found a wrist mid-strike, twisting just enough to throw them off balance. Then, with a well-placed tug, Dazai sent them stumbling forward, effortlessly turning their own momentum against them. Dazai leaned in, his grip deceptively gentle as he murmured,

“Come on, you can do better than that, can’t you? I have to impress my girl, and you’re making this too easy.”

His tone was teasing, playful even, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—betrayed the truth. He was in control. He always was.

The opponent gritted their teeth, desperation creeping into their movements as they struggled to break free. But Dazai had already seen it coming. With a subtle shift, he applied just the right amount of pressure, forcing them to adjust their stance. And in that instant, his foot swept out in a fluid, effortless motion, delivering a precise kick to the back of their knee.

They collapsed forward, crashing onto the cold, unforgiving floor before they could even process what had happened.

“Oops,” Dazai chuckled, tilting his head with a mock look of sympathy. “Looks like you’re a little off balance there, bud.”

The enemy’s fingers twitched, scrambling for a hidden blade—a last, desperate attempt to turn the tide. With a sharp, reckless jerk, they thrust it toward Dazai’s hand, aiming to cripple him with the speed and ferocity of a cornered animal.

But Dazai had already anticipated it. He was always five steps ahead.

Before the blade could even graze his skin, he withdrew his hand with infuriating ease, as if he had simply grown bored of the fight altogether. The failed strike carried too much momentum, and the knife plunged deep into their own shoulder. A sharp, agonized yelp tore from their lips.

“Too slow,” Dazai mused, his voice dripping with amusement.

In one fluid motion, he plucked the blade from their trembling grip, twirling it between his fingers as if testing its weight. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he pressed the cold steel against their throat, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

His opponent froze, breath hitching. The fight was already over. They both knew it.

Hidden in the shadows, she watched with intent. She had seen this side of him before, the effortless way he danced between mischief and menace, predator and charmer. But she also knew what he was thinking. She couldn’t let him kill the suspect, especially not with the rest of the agency watching. They also needed the suspect to find out where the missing children were.

Stepping forward, her voice rang out: “Down, boy.”

Dazai’s smirk widened at the sound of her footsteps. The sound effortlessly drawing his focus away from the trembling fool beneath his blade.

His grip on the knife neither tightened nor loosened, just lingered, as if savoring the moment. Weighing his options. But in the end, he knew that he could never disobey his lovely queen.

"Woof~!"

Her soft laughter sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. "Being so obedient today, Samu," she mused, stepping closer.

"Only because you asked so nicely, bella," he teased, voice low and honeyed.

With a dramatic sigh, he shifted to the side, giving her space as she moved in. He knew exactly what was coming, and as always, he was happy to let her take the lead. With practiced ease, she reached down, securing the suspect in handcuffs, her touch firm.

Dazai watched her work, his smirk never fading. Oh, how he adored her like this. Unable to resist, his fingers slipped toward her thigh, grazing her soft skin, savoring the warmth beneath his touch. The moment was too perfect to ignore. But as much as she enjoyed his touch, now was not the time. She shot him a warning glare, sharp and precise. “Hands off, we’re working, Samu,”

Dazai chuckled, tilting his head with a lazy grin. "You know, I just can’t help myself~" he mused, his voice playful. "Seeing you take charge like that? Ah~ it’s almost too much….. so breathtakingly alluring. My love, how do you expect me to behave when you’re this irresistible?"

Chuuya's under the cut!

➤ Chuuya Nakahara

Being a Port Mafia executive was a hell of a lot more work than anyone gave it credit for.

Paperwork stacked up like a mountain, mission after mission piling on top of each other. It was exhausting, monotonous, and downright boring. Honestly, Chuuya Nakahara would rather be doing anything else—like lounging around with his girlfriend, enjoying some peace and quiet.

But noooooo, here they were, stuck helping the damn Armed Detective Agency track down lost kids. Lost kids. Of all the things they could be doing, this was the one that required his attention? And of course, Dazai had to be involved! Making everything ten times more ridiculous than it needed to be.

Can they be any more useless? Dazai especially.

The two of them were walking into the abandoned warehouse that the Agency told them to go to. The creaking of the old wooden floorboards echoing through the eerie silence. The air was thick with dust, the scent of rust and mildew hanging in the air. The dim light filtering through cracked windows did little to reveal what was hidden in the shadows. What the hell were they even looking for here?

"Stay close," Chuuya muttered, his eyes scanning the dim, dusty warehouse for any sign of movement. The Agency had given them little to go on—just that it was urgent. Typical. They were useless anyway, they just had to pull the Port Mafia into it

Without thinking, he reached for her wrist, his fingers closing around it. To anyone unfamiliar with them, it might have seemed rough, the grip firm and commanding. But to her, the way his thumb gently caressed the soft skin of her wrist spoke volumes. It was possessive, protective, yet tender, a silent promise that no matter what happened next, he wouldn’t let anything touch her.

A shift in the shadows caught his attention, and without hesitation, he pushed his girlfriend back gently, positioning himself between her and the potential threat. He wasn’t going to risk her getting hurt—especially not over something as stupid as a damn undercover mission.

The figure stepped into the light, a sneer playing at the corners of their lips, revealing the glint of a weapon in their hand. The stranger clearly didn’t want them here. They said nothing, just waiting for the two fo them to make their move.

"Great," Chuuya muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Just what I needed today."

He didn’t wait for the enemy to make a move. In one blink fo an eye, his ability, Upon the Tainted Sorrow or gravity-manipulation, swirling to life around him. The air grew heavy as the room seemed to constrict, pulling the very weight of the enemy toward him.

"Stay out of this, okay?" Chuuya added, voice low and sharp as he glanced back at his lover. "I’ll handle it."

She didn’t mind taking a step back. As much as she loves the action, it was nice having to relax. She knew that Chuuya won’t let her join anyway. She made sure she was a good ways away but she kept her guard up incase anything happens.

The enemy hesitated for a moment, clearly underestimating the red head. It was the last mistake they’d ever make. Chuuya grinned, the thrill of the fight lighting up his veins.

The two were in a stale mate, just staring, sizing each other up. Chuuya’s eyes narrowed as his fingers flexed, already manipulating the gravity around him. His opponent, a tall figure cloaked in shadow, sneered back, their hands glowing with an ethereal energy as they conjured a shimmering shield around themselves.

"You're in my world now," Chuuya muttered, his voice low and menacing as the power surged around him, his signature gravity manipulation pulsing through the air. A dangerous glint sparkled in his eyes, and the ground beneath his feet trembled as he prepared to strike. Chuuya lunged forward, floating using his ability. He then quickly switched, increasing his gravity, as he went in for a punch.

His opponent smirked, raising their arms as a translucent barrier appeared between them and Chuuya. The shield shimmered like glass, catching the light as it expanded, blocking Chuuya's punch but Chuuya wasn’t deterred.

He swung his hand sharply to the side, still using increased gravity to harden his punches. The air around them thickened, the ground beneath the enemy’s feet warping, pushing down on them with crushing force. The opponent’s shield flickered and bent as the pressure mounted, but they quickly raised their arms higher, creating another layer of defense.

Chuuya grinned, his confidence never wavering. "You really think that’ll save you?"

With a snap of his fingers, the gravity around the opponent spiked, sending them hurtling toward the ceiling. The shield cracked under the immense pressure, but it held for just a moment longer—long enough for Chuuya to close the distance. He dashed forward, his movements fast and fluid, and with a swift kick, he launched himself into the air, using the distorted gravity to propel him upward. His opponent’s shield flared as they desperately pushed back against the gravity, trying to maintain their defense. But Chuuya was faster.

He grabbed the edge of the shield with one hand and twisted the gravity around it. The shield bent under the pressure, splintering like brittle glass. In that same instant, he shot a surge of gravity downward, slamming his opponent to the ground with a bone-shaking thud. The opponent struggled to get up, their shield flickering, weakened but not entirely destroyed. "You’re resilient, I’ll give you that," Chuuya taunted, landing gracefully beside them. "But you ain’t beating me,”

With another snap of his fingers, the gravity reversed, yanking his opponent’s body into the air. They gasped, arms flailing, struggling to summon another shield. But Chuuya wasn’t about to give them the time. He snapped his fingers again, and the gravity came crashing down, sending his opponent slamming to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Chuuya grinned darkly as he increased the gravity around his opponent, forcing them to their knees. "How about we end this, yeah? Can’t keep my girl waiting." His voice dripped with impatience, the power swirling around him as he prepared to finish it.

After all, when you’re an executive for the Port Mafia, mercy isn’t exactly on the menu.

“Down, boy!”

Chuuya’s gaze snapped away from the kneeling man, irritation flaring as he turned to face his lover. He blinked a few times, trying to process what the hell she just said. “What the hell did you say to me?” he asked, his voice laced with annoyance.

She met his gaze, her expression unwavering. “Did I stutter?”

The silence between them stretched for a moment as Chuuya stood there, eyeing her with a mix of frustration and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. Finally, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, ma’am,” he muttered, his tone reluctantly submissive.

“That's What I thought.”

“You're annoying,” He scoffed. Which caused her to laugh. “You love me though.”

[ultimate-marysue]

I think a lot about Cass and Steph (zero surprise there), but particularly the way they view the no-kill rule. (Also, at some point this post turned into a fanfic and I don't know how it happened)

Cass is even more extreme than Bruce (mostly because Bruce Wayne as a character has existed so long and been written by so many people, there are contradictions). She would literally die rather than Killin someone else and even if Steph doesn't agree, she respects that. She resuscitates this guy Cass accidentally killed because she knows that's important to her. A difference from Bruce is the fact that Cass loves a redemption more than she loves the fully innocent. Bruce is ready to flip his shit when he finds out Cass killed someone as a child, but Cass is always ready to convince others of giving up on killing and forgive previous transgressions once they make the switch. But, let's not forget, she's all for not killing. That's her religion.

Steph on the other hand is way more ambivalent on the whole thing, but thinks that she should be allowed to use lethal force to protect herself and others. If her only way out of a situation is to slam someone's nose into their brain, so be it. I think she's closer to Green Arrows philosophy (read: I'm not going to kill you because I don't want to inflict that trauma upon myself) than Batman's. And it makes sense for her, she's not as perfectly trained as Batman, Nightwing or Cass's Batgirl, she doesn't have as many non lethal resources to get out of a fight alive. She will try, but if it's her or the bad guys, she's not going to hesitate (and she's most definitely not dying if she has any say on it).

I would kill to read a story where Steph is forced to kill in self defense and has to deal with the fall out. You just know all the other Bats are dragging her around to make a point and no one even cares how she feels about it or if she's okay. Bruce, Jason, Dick and Babs are all arguing about whose fault it is and how it could have been avoided (or if it should have been avoided). Tim would defend Steph, because it's not her fault that she didn't have any other options. Duke would say how absolutely insane the argument is because "what? Did you expect her to die?". Damian would be extremely stressed out trying to figure out if his assassin training would have taken over in that situation or if he would have found another way.

Then there's Steph. She's not engaging, she left the cave hours ago when it became clear that her input was not necessary (to those accusing her nor the ones defending her). Steph refuses to freak out in front of them, she's not taking their fucking condescension. She has just killed someone, for the very first time, in an extremely traumatic life or death situation. It could have been her. Some of her fellow vigilantes argue that it should have been her. That it was her responsibility.

There are so many awful feelings inside her right now because, yes, that guy was a piece of shit, but now he was dead. She had killed him. There's the inherent shock of it, the numb horror of how close it got, now that the adrenaline started fading out. But there's something more insidious, eating away at her heart. It comes in the form, not of Bruce's righteous anger or Jason's delighted glee. Not even Dick's sad puppy eyes of disappointment. No, it's Tim's well-meaning "It's not her fault that she didn't have any other options".

He's trying to placate Bruce, she knows. Tim has been Robin for a very long while, he's playing the argument that has the best chances to get her off the hook. But it is true, she did not have other options. Steph couldn't get out of that situation without resorting to lethal force. There was an implication there, an implication she knew to be true: that Tim could have found another way. That it only came to that because it was her.

Steph doesn't kid herself, she didn't figure Bruce's identity on her own like Cass and Tim. She didn't have any prior super special secret training like Damian, Dick or Cass. She didn't have powers like Duke. She wasn't specifically trained by Batman to be Robin like Tim and Jason, she got a Robin 101 at most. She barely got trained at all because no one except Tim and later Cass saw the point in it. Bats always told her to own it, that she didn't need Bruce's approval to be great, but that was easy from someone smart enough to hack the Pentagon on the daily.

When Cass sits beside her completely silent as usual, Steph has half the mind to push her off the roof. Cass would never be in this situation. Sure, she could barely read and her people-skills left a lot to be desired, but she was a fighting machine. And if it came down to it, everyone knew what she would choose. Still, she didn't push her friend away.

Cass, to her credit, did not try to lecture her or make her feel better. She offered some fries that Steph had to decline. Her stomach felt like a bottomless pit of despair, and she doubted fries would result in anything other than a disgusting puke fest. They stayed there in silence, staring up to Gotham's polluted night sky.

When Steph started to cry, Cass did not shush her. She did not offer empty words or justifications so she wouldn't feel bad with herself. There was no hint of the drama back at the cave, she simply rubbed her back in compromise circles.

"I know," she offered. "I know."

Steph wanted to tell her to fuck off, she didn't know what it was to fail. To not be strong enough, to prove everyone else right. Cass was the most perfect Bat ever, and much like Nightwing, better than Bruce himself could ever dream to be. She was so far removed from even the idea of knowing how Steph felt at that moment... Except she wasn't. Not completely.

Unlike Tim, she had killed before. Unlike Jason, it had destroyed her to the point of not even believing herself to be worthy of living. Had she cried that day? A look at her friends devastated expression is answer enough. So she hugs her. Steph hugs the only person that cares she's hurting. Cass is the only one that can claim she would have done the right thing, and yet, she's not casting any stones. She's hugging Steph back, offering an understanding that no one else seems to share.

They stay like that for what seems like forever, but by the time they break apart, Steph finally accepts the soggy cold fries. They're disgusting, but she's suddenly very hungry. No matter how guilty and inadequate she may feel right now, she doesn't regret living. Cass may not have made the same decision, but she's still standing beside her. Lord only knows what's actually going through her head, Steph doesn't have her ability to read people. She lays her head on Cass's shoulder, and the other doesn't push her away. That's enough for her.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Award II

Alexia Putellas x Hardersson!Reader

Aitana Bonmatí x Hardersson!Reader

Natalia Guijarro (OC) x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You are finally rewarded for being the best

You don't play football for the fame.

You've never played football for fame or money or awards.

You play football because you love it.

It's been apart of your life for as long as you can remember. Your parents still have your first Wolfsburg kit, back when you were a baby and couldn't do anything but cry.

The fame, the money, the trophies all just came along with the sport you love.

The responsibility of carrying your country and your club doesn't weigh on you much, not when you have such passion for the game and your teams.

The first time you felt such responsibility was on your youth team, captaining them to a successful Under-17 Euros. Then, the responsibility was back at Barcelona. You were made the third captain after half a season back from your loan to Lyon.

When you left, the responsibility stayed, being made the sole captain for your country. You've spent a year at Wolfsburg now, the club of your childhood, and the band for your club wraps around your arm in preparation for next season.

Denmark Youth Captain.

Barcelona Third Captain.

Sweden Senior Captain.

Wolfsburg First Captain.

You didn't play football to become a leader but somehow you've become one, moving from yelling orders from your defence to yelling orders at the whole team.

You are an expert keeper. You always have been.

People around you say you've made your mark on the game and you haven't even retired yet. People look at you for what a keeper should be, for how a leader should act.

(People whisper that all keepers coming up the ranks now try to mimic your style, your natural instinct and abilities).

It's only inevitable that you have the trophy cabinet to back up your skill.

Two World Cups sit in your cabinet. Two Golden Gloves as well.

Multiple Keeper of the Year trophies.

An Olympic medal.

A Euros medal.

And then awards for at club level too.

Liga F, Copa de la Reina and Supercopa sit in the apartment you used to share with Natalia with a Première Ligue and Coupe de France medal too.

Your Champion's League medals sit with Natalia's on the wall.

Everything you won at Linköping and Arsenal are at home in Sweden whilst your most recent Bundesliga and DFB-Pokal medals are at your apartment in Germany.

You are the greatest goalkeeper playing in the women's leagues at the moment and, while you cannot see it, everyone else knows it.

You've come to the ceremony to eat some of the bar food and maybe see some of your old Lyon teammates.

Talia has come to the ceremony to see you make history.

Alexia and Aitana are the ones presenting the award and just from the way they're smiling, Talia knows the result.

You've been ranked highly ever since your first nomination. That time, you'd ranked eleventh. Every time after that, you've finished in the top ten.

Your name is called and the world stops.

You suck in a breath, frozen in your seat like you're in the Champion's League final with only a one goal lead and the other team advancing on your goal with lethal efficiency.

You don't know what to do. You don't know what to say.

Your wife allows your tuck your head into her neck, not flinching as your tears drip down onto her suit blazer.

"It's okay, baby," Talia says to you," You deserve this so much."

She helps you to your feet, hiding your face as you wipe your tears where cameras can't see.

You force yourself to walk up the stairs to the stage without stumbling. You suck in a breath.

There it is.

The most prestigious award in football.

It was a few years ago now that Talia won hers. She'd had a standout season during her first as Barcelona's captain. She was lethal on goal for club and country.

There was never any doubt it would be here.

That's the way it always is.

Everyone always expects a striker or a midfielder. Sometimes, it's a defender. It's never been a keeper though, at least for the women's.

Second goalkeeper in history.

First female goalkeeper in history.

Aitana is the one nearest to you.

You're taller than her by a lot, towering over her but she still hugs you like you were little, like you were still the little girl she met when hunting down Pernille's shirt.

One of her hands comes up to cup your cheek.

"You've grown up," She says and you force yourself not to cry," You're so big now."

Alexia is next. You last saw her a few weeks ago when you came back to Spain for the weekend and attended one of Talia's games. Alexia made you come down from the stands and asked about Wolfsburg and how your season was going.

She was all business then and you'd been as vague as possible, in case she remembered something that could be used against you during the next rounds of the Champion's League.

But now, there's no hint of professionalism in her eyes as she pulls you into a hug.

"I told you," She whispers," I told you that you'd get this one day. Remember this feeling, okay? There's nothing better in the world. There's no one better in the world."

She pulls away and hands you the award.

You turn to the cameras, to the audience all on their feet clapping you.

You lift up your Ballon D'or for all to see.

[sscarletvenus]

yes suguru's plans to exterminate a vast majority of humanity is undeniably evil, but to say that he is murderous from the very start, cruel for the sake of being so, or lacks compassion or any emotional nuance is a gross disservice to his character's writing.

suguru is a case study of a romantic idealist and self-sacrificial saviour whose absurdly rigid, quixotic ideals are shattered brutally by reality intervening. the intense hatred he has for humanity is born out of, is an inverse of, the intense love he once possessesed for it. this is also why even though satoru is portrayed as brash and selfish and arrogant in the hidden inventory arc, it is suguru that turns "villainous."

suguru places his faith in the goodness of humanity, believes the duty of shamans is to protect the weak, their existence solely hinged upon saving the lives of non-sorcerers, and for that he is disappointed so tremendously, betrayed to an extent that makes it impossible for him to recover his ideals and past self.

ultimately there are also more than one reasons why satoru doesn't become "evil" : 1) "protecting humanity" was never his cause to begin with. he hardly cared about preserving human life, as is evident in his intentions to kill the cultists who cheered on riko's death, and 2) he had someone shielding his inner self : suguru. for it is suguru that tells him the duty of shamans is to protect non-shamans and the weak, suguru who asks him to sympathise with riko, suguru who persuades him to not kill meaninglessly.

satoru is indeed attached to riko, as well. he is the one who decides not to hand riko over to tengen if she wishes to return home, and tries to enliven her last days as a lucid person. it would thus not surpass one’s expectations if satoru turned to villainy post riko's demise, since he never even liked non-shamans to begin with. and yet, he doesn't. suguru protects his heart, which is a part of why he is able to steadily process his grief and anguish over riko's death.

suguru doesn't have anyone to do that for him, he is strong in his own right but not the "strongest", nobody notices how deep of an abyss his soul has sunken in, and he succumbs to the lethal loneliness, falters in this marathon of sorcery.

suguru is brimming with love and compassion: it is what drives his heroism in youth and villainy as a cult leader. he is able to protect gojo's heart but not his own. he fluctuates between two polar extremes : utter distaste of humanity Vs. a duty to protect it despite its horrors. three things serve as final nails to the metaphorical coffin : yuki's words, haibara's death, miminana's abuse. he describes imbibing curses for curse manipulation is "like eating a rag used to clean vomit". how macabre, how grotesque, how enlightening - who is he doing all this for? the humans who killed riko? it was these humans haibara died serving, these same humans violently mistreated miminana.

toji and sonoda encapsulate evil very blatantly, and aren't enough to shake suguru's belief in humanity. but the turning point is the non-shaman cultists rejoicing : suguru is thus forced to confront the banality of evil.

and suguru responds by rejecting what he once loved, embraces the darkness plaguing him. believes the only way to eradicate curses is to uproot their source : humanity. humans, for as long as they will live, will give rise to curses born out of their negative emotions. there is no one to tell him any better, or protect his self-identity. he loses himself to his own sense of empathy, his own ideals.

he isn't indifferent at all, cannot pick and choose whom he loves and doesn't. his love and hatred is collective, in both he gives his all. even amidst his hatred, he doesn't lose his love.

who does he choose to target first, once amassing enough money, power, and reputation? sonoda, the man who ordered riko's assassination. someone who lies in wait to enact vengeance does it out of love. if he was nothing more than a corrupt tyrant, he wouldn't remember the circumstances of riko's demise or care enough about them. suguru's rise as a hero and his subsequent fall as a villain has always been about love. and it seems, to me, up until his death, he prioritizes satoru over himself. doesn't see satoru as a weapon at all, or he would have directly asked satoru to join his cause. instead he poses to satoru a question, presents him with a choice - which in turn makes satoru shaken enough to question his identity, his place in the system, becoming a teacher and dedicating his all to a fitting reformist centrism from an isolated and dare i say, individualistic person such as himself, who stands on the pinnacle of power. but he wouldn't have come to such a conclusion without suguru's experiences shaping his worldview (he himself apologizes to riko during his fight with toji because rather than feeling depressed over her death, he feels the pure pleasure of the world in that moment. killing toji endows him with a sense of duty towards megumi, and riko's death but obviously impacts him, but the change from full apathy, to neutral indifference except in the case of his students, was losing suguru.)

as evil as suguru becomes, he is not a hypocrite. that he kills his own parents is to show the seriousness and conviction he has in his ideals. his code of operation is consistent, even when it turns from pro-human to pro-shaman.

reminds you of what mahito tells yuuji: does yuuji ever consider how many curses he kills? so why should mahito account for how many humans he kills? suguru geto presents us with a possible answer : someone has to care about how many shamans are killed.

you can condemn him for his use of collective punishment, but suguru is a villain!

you can criticize his killing of innocents, but jjk conveys the carefully crafted narrative of a villain who once held staunch traditional and moral ideals.

suguru is evil for proposing collective punishment, but it is incredibly consistent with how emotional he is. he is empathetic because he cares about a girl like riko, doomed by the actions of the rest of the world, forgotten in her misery. he cares and it drives him to the deepest pits of despair, where life loses all color and meaning, despite only knowing her for so long and haibara as well, he enshrines haibara in his memory, when no one other than nanami does. hardly anyone remembers riko's existence, haibara's laughing face, but he does! and for that he spends each moment sinking in the quagmire of his grief and torment. his empathy is a sword of damocles hanging over his neck! to say that he is cruel and unfeeling is to contradict the very agony that drives his (wrongful?) actions. and he is indeed wrong for externalizing this indelible pain, wanting to inflict it upon innocents. but suguru is a villain! has been set up as such!

mahito raises this question to junpei,"is the opposite of love really indifference?" to satoru, it is. but to suguru, it is hatred which is the opposite of love.

[kestrel-of-herran]

"history lives in us, whether we learn it or not."

helly despises being trapped from the moment she wakes up because helena despises being trapped, and her animalistic panic and urgency are manifestations of helena's deep-seated trauma.

helly's exposive anger and fight for control are helena's decades-repressed anger and conditioning herself into surrendering control. even helly's commitment to slouching is rooted in helena's rejection of the perfect manners she's been forced to emulate.

helly uses the most cult-like metaphors and conjectures -- "am i livestock? are the numbers bloody? do they chant? we're all covered in blood and i'm wearing your face, and that's a very powerful image to me" -- because there's a subconscious part of her that is aware of the violence of the world she was born into, and has been taught to use violence as power.

helly craves mark's approval when completing tasks because helena craves the cult's approval when completing tasks, which is a natural emotion of wanting to be accepted and appreciated by your community (and helena cannot choose her community, this is all she knows).

helly's acerbic wit becomes a lethal weapon in helena's hands because helena has always been surrounded by people who want to use her and has honed her mean streak into a defense tactic, rather than the bond-strengthening banter helly uses with the people she loves.

when embodying helly, helena slowly reclaims the parts of herself she's had to kill to survive her environment -- her reckless humor, her criticism of the cult, her longing for love -- setting her on a path to reconnect with her truest self and become bold enough to reject the only world she's been told she should live in.