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fushitoru · 6 months ago

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chapter 7: the rebound a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ after the arrival of your dearest brother, you pursue a new angle to the season, one to prove that you, the diamond, will not be scorned. new opportunities with duke nanami arise and with it jealousy and bitterness fester in the ballroom. (6.8k)

prev. the house party | next. the lake

general masterlist | series masterlist

Once again, dear Reader, this humble Author finds herself vindicated. Country house parties, as ever, remain the fertile soil from which the most delicious scandals bloom. And today’s revelation is no exception.

Yes, indeed, you read it here first: the dashing and ever-elusive Lord Satoru Gojo will not be marrying Miss Itadori, this season’s most celebrated diamond. The murmurs have already begun spreading like wildfire, bringing sighs of relief from hopeful ladies and knowing smirks from their watchful chaperones. The eligible Duke-to-be’s sudden return to certified bachelorhood is, no doubt, a development many find most agreeable.

But what, pray, has caused this sudden turn of events? The dissolution of an arrangement so seemingly perfect? Alas, even this Author—a tireless seeker of truths—has found the particulars elusive. Was it a clash of personalities? A misstep at the ball? Or perhaps, a secret grievance unearthed during those long, candlelit evenings at the country estate?

What this Author can confirm is that the ballroom whispers point to Lord Gojo’s own doing, based upon the countenances and actions of the pair at the ball. Did the ever-charming lord tire of his diamond’s sparkle, or has he found a more alluring treasure elsewhere? The possibilities are endless, and so, it seems, is the intrigue surrounding the pair.

One thing remains certain: while Miss Itadori may have stumbled in this engagement, she remains a diamond among gems—brilliant, resilient, and admired. What paths now await her are anyone’s guess, but if this Author knows anything, it is that diamonds shine brightest under pressure.

As for Lord Gojo, the question lingers: will his rakish reputation survive this latest scandal unscathed? Or has he, at last, met a match too dazzling even for him to outshine? Rest assured, dear Reader, this Author will remain ever-vigilant, pen poised and ready to uncover the truth.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

You could have had a bit more tact when informing Sukuna of the events of the past few days, for the reaction you gained made you realize that you may have made a misstep.

“What?!” Sukuna roared, looking at the three of you with fury. Yuji jumped, while you and Choso grimaced. “He did what?!”

“Now, now, brother,” Choso stood up nervously to pat his younger brother on the shoulder. “It is all good and well, for I have arranged for a better match for our dear sister—”

“A duel!” Sukuna bellowed, standing up from his seat on the couch to stomp his way to the door. “I will challenge that Gojo fellow to a duel—” It was only until Yuji ran and tackled him to the ground that he was waylaid to God knows what he was going to do to Lord Gojo. You and Choso could only watch the scene, too perforce to the strength of bulls that your brothers had to be able to interrupt.

A few scratches and awfully purple looking bruises later, Sukuna and Yuji were seated on the couch once again, thanks to Choso’s plead for nonviolence. It was then that Choso started explaining what had occurred in the season so far. “Mother insisted,” he sighed, shaking his head. “She seemed to have struck a mutual…entente with the Duchess of Gojo. It was only a matter of time before Mother forced her ways. Now that it has not redound in her favor, I have even more rationale to have my…way with Sister’s matches. For God’s sake, Sukuna stop glaring at me Mother left me behind on the first ball—”

Sukuna did not stop glaring; in fact, he chose that moment to take a long slurp of his tea while staring fiercely at him while Choso shifted nervously. After a long bout of silence, he finally offered, “I understand Mother can be very pushy, and that you, Choso, are not fierce enough to withstand her.” Choso did not even protest, just offered a deadpan. “But I, however, will not be a feather to a simple blow of the wind that Mother is. It is time our dear sister lived up to her reputation, what she has prepared so hard for.” He looks upon you with a soft gaze—that is, a soft gaze for Sukuna. “No matter how tactless Gojo’s estrangement was, Sister will recover, so long as her morale has not lessened. Sukuna’s head turned sharply to you, “It has not weakened, right Sister? He has not left you heartbroken?”

You could hear your heart as you looked at your brother, dumbfounded. His perceptive gaze disarmed you, but you blurted out a “Of course not” and turned to hastily grab a pastry from the table next to the loveseat you were seated at.. When you looked back at your brother, you jumped as his gaze lingered on you then nonetheless turned to glare at your brother when Yuji opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to irritatedly remark on his denseness.

No matter, you think to yourself. Whatever you feel about Gojo is of no matter. The visit at the manor was only a delay and a small obstacle for your season. It was time to attend to the matter at hand: finding a husband.

The dewy grass kissed the hem of your nightgown as you wandered to the old swing set on the far edge of the manor grounds—a relic of your childhood, weathered but enduring. The creak of the chains was a sound that had long since embedded itself in your memory, a reminder of simpler days when duty had yet to tighten its grip.

You had not been able to sleep.

The house was still, the hush of midnight settling over its grand halls and sprawling grounds. Yet sleep evaded you, your thoughts as restless as the autumn breeze that stirred the curtains of your chamber. In the quiet, the weight of your obligations pressed heavily upon you, a familiar but unwelcome companion. Deciding that solitude under the stars might grant clarity where the confines of your room could not, you slipped on a shawl and had ventured outside.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the quiet, low and teasing. He was seated on a swing with his big frame illustrating a comical sight on the small seat. His silhouette was faintly illuminated by the dim glow of his cigarillo, and the faint ember cast fleeting shadows across his sharp features, making his smirk all the more pronounced.

The unexpected sight of him startled you for a moment, though you quickly masked your surprise. You drew your shawl tighter around your shoulders, the chill of the night settling into your skin, and stepped closer. “And here I thought I was the only one who sought refuge in our old playground at such an hour,” you replied lightly, though your voice carried the faint weight of sleeplessness. “What brings you here?”

He took a long, deliberate drag from the cigarillo before discarding it into the damp grass, the embers hissing softly as they extinguished. Straightening, he gestured to the empty swing beside him. “Thinking,” he said simply. “And you? Or do I even need to ask?”

You hesitated for only a moment before lowering yourself onto the swing, your fingers grazing the cold chains as you pushed back slightly. The seat creaked beneath your weight, swaying gently with your movements. The motion stirred a familiar ache of nostalgia—a reminder of days when life felt less complicated. “What else could it be but the endless circus of expectations Mother has so kindly bestowed upon me?”

The bitterness in your tone was impossible to conceal, and Sukuna chuckled darkly. He reached up to push a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements purposeful, almost theatrical. “Ah, yes,” he said mockingly. “The marriage parade. The grand auctioning of one’s life for the sake of the family name. What a fine role you’ve been cast in, dear sister. I don’t envy you.”

You gave a dry laugh, your voice quiet yet tinged with resolve. “Unfortunately, dear brother,” you began, staring into the star-dappled sky, “it is my duty to be wed.”

Sukuna turned to you sharply, his brow furrowing. “It is not your duty, least of all when it robs you of your freedom.”

A protest began to form on his lips, but you held up a hand, your expression soft yet resolute. “Let me finish,” you said, your tone firm but affectionate. Taking a deep breath, you continued, “If I were to grow old into a spinster, there would be no one to take care of me. You and Yuji would inherit our lands and manors, and Choso is the viscount; there would be no space for me except with some of our aunts.”

At the mention of your aunts, both of you shuddered involuntarily. The thought of their overbearing presence, their sharp tongues and endless criticisms, was enough to unite even the most quarrelsome of siblings.

“You cannot take care of me forever,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. The swing swayed faintly as you spoke, the motion as restless as your thoughts. “One day, you—or any of our brothers—might choose to start a family with someone you love. It would be intrusive of me to remain dependent on you all.”

Sukuna scoffed, his voice rising slightly with indignation. “You know better than anyone that I aim to travel the world. I cannot be chained to a family or a manor—not now, not ever.”

You turned to him, your eyes softening as you regarded his familiar fire, the same defiance that had always set him apart from the others. “Sukuna,” you said gently, your voice tinged with fondness, “you may do as you please, and I would never wish to impede you. But I cannot rely on you indefinitely. You deserve to live freely, to make your own choices without the burden of my future weighing on your conscience.”

Once again, silence enveloped you both, broken only by the faint creak of the swings and the rustle of the wind through the trees. Then, Sukuna eventually broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “Then we must make sure to do well and find you a husband on your terms.”

You turned to him, brow arched in curiosity. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk, “that you must stop playing the part Mother has assigned you. Demure and meek may be what she wants, but it’s hardly the truth of you. Besides,” he added, leaning closer as if to share a conspiracy, “do you think the kind of husband you’d want would fall for such a facade?”

His words caught you off guard, and you frowned slightly. “Are you implying I’m to frighten potential suitors away?”

“Not frighten,” Sukuna corrected, his tone amused. “But consider this: if a man is drawn to meekness, might that not suggest he wishes to dominate or control? Would you truly wish to tether yourself to such a person? Or would you rather find someone who can appreciate your independence, who will meet you as an equal?”

His reasoning gave you pause. The image of a husband who might respect your will, who might value the sharpness of your mind and the strength of your character, was tempting—if not entirely what you needed. “And how, pray tell, do you suggest I go about finding such a man?”

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Start by being yourself, unapologetically. Let them see the wit, the fire, the resolve that I know so well. Let them see you, and if they can’t handle it, then they aren’t worth your time.”

You smiled faintly, your heart lighter from his words. After all, this scheming was due on your part; you were only grateful this shift occurred with Sukuna as your humble advisor. “It’s a daring plan, brother. Let us hope it does not lead to my complete social ruin.”

Sukuna laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “If it does, then you shall travel the world with me. Who needs societal approval when there’s an entire world to explore?”

For a moment, the weight of your burdens felt a little easier to bear. Under the vast, starlit sky, you allowed yourself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a future where duty and happiness could coexist.

Despite the peace conversing with Sukuna had granted you, sleep evaded you still, leaving you to roll onto your side, the cool fabric of the pillow offering no solace. Your thoughts had been louder than ever these past weeks, and one name in particular echoed through your mind like a stubborn refrain: Gojo.

His face came unbidden, as vivid as if he were standing at the foot of your bed. That insufferable smirk, the casual way he tilted his head as if always in on some grand secret. He saw through you—that much was undeniable, no matter how much you abhorred it. It wasn’t just the way his piercing gaze seemed to cut through your defenses, stripping away the layers of pleasantries and propriety until you were left exposed. It was his words, too—sharp, direct, and unyielding. Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t content to let you be the demure and dutiful daughter your mother had so painstakingly sculpted.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the shadowed canopy above, the weight of his judgment pressing against your chest. “He wouldn’t want to marry me either,” you thought bitterly, biting your lip to suppress a laugh that was more self-deprecating than amused. Why would he? I am only but a pathological people-pleaser—a woman who smiles and nods and folds herself into whatever shape is required of her. It was a role you had perfected, a mask you wore so often that you sometimes forgot it wasn’t your face. And yet, he saw through it.

That was the part that unsettled you most—not his arrogance, not his sharp tongue, but his ability to cut through your defenses as though they were paper. He saw you, in all your contradictions and uncertainties, and somehow, you suspected that he pitied you for them. Or worse, respected you less for it.

Your stomach twisted at the thought, and you turned onto your other side, burying your face into the pillow. No wonder I’m still unmarried. The thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel. What man would want a wife who couldn’t even decide who she wanted to be?

But that wasn’t fair—not entirely. You had a plan, didn’t you? A bold, liberating plan that would take you far from the shadow of your mother’s expectations. You could already picture her face when you told her—calm, composed, and quietly furious, as though your refusal to obey were a personal affront. The thought brought the faintest flicker of satisfaction, but it was fleeting.

The plan wasn’t perfect, nor was it foolproof. It hinged on one pivotal point: finding a husband who could be an equal partner rather than a master. A man who could grant you the freedom to forge your own path in peace, without the constant weight of disapproval bearing down on you.

Your thoughts wandered to Duke Nanami. Equal in power to Gojo, fair-minded, and kind—a man with no appetite for games or artifice. If you manage to secure a match with him, the ton would not view your…blunder with Gojo with such amusement. Insofar your interactions this season, he had always treated you with quiet respect, never pressing you into conversations you didn’t wish to have or cornering you with expectations. He would be a good man to marry, you thought. A safe choice.

And yet, even as you considered him, Gojo’s face intruded once more, unwelcome and unavoidable. Duke Nanami was everything Gojo wasn’t—measured, steady, predictable. But it was Gojo who set your mind alight, who made you question things you had long accepted as unchangeable truths. He irritated you, challenged you, unnerved you in a way no one else did.

You sighed, turning again, the sheets tangling around your legs like restraints. The very fact that Gojo occupied your thoughts at all was infuriating. He had no place there, no right to linger in the quiet moments when you were supposed to find peace. And yet, here he was, as persistent in your mind as he was in person.

The plan. You needed to focus on the plan. Liberating yourself from your mother’s expectations wasn’t about Gojo or Duke Nanami or anyone else. It was about reclaiming yourself, about becoming a woman who didn’t need to twist herself into shapes for anyone—not your mother, not a potential husband, and certainly not Gojo.

And it would start at your wardrobe.

You give the most polite smile you can muster, but you do not need the mirror in front of you to know that your countenance is strained, the edges of your smile not reaching your eyes. “Lower it even further.”

A beat passes in the room as the modiste, your mother, and Sukuna stare at you in incredulity. The bustline to your dress is low. Of course, it is not yet teetering on the edge of what is socially acceptable, and that is the position you want it to be. Hence, you gesture to Sukuna, prompting him to regain his senses and snap his head towards Momo. “Please attend to my sister’s request.”

You could smell what you mother was about to say, even if she had not yet done so. “My dear,” she began, “I hardly think that’s appro–” Sukuna’s glares reorients itself now to focus on your mother, and she purses her lips with what appears to be arduous effort, knowing a quarrel with Sukuna would escalate quite quickly, both immediate and unwise.

Madame Momo, for the better, offers no protest as she lowers the deep, wine red fabric she was upholding against your body. If you were not wearing your regular clothes, you would know that quite a bit of the swell of your breasts would be framed by the dress. However, it wasn’t enough. “A bit lower.”

The modiste lets out a small sigh, her needle poised mid-air as she hesitates. “My lady, to lower it further would risk—” she pauses delicately, “—compromising the structural integrity of the gown.”

“I appreciate your insight, Madame, and know that you are quite skilled at your craft,” you flash her a semi-apologetic smile. After all, she is the one that has to attend to your…rebranding crisis and revamp a majority of your wardrobe. “However, I am afraid that I’d like to do something new this season. Something eye-catching.”

A faint chuckle escapes her lips, no doubt spurred on by the flattery. With a practiced hand, she adjusts the fabric once more, lowering it to the precise balance of scandalous and sophisticated. She steps back, her critical eye assessing her own handiwork. “Well, it will definitely be eye-catching.”

“Precisely.” You nod in approval, smoothing the line of the fabric with your fingers. “I believe Lady Whistledown,” you add, your voice tinged with knowing confidence, “will ensure that the modiste responsible for the diamond’s striking attire becomes the talk of the season.”

Momo’s lips twitch into a smile, and she dips her head in acknowledgment, already returning to her work with renewed purpose. Sukuna, standing to the side, folds his arms and smirks at the scene, clearly entertained by your audacity.

Your mother, meanwhile, remains silent, though her pursed lips betray her disapproval. Let her simmer, you think, satisfaction curling in your chest. This season is yours to command, and you will not be overlooked.

I cannot do this. I cannot I cannot I cannot I cann—

“Sister!” Sukuna called out. You regained your senses, snapping your head at once to look at him, who was holding out his hand. Swallowing, you grabbed it so he could assist you out of the carriage. What had you in a tizzy was the sheer amount of people. Yet again, you were attending your first party after the events in the countryside but this time without your mother and Yuuji. Not only had the people you were accompanied with changed, but also different attire. A red silk dress fell over your curves gracefully, the draping across your chest a bit lower than usual. It is the dress of your dreams—one that you would have worn if not for your mother and her beliefs regarding your image. Now, your clothing was still socially acceptable but nevertheless daring—exactly the image you wanted to present.

However, it was safe to say that after the events of the house party, venturing out in another—with so much of your chest exposed—had you nervous. Oh God, perhaps this wasn’t the brightest of my ideas— (a/n she’s just a girl :( )

“Presenting Miss Itadori, Mister Itadori, and the Right Honorable The Viscount Itadori!” As you were announced to the room, with your brothers linking arms on either side of you, you smiled—trying not to let the nerves show. At the sound of your name, the buzz of conversation faltered, dozens of heads turning toward you. You felt the weight of their gazes—sharp, judgmental, curious. You were certain half of them were eager to witness the fallout of Whistledown’s latest scandal, while the other half seemed transfixed by the boldness of your attire.

Your eyes flitted over the sea of faces as you moved through the room. There were gasps, poorly veiled whispers, and even a few widened eyes aimed at Sukuna, but what truly set your nerves alight was the attention fixed squarely on you. You resisted the urge to fidget, to adjust the neckline of your gown, to shrink under their scrutiny.

Then, amid the crowd, your gaze locked onto a familiar figure with a piercing stare—Suguru Geto.

He was lounging by the far wall, a glass of wine in hand, his dark eyes gleaming with mirth. An amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he shook his head, clearly entertained. Your heart stuttered, the heat rushing to your cheeks making your nerves spike further. Am I being mocked?

Before the thought could consume you, he raised his glass in a mock salute, a gesture of acknowledgment—perhaps even respect. He then nudged the man standing next to him, none other than Duke Nanami.

Your pulse quickened at the sight of the Duke, his composed demeanor a stark contrast to Geto’s casual amusement. The weight of Nanami’s steady, discerning gaze was one you weren’t prepared to meet—not tonight. In the periphery, you caught Geto slipping toward the courtyard, his laughter soft but audible as he disappeared into the night.

You tore your gaze away just in time, focusing straight ahead as you approached the Queen. Your shoulders stiffened, the intricate beading of your gown catching in the light. The murmurs grew fainter, the towering figure of Her Majesty now looming just ahead. With each step, your pulse thundered louder in your ears, but you kept your chin high, determined not to falter.

When you and your brothers reached the foot of the throne, you slipped your arms free from theirs and sank into the deepest curtsy you could manage. "Your Majesty," you murmured, lowering your head to avoid the weight of her gaze. The richness of the room—gold-trimmed drapes, towering portraits, and the hum of whispered conversations—did little to steady your nerves.

"Rise," the Queen commanded, her tone clipped and dismissive, the single word laced with impatience. You obeyed, your movements deliberate and slow, feeling the weight of every eye in the chamber on your shoulders. When you met her gaze, she was already appraising you, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe. Her scrutiny was clinical, and when she sighed audibly, it was clear her judgment was far from favorable.

“I have not been…pleased by the recent affairs, diamond,” the Queen began, her voice cold and detached, like a blade gliding through silk. A sniff punctuated her words, and the lump in your throat grew harder to swallow. “I fear this is a failure to the crown.”

The room seemed to tilt, your heartbeat quickening in your chest. The Queen’s disappointment carried a weight that could crush reputations, and yours was teetering precariously on the edge of her approval.

“However,” her tone shifted ever so slightly, and you found yourself snapping to attention, clinging to that single word like a lifeline. “Your recent change in…style is fitting.”

You blinked, unsure if you had heard her correctly. The Queen’s gaze lingered on the daring neckline of your gown, the rich red fabric catching the light in just the right way to emphasize its boldness. “You are not a simple and bland gem, Miss Itadori.” Her words were deliberate, measured, and the faintest hint of approval gleamed in her sharp eyes. “You are a diamond, and you must start to shine like it.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. The Queen’s words were praise, yes, but they also carried an implicit warning: a diamond that failed to sparkle was of no use to anyone, least of all the crown.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you said, your voice steady but quiet, and you curtsied again, the fabric of your gown whispering against the marble floor. The Queen’s gaze swept over you once more before she turned her attention elsewhere, her dismissal unspoken but clear. As you rose again, Choso placed a reassuring hand on your elbow, a subtle anchor in the sea of your swirling thoughts.

A light, “You all are dismissed.”

The cool night air wrapped around Suguru Geto as he strolled into the courtyard, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The faint strains of the ballroom's orchestra followed him, muffled now by the grand walls of the manor. A slow, self-satisfied smile crept across his lips as he glanced up at the stars. The night felt ripe with possibility, though it was the scene he had just left that truly amused him.

He exhaled, letting the crisp air settle over him, before taking another measured step toward the fountain at the courtyard’s center. His fingers grazed the cool stone edge, the chill a welcome change from the warmth of the crowded ballroom. He savored the silence, only for it to be broken by the familiar sound of approaching footsteps.

“Geto,” a voice called out, casual but clipped.

Suguru turned slowly, almost lazily, as though he hadn’t already recognized the speaker. Gojo Satoru emerged from the shadows of the colonnade, his silver hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. He moved with his usual languid ease, though his sharp blue gaze belied his carefree demeanor.

“Well, well,” Suguru greeted, his tone light but edged with something sharp. “You’re out here. Don’t tell me you’ve finally tired of the fawning crowds?”

Gojo came to a stop a few paces away, crossing his arms as he leaned against one of the marble columns. “Needed some air. The room’s packed with too many people pretending to like each other.” His gaze flicked to Suguru, scrutinizing. “And you? Slipping out to avoid trouble, or cause it?”

Suguru chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Oh, you wound me, Satoru. Can’t a man enjoy a moment of peace without being accused of scheming?”

“You?” Gojo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Not a chance. So, what’s your angle this time?”

Suguru let the question hang, savoring the quiet tension between them. He set his glass down on the fountain’s edge, turning to fully face Gojo. His smirk widened as he finally spoke. “No angle. Just admiring the company tonight. Speaking of which…” He paused for dramatic effect, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Miss Itadori made quite the entrance.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change immediately, but Suguru saw the faint flicker of something—irritation, maybe, or something more carefully hidden. Gojo’s mouth twitched into a scoff, though the sound was faint, almost perfunctory.

“What about her?” Gojo asked, his tone deliberately disinterested, but Suguru noted how his fingers flexed briefly before he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Suguru hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward the sky as if considering his next words carefully. “She looked… radiant tonight. Stunning, really. I can’t imagine half the room wasn’t staring. Though, I must say, some seemed more surprised than others.” His eyes darted back to Gojo, watching for a reaction.

Gojo rolled his eyes, though there was a tightness in his jaw that Suguru didn’t miss. “She’s just another debutante. Why would I care what she’s wearing?”

“Why indeed?” Suguru replied, his voice deceptively mild. He stepped closer, leaning against the fountain with an easy grace. “But it does make one wonder—what kind of man would care? Surely someone with a sharp eye for detail. Someone with… let’s say, a bustful interest.”

Gojo stiffened slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Suguru tilted his head, studying Gojo with an intensity that bordered on playful. “Because I could swear you seemed a little distracted back there. And not by the Queen, mind you. Why did you leave as soon as the Itadoris were announced?”

“Drop it, Geto.” Gojo’s voice was sharper now, but there was an edge of unease beneath the command.

Suguru’s smirk deepened as he tried to fight the urge to snicker at his friend, but he let the moment linger, letting Gojo stew in his discomfort. He picked up his wine glass again, swirling the liquid idly before taking another slow sip. Finally, he straightened, his tone turning lighter, though no less pointed.

“Well, whatever it is—or isn’t—you’d better sort it out soon.” He started to walk past Gojo, his footsteps deliberately slow. Just as he passed, he paused, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in danger of losing your famously cool head.”

Gojo didn’t respond immediately, but Suguru didn’t need him to. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw—those were all the confirmation he needed for his plan.

Suguru chuckled softly, a sound more amused than mocking, and continued on his way, his voice drifting back over his shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of the night, Satoru. Something tells me it’s going to be… illuminating.”

Left alone, Gojo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he glared at the retreating figure. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked fervor. Still, Suguru’s words lingered, circling his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He turned his gaze back toward the ballroom, his thoughts uncomfortably crowded with images of a certain young lady and the maddening smirk of a man who always seemed to know too much.

It appears that you and Duke Nanami have much in common, for you are able to hold a most pleasant conversation with him.

The din of the ballroom fades to a dull murmur as you stand near the refreshment table, your gaze politely fixed on the Duke. His presence is commanding yet unassuming—a rare quality that draws you in. Dressed in a deep navy coat that matches the intensity of his solemn eyes, he inclines his head slightly as he speaks, the weight of his words tempered by the gentleness in his tone.

The arrangement is perfect. You have successfully caught your target, much to the chagrin of ladies. After all, it was not all days that Duke Nanami took interest in a lady. You would have to credit Choso; he had researched that HIs Grace did not like overbearing mamas accompanying their girls—a most rational opinion. Posing fiery opinions without the presence of anyone except yourself, it seemed that you had hit the mark.

“I find, Miss Itadori,” he says, his voice smooth yet deliberate, “that many in our circles underestimate the joy of simple pursuits. They mistake extravagance for fulfillment.” He takes a measured sip from his glass, his gloved fingers resting lightly on its stem.

You nod, a genuine smile forming on your lips. “I could not agree more, Your Grace. There is a certain comfort in the unadorned pleasures of life. A good book, a quiet morning—these seem to me the most worthwhile indulgences.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might pass as a rare smile. “Indeed. Though I daresay, quiet mornings are hard to come by when the season is in full swing.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound almost swallowed by the music that swells across the room. “Quite so. I suppose we are all too busy chasing the next waltz or whispering about the latest Whistledown missive.”

At the mention of Whistledown, the Duke raises a brow, his expression a mixture of amusement and intrigue. “Ah, yes. Our ever-watchful chronicler. One wonders if she, too, finds time for quiet mornings.”

“I imagine she must,” you reply. “After all, how else would she craft such keen observations? A mind as sharp as hers surely requires moments of reflection.”

“Reflection, yes,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting briefly to the chandelier above, as if lost in thought. Then, returning his attention to you, he asks, “And what of you, Miss Itadori? Amidst the bustle, do you find moments to reflect?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it is intrusive, but because it is sincere. Few have ever asked you such things. You hesitate, then answer truthfully. “I try, Your Grace. Though I must admit, the season has left little room for it. It seems my every step is watched, my every word weighed. I sometimes wonder if I have forgotten how to simply be.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, you feel as though he truly sees you—not as the diamond of the season, not as the subject of idle gossip, but as a person. “That is a heavy burden to bear,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it is time you allowed yourself a reprieve. Even diamonds require care, lest they lose their brilliance.”

The words settle over you like a balm, and you find yourself holding his gaze longer than propriety might dictate. There is no judgment in his eyes, only understanding. It is both comforting and disarming. Before you can respond, a burst of laughter from a nearby group breaks the spell. You glance away, suddenly aware of your surroundings once more. “You are kind to say so, Your Grace,” you murmur, your voice steadier than you feel.

“I merely speak the truth, Miss Itadori,” he replies, bowing his head slightly.

A pause lingers between you, not uncomfortable but weighty with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he clears his throat, his tone lighter as he says, “Would you care to take a turn about the room? I find the air here grows rather stifling.”

You smile, grateful for the excuse to move. “I would like that very much.”

As he offers his arm, you place your hand lightly upon it, allowing him to guide you into the throng. The music swells once more, and though the room is as noisy and crowded as ever, the world feels a little quieter with Duke Nanami by your side. You can see it—early mornings with Nanami, enjoying gentle banter as he returned your thoughts without any ire, without snark or judgment. Quiet respect and gentle affection filling your days. A life free of chaos, where your worries dissipate into the steady calm of his demeanor. Perhaps this could be happiness. A steady, uncomplicated happiness.

But then you see him.

You abhor your traitorous heart for lurching ever so slightly at the sight of Gojo. He is standing near the edge of the ballroom, the golden light catching on his shock of silver hair as though it had been crafted to draw attention. His smile—always so bright, so effortless—makes the lady beside him laugh. She looks at him with a sultry, yet detached and amused expression, her fan flicking lazily as if to dismiss her own growing interest.

Your chest tightens. You know this scene well. It is one you have observed too many times, and yet you have never been able to steel yourself against the sting it brings. The way he leans ever so slightly toward the lady, as though she were the only person in the room. The way his laughter echoes, a sound full of mirth and mischief, as if he had no weight upon his shoulders.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself he doesn’t matter.

But then, as though he feels the weight of your gaze, Gojo turns his head. Your pulse quickens as his eyes widen, the usual lazy charm momentarily replaced by something sharper, something you can’t quite place.

First, his gaze lands on your face, his eyes sweeping over it with a quickness that feels like a jolt to your chest. Then, they drop lower, and you feel the heat of his scrutiny settle uncomfortably on your chest. A flicker of something crosses his expression—shock, perhaps, or something else entirely—but before you can decipher it, his gaze moves again, lower still, to where your hand rests upon the Duke’s arm.

It is subtle, the way his jaw tightens. The way his smile falters, only to return a moment later, forced and brittle. He shifts his weight, turning back toward the lady at his side, but not before you catch the way his fingers twitch at his side.

You force yourself to look away, to focus instead on Duke Nanami’s steady presence beside you. He has not noticed the exchange—or if he has, he is far too polite to show it.

And yet, the moment lingers. Gojo’s image burns in your mind like the fading glow of a candle, stubbornly refusing to extinguish. You loathe the way your heart betrays you, its treacherous rhythm quickened not by the Duke’s calm assurance, but by the mere sight of a man who has always been more trouble than he’s worth.

Nanami’s voice cuts through your tumultuous thoughts, soft and grounding. “You seem distracted, Miss Itadori,” he remarks, his gaze kind but curious.

You manage a small smile, tightening your grip on his arm as though it might anchor you. “Not at all, Your Grace. Perhaps just…overwhelmed by the crowd.”

He nods, accepting your answer without pressing further. “Understandable. These gatherings can be rather tiresome.”

“Yes,” you murmur, casting one last glance in Gojo’s direction before forcing your focus back to the Duke. “Tiresome indeed.”

But even as you walk beside Nanami, his presence a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the evening, you cannot help but feel the weight of Gojo’s lingering gaze, the memory of his startled expression etched into your thoughts like a brand. You cannot help but observe the situation. Tonight, you would be ending the night on Duke Nanami’s arm, and Gojo with another woman.

Is this not what you both wanted?

Today, it seems that the usual trio at White’s is only a duo. The blonde and raven head swirl their alcohol in their shimmering glasses while sharing a comfortable silence. That is, until one interrupts.

“How do we know we’re not simply toying with her?” The blonde man’s voice is steady but tinged with unease, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glances toward his companion. “It would not be honorable of me to pursue Miss Itadori under the pretense of riling Gojo, as you seem intent on doing—”

“Kento!” The raven-haired man—Lord Geto—throws his head back in laughter, the sound rich and unapologetically amused. He leans forward slightly, propping his elbow on the armrest, as his grin widens. “So confident in your lady-pleasing and romancing abilities, aren’t you?” Nanami’s frown deepens, but Geto merely waves him off, his laughter subsiding to a mischievous chuckle. “No, no—don’t worry. You misunderstand me. This isn’t about Miss Itadori falling for you, though,” he smirks, “I’m sure you’d manage well enough.” His tone is teasing, but his words lack any true malice.

“Then what is it about?” Nanami’s voice carries a note of exasperation, though he remains as composed as ever, swirling his drink in quiet contemplation.

Geto straightens, a glint of something sharper flashing in his dark eyes. “It’s about them. They’re idiots, Kento—idiots in love, the both of them. And it is our duty, as Satoru’s friends,” he pauses, meeting Nanami’s gaze with deliberate emphasis, “to help him realize what he truly desires.”

Nanami snorts, setting his glass down with a muted clink. “You just want to toy with them, to orchestrate the ton and its leading source of gossip.”

The corner of Geto’s mouth quirks upward in a sly smile, one that practically oozes self-satisfaction. “That, my dear friend,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial, “I cannot deny.”

They lapse into silence once more, the kind that only years of friendship can create, as the firelight flickers and dances on the walls around them. Nanami tips his glass back, savoring the warmth of the whiskey as he contemplates Geto’s words—and the inevitable chaos that would follow in their wake.

prev. the house party | next. the lake

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n HEYYY POOKIES IT'S HERE IT'S HERE WHAT DID WE THINK. also here is the bridgerton!gojo playlist if anyone is interested!!! i apologize it is 99% taylor swift but i will be adding more diverse songs

despite the miss itadori hate in recent times our girl is BOUNCING BACKK #mogged i cant wait for her to become even more of a diva in the next few chapterssss!!!! (not rn shes going through her sad girl era or wtvr)

suguru (left) and nanami (right) at this whole drama

also i hope none of you WHORESSSS simped for geto when we made eye contact with him (im looking at zaynesbathrobe anon and all those anons that are obsessed with bridgerton!geto). stay FOCUSED girls gays and theys

thank you for readinggggg. a hot new bombshell will be entering the villa in the next few chapters can we guess who he is??? hint he has huge tits and smelly balls

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots ;3

TAGLIST:

@ncitygreen @backstagepaige @serinatly100986 @nappingmoon @coochellati

@extremelyexh4usted @yoshisaurmuchakoopas @nixiepixee @generalstephkenobi @vernasce-blogs

@byhuenii @geniejunn @a-girl-with-thoughts @dazedin2d @chuuqxs

@megumiivs @anthastudios @arranacosmist @arishaxml @jingyuun

@undercooked-chaos-noodle @jaegersity @camzzn @bluelai @1sweetheart1

@hyori2 @babyblue0t7 @iwanttoberich420 @rosso-seta @ladytamayolover

@kalulakunundrum @r0ckst4rjk @mo0sin @angelina7890 @jaeminaur

@yamiyas @cherry-blossoms-in-red @r3inae @lagataprrr @sasfransisco

@fortunatelyfurrygiver @aurora-tiny @gojonegs @luna-v-roiya @xxemmarldxx

@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

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greenglowinspooks · 10 months ago

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Honestly I think the fics where Danny’s a Kryptonian have a lot of potential, so here’s me throwing my hat into the ring

Danny was born a human. He was born to two loving (though slightly neglectful) human parents in the painfully mundane state of Illinois.

Then, he died, but he didn’t do it right. He became a Halfa; too alive to be a ghost, but too dead to be human.

Then, through strange, uncontrollable circumstances, that changed as well.

He had been heavily injured, missing a large percentage of body mass, and was at the cusp of either dying fully or just fading from existence.

(Perhaps it was an ordinary fight. Perhaps it was the GiW, or his parents. Perhaps it was a simple accident. That didn’t matter now.)

He fled, phasing through the ground, trying to bury himself as deep as possible.

(Perhaps he didn’t want to be unmasked in death. Perhaps that was already too late, and he just wanted his body be able to rest in peace.)

Unfortunately for him, he was in Metropolis, and ended up in a secret genetics lab below the earth.

Danny detransformed, completely exhausted, falling onto a table covered in different labeled specimen containers. He closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what would happen next.

And… nothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Danny sat up, brushing off the foul-smelling liquid from the specimen jars, petri dishes, and assorted vials.

He felt…fine.

No, better than fine. He felt normal. Healthy.

He felt like he wasn’t missing most of his internal organs anymore.

Danny looked down at his stomach, and saw that the wounds that were killing him had completely disappeared.

(The blood blossoms, if there had been any, were still there, but they no longer hurt. At most, they itched a little, or maybe just tickled a bit.)

He wanted to question what in the hell had just happened, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He just quietly changed back to Phantom, going invisible and phasing out of wherever he had found himself in, ignoring the loud alarm system that had begun to blare when he broke the samples on that table.

Life mostly went back to normal after that.

If, like Danny, you ignored all the physical changes in a valiant effort to remain in denial that something was horribly wrong.

His skin was tougher, now; he didn’t get scrapes or cuts, even when he accidentally fumbled a knife while trying to cook. His ghost form was stronger, too; he was barely knocked down by his old rogues anymore.

He could fly, even in his human form. Though, admittedly, the flight was much different. It was like using a muscle he hadn’t known existed beforehand. He didn’t just ignore gravity or wind resistance, though he felt more graceful in the air now than he ever did as Phantom.

There were more powers popping up, lasers and cold breath, x-ray vision and super strength. His lungs and heart were larger, and he could handle temperatures much easier. He didn’t have to transform to handle the pressure and cold of space anymore.

His reaction time had improved, becoming much faster than ever before. His senses were much stronger, and he had even seemed to gain a sense of electric fields, like a shark.

The only thing that separated him from a Kryptonian was that he had developed electrokenesis, which he had never seen any of them use on TV.

So, surely, he was fine.

Everything was normal, he hadn’t been transformed by alien DNA in a sketchy lab, he had just had a really weird and specific metagene activation.

—

Clark Kent, Kal-El, was panicking.

It had been around a month and a half since a particularly brutal fight between Intergang and an unknown assailant, and it seemed that Intergang was determined to draw out whoever had scorned them.

Their method of doing this, of course, was trying to level the city.

He and Jon were doing their best to stop them, but with both Kon and Zor-El away on their own business, it was difficult.

And by difficult, he meant almost impossible.

Slowly but surely he was driving them back, but not without massive amounts of damage to the city, especially with only Jon on dedicated rescuing duty.

He was distracted, trying to draw a group away from a heavily occupied building, when a projectile hit him in the back of the head.

The world spun for a moment, and then it went black.

(It was, probably, then, some sort of Kryptonite-metal alloy. Intergang at its finest.)

He woke slowly, forcing his eyes open. He felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler.

Clark jolted up, preparing for the worst.

To his shock, though, the city hadn’t been reduced to rubble while he was out.

Jon seemed to still be working on evacuation, either unaware that he had went down or forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Then, a lightning-quick figure flew into view, and Clark’s mind went blank.

He thought, for a moment, that Kara was back. But, no, that wasn’t right, she was supposed to be off-planet for another week or so.

Besides, this new figure didn’t move like her. They were lankier and more slender, and they flew quicker than any member of his family.

Their powerset was different, too; they focused mainly on using blasts of ice and electricity to drive enemies back, only occasionally using their strength or lasers—ones which came from their hands instead of their eyes.

He had woken up at the tail end of the fight, it seemed. The remaining Intergang members were fleeing from the mysterious metahuman.

They stayed in the sky, motionless, watching them leave.

As if they could sense him staring, they turned.

They were small, still clearly young. Probably around Kon’s age, or maybe even younger.

Instead of the colorful clothing he had inherited from his family, the stranger wore black and white clothes which looked similar to a hazmat suit, their face covered by some sort of gas mask.

Interestingly enough, instead of the S-shape crest that he was so used to seeing, the stranger wore the letter D on his chest.

Kal’s heart sped up.

From up in the sky, he heard the stranger’s heart, on the left instead of the right, speed up in return.

But before he could say a word to them, they sped off, disappearing into the deep blue sky.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dcxdp fic #dcxdp fanfic #dcxdp prompt #dcxdp crossover #clark: NEW SON??#danny: fuckfuckfuck #bruce (sensing an adoption all the way from gotham): something just happened #btw this is a prompt and I would love continuations #however if you respond with bad dad clark content I do reserve the right to send the hounds to tear you to pieces

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hellspawnmotel · 11 days ago

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Last question you might for now but how do you now feel about Toriel and Asgore as characters? Asking now cause with Toriel, there’s some now some heated debate about her being a bad mother and even person, mostly stemming from that jitterbug scene which some people see as confirmation of what was implied about her and Kris relationship in the first 2 chapters and with Asgore, there’s many (including myself) that believe he might actually join us in a dw next chapter, mostly due to the line Gerso said chapter 5 being about “a garden charred by an inferno of jealousy”, which, given the current situation with Asgore and Toriel and her blossoming relationship with Sans, seems to track pretty much.

All I can say about this personally is that I hope we get more development on the dreamurr adults from now on, especially my poor boy Asgore, since I’ve always wished to get a lot more development of him ever since he was kinda pushed aside in UT in terms of that and also cause I don’t want to remain a punching bag character in DR either. What you say?

this is a really interesting topic so I’m glad to have an opportunity to talk about it. I think the main problem we’re facing here is that, as fandom tends to do, there’s this all-or-nothing approach to how we view characters, especially women. they’re either Good or they’re Bad. the good ones deserve sympathy and the bad ones deserve scorn. so people are currently trying to fit toriel into that dichotomy

to start, no I do not think toriel is a bad person lmao. I also disagree that she’s overall a bad mother- who gets to decide where that line is, anyway? what I do think is that what she did in this instance was extremely irresponsible and speaks to the biggest issue plaguing the dreemurr family: a lack of understanding and communication. kris is unable to communicate what they’re going through, and toriel is unable to understand their feelings. she clearly deeply loves her child and wants them to be happy, and tries her best to make that so. but toriel is still a person with feelings of her own, and I think how she feels about asgore has formed a barrier between her and kris.

we have to remember that toriel is still going through what seems like an EXTREMELY messy divorce. she wants to move on, and she probably could have by now, but her ex follows her around and hounds her with romantic gestures every single day. she must be stressed and exhausted. from her perspective she just wants asgore to leave her alone already and stop interrupting her life, and I’m sure that makes it difficult for her to sympathize with kris, who still loves their father. when we see somebody as a bad, hurtful person, it can become really hard to understand the feelings of those who care about them. it’s not that she doesn’t care about kris’s feelings, it’s more likely she just doesn’t recognize them in the first place.

toriel must have felt so free for the first time in ages to just be dancing and goofing around with a new (most likely much younger) man. that doesnt excuse the fact that she never told kris where she was, and didn’t bother checking up on them in turn, and instead got so drunk she forgot or stopped caring about her responsibilities and really upset kris and susie. but it does help us understand why she would do something like that. I don’t think we can fairly cast judgement on toriel’s overall character based on this incident, all we can do is cast judgement on these specific actions.

moving onto asgore- I can’t lie, I’m not happy with the guy. he’s literally harassing his ex-wife and doing it in front of their child, sometimes even using kris as an unwilling agent in his plans. but I’m sure that’s not at all how he sees it. from his perspective, if he can just convince toriel that whatever Happened wasn’t his fault, or was justified, then they’ll get back together and everything will go back to the way it was. and he thinks that to convince her he needs to get her to sit down and talk to him, and he thinks that to do that he needs to woo her and remind her of her old love for him. these are not malicious actions, but he doesn’t understand toriel and her feelings at all, and doesn’t seem to be attempting to. he doesn’t understand how uncomfortable he’s making kris either. he’s only focused on this end goal of getting back to normal. he’s not a bad person, he’s just completely oblivious.

because of that, even if when we find out what he did or didn’t do it does turn out to not be his fault at all, there’s still no way that toriel is going to forgive him and it wont change the fact that how he’s acting now is totally inappropriate. it’s in the same way that understanding toriel doesn’t change the fact that she failed kris when they needed her. but I can’t call either of them overall bad parents or bad people. flawed, sure, but all parents are. making a final and damning moral ruling on either of them based on their actions in a very rough situation seems pretty foolish to me

#asks #deltarune spoilers #analysis #people are always just chomping at the bit to call toriel awful. they want it so bad #also it seems like the next dark world is most likely gonna be in asgore's flower shop #but i dont think that means he'll 'join us' in the dark world. i think at most he'll appear there as an objective in some way #like toriel did

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #8

By day, Danny Fenton was Midtown High’s hottest disaster. He was the Stark STEM Scholar—one of only three in the country—famously discovered after winning some obscure international quantum physics competition at age sixteen and allegedly giving a presentation that made Tony Stark laugh, cry, and threaten to adopt him in the same breath.

The problem was that Danny had no clue he was hot.

Like, he genuinely didn’t know. He thought people stared at him because of his weird vibe or maybe because he once muttered “parallel dimension colonoscopy” during a psych quiz and the rumor never died. He figured the occasional lingering looks were because people thought he was gonna go feral and try to bite someone (which was fair). He wore hoodies three sizes too big, drank energy drinks like water, mumbled through conversations, and ducked away from people like a scared little gremlin.

Meanwhile, the rest of Midtown was losing its mind over him.

In particular Peter Parker was losing his goddamn mind over him.

It started innocent enough. Peter had just been minding his business, doing his whole friendly-neighborhood-academically-overachieving schtick, when in walked him—Danny Fenton, with a bag slung over his shoulder, silver earrings glinting in the light like a warning sign (courtesy of Sam, who declared, “If you’re gonna be mysterious and broody, at least be aesthetically consistent.”) His hoodie looked like it had a body count. His cheekbones could slice vibranium. His eyes were dead, like truly void-of-soul dead, and Peter’s first thought wasn’t even “oh, new kid.” It was “I want him to step on me.”

Peter, poor, unsuspecting Peter, had his first-ever sexual panic as Danny plopped down in the seat next to Peter and promptly fell asleep face-first on the desk with a muttered, “If I die during lecture, bury me in a black hole.”

He was in real time was realizing he was a bisexual disaster. Danny didn’t notice. Because of course he didn’t. He just blinked at Peter like he couldn’t tell if he was real, offered a crooked half-smile, and then walked away like he hadn’t just lit Peter’s soul on fire and then pissed on the ashes.

Every day since had been a goddamn trial.

Peter had spent the first week internally screaming.

The second week, he started writing hate poetry. By the third, he was doodling “P. Parker-Fenton” in the corners of his calculus notes like a 12-year-old girl.

“Dude,” Ned had said, catching him mid-sketch. “You’re literally Spider-Man. Act like it.”

Peter flipped him off with the enthusiasm of someone spiraling.

See, Danny was not just hot. He was dangerously hot. Apocalyptically hot. End-of-days, angels-weeping-in-the-streets hot. But it was more than that—Danny had this vibe, like he could kill you or cry on you or accidentally invent interdimensional travel with a paperclip and a Diet Coke. He muttered equations under his breath, got into passive-aggressive debates with teachers, and once fixed the lab’s particle accelerator by kicking it.

And Peter couldn’t look away. Not that he was the only one.

The kicker, the absolute cherry on top of the chaos sundae? Everyone thought Danny and Black Cat had dated. The way Danny would scowl, rant, and complain like he was personally offended by Black Cat’s existence? Peak scorned lover energy.

“He thinks he’s slick, but he’s just a glorified stripper with daddy issues and too many backflips,” Danny once said in class and the teacher had to excuse herself.

“I swear I’m gonna develop a neurotoxin specifically to neutralize dumbass vigilantes with cat kinks,”

Everyone assumed Black Cat dumped him.

Peter, in his infinite genius, thought: oh my god, Danny’s still not over him.

Peter had almost passed out. Because here was the thing: he was Spider-Man. And Black Cat was his worst problem since midterms. He had arrived like a menace out of hell and a bisexual’s fever dream: black skintight tech suit (developed by who-the-fuck-knows), long white hair, with a domino mask and toxic green eyes, and with an ass so perfect Peter couldn’t even swing straight half the time.

Seriously. There’d be villains throwing grenades, and Peter would be getting motorboated by thighs. There was groping. There was flirting. There was one time Black Cat bit his ear and whispered, “Miss me, pretty boy?” and Peter crashed into a billboard.

He’d tried everything. He webbed Black Cat’s legs. Black Cat purred and called him “kinky.” He yelled. Black Cat called it “foreplay.” He threatened to arrest him. Black Cat licked his cheek and said, “Book me, officer.”

Peter had screamed into his pillow for three hours.

It wasn’t even just the flirting. Black Cat had the most obscene agility Peter had ever seen. He moved like he was born in zero gravity. Feline, fluid, and just a little too dramatic, like he knew exactly how good he looked vaulting off rooftops with his ass perfectly lit by the moonlight.

Peter hated him.

He also maybe wanted to kiss him until his lungs gave out.

Worse yet? Peter was starting to like the bastard. His timing was always perfect. His gadgets were weirdly high-tech. He had a talent for saving people and then disappearing with a little salute and a wink that made Peter’s skin itch.

And then there was that kiss.

One week ago. Midtown Bank. Hostage situation. They cleared the building together, Peter bleeding, dazed, and vibrating with adrenaline.

Black Cat had grabbed his face—grabbed his face—and said, “You’re my favorite arachnid, you know that?” and kissed him full on the mouth, through the mask.

Peter hadn’t spoken a full sentence since.

Meanwhile, Danny was in class the next day, legs crossed, sipping a disgusting Monster-Latte hybrid, and saying, “What kind of vigilante triple flips over a fire hydrant for no reason? Just run, you overdramatic bastard.”

Peter, in a cold sweat, nodded and said “yeah totally” in the voice of someone whose soul had left his body.

And Danny. Danny had no idea.

Because Danny was the goddamn Black Cat.

He hadn’t meant to become a vigilante again. The plan had been normalcy. New town, new school, no more ghost crap. He was gonna do his best, keep his grades up, pretend he was just some regular nerd with caffeine addiction and unresolved trauma.

Then a ghost tried to possess the mayor.

So. Yeah.

Ghosts were still following him. And New York didn’t have a Phantom. It had Spider-Man, sure, but Spider-Man didn’t fight intangible poltergeists or ancient Babylonian curses riding the 6 train.

Danny had no choice.

He did not name himself. He wanted to be called Specter. Or Eclipse. Something cool and ominous.

But no. Someone caught a blurry photo of his suit and labeled it Black Cat, and the media ran with it. Because of course they did.

“What part of me says feline?!” Danny groaned, head in his hands.

“You land on your feet,” Jazz offered.

“You hissed at a reporter once,” Sam added.

“Your thighs jiggle like a cat when you run,” Tucker said while texting.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, peeling into his skin-tight tech suit. “Let’s lean into the bit.”

He redesigned his suit. Added some claws. Built in some stealth mods. Accidentally made it a little too form-fitting. Like. A lot. And took notes from DC comics’ Selina Kyle’s Catwoman.

Jazz called it pornographic. Sam said it was camp. Tucker just sent a picture of the suit’s ass shot and wrote “God is testing me.”

But it worked. People were scared of him. Or thirsty. Usually both. And if Spider-Man wanted to play, then Danny was gonna play.

He didn’t expect Spider-Man to be this hot, though.

Danny had zero intentions of flirting with him at first. But then Spider-Man showed up with that stupid voice, that stupid righteous attitude, that stupid perfect thighs, and Danny’s brain short-circuited. The sarcasm kicked in. The smirks. The shameless groping.

And then he kissed him. Because why not? No one would know.

Except now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Spider-Man’s breath had hitched. His hands had clutched Danny’s suit like he didn’t want to let go. His knees almost gave out. Danny had felt it.

And now he was spiraling.

Because, uh. He was also kind of in love with Peter Parker. Like. A lot. The boy was brilliant, funny, painfully kind, and so pretty it gave Danny a stomach ache. But Danny couldn’t flirt with Peter because he was Black Cat, and he couldn’t flirt with Spider-Man because he was Danny.

His life was a joke.

Because Danny had no clue. About anything.

He didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man. He didn’t know Peter was spiraling into an identity meltdown because the boy he lowkey flirted with in calc was also the boy he highkey flirted with on rooftops. He didn’t know Peter was fantasizing about both of him like some bisexual train wreck with a death wish.

While for Peter? He didn’t know what he wanted more—Danny, or Black Cat.

The nerd with the hoodie and the caffeine addiction, who muttered to himself in code and looked at equations like they personally offended him? Or the cocky, sleek, thigh-baring menace who called him “pretty boy” and kissed him mid-battle just to watch him panic?

Peter was going insane.

Every time Black Cat landed in front of him, Peter had to actively fight the urge to sniff him like a lunatic. Every time Danny leaned over his desk to scribble notes, Peter’s soul left his body.

There was no winning.

“Someday,” Danny said one night, sitting on a rooftop as Black Cat and watching the skyline, “You are gonna figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Peter as Spider-Man said, trying not to look directly at him.

“That I’m everything you want,” Danny purred, leaning into his space. “Hot, flexible, an emotional disaster.”

“You’re—! You’re insufferable.”

“I’m irresistible.”

Peter didn’t reply. He just screamed into the void later that night, face-planted into his pillow, and prayed for mercy.

The universe, as always, ignored him.

It all started at the Stark Foundation Fall Gala. A black-tie, red-carpet, industry-defining, media-covered event hosted in the glass spire that was Stark Tower, attended by the world’s smartest people and most insufferable billionaires—and two absolute disasters masquerading as teenage geniuses.

Danny Fenton, Stark STEM Scholar and walking espresso machine, was there because Tony Stark had personally invited him (“You’re legally required to be my prodigy now, kid, don’t argue, you signed the scholarship, it’s in the fine print”), and Peter Parker was there because he was Tony’s favorite intern, which meant “emotional support goblin” and “get me coffee, Peter” in the same breath.

Danny walked in like he’d been dragged from his apartment ten minutes before the event by the ghost of Coco Chanel—because he had. Sam had done his hair, shoved him into a black velvet suit that hugged his ass and thighs a little too perfectly, slapped silver rings on all his fingers, smokey eyeliner, and threatened him with a haunted curling iron if he so much as slouched.

Peter, meanwhile, had been hyperventilating in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.

He was wearing Armani. He had been forcibly styled by Pepper Potts herself, who had told him, “If you’re going to be Tony’s emotional support intern, you need to at least look like you’re not feral.” Peter had not emotionally recovered from being spritzed with Tom Ford cologne and told he looked “delicious.”

They spotted each other across the room like the first five minutes of a YA adaptation, except one was drinking something radioactive-green from a champagne flute and the other was clutching a tray of hors d’oeuvres like a weapon.

Danny blinked. Peter blinked.

Then they both looked away so fast they might’ve given themselves whiplash.

Which would’ve been fine if that was the end of it.

But no. God had other plans.

Specifically: Tony Stark’s plans.

“Come here,” Tony hissed, grabbing both of them by the shoulders. “You two teenage disasters are going to schmooze.”

“Tony I can’t schmooze,” Danny said, panicking. “I don’t even know what schmooze means, I thought that was a cheese—”

“And I have shrimp hands!” Peter added wildly, holding up his fingers still greasy from crab rangoons. “I can’t touch people like this! I’ll be arrested!”

Tony shoved them both forward like a mother bird kicking her children out of the nest and said, “Go. Talk. Mingle. Be charming. Or I’ll adopt you both and make you brothers and then who’s crushing on who, huh?”

“WHAT—” both of them said at once, violently red in the face.

“Bye!” Tony sang, disappearing into the crowd like a chaos goblin.

Peter and Danny stood in mortified silence for a full ten seconds.

Then:

“So,” Peter said. “Uh. You look… good.”

“Thanks,” Danny muttered, tugging at his collar. “I feel like a sexy baked potato.”

“You—what.”

“Just… overheated and wrapped in velvet.”

Peter wheezed.

They started talking. Somehow it spiraled into quantum entropy, the ethics of ghost containment, and whether Tony Stark was legally allowed to name a drone “Bitch Lasagna 3.0.”

Peter was sweating. Danny was internally combusting. They were both about five seconds from proposing marriage and didn’t know it yet.

Then came the moment.

A scream. A crash.

Glass shattered. Lights flickered.

“Fucking hell,” Danny muttered, already pulling off his jacket. “Can’t have ONE normal night.”

Peter, across from him, had already vanished.

Two minutes later, Spider-Man somersaulted through the crowd and launched himself at the glowing, oozing, screaming ghost that had torn through the ceiling.

Black Cat flipped down from the opposite direction, landing like a goddamn supermodel in latex.

The crowd screamed.

Peter screamed internally.

Black Cat smirked. “Miss me, pretty boy?”

“I don’t—this is a GALA, can we not?” Spider-Man groaned, dodging ectoplasmic debris.

Black Cat laughed, cartwheeled up a wall, and started firing anti-ghost rounds from his wrist mods. The ghost shrieked. Spider-Man nearly got crushed. Black Cat saved him by grabbing his waist and yeeting them both through a portal that landed them right in—

—the rooftop garden.

Panting. Sweaty. Disheveled.

“What the FUCK was that?!” Spider-Man gasped lifting up his mask slightly from the bottom to breath.

“I didn’t summon it!” Black Cat snapped, wiping green sludge off his face. “Ghosts have no concept of social etiquette!”

Danny after wiping his face realized his domino mask fell off but it was too late to cover up again.

Peter stared at Danny’s very familiar stupidly hot face.

Danny stared at Peter’s very familiar stupidly kissable mouth.

Peter said, in a high-pitched, cracked whisper, “You’re Black Cat?!”

Danny shrieked, “YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?!”

They both screamed at each other. Like. Loud. Very. Loudly.

Birds flew off the rooftop.

Somewhere inside the gala, a waiter dropped an entire tray of champagne flutes from sheer sympathetic psychic resonance.

“YOU—YOU’VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH ME AS A VILLAIN!” Peter yelled.

“YOU KISSED ME ON A ROOFTOP AND THEN IGNORED ME IN CALC!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE STRAIGHT!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE BLACK CAT’s EX!”

“I AM BLACK CAT!”

Peter made a noise like a microwave about to explode. “OH MY GOD. I’M IN LOVE WITH TWO PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY THE SAME PERSON.”

Danny staggered back. “I—I’m in love with YOU! But I couldn’t SAY ANYTHING because you were Spider-Man and I was Black Cat and we were ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS—”

“BENEFITS? I GOT TRAUMA.”

“I KISSED YOU! WITH TONGUE!”

“YEAH AND IT WAS AWESOME WHICH MAKES THIS WORSE!”

They both fell silent. Hyperventilating.

Danny doubled over and screamed into the floor.

Peter clutched a potted plant and whispered, “This is a hate crime.”

There was a pause.

“…You like me?” Danny asked.

“You like me?” Peter countered.

They stared.

Then they both shrieked again, because this was TOO MUCH and NEITHER of them was equipped emotionally to handle anything.

And across the rooftop, where no one had noticed, Tony Stark was standing behind a pillar, filming the whole thing.

He grinned.

“I’m gonna play this at your wedding,” he whispered to himself, tearfully, joyfully. “God, I love being me.”

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x marvel #danny phantom fanfiction #marvel #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fandom #crossover #danny phantom fandom #spiderman fanfiction #spider man #spiderman #peter parker #iron man #iron dad #tony stark

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harmonysanreads · 6 months ago

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hi harmy its me :3c ur son

anyways yeah,,, im back with brainrot,,,

and more about ouppy phainon!!! something about mighty warriors melting when you call them good boy scratches my brain in such a way YOU HAVE NO IDEAAA i will never forgive you for enabling this thought process btw this is all your fault /silly

AND AND AND,,, kitty anaxa,,,,, smirks i need to pet him vigorously until he gets annoyed and tries to bite my hand YOU GET ME,,, but it never works bc i will simply coo and pet him harder and call him even more obnoxious nicknames until he is forced to give up and accept my pets

petpetpetpetpetpetpetpet forever and ever and ever

You'll not deny, you've scarcely pondered the true weight of your position, your power.

At unpredictable intervals, between the pauses of your fingers weaving through his hair, in the shade away from the light of his gaze — it crosses your mind, briefly. That the hands that cling to the ends of your garbs are of no ordinary man's, the voice that prays your name is not one that'll be ignored in a crowd.

That despite how much he places himself beneath the shadow of reverence, the light of devotion in Phainon's eyes will remain ever incendiary.

“Tired?” you guess, cautious. He responds by burrowing deeper in your lap, his knees stop just before your ankles.

Your eyes settle on the tufts of ivory hair, they shy away as soon as your grip softens. It would not seem so to an eye that hasn't observed, but there is always a reason behind this particular behavior of his. Sensing his unwillingness to speak, you see fit to use your last option.

“Who's a good boy?” a zephyr carries to his ear, the sun peeks from behind translucent clouds.

“Me?” you can feel his nails dig into the hem of your chiton, his breaths at a halt — it'll gladly remain so until you command.

Your eyes search for a trace of your answer among the torches that light his abode, unsatisfied, “Where is my good boy?”

His clothes rustle as he straightens his back, before leaning fully towards your lap, “Here.” his admission is firmer than last time.

His eyes close in relief as you reward him by patting his head, much pleased at this development. You don't allow the sigh of solace to escape from the confines of your throat, indulging this interlude from the sun's attention.

Your eyes follow the journey of your fingers ; dodging the corner of his eyes, brushing past his cheeks, dipping towards the arch of his neck. Phainon cannot resist joining your observation, as your finger traces the gold of the choker wrapped around his neck, the tip of your nail teases the skin — before you withdraw altogether.

You laugh at your own trickery, not courageous enough to look back at Phainon's face.

Your indulgence is stopped short as you feel a familiar grip around your wrists, clasping wholly onto your palms and settling them back on Phainon's face.

Unlike before, there is strength in that grip — not enough to hurt, just enough to serve as a reminder of how worse it can get. You find your throat parched when you swallow, there's a veiled warning in those eyes of his.

Do you dare still, to wield this dangerous weapon?

“You really remind me of a cat, did you know?” you probe at the brooding scholar.

Anaxa takes a moment to digest the new piece of information, he's heard several unflattering monikers throughout his life. This one, even his brilliant mind nearly toppled over trying to decipher.

“That is quite insulting,” he mutters, glancing at you pointedly.

“How so?” you but lean over the tree, light dancing across your pupils.

“You're comparing a scholar and no ordinary scholar at that, to a mere feline. Is this you indirectly calling me lazy, or pointing out that my wisdom is insignificant compared to the intelligence of a c—”

“I love cats.” you stress, unflinching before his scorn.

The pupil of his visible eye darts across your smile, apparitions of neurons firing in his brain could almost be seen reflected on it. He parts his lips to speak, but closes them instantly, an absence of what he deems are the correct words being indicated.

You bite your lip to stifle the laughter bubbling in your chest.

With great effort he finally says, “So... what?” though his gaze is averted.

“So, I'm implying that,” your steps shrink the distance between you two.

“I adore you enough to compare you to cats.” Anaxa holds his arm out in defense, unfortunately for him, your proximity is close enough to reveal the blood that rushes to his cheeks.

“Nonsense—”

Taking advantage of his stupefaction, you hold two tufts of his hair and hold them in the shape of cat ears. Your giggle brings the scholar back to Amphoreus, he weakly attempts to swat you off but you take the opportunity to deliver a pinch to his cheeks.

A ‘hey!’ heavy with disbelief escapes him, his palm rises to cradle the teased skin. Rouge stains his cheeks.

“Okay okay, I'll stop.” you raise your arms in surrender. There are always unsaid limitation to a person's patience. You may indulge in testing where they cease, but even you know not to cross certain territories.

You spin on your heels to depart but a new interference introduces itself.

You don't recall Anaxa's grip being this strong, the thought passes as you feel his fingers dig into the curve of your waist. His chin settles on the dip of your shoulder, his breath warming the skin.

Perhaps, you shouldn't have teased him.

#'but they're not released yet—“ we don't care! get yandere-fied!#this was fun to write abhsjdjd #phainon #anaxa #yandere phainon #yandere anaxa #yandere phainon x reader #yandere anaxa x reader #phainon x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #written before 3.0

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duckapus · 2 years ago

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SMGWare: The Game

So the actual contents of the Crew's game don't really matter much as far as the episode goes but I did have some ideas for the Story Mode stages.

SMG4 Theme: Intro Games/Memes(they all involve memes in some way and are specifically designed to be easy)

Story: SMG4 is working on his latest video. Pretty basic, but it is the tutorial level.

Lily and Bob Theme: Music

Story: Lily asks Bob to teach her how to rap, since while she's already great at singing due to the whole "was a professional singer against her will" thing, rapping requires different skills from her usual style and she thinks it's interesting.

Meggy Theme: Sports

Story: Meggy's putting her coaching skills to good use by teaching an aerobics class made up of some side characters.

Tari Theme: Video Games

Story: While Root, Tari and Boopkins are playing a game together, some of Root's malware leaks out and causes Tari's arm to malfunction, trapping them in the game until the arm can recalibrate.

Remix 1: Saiko Theme: Uses games from the previous stages.

Story: KS-2 concert.

Shroomy Theme: Nature

Story: While on a hiking trip with his troop, one of the scouts accidentally disturbs a beehive and they all have to hightail it out of there.

Elanore Theme: Sci-Fi

Story: Elanore's been working on some upgrades for Barney, and now it's time to test them out!

Mario Bros Theme: Food

Story: The bros are out getting groceries, and unfortunately Mario's being his usual self.

Remix 2: Lil Coding Theme: Uses games from the last three stages.

Story: It's the middle of the night, and Lil Coding is trying to sneak into the kitchen to get some grapes.

Melony Theme: Fantasy

Story: Due to a meme training session gone wrong, there's a massive Melon Chomp (Chain Chomp with watermelon texture) terrorizing the city, and only Melony's deity powers can put a stop to it.

Boopkins Theme: Everyday Life

Story: Boopkins is at a comic book store "fighting" against other Otaku to get one of the few waterproof copies of a new manga.

SMG3 Theme: Anything Goes/Dead Memes(they can fit any theme in the game and always involve a dead meme in some way. also they're supposed to be a lot harder since it's the final stage)

Story: It's bath day at the Eggdog Corral, and some Eggdogs are more cooperative than others.

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the-irreverend · 6 months ago

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One of my favourite things about this episode is the subtle ways they develop Jax's character, and this scene is my personal favourite. I love analyzing the facial expressions of characters because they can provide so much development and depth with so little, and this scene is no exception.

If you closely observe Jax's facial expression in this little moment, you'll notice that it's bereft of his usual brand of bitterness, antagonism, and sardonic glee. He looks exhausted, drained, and dare I say, judging by how his eyebrows are shaped and how big his eyes are, I think there's also a tiny trace of sadness as well!

But I don't think it's just working at Spudsy's that has him like this. I think it's also because of the facade of mockery and scorn he constantly puts up. It reinforces the idea that Jax's ruthless and boorish behaviour is a facade, which is made all the more evident (heck we even see that mask of his drop when he converses with Pomni earlier).

It's a little scene that gives him so much depth because, despite all the chaos and BS he's put everyone through and how satisfying it is to see him get his just desserts, you can't help but root for him a little that perhaps he might be able to overcome whatever is driving him to act like this in the first place.

#tadc jax #jax #the amazing digital circus jax #tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc spoilers #fast food masquerade #tadc episode four #tadc ep 4 #tadc episode 4 spoilers #tadc episode 4 #glitch productions #gooseworx #the digital circus #jax the amazing digital circus #jax tadc #indie animation #tadc analysis

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littjara-mirrorlake · 11 months ago

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The Color of Hope: Ambition, Necromancy, and Black Mana

Black is one of the most misunderstood colors in Magic: the Gathering, not least because it appears on the surface to be so straightforward. Look at the most iconic black cards of Magic and you'll see deals with demons, necromancy, mass destruction and cruelty and suffering–the trappings of classic fantasy evil. Even the color's symbol itself is a skull, a universal signifier of death and danger.

And in early Magic that seemed to be all it was. White was the color of Fantasy Good, black was the color of Fantasy Evil, and the rest of the colors were... fire magic? Elves? Whatever odd but intriguing skeleton affairs are implied by Time Walk?

Gradually, though, Magic deepened as both a game and a storytelling medium. The color pie grew into itself as a system of complementary philosophies, archetypes whose associated aesthetics were only part of the full picture. Their arrangement around the wheel, below, is highly deliberate; neighboring colors are said to be allies with a high degree of philosophical and mechanical overlap, while colors on opposite sides of the pie are known as enemies, more likely to disagree on fundamental levels.

Black stopped merely representing capital E Evil and became the color of striving for power; unlike its peers, black felt that nothing, least of all morality, could prevent it from seizing what it wanted. Mark Rosewater's 2015 article about black emphasized the color's focus on the self:

"Black's philosophy is very simple: There's no one better suited to look after your own interests than you... Many costs require the sacrifice of others for your own advancement. Because it puts itself first, black is always willing to make this trade. The weak must fall for the strong to thrive." -Mark Rosewater

At its worst, black is an exploitative, amoral color that prioritizes itself at the expense of all others, allowing the "weak" to fall and scorning the very idea of compassion. Rosewater writes that black is "always willing" to trade others for itself. And these can certainly be parts of black's philosophy, when taken to its worst possible extremes, but they're far from the entire story.

Over time, Magic's outlook on black gained nuance. Magic story introduced protagonists like the necromancer Liliana Vess, whose craving for immortality, seemingly exploitative nature, and demonic deals called back to the oldest portrayals of black–and yet she was not one-dimensionally evil. She underwent character development over the years, learning the value of reclaiming herself and standing beside others, and at no point did she become any less mono-black for it. Remember her; we will come back to Liliana and her story later.

In addition to the usual death and decay, black cards began to feature a theme of relentless devotion. On the plane of Eldraine where each color represents a virtue, black's is persistence, explicitly as important as any other color. On the plane of Ikoria, the love between bonder and beast pulls Winota back from the brink of death. Wherever this Oathsworn Vampire printing is set, its flavor text is quintessentially black. It's the same self-driven attitude as before, but cast in a different light: black is nothing if not persistent when it's got its heart set on something (or someone) it cares about. Nothing, least of all the grave, will keep it down. After all, black will always come back for its own.

These newer cards uncovered the true face of black as a color capable of both great love and harm (sometimes even the latter for the sake of the former), and suggested a tantalizing new thread: perhaps putting yourself and yours first isn't all that bad, necessarily. Black is a deeply protective color; it says you don't just have to accept what you're handed, it's okay even to be furious about it (hello, ally color red), but let that galvanize you to do something about it.

Vraska, a gorgon who faces extreme discrimination on her home plane of Ravnica, triumphs by reclaiming herself, gorgon powers and all–and even more radically, loving herself. She displays traits often considered the purview of white and green, such as a love of home and a drive to elevate the oppressed, but they are all filtered through the lens of her black alignment. Vraska staunchly refuses to deny herself or her people, the Golgari Swarm, of their value. Nor does she allow law or propriety to prevent her from championing them by any means necessary–even if that means cold-blooded murder, or aligning herself with a villain like the Planeswalker Nicol Bolas.

"[Vraska] thought of Mazirek, of the kraul, of the rest of the Ochran assassins and the malignant Jarad who reigned with casual ruin over the most downtrodden of the downtrodden. She remembered her years of isolation, and the heinous cruelty of the Azorius, and how no group deserved to suffer as much as those who would subjugate her own. Eliminating that hell was all she ever wanted." -The Talented Captain Vraska, Alison Luhrs

Like Vraska, black loves fierce and hard, willing to break any taboo for the sake of those it cares about. And it whispers, the entire way through, you are enough. You deserve better. No matter what others may say or do, you are enough.

"If I am to be met with disrespect, then I must first love myself with a fierceness no fool can take away." -Vraska in Pride of the Kraul, Alison Luhrs

Even black's "ruthlessness" isn't as fundamentally cruel as it appears, centering a passion for problem-solving (shared by its other ally blue) instead of a blunt disregard for others.

"People don’t understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It’s not about being mean. It’s about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It’s about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it." -K. A. Applegate

All of this comes together to make a black a color not of evil but of strength, integrity, and persistence. And that's all well and good, but I'm going to take it even further and put forward a new proposition: that black is the color of hope.

Of the nine mono-black Magic cards with "hope" in their names, all but Liliana portray black as an instrument of hope's destruction. This is, once again, black's flaw taken to its extreme–crushing others to achieve its own ends–but neglects black's own relationship with hope.

Black, more than any other color, requires hope to stay alive.

For black to persist, it must believe in a light at the end of the tunnel, a future in which its goals are realized. As long as it does, it will endure any hardship, walk through fire, and turn reality itself upside down on its way there. Primal, desperate ambition is the engine of hope that burns at the heart of black, keeping it always one step ahead of stagnation. Bitter and stubborn, black believes tomorrow will come because there is no other choice. After all, for black to relinquish hope is to let itself wither, regress, and die–an unacceptable outcome.

Thus, it is monumentally difficult to strip black of hope. That only makes it all the more crushing when it happens, when black contends with the idea that there is nothing it can do.

Black's deepest, darkest fear is helplessness.

Like any mono-black character, Liliana Vess is driven at her core by a seething, desperate hope. When Liliana first unlocks her necromantic power, it is out of a sheer refusal to allow her ill brother Josu to die, even when the esis root that would cure him is destroyed by enemy witches in an undead-raising ritual. She defies her previous training as a healer, which taught her only to take the safe path, in favor of a higher-risk and higher-reward approach: stealing life from the witches themselves to restore power to the esis root she needs. It is her knowledge that her brother needs her, and her sheer stubborn will to succeed, which allows her to defeat the witches against steep odds.

"Six foes, and Liliana stood alone. But Josu's life depended on her, and the power blossoming within her was more than enough." -Liliana's Origin: The Fourth Pact, James Wyatt

Tragically, however, Liliana's attempted cure goes horrifically wrong, transforming Josu into an undead being plagued by eternal suffering. In his pain, Josu attacks Liliana. For a while Liliana holds out hope, finding the power to fight back while she determinedly searches for a spell to reverse the harm she's done. It is when she realizes this isn't possible that her strength falters.

"All this time, she had believed… that she could turn the power of death to the service of life and health. That a healer should use every tool at her disposal. But Josu was the result, a horrible fusion of life and death, and all her spells meant to manipulate the life force of the living could do nothing to harm the dead." -The Fourth Pact

Liliana learns that even her own dark magic, fueled by determination, cannot solve the problem she's created. She discovers the hard limit of her willpower, and the despair of this discovery is what causes her Planeswalker spark to ignite.

At this time Planeswalkers are as gods, immortal and near-omnipotent. Liliana spends decades enjoying this affirmation of her capability before the Mending strips her and all her peers of their power, reducing them once again to mortal mages.

"Then the Multiverse reshaped itself, robbing her—and every other Planeswalker—of the godlike power they once had wielded. Some called it the Mending, as if something broken had been repaired, but to Liliana, it seemed the opposite. It broke her beyond any hope of repair." -The Fourth Pact

Once again, it is Liliana's fear of helplessness and her refusal to accept it that drives her to push beyond the bounds of propriety–this time, to make a pact with Nicol Bolas and four demons to maintain her immortality. It is not enough for her merely to delay death; she requires the security of knowing she is fully beyond its reach, that she will never be helpless before it again as she was with Josu.

"Holding death at arm's length for whatever years are left to me? No, that's not enough. I want to be free of its shadow." -Liliana in The Fourth Pact

Black isn't like its enemy colors white and green, which are superficially associated far more often with hope. Unlike white, it doesn't believe that conviction, justice, and community will bring about rightness. Unlike green, it doesn't trust in the wisdom of the world or the natural order. Black believes that nothing will change unless you make it change; ultimately, black's self is the only one it can trust to bring about the world it needs. In addition, black lacks its enemies' idealism. Instead, it strives to be a pragmatic realist, making a final assessment of defeat all the more definite and crushing.

While white and green are more amenable to finding hope and holding it aloft as a banner, black claws hope desperately to its chest with shredded, bloody fingernails. Every ounce of hope black has, it tore by itself from the clutches of an uncaring world.

Ironically for such a self-driven color, black's fierce hope is the greatest asset it can provide to others–on its own terms, of course. It was Liliana who turned the tide of battle against the Eldrazi titan Emrakul, defiant in the face of cosmic despair. And when Nicol Bolas made his bid to return to godhood, using Liliana's necromancy to command his undead hordes, Liliana finally turned against him. In reclaiming her power, so too did she use it to free her fellow Planeswalkers from Bolas' assault. Her fear of helplessness no longer shackled her to him; agency and autonomy were hers at last.

The triumph of black, its moment of ultimate victory, is the hard-won fulfillment of its hope.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -Dylan Thomas

An aetherborn, railing against the shortness of their natural lifespan, constructs a new body for themself with their own bare hands. An artificer's grief over her lost companion causes her to push invention to its limits. A young girl who loves her brother calls on the darkest of powers to save him. As it turns out, necromancy–that original thematic keystone of black–is only one of black's many, many refusals to let go of love and hope once it has them, even in the face of the ultimate end.

Time and time again, black–in love with life, ablaze with hope–looks the Grim Reaper in the eye and tells it: "Not today."

#mtg #magic the gathering #color pie #black mana #liliana vess #vorthos #literary analysis #war of the spark #magic origins #planeswalker #nicol bolas #vraska #necromancy

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