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wutheringskies · 11 months

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Wei Wuxian: The Untamed Hero

Wei Wuxian had to be killed even if:

1. He carried his sword

2. He didn't use gui dao

3. He didn't create Yin HuFu

4. The Wen remnants were not in the plot

Then, why? The reason is here, voiced by Jin Zixun of all people:

Wei WuXian, you are too bold! Did the LanlingJin Sect invite you today? And you dare run wild here. Do you really think that you’re invincible, that nobody has the courage to confront you? Do you want to overturn the Heavens?”

Wei WuXian smiled, “You’re comparing yourself to the Heavens? Excuse my language, but your face is a little too thick, isn’t it?”

So, you see, this untamed heart can only meet with tragedy as the world is unrighteous, as those who are in power think their actions cannot be contested (and they often aren't!), and that their words are like the law. How many times have we seen, a convicted powerful person escape the justice system? Far too many. And how many times innocents or victims were framed for crimes? Also too many. People like Wei Wuxian aren't condemned by fate, but rather, being born into a world where the "heavens" are those who are powerful and corrupted, he very well might be destined to live tragically, along with others of his type.

Returning to the matter of this particular scene: on one hand, the Jins throw private banquets, gilded with gold. The major scandals are: Jin Zixun is forcing the Lans to drink alcohol! You see, Lan Xichen can't outrightly refuse, so he is trying to be polite about his rejection. Jin Guangyao is trying to reason and excuse, and distract. The crowd spurs Jin Zixun on, wanting to see the Lans drink for once and fall to their level.

Everyone is in their own fine little world, doing their niceities in their golden halls drinking expensive wine, admiring pretty women, gasping at scandalous behavior, asking for favour, gossiping etc.

And then Wei Wuxian walks in. Uninvited. He simply drinks the wine himself, before demanding these people to spare him their time for real wordly issues, such as deaths, debts, cruelty, the parts that society wishes to hide. A few scenes later, we are shown with much description, just how terrible Qiongqi Path is. That's the Jin's backyard. You see their achievements that are drawn on those big walls? We see the reality of the people making them.

Now, let us come to another incident. Think of the soup incident. I fully expect before Wei Wuxian came into the scene, people were simply gossiping, uninterested in finding out what was going on, why Lady Jiang is crying. Then, Wei Wuxian comes and realizes Jiang Yanli who never really cries... was crying, and firstly decides to beat the shit out of Jin Zixuan. Secondly, he understands the whole truth, beats Jin Zixuan up for humiliating his Shijie, and also makes the other girl face responsibility.

Although his shijie had an easy temper, except for how they cuddled and cried together the day the three of them reunited after Lotus Pier was destroyed, she hadn’t really shed many tears in front of others, much less cry so loudly, so pitifully in front of so many people. Wei WuXian was filled with panic. As he tried to ask her, Jiang YanLi was crying so badly that she couldn’t even speak properly. Then, when he saw Jin ZiXuan standing on the side, astonished, he fumed with anger, wondering to himself why it was the dog of a person again. With a kick, he pounced on Jin ZiXuan. The fight between the two would have alerted the Heavens. All of the cultivators around the base came to break up their fight. Amid the ruckus, he finally understood what was the cause of all this, and became even more angered. He spread his tough talk, saying that one day he’d definitely make Jin ZiXuan die in his hands, he told people to drag out the cultivator woman.

A round of questions later, the truth emerged, and Jin ZiXuan’s entire body was frozen. No matter how much Wei WuXian continued to curse at him, he returned neither words nor fists, his face dark. If not that Jiang YanLi held up her hand a while later, while Jiang Cheng and Jin GuangShan came to pull Wei WuXian away, it was likely that even now Jin ZiXuan wouldn’t be able to attend the hunt of Phoenix Mountain.

See.

The point is, perhaps, people feel Wei Wuxian's actions are unnecessary. But imagine if he wasn't there! The consequences as I predict them will have been:

1. Jiang Cheng who doesn't want to upset a prominent clan would've grumbled and cursed underneath his breath, but eventually just moved away from the ruckus and taken his sister away.

2. Perhaps the truth would never have been found out, unless Jin Zixuan later searched by himself.

3. Thus, Jiang Yanli's reputation would be stained for the years to come.

It's because Wei Wuxian dared that the truth was revealed. I took this small incidents simply to highlight this, without the addition of more factors. In the book, often, it might seem like people are trying to stop him from creating trouble. You might often wish, ugh, this is going to be so bad... The point is Wei Wuxian knows! He's not stupid, he knows of the consequences of his actions.

But he isn't the one creating trouble. It was already created by the likes of those very people who try to stop him from investigating deeper. The trouble in question is that immoral and unrighteous words and actions and decisions have already been made. Society tries to hide them. If you can't see it, it's not there. Yet, even if it is not visible, a crime has its traces and it will bleed into their world sooner or later.

Wei Wuxian forces people to snap out of their comfort zones. He doesn't care for the barriers they set around themselves. Here are some examples to explain what I mean by these barriers:

Who dares hit Jin Zixuan, who's the only heir of LanlingJin, even when he deserves it? Protected by his status, his birth, his clan who dares? Wei Wuxian does.

Who dares to annoy Lan Wangji, the second jade of Lan, who from birth is considered otherwordly, strict, immovable, rigid, untouchable and protected by his extreme cold aura? Wei Wuxian dares.

Who dares to enter cultivation society without even wielding sword, without even cultivating a core? Wei Wuxian!

Since time unknown, treasures have belonged to the powerful sects: The Lan Clan and their library, their many secret techniques. The Jin clan and their treasures, their gold. The Nie Sabres. The Zidian. Yet, a son of a servant somehow ends up possessing the most powerful treasure all by his own! Everyone goes to this popular refinery, some famed blacksmith, or that popular sect to get specially created spiritual weapons, yet Chenqing, one of the most powerful weapons, was forged alone by Wei Wuxian during his 3 months in the Burial Mound!

Since years, the cultivation world has taken to heart rules of Lans, words of the powerful sects, and their leaders! Then, once again, this orphan child comes and bends the world and changes the cultivation society forever! Yiling Laozu said that... Yiling Laozu created... Yiling Laozu's manuscripts...

His words literally become the law.

Think of how 13 years after Wei Wuxian's death when "all was peaceful" despite us knowing very well, just how much shit happened after his death - slaughter of minor clans, deaths of two prominent sect leaders, xue yang etc (because, you know, most of it was purely accidental, kept hush-hush, or the victims were people who weren't important), he comes back to life and in a matter of a couple of months, upends the cultivation society again.

The "problem" is that this guy simply doesn't conform. The problem is that he is better. The problem is that he is not unnecessarily humble about it, despite his origins. He doesn't seem to treat himself as an outlier, but an equal. (That's why I hate insecure Wei Wuxian, like this guy is righteous enough he won't even treat himself badly.) The problem is that all those barriers - social classes, power, the locked doors - they won't keep him away.

Even if he was only the Jiang Da-shixiong with a bright golden core, he will still not be a conformist. To those who aren't used to having their decisions questioned, he is their worst enemy. To whose who are used to talking in circles, spreading rumors, he is asking them. What source do you have? What is the factual evidence behind what you are saying? Why are you saying this now?

Think of how he cross questioned a petty seller selling Yiling Laozu portraits in Qinghe, and how he questioned the gathered cultivation sects in Lotus Pier during Sisi and Bicao's intervention with the same sort of attitude. Surely, there was a major class difference, power difference between the two. Yet, they don't matter to him. What matters is the truth.

So, no matter what, when the people who are in power, start having too much dirty laundry and corpses in their backyards, he will definitely know. For this guy, knowing isn't enough - he will get to the crux of the issue. The problem is, he even has the skill for it. He has the ability. One also can't distract him with offers, promises, gifts, riches, status, women. He doesn't care for any of that. He perhaps might even hate one's victims. Yet he will stand up for them.

Of course, those who are in power, all smile at each other. They understand things sometimes have to be done. People sometimes have to be silenced. "We know better."

Then, Wei Wuxian comes in and says, actually you don't. He comes in with factual accounts, evidences, forces you to face your misdeeds. Says you're all a bunch of hypocritical people. No, perhaps what is worse is that he will make you realize that's what you are! Because he's got to be good at talking, too! He's not going to act on anger or be stunned in fear.

So, now you have someone who's not only digging into your evil deeds, someone who's capable, who's not easy to persuade, but also someone with high emotional intelligence who can play the same role as you do, of being a noble, accepted gentlemen with immaculate manners, of very high literacy and outdo you. Because this guy knows very well how society works, he can comprehend social cues perhaps better than you can. He can use your own polite words and nature against you.

It's precisely because of this he must be killed. Perhaps, in every world, Wei Wuxian will end up being the victim. It's only that in MDZS, these were the particular circumstances, and those were the particular excuses.

My personal take is: sometimes it is good to be a centrist, and hold everyone's better intentions in mind. most of the times it might not be, as there are many conflicting systems in place that allow for true victims who are stuck. most often, the victims are always the ones who DON'T have a voice, who are brushed over as numbers of corpses, rather than people with stories. most often, kindness is shown in little action that are trampled upon by those who hold true power. most often the people who are good, who are heroes die young, or are hated and ridiculed, for speaking up for the victims. it's not right, and never will be.

if someone like wei wuxian or his presence in the book makes you uncomfortable it might be because you hold the "niceities" and the pleasantries to be of more importance than the issues at hand. just because something is too troublesome doesn't mean it is wrong. if everytime he enters the scene you're scared of what he's going to do next, you should know it's not him who is the problem but the prople who aren't doing anything who are. don't be scared of "trouble-makers." he's not erratic or spontaneous. he has considered society's standards and deemed it useless. why is that that the koi tower scene, where he is in his "yiling laozu, loss of control, threatening" moment is followed immediately by him being extremely kind to Wen qing ? it's not that he's losing control. it's that Jin Zixun wouldn't have acted and told him where the people were without him using intimidation tactics. Wei Wuxian is the one forced into bad corners by the powerful people, where he has to show his edges. Don't end up twisted the narratives. if you bite someone for a while, expect to be hit.

#wei wuxian #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wangxian #my meta #my thoughts #cultivation world bullshit #my essays #When i first watched the untamed Wei Wuxian made me uncomfortable and scared at times #I felt uncomfortable reading the bits of his YLLZ era #and koi tower scene #ive done some introspection and grown

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hervey-gervey-chip · 2 months

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DIY AGE-OF-SAIL INSPIRED FOULIES

part III: the process

it’s been a couple weeks since i finished making the alterations i wanted to make to the bibs before waxing, but we finally had an open shop day at school where i'm not bothering my buddies over at the Lady Washinton (though let’s be honest, the only reason i’m not there now is because they’re in anacortes and i dont wanna do the whole drive-ferry-drive thing). HOWEVER, that means i got to spend 4 hours painting my overalls with hot toxic soup. as far as the soup recipe goes, I did actually end up changing it again. in my first post i said i’d do varnish, and the second post i said black paint. i was going to measure everything out nice and had oz quantities i was going to adhere to, but i forgot my measuring cup… lets be real though, it’s probably more historically accurate to just throw shit in a pot and go. I’M MEASURING BY VIBES FOR SCIENCE!! the final recipe went something like this:

1lb microcrystalline wax

~1 cup mineral spirits

~3/4 cup tung oil

~1/2 cup rust-oleum oil based enamel paint (black)

~2 tbsp pine tar

I probably could have done more pine tar but the class bucket was basically empty and i didn’t want to walk down the hill to get more. I also know that pine tar takes fucking forever to cure, and even a small amount smells incredibly strong (though i certainly don’t mind, i actually prefer to be covered in the stuff most times- it’s more a courtesy to the non-tall shippers who aren’t used to the incredibly concentrated stink of 10 campfires burning directly into your nostrils). the reason i added the pine tar is because of it’s anti-bacterial and anti-microbial properties, since once the bibs are cured i really won’t be able to wash them. also, from my (limited and haphazard) research, you don’t need a lot to reap those benefits.

i put the wax in a double boiler, and once melted, added the oil, thinner, and paint/pine tar all at once. once it was all sufficiently combined, i started painting it on, let it cool a little bit, and then went back in with a heat gun and brush to help the solution impregnate the fibers of the cloth. oh also. make sure you are in a well ventilated space AND WEAR A RESPIRATOR (see the i-learned section below). i did 2 coats all over in this manner, and then a third over the knees, butt, and ankles for good measure.

oils and tar over any kind of fibrous material can take weeks to fully cure (as i have learned well from rigging), so i am expecting to leave my garment and it’s accoutrements hanging in the shop for about 3 weeks before they reach any kind of wearable or testable condition. everything seemed to soak in pretty well, but i left the shop before everything fully cooled so i’ll do another update at the beginning of next week- i’m anticipating that i over-waxed and there will be some residue i will have to deal with (though in what way is to be decided).

cleanup was pretty easy, considering my proclivity for giant messes with any project i engage in- lots of mineral spirits and several rags seemed to do the trick.

some things i learned/would do differently:

oh my god this recipe makes so much. like. so much. i had like 2 cups leftover and i did 2 coats on my overalls, pockets, AND a 1’x3’ piece of spare canvas. if you were just waxing a pair of pants, halving the recipe would still probably be more than enough

putting the cold liquids into the hot wax makes it congeal a little bit, but you can’t tell when the black paint makes the entire contents of the pot turn, well, BLACK. id put the transparent stuff in first, let it all melt together, and then add the black paint so that there wouldn’t suddenly be so many solid particles all at once

MIX FREQUENTLY. photo 3 shows the difference. i had mixed it really well at the beginning, but once it was all (presumably) a single solution, i stopped worrying about mixing it. the thing about paint/varnish/buildable coatings is that the reason they are buildable or have any sort of pigment is because of the suspended solids within it. this means that over time, the solids will coagulate at the bottom of the container, which is why you have to shake nail polish or stir paint before using it. this also means that i should have been mixing every couple minutes as i was painting it onto the bibs, so i ended up with a very pigmented mixture at the end, and a relatively translucent mix at the beginning. up until a certain point, i was getting a pigment that was not opaque but i was happy with, so i didn’t think too much of it until i was putting on coats that looked more brown than grey or black. anyways, mix your shit.

so… cotton burns. i was painting one leg at a time and then heat gunning it before moving on to the next leg. the wax/oil solution seems to make the fabric more resistant to burning, so the painted bits can take more heat than the untreated cotton next to it. if you, say, for example, (i definitely DID NOT DO THIS) get distracted by a particularly riveting tiktok your friend sent you of a snail vibing on a car windshield while your heat gun is blasting on high 2 inches from your pants, the raw canvas may or may not start smoking. i switched up to painting the Entire back or Entire front before heat gunning, and that seemed to solve the problem (also no more snail tiktoks)

respirators are kind of important. i was in a giant shop with vaulted ceilings next to a wide open garage door and i still had a bit of a headache after 4 hours of standing unprotected next to a pot of hot poison.

photo descriptions:

setup

setup part 2: electric boogaloo

pant ass- upper section 1 coat unmixed, lower section 1 coat mixed

spare canvas in the midst of coat 2

back of spare canvas after coat 1

back of spare canvas after coat 2

waterproof test!

finished garments and spare canvas, ready to cure

cleanup

#tall ship #sailor #historic sailing #boat building #sewing #oilskins #bibs #foulies #tin cloth #waxed canvas #age of sail #rain gear #fibre arts

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shveris · 4 months

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collage au with toji, sukuna and satoru living together and it’s surprisingly clean and well kept.

mention of emotional & physical abuse from family members and trauma

toji is the most messy out of the three but sukuna hates dirt so when he finds it he cleans it. satoru is a perfectionist who grew up in a tidy mansion so he always has the need and urge to keep his new environment just as clean — he feels very uncomfortable and restless otherwise.

they fuck around once in a while (yes, literal fucking) but it’s mainly because none of them have the actual mental to have proper relationships and despite satoru’s very extroverted behaviour, he actually hates touching people. he thinks they’re dirty, unsanitary, because he doesn’t know how they live and what their hands and clothes have been touching.

sukuna is clean though, he knows because he regularly buys those very expensive bodywashes and puts all their underwear into another cycle just after the first one is done.

toji is clean since he is kinda trained to adapt to his environment. he eventually even stops punching sukuna when he tries to put lotion on his very dry face after a scorching hot shower and he starts washing his hands when he comes home.

they don’t talk about how all of them have sex with each other at least twice a week — trice, if there’s exam stress — and usually the apartment is filled with bickering.

“six, you told me you’d send me that fucking report an hour ago.” satoru just stares at toji in his doorway and clicks his tongue because, yes, he completely forgot.

“have some fucking manners, dude”, he snaps back but sends him the report. they got thrown into this group project for three months with this emo named choso and a guy named ino, not that any of them gave a fuck. they were just laughing at sukuna because he was stuck with four women staring down at him.

there’re also regular outbursts of sukuna throwing items around — at satoru and toji as well — because he feels threatened. by what? they don’t know. they don’t ask. they just go with it and make a game out of it.

“if one of you hits my face i will actually chop your dicks off” is usually what satoru enters the living room with but when the tv remote slams into his jaw ten minutes later, he can’t help but laugh menacingly and throws himself onto the culprit elbow first.

their evenings are filled with study sessions (sukuna and satoru take their academics very serious and toji is just sitting there because he enjoys watching their facial expressions contort into frustrated confusion), playing video games, sex, uno that almost always ends up with sukuna and toji trying to kill each other, bad horror movies that make sukuna hungry, and some times they’re actually peacefully talking with each other until satoru falls asleep.

almost everyone on campus thinks they are dating and neither of them have an issue with that rumor (“it keeps the weird chicks away” sukuna had said and toji rolled his eyes). they don’t even act like couples, more like competitive boxers with too much testosterone (shoko’s words).

even with sukuna’s constant berates, insults and slurs, he loves cooking and always looks for a chance to brag about it to satoru.

“i bet your private chefs at home ain’t shit in comparison to me” or “the michelin chefs your parents are friends with can only wish to be at my level” or “this is my first time cooking this recipe and i fucking rocked it”

toji doesn’t mind at all, he loves all kinds of food, he’s the opposite of picky. whenever there’s something on satoru’s plate that he doesn’t like, he gives it to toji who will happily eat it for him.

sukuna even makes an effort to learn the recipes to his roommate’s favourite foods, perfects them in a few weeks. making mochi was probably way too much effort but he feels very proud whenever satoru brightens up upon eating the sweet treats. he’s glad toji is on the easier side of all this, the man loves chinese food a lot; dumplings, egg drop soup, lamb skewers and some simple noodle dishes.

toji doesn’t look like it but he enjoys the other two men’s company a lot. they never judge him for who he is, they never expect him to be a certain way, and not once did they ask why on some nights he comes home covered in blood. they just tell him to clean up properly and throw his clothes into the washer for three circles. they don’t ask him why he has that scar on his lips or nag him about that massive one that wraps around the left side of his body.

satoru is curious, his eyes speak volumes, but he never says nothing about it and just traces the tissue with his fingertips after sex. sukuna doesn’t even seem to acknowledge it at all, ignores it almost, but he always tells him to apply more lotion to it after scorching showers together.

grocery runs with them are always a complete mess; satoru only has eyes for sweets, toji grabs the next best instant ramen from the shelves, sukuna is constantly scolding them for not eating more healthy, says both of them would have vitamin deficiency if it weren’t for him.

he absolutely hates going out with them to the store but it’s necessary in a way. it’s a way of bonding, they get to buy everything they need once a week and then don’t have to go there for another seven days, and it makes cooking plans easier — and satoru is there to pay because he’s rich and the other two ain’t.

they also always end up buying a few packs of condoms and lube, much to the cashier’s horrors upon reading “extra large” and “strawberry flavoured”

sukuna and toji are rough, absolutely and utterly wild. satoru often calls sukuna an animal with no other instincts than to bite and breed and tear him inside out whereas toji just always knows how and when to abuse his prostate in the weirdest positions — satoru now has to stretch everyday to keep his limbs flexible.

when toji and sukuna fuck, the bedroom turns into a warzone. there’s bite and scratch marks everywhere on their bodies and when sukuna finally gives in and bottoms, neither of them actually make an effort to stretch him. never goes well. sukuna actually cries but he loves pain so it’s okay because satoru gives toji a really big scolding after and then both of them try to somewhat take care of him.

which also never goes well because all three of them never had good experiences with physical touch, nor do they know how to take care of someone else or themselves.

toji was barely holding himself together after graduation high school, having started some heavy drugs when he was sixteen and he never really grew out of it for years because of his fucked up family or his even more fucked up friends.

satoru was homeschooled, had no friends, didn’t know anyone his age — he had no concept of social life, of interpersonal relationships, pop culture. his face never showed any emotions because he just didn’t feel nothing, he felt hollow. nothing in his life brought him joy. his own mother barely paid any attention to him and when she did, there was nothing but hatred in her words.

sukuna grew up with a mother that had fun torturing him, may it be emotionally or physically. when he was younger, still an only child and his father too busy with work, she’s used him to press out her cigarettes, told him to stay still and then watched his face with great interest. there’s a long list of things that he had to endure and he hates remembering it.

they don’t know how they found each other.

i will deffo write more for this au bc i miss toji and satoru terribly

#shveris’ blue spring #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #ryomen sukuna #tojikuna #toji fushiguro #toji zenin

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tennypress · 9 months

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MINORS DNI

WARNING: angst, jaegyon is red flag, gender neutral reader

“I dug my key into the side (into the side), of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive. Carved my name into his leather seats. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights (both headlights), slashed a hole in all four tires. Maybe next time, he'll think before he cheats…”

“Baby please it was an honest mistake” he says nonchalantly on the phone. You can hear him drive in that stupid car if his.

“Honest, HONEST?!?! What me seeing you with another girl in the car was an “Honest” mistake Jaegyon?!

“Oh cmon , it was probably another guy-“ “What, some other guy has another car that has another red and blue car that states NO MORE CONFIRM on their car, REALLY?” You say over the phone clearly pissed as you packed your shit. He tried to make an excuse but failed to do so.

You just leave his apartment as you make sure you had everything before throwing the key he gave you on the couch as you take your luggage to your own car. A nice silver Porsche your father had gaved you after you finished your exams. Throwing it in the trunk as you start your car. Before driving off, blocking him on every platform. Huffing as you start the engine and drive off.

The reader might think, “oh she must be so sad, or is she gonna get revenge. “They’re totally gonna get back together and she will shit on his heart.” Well in my own logic(lol) here is how to went:

She fully speeds as she arrives at a secluded beach. Parking her car as she angrily smokes. Grumbling on how she fell for his stupid face, or how he looked like some people that she knew(ahem ahem DG, Eli, and Johan) as she crushes the cigarette under her heel.

She put up a plan that will ensure her revenge and possibly not end up in jail.

She comes up with a couple of strategies

1. Scratch his car - nah she doesn’t wanna get sued

2. Cheat on him? - too much work

3. Find the bitch who slept with him - she’s probably big or something and will probably get sued

4. Block him and never speak to him again - she’s already doing that

There’s another solution: Get a better look and shit on him with her new looks - sounds better and is easier(and also legal)

“So that’s it!” She says out loud. She drives to her own separate home and get ready. Watching different YouTube videos for I don’t know, maybe an hour before finding the perfect video. Then getting a different outfit as she texts up a friend she knows and ask him about that car race meet up spot that she knows that jaegyon will be at and they agree.

The following week comes up and she’s with her friend as they went to who knows where as she flaunts her new looks. Form her hair, makeup, outfit, and heels as she finds a spot for her Nissan Silvia s13 in a big spot as the other people admire her.

She talks with them as she talks about her car when she sees him in the other side next to two girls at his side as he talks to some of his friends. His friends caught up and whisper to him as he notices you and glanced your way sometimes. You only ignored them as you chill with the other car owners, some of them being friendly

There was an announcement where there would be a race. Your ears perked up and headed over there as you see your good friend participating against, a very oddly familiar car. Oh shit it’s his car isn’t it

You walk to your friends side as you warm them up and he gave you thumbs up as you see a swarm of girls near his side. Ugh

———————————————————————————

After the race was over your friend won and you congratulated him. As you head to your car you hear yelling and see Jaegyon come towards you. In a panic you drive away and far as you could as you head home.

You sit at him as you wash your makeup when you heard your doorbell ring. Running over you open the door and met up with a tall blondie. Jaegyon…

He just looks at you before excusing himself in

“What the hell are you doing here” you asked a bit pissed

“Came here to say sorry…” he says. Looking away

“Well I don’t want your apology so get out”

“But-“”No buts, out!” You point to your door and shut it. Sighing in relief as you sat back down as you just finished your relationship

#najaegyeon #lookism x reader #x reader #angst #racing

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maraschinomerry · 1 year

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Hi! Could you please write a Lockwood x reader fic involving the prompt: You aren't well, but you don't want to skip training and make them worry, so you continue on as usual, thinking it's not that serious. But that's proven wrong when you faint right in front of them mid-fight. Mixed with the dialogue: "You hold it like this and- why are your hands trembling?" Thank you in advance! 💙

Pretty Boy

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x gn!reader

Content: mild swearing, whump (fainting as in the prompt), mentions of not eating or sleeping, cute flirty ending

A/N: thank you for such a great request!! I've actually also just got over being not well while I was writing this (I'm fine now and wasn't this bad!) so it was weirdly cathartic 😅

Word count: 2.3k

The blissful quiet of the kitchen at 35 Portland Row was shattered by an incredibly loud, almost violent sneeze. You threw your arm across your face just in time to catch it. That was weird. You never sneezed.

"Bless you," Lockwood frowned over the top of his magazine.

That was day 1.

On day 2, you were all out on a case, in a dilapidated Victorian house. In a divide-and-conquer strategy for such a big place, Lockwood and George had headed upstairs while you and Lucy stayed on the ground floor. Fumbling around in the dim light of the dining room, Lucy threw open the curtains to let in what was left of the evening sun, accidentally unleashing a cloud of dust which shimmered in the beam of your torch. You both coughed a little in surprise.

Your coughing didn't stop for the rest of the night.

Day 3 was spent relaxing, recovering from getting home in the early hours of the morning after a gruelling fight with a pair of Type Twos. Or rather, everyone else was relaxing. You were in your room, fluctuating between wrapping your shivering form in your duvet and throwing it off so you wouldn't melt into a puddle. The bowl of soup you'd made yourself for lunch grew cold where it sat untouched on your bedside table.

A sleepless night heralded the arrival of day 4. Your symptoms had mostly abated by the evening, and you desperately hoped to claw back a few hours of rest. By dinner time, bleary-eyed, you forced yourself downstairs to try and get at least one meal of the day. Fortunately, the kitchen was empty, so at least you didn't have to explain your recent lack of presence to anyone. Unfortunately, none of the contents of the fridge were even remotely appealing right now. You settled for a slice of toast which you took back upstairs. Two bites in, you felt your stomach flip. Great. The rest went straight in the bin.

A gentle knock sounded on your door the morning of day 5, after another night of tossing and turning without ever drifting off.

"Yeah?" you called wearily.

Lockwood poked his head in, dressed in a loose Henley T-shirt and sweatpants. "Morning. Just thought I'd check you were alright, you didn't come down for training." Oh shit. You and Lockwood had been doing weekly training together for months - it started not long after you joined the agency, when he'd come down to the basement for practice and found you already there, and you'd ended up sparring. It had happened a few more times, and eventually you fell into the habit of both going down on Friday mornings so much it became an unofficial appointment.

"Oh, sorry," you swallowed a yawn. "I lost track of what day it was. Give me five minutes."

"I sort of assumed you weren't coming down dressed Iike that." He nodded to your fuzzy pyjamas with a smirk, and you tugged shyly at the hem of the top. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Yeah." That was a lie. Lockwood studied you for a moment, and you wondered if he could see right through you, but then he nodded to himself.

"Alright, see you downstairs." He began to leave, but popped back at the last second. "I'm not saying the pyjamas are a bad look, by the way, they're cute, just maybe a bit warm for fighting in." He grinned again, and disappeared. What was that supposed to mean?

—

Five minutes later, as promised, you traipsed down the basement steps in runner shorts and a tank top. This was the last thing you wanted to be doing right now, but you loved getting one-on-one time with Lockwood and knew how much it would hurt him to break the tradition and how concerned he'd be about you if he found out you'd been ill.

Lockwood gave you another puzzled look. "Are you sure you're okay?" He'd seen you this low energy before, but normally only the day after a case.

You gave the most convincing smile you could muster. "Fine. What's the plan?"

He furrowed his brows once more, before apparently deciding against whatever he was thinking. "Okay, there was a new move I figured out on the last case. I thought I could teach you and see if you think it's any good?" That last part sounded so open and vulnerable. You could imagine what he was thinking - was it a fluke? Was it him overselling his talents? Did it look ridiculous? He got like that sometimes, needed snapping out of it. Reassuring. Your smile was more genuine this time.

"Sounds good, it certainly seemed effective."

You tried your best to concentrate while Lockwood demonstrated the move, really you did, but you were running on empty and the basement was so delightfully cool. Maybe if you just lay down on the floor for a bit, you'd sort yourself out.

"Did you get that?" Lockwood's voice cut through the fog of your thoughts, and you dragged your eyes up to meet his, which were nodding to your hands. You hadn't the slightest idea what it was he expected you to have got.

"Uhh…"

To your relief, he mistook your distraction for confusion and stepped closer to help, carefully off to one side to avoid the blade as his hands rested over yours.

"You hold it like this and- why are your hands trembling?"

You barely registered the alarm in his voice, or the uncontrollable tremor that was indeed present and spreading up your arms. Nothing in your body seemed to be responding properly any more. Did you still have hold of the rapier? Why was your chest so tight, not allowing any air in? An invisible wad had trapped in your throat, and you desperately sucked in a breath through your nose. Gosh, Lockwood smelled good. Lavender and bergamot. And he was pretty, too. So pretty. Those deep dark eyes, gazing at you with so much longing. No, not longing. He didn't do that, did he? Plus, he was frowning too much for longing. Concern? You didn't like it when he frowned. You tried to pout, but your lips didn't move. That was annoying. So were the lights. Had they always been this bright? It hurt. Everything hurt. You needed to leave. Now.

Panic took hold of the last working corner of your brain and sent a jolt of electricity down to your legs which finally reacted, carrying you shakily towards the stairs. You muttered something incoherent, mouth not quite as functional. The effort drained the last dregs of energy, and your legs stopped working again.

"Whoa, whoa-" a voice behind you gasped, hasty footsteps echoing. Who was that? There was someone else down here, wasn't there? You couldn't remember. Wait. There was a pretty boy, right? He seemed nice. You tried to tell him you were okay, you wanted to. As you pitched backwards, the silhouette of the pretty boy swam into view, blocking out the harsh lights above. That was better.

Everything went black.

—

You were laying somewhere warm and soft. That was odd. And it was less bright behind your eyelids. Where were you? Hadn't you been down in the basement? With the cold floor and the cold lights… and the pretty boy? Was he still here?

You tried to call out for him, succeeding only in a groan. The surface beneath you shifted by your feet in response, and your eyelids fluttered open a fraction. There he was. Framed by the golden rays filtering through the window behind him and dappling across his dark hair.

"Hey, pretty boy," you murmured. Proper words; that was more like it. Next step: opening your eyes fully.

Ah.

The pretty boy was Lockwood, brows knitted upwards as he shuffled further up what you gradually realised was your bed.

"Hey." His voice was thick, with the hint of a shake. "How are you feeling?"

You groaned again, moving to sit up. Lockwood instantly reached out, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting the pillows to prop up behind you. "Been better."

Under any other circumstances, you think he'd probably have laughed. As it was, he huffed out a breath and you spotted a brief tic in his jaw. "That's a mild way of putting it. You collapsed in the middle of training. I had no idea what happened, I thought…" His gaze dropped to his lap as he trailed off. The silence clenched tightly around your heart. Eventually, he spoke again, still not looking at you, voice cracking and barely above a whisper. "I was so worried about you."

The tension in your chest pressed down further, and you thought you actually heard your heart shatter.

"Hey, Lockwood, look at me." You raised a hand, still trembling but for an entirely new reason, up to cup his cheek. At last, he looked. Those beautiful dark eyes were watery, and his nose ruffled as he tried to hold back the tears. "I'm okay, see? I'm here, I'm okay, and I'm so sorry for making you worry."

A warmth spread over the back of your hand as he brought his up to meet it. His fingers curled over yours, thumb rubbing calmingly across your knuckles. Whether the calming was for you or him, you couldn't say. "But are you sure you're okay? People don't just collapse like that, and you've been out all day." Your eyes widened a little as you glanced at your alarm clock. Almost 6. Wow.

"Honestly, it's nothing serious. Kind of stupid, actually; the irony is it all happened because I didn't want you to worry." That made him chuckle. That was promising. You continued. "I was ill - I don't know if it was a cold or flu or what - but that wasn't great to begin with, and then with it ruining my ability to eat and sleep I just… didn't have anything left to give."

You don't know what reaction you expected from Lockwood: frustration, confusion, disappointment perhaps. You certainly weren't expecting him to look quite so… guilty? "Why didn't you say something when I came to find you? We could have cancelled training." It came out sharper than you were expecting. Oh. There was where the guilt came in.

"I didn't want to break the tradition."

"To hell with the tradition if this is what it does to you!"

You faltered. Was it just your current condition, or had your mouth gone very dry? "Wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" You took a steadying breath. "It's not just that. I don't mean it like it's some obligation. I love our sessions! Getting to have that time just for us, having it be our thing, it's the highlight of my week. And it's been a pretty shitty week so I wanted this one thing to be nice."

The fire in Lockwood's words died out, and he almost visibly deflated. His free hand reached up unexpectedly to brush a strand of hair from your face.

"Well, I'm glad it means that much to you, but next time will you please tell me when something's wrong? I can survive missing our date more than I can survive missing you."

Hold on.

You were definitely still ill. Your cheeks felt warm and your heart was pounding against your ribcage. That was the only possible explanation. Definitely nothing to do with the fact that the boy you'd been in love with for months had just called your training sessions a date. Oh god, you'd infected him too, his face was flushed. "Date?" you breathed.

"Only if you want it to be, of course, I don't want to jump to conclusions. Although you did call me 'pretty boy' barely five minutes ago, so I'm sure even George would agree with the legitimacy of my hypothesis." Oh, how you'd missed seeing that smirk he'd grown all of a sudden.

"I'm not entirely sure you can take the high ground on this one, love, when you said even more recently how you couldn't survive without me."

"I think so long as I'm right I can. Especially since, if we're going off who said something last, you couldn't even argue without calling me love."

"I wish we were still holding rapiers, I've got a chance of beating you at that."

Lockwood laughed, all earlier emotions replaced with nothing but tender affection. "Get some sleep, and then we can test that theory." He made to leave, but where your hands were still entwined you tightened your grip a little.

"Will you stay? Please? In case I didn't make it clear enough with fainting, I haven't been doing so great at the whole sleep thing."

When he nodded, you wriggled over to one side of the bed, allowing him to slip under the covers behind you. Everything about him felt cosy, and you snuggled towards that feeling. It took him aback for a moment until he draped an arm over your stomach, gently tugging you closer so the two of you slotted together like you'd been designed to fit one another from the start. His breath tickled your ear, but its constant rhythm slowed yours in turn. Your eyelids grew heavy.

"You know," you mumbled sleepily, "you could take me on a proper date. Only if you want to, of course, wouldn't want to jump to conclusions."

He squeezed you playfully. "I think I've got enough evidence to consider it. Lunch tomorrow if you feel up to it?" You hummed a contented agreement. As your eyes drifted shut, a feather-light kiss pressed against your temple. "Good night, love."

"Good night, pretty boy."

#lockwood & co fanfic #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #gn!reader #lockwood & co

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teddie-bear420 · 7 months

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CHARLIE AND VIVA

The princess of hell and her trusty knight are on a mission to save sinners souls!

Doodles and rambles under the cut, and I mean like walls of text

be aware I make shit up a lot, I was very high on drugs and gay sex

Welcome to the show I’ve made in my head, ok where to begin? I guess with how boring I find Charlie nd vaggie in the show proper, I like them, they just don’t have any real spice to them. Charlie is a just a girl, she has no real friends and just surrounds herself with others problems. Check out the beginning of episode four, husk just says that out loud, we saw it once with angel dust and then they totally drop it for the rest of the show. I wanted to see Charlie fail and get back up again, but we don’t see that! Idk maybe I want more out of the text but I hated to see Charlie act like a baby, not a young woman, I makes me so mad that she isn’t really friends with anyone, no fun dynamics, Charlie kinda just looks at her guests and ‘employees’ but she never sees them. I mean like give me some bff moments with Charlie, she has no friends, she a loser baby!

Vaggie is the best better at making friends, and enemies honestly she is the second protagonist. I hated her until I saw her fuck ass bob. I fell in love

Ok so I made a prequel hazbin design that I just fell in love with, here she is. Ok so girls is bugs, vaggie is a moth and lute is a mantis, they grew up together in heaven. Being raised to be an exorcist was pretty sweet except for the military indoctrination!

Wonderful lute convo here

So vaggie is now in hell and is saved by Charlie, who believes that vag is a sinner. Eventually they get together romantically and start working on the happy hotel project, then they get angle dust as a guest. You know the deal, but how did vag get with Charlie? Who asked who out? I love how loyal vaggie is to Charlie but WHY is she so loyal? I think because Charlie wanted to ask about vaggies life and she took the opportunity to become a new person !

I think having char be the ray of sunshine in such a violent place attracts the lost and broken to her is cool. Vaggie tells ridiculous lies about her human life like being ran over by a horse. And being a pirate captain. Vaggies colors go from green to purple, aesthetic goes from Joan of arc lesbian to a captain Ching Shih lesbian yknow what I mean?

Charlie is taken in with this eccentric woman and befriends her. And also when Charlie and vaggie start to get closer char gifts her the red ribbon that vaggie wears all the time. The pink red is Charlies color and it sticks to all of her friends! Like when angel and Charlie get really close she gifts him the hot pink gloves and he wears them for the duration of the show. (I’ll write about that in another post lol)

MY CHARLIE loves to feed people food she’s made, so she just keeps feeding vaggie and the she starts to beef up, buff 5’4 vaggie lets gooooo. They cook food together and help sinners together. I forgot to mention that Charlie in my perfect world does actual charity work, she works down at the soup kitchen and cleans up the parks and gives people work, Charlie is just constantly busy and never gives herself a day off. Vaggie does her best to help while constantly working on her prodigious.

These girls also work at the local theater! They do a lot of dress up! And i really liked the idea that Charlie is astanged from her dad and is no contact with him. So she isn’t some princess that’s throwing money at the poor. She builds her own motel for the happy hotel project so that when it is destroyed they can build the hotel proper and have an actual emotional impact.

A little comic I sketched of out, Charlie was calling her dad for help with the hotel but he completely shuts her down and calls her idea dumb, I liked when Lucifer was a shitty dad that called Charlie a failure, instead of some sad loser who forgets to call his daughter, like I have a shitty dad and he tore down lots of my ideas and then is confused when I don’t talk to him.

Like idk how there are so many characters with daddy issues but they all are poorly written…

What else is there? Ermmm, I suppose I like Charlie as a demon that looks the most human out of the cast, like sure she has clown makeup as skin but giving her round ears and a demon tail looks super cute. And in the first few episodes Charlie hides her tail and uses it as a belt, and as a show of faith she reveals her tail to the hazbin gang!

#teddz stuff #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel vaggie #chaggie #charlie x vaggie #vaggie x lute #hazbin hotel redesign

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milkbreadandtadpoles · 9 months

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soup and stars

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snip: you keep sukuna's favorite after workout drink in your fridge. and no, you don't frequent that store. sukuna looks at you like you hung the moon and painted the sky yourself when you're either on the brink of death or not paying attention (it's only with his eyes, though. he's a certified rbf). the two of you have been hooking up for over a year with little conversation outside of snarky comments and emojis he doesn't get.

and he sometimes takes care of you when you're sick for five hours only.

warnings: suggestive language, sukuna being a parallel of this guy i used to hookup with who was srsly emotionally constipated and really milked my daddy issues, reader being dumb (lol me), probably a lot of run on sentences and weird descriptions but i am not srry ab it, no Y/N here, a lot of parentheses for some reason

authors note: omg hey. i have this a03 and i thought i'd put a tumblr to pair it together cuz i had an old tumblr but i was kinda done w her (may she rest in peace!) anywayyy my name is lillie, hi again. hope u enjoy this!! luv me some sukuna who reminds me of all my bad flings.

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Since when did you get sick like this?

This time, not that time you lied to your boss, you have an actual stomach bug. Stomach thing. Food poisoning from bad sushi. You don't know.

What you do know, however, is that everything smells bad, you can’t stomach anything other than a handful of saltine crackers. You couldn’t even finish your coffee yesterday morning; you’re just coming down from a fever. Everything is hot and cold, nothing feels right on your skin. Noises are too loud, but the silence is making your ears bleed.

Curled up into the sheets, you shiver. It rocks over you, feeling cold despite your body burning off whatever infection is brewing in your gut. Your skin feels crusty yet damp, scalp itchy and pulled back into two haphazard buns. Stray strands lay over your forehead that twinkles with cold sweat.

Vampire Diaries plays in the background, volume loud enough so you can hear where you’re at within the series but quiet enough to give you grace if you wish to take another four hour nap. You don’t even want to get on your phone, ignoring the occasional, silent buzzes and flashing light that draw your eyes away from the fuzz of your blanket.

Time passes in a druken haze, not knowing whether you slept or not, not feeling entirely there at all. You fail to count the amount of times you got up to throw up or sit on the toilet, thankful the walls are snug enough to rest your head on the wall of it to contemplate if it’s worth passing out before you gather your wits and crawl back into bed.

There’s a rustle in your sheets, a distant sound of intro music for the vampire show.

“You still watchin’ this shit?” A gruff voice sounds from above you.

Your brows furrow in your sleepy haze- you don’t have energy to fight an intruder, pulling the sheets over your head that throbs from lack of everything. Horribly big hands paw at the clothed dip in your waist. And you let out a mixture of a whine and huff at the realization that your little fling (if you could even call it that) picked a horrible day to play.

“Sukuna,” You murmur, drawing the blankets higher above the crown of your head before he has a chance to yank it down and see your very unprepared self, “Not a good time.”

Sukuna, an occasional fuck and lackluster addition to your friend group, scoffs a laugh, muttering something about you really being a freak, something about thanking your dad for giving you all these issues that only he can handle as he gropes the flesh of your ass.

And it would feel so lovely if you weren’t on the brink of death.

“Eggroll. All the eggrolls.”

He groans, lifting his hand away from you in agreement to the safe word (because that one time when the two of you didn't have one and you reacted that way actually scared the shit out of him).

“I’m sick.” You add quietly, urging your body to morph into a tighter ball. If Sukuna were his younger brother, or his younger brother’s friend, you’d ask either of them to cover you with another blanket. Or to refill your water bottle. Maybe even run to the store down the road and grab you some soup. But this is Sukuna, and-

There’s a harsh tug at the blanket covering your head, and you try to weakly grip the fabric in place.

“That’s why you didn’t answer my text? ‘Cause you’re all disgusting and shit?” He questions, giving one more quick tug to reveal your messy hair, the tint to the apples of your cheeks. The way his gaze feels makes the very top of your gut churn, and you scrunch your face as you decide whether or not you need to puke again.

“Mhm.” You nod, begging for the fabric back with a soft tug. Sukuna relents, snorting as you cover your head back up.

His body weight makes your bed frame squeak as he repositions himself to slouch next to you, and you peer at him through the crack of the blanket. He pulls out his phone, typing on it lazily. Through your bubbling stomach, confusion festers simply because he isn’t moving.

“Thought you not replying was you trying to be cute ’n shit.” A hand makes its way onto your lower back, the weight of it making your eyes bulge in silent surprise. With all your strength, you shake your head and whisper a soft sorry. He tuts, like all weirdly immature but mature, rude but nice and confusing older brother types do, dismissing your apology with a little pat on your back.

Another pat, and you’re snuggling into the blankets and letting your eyes close, mapping the way his hand feels and ignoring the way your stomach cramps. You hear the distant sound of a picture being taken, only being able to mutter a humiliated groan. There's a vibration where your phone is, and you know that the group chat has been notified of your predicament.

“You eat? Take a shower?” Sukuna asks, mastering the art of making his concern dismissive. The silence on your end answers everything he needs to know, humming in acknowledgement. You’re a stubborn little shit who likes to suffer in isolation, he’ll give you that.

He synchs a basketball game to your TV, adamantly rotating between patting and rubbing your back until you’re snoring and curled up next to his lap.

When you wake up, you’re still cold, still sweating off your fever. You peers towards the bed, noticing the empty spot but the basketball game still softly playing on the screen. For a moment, you let your head slump back into the mattress before you force yourself out of bed to pee.

The weight in your body is too overwhelming to be horrified by your appearance when you emerge to make your way into a shared bathroom with your roommate. They’re all gone for work, and you don’t have the wit to ask where Sukuna got the time off to come fuck you in the middle of the day. Or why he was looking at your location.

“I forgot how much of a bitchy face you have.” He comments, voice a note softer than you would usually hear, as you pad towards the bathroom. You grumble a quiet fuck you, slinking towards the bathroom.

You fix your hair to the best of your ability- standing up too long made you throw up. Your abdomen feels like it’s gone to three HIT classes in a row, hardly having any reserves to help you stand and brush your teeth. So you do it knelt over the bathtub, making sure to lock the door to make sure that stupid person of interest doesn’t see you so weak.

Rinsing your mouth out knelt over a tub is a new low, spitting the globs of toothpaste and water into the drain before you turn it off and brace the sides of the tub to stand and wander back out into the kitchen. Your bones feel like brittle, a bowling ball in your stomach forcing your posture to look horrifyingly old. It's been two days but you've aged thirty years.

“Hi.” You greet weakly, rubbing your eyes before putting your arms back down as swiftly as you can. When was the last time you shaved?

Sukuna nods back, digging through a plastic bag. It’s only a few seconds before you’re sitting on the floor. The tile makes you twitch, and you wonder how you’re going to get up without looking like a hobbling mess. Maybe you’ll just crawl.

Soup and some electrolyte drinks are set out on the counter- along with your favorite candy. For a moment, your brows furrow, and then your lip wobbles in realization.

“Did you get that for me?”

“Can’t fuck you if you’re all pitiful and disgusting.” Is all he says, but his lip twitches into a bewitching smirk as your eyes well with tears and you sniffle out a sweet thank you. "Of course you’d cry over stupid shit like this." He adds, shaking his head.

His shoes click bluntly against the floor, and he peers down at you with that devastatingly handsome, horribly mean face.

“You could just go fuck another girl.” You murmur sappily, lip jutting into a pout. And it’s true, you know it. The two of you have established that. He throws it in your face, too, when you tell him you’re busy or you’re too sleepy. Or when you simply don’t want to deal with his attitude.

His laugh tickles your heart, staring at him with wide, watery eyes as he bends down and gathers you into his arms. You squirm, or try to, holding any pride and ego close to your chest like a rabid animal as you let out a faux uncomfortable noise. There’s a familiar tap to your ass that urges you to stop, and you sink into Sukuna’s terrifyingly comfortable embrace as he carries you back to your room. The two of you have hardly cuddled before, the absolute most being him begrudgingly letting you cling onto him after one particularly rough night- only to shove you off five minutes later, giving you a pat on the head as if to say good job, thanks for the head, before leaving.

So this is new, awkward, when your semi friend with semi benefits sets you down with the upmost genteel fashion and retreats back into the kitchen. He comes back with an armful of products moments later. Soup, your favorite cup filled with mystery get well liquid, a straw and a big spoon.

“I don’t like big spoons.”

“That’s too fuckin’ bad because that’s what I got- stop pouting like that, it's disgusting.”

Sukuna sets everything down and defiantly does not grab another spoon for you. You make a noise in the back of your throat when he reaches over and urges you to sit up with a silent look that you’re expected to figure out. He lets you maneuver a pillow behind your back, lets you curl a blanket around your body and change the TV back to Vampire Diaries- he does not let you feed yourself.

When you reach for the bowl of soup (your favorite- chicken and stars), he uses only a percentage of his strength to swat your hand away, giving you another demand to stop sulking like a little kid before he’s crawling (crawling!) across the bed. Bowl of soup and too big of spoon in hand, he sits across from and in front of your view from the show.

He leans forward in a sort of endearing way, brows furrowed in a certain concentration as he scoops the perfect spoonful of soup and stars, holding it to your mouth. And he watches when you open your mouth with furrowed brows, lips closing around the dipped metal so that nothing drips down your chin. The broth warms your mouth, your stomach in an instant, making your face relax and your back slump into the pillow that supports you.

There’s a prickle of humiliation on the apples of your cheeks, something Sukuna would likely make fun of if you weren’t half asleep by the time he finishes spoon feeding you. And yea, there was one singular instance of him swiping away fallen liquid away with his thumb. And yea, you’re going to remember that forever. And most definitely are you going to internalize this as something more between the two of you than just friends who fuck (friend being a huge overstatement).

“I don’t like you.” You find yourself murmuring as Sukuna thrusts your clunky, metal, pink water bottle in your face. Obediently, as you always are, you sip at the liquid, swallowing down any grimace as he stares right at you while you swallow.

“You’re not my favorite, either.” He grunts, picking the cup up as soon as you set it down and representing it to you with a face.

“I’m at least second to your video game console.” Your grumble with pursed lips, taking another measly sip. When Sukuna raises his brows, you take a few more.

“Third. Second is pot. And it’s a PS4- fucking nerd.”

The part of your stomach that isn’t cramping to shit flutters, your fever probably rises, and you smile to yourself as you take a big gulp of the electrolyte solution. You swallow before he says the softest atta girl and takes the cup to set it back down.

Sukuna helps you shuffle under three big blankets, gives you your phone and goes to wash the soup bowl. You text Satoru with sick enthusiasm, to which he reiterates it in your (other) group chat where everyone just starts sending silly fangirlish memes. Shoko isn’t phased, Suguru isn’t pleased, either. But there’s an icky smile on your face, the thought of when it’ll end and Sukuna will go back to, well, Sukuna, gnawing at the back of your throat.

But you’ll pretend for today, like you do everyday.

“Are you leaving?” You ask when he comes back into the room, question answered when the bed dips once more.

He grunts a no, to shut up and sleep as he synchs up another sports game. You don’t mind, turning your head so you’re facing him. His back rests against a pillow with a floral case, one of your weighted stuffed animals squished between the weight of his back and the metal bed frame.

You stare with lidded eyes and hot cheeks, tracing the musculature of his shoulders and the sharpness of his face in the same pattern you do after he’s done making you quiver and shake and cry. The plush of the blanket is a perfect excuse for the sheen of sweat on your face, your stomach still molten lava and convulsing.

But it’s just a little more than a dull ache with Sukuna here, bored face and all.

For a moment, before you fall asleep for a third time today, you feel his fingertips, hard and gruff and soft, brush against your cheek, your chapped lips. You’re too tired to hide or quip at him in the static-like fashion that makes him laugh.

You swear you see his lips twitch when you hum affectionately. There’s a text waiting for your friends, a mental scoreboard to update. Smile number two. Four days apart. From holding a sparkler and ogling at it like a child at Satoru’s New Year’s Eve party to laying in bed sick, purring like a cat as he pets you.

“Stop looking like you’re going to die.” He all but requests, covering your face with a sliver of the blanket and looking back at the game. Grabbing the remote, he turns the volume up a few more notches to ignore your itty bitty, very sleepy laugh.

Seconds away from sleep, Sukuna uncovers it- you. His lingering gaze tingles your nose, all the way down to the tips of your toes. Your infatuation with him might as well be the cure to cancer from the faintest spark of energy it gave you.

He’s not there when you wake up. It could have been a fever dream for all you know if it wasn’t for the refilled hydro flask and oddly neat note scribbled for you to ‘drink the fuck up’ on one of your Sanrio sticky notes. There's a brief look of horror on your face knowing that he looked through your drawers to find one.

You drink it all and take a gruesome looking picture, sending it to him with a silly caption- your way of saying thank you. Sukuna doesn’t respond, but the read receipts are on. And he doesn’t talk to you for awhile, as if he curates the perfect way to make you stay by letting the bubbling like for him simmer into nothing, only for it to come back in full force when asks if you’re awake three Thursdays later.He asks if he can still use the key you gave him to come by after the gym to shower because his little brother and friends are over and he doesn’t want to hear them blubber while they figure out their alcohol tolerance (or lack thereof).

A pearly, well built increment of yourself hopes it’s so he’ll check up on you, too, after he slinks into your room and fucks you just the way he likes- because he knows you like it, too.

And you say yes, like you always do. Tell him about this new body wash you got that he can use, that you just so happened to get his favorite drink from the store he get his protein powder and supplements from when you went grocery shopping.

you don’t even like that store lmfao

found a new prebiotic there! Saw it on Pintrest

sure

Sukuna is not immune to exploiting your obvious cartwheels to please him. He’ll never say thank you, and you won’t ever ask him to. You do it for all your friends, you tell him. Shoko’s toothbrush brand is in your bathroom cabinet when she sleeps over. Satoru’s moisturizer and favorite tooth-rotting snacks. Suguru’s blanket because he gets cold at movie nights. But Sukuna knows he could have whatever he asked for within the hour.

He’ll never address that he took care of you when you were sick. Both times. Or that there's a packet of your favorite gum in the console of his car. And he'd rather be dead than you, shit, anyone, find out that there's a hidden album of little you's in his phone.

i’m just a good friend *ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆

we’re not friends.

It doesn’t hurt your feelings. Because you know he’s emotionally constipated, that no one’s ever really cared. Except Yuji, but little brothers always care. That whatever affection and consideration thrown his way will be burnt to a crisp, that he’ll only ever look at you like you hung the stars when no one’s looking, or only think about you at night when the weed isn’t helping him sleep.

uh huh, we sure aren’t. see you later! make sure to stretch before you lift!!

stop texting me, it's fucking up my music

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

#jujutsu kaisen #jujustu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #my works #one shot #drabble #jjk fluff #implied smut #hello i hope you enjoy #i want to chew this sukuna up like a toy!!

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shelby-fangirl00 · 10 months

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No More Hiding-One Shot

Martin x Reader (based on the movie ‘Retreat’) (told in first person pov)

Summary: Martin and y/n put their lives on hold to mend their broken marriage. After spending a few nights in a cottage on an isolated island, a simple fight over dinner evolves into an unavoidable argument.

Warnings: SMUT (18+, MINORS DNI), strong language, angst, mentions of miscarriage.

____________________________________________

“Nothing?” My leg shook uncontrollably from my place on the couch. Goosebumps covered my skin.

“Generators completely fucked. Ya try Doug again?” Martin panted out, rubbing his dusty hands on his blue jeans.

“Still nothing.” I mumbled. He sighed in frustration, throwing his head back and rubbing his hands down his face in frustration.

We sat in between an uncomfortable silence for what seemed like minutes. We’d been married for several years. Everything seemed too sensitive to mention, so what the point in talking?

He finally went for his coat on the rack.

“I’ll get some wood’n get a fire going. We could heat up the soup from last night?” He half-asked me, arching his eyebrow up in question.

I shook my head and headed to the kitchen, choosing not to look in his direction. As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me, watching. Not another word was spoken before I heard the door slam behind him.

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my cheek hard enough to leave a sore behind. I couldn’t cry, not tonight. I felt too exhausted to do much of anything. Everytime I looked into his eyes, I fell apart all over again. Not because of what he did, or rather didn’t do in these past few months, but because I missed my husband. I missed our conversations, his jokes and questionable opinions on things. I missed his touch. I missed his laugh. I even missed our pointless arguments because at least we both cared enough to fight.

We didn’t even do that anymore. This dreadful grudge inside of me was still clenching onto the past.

He hadn’t tried to touch me in months. Not since before the miscarriage. I still seemed fragile to him, easily broken.

He’d stopped trying but so did I. I was too heartbroken to even offer. I feared that I forgotten what his touch felt like.

I inhaled sharply as the door swung open minutes later and Martin grunted inside, his arms full with firewood. He plopped them down onto the rug beside the fireplace, rubbing his hands together and kneeling over to get started. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I never acknowledged him either.

I worked to pour our leftover vegetable soup into an old rusty pot. Filling it to the brim, my hands shakily clung to the handles. I turned towards the living room and just as I did, myself and the pot slammed into the back of Martin, causing me to falter back and hit the counter. The pot smashed to the ground with a loud crash and spilt out onto myself and the kitchen floor.

“Fuck!” I yelled, almost startling Martin. He was frozen in place.

“Jesus, Martin! Did you not see me and this massive fucking pot behind you?!” My hands flew up over my head in frustration.

Martin rolled his eyes before folding his arms over his chest defensively. My eyes flew down the rolled up sleeves of his fuzzy blue sweater. The tendons in his forearms flexed.

“Oh fuck off, y/n. That wasn’t my fault. You weren’t loo-

“Yes-yes it is your fucking fault! Jesus Christ, will you ever learn to take responsibility for your shit actions!!?”

Martin’s body froze as his eyes pierced into my heart. I instantly regretted my choice in words. The double meaning was obvious to us both.

Instead of biting back at me with anger, his shoulders softened and he stepped closer into me, touching his chest with mine. His lips practically hovered over my own. We hadn’t been this close in months.

The cage of butterflies resting in my stomach break wide open. His heady scent filled my lungs and my eyes fluttered shut. I missed him so much.

“I just can’t do this back and forth with you anymore. I-I just want my wife back. We came here to work on our shit and I want to do that. You have to let me in again.”

My heart shattered in my chest as I watched tears well up in his eyes, something I saw so rarely. Tears stained my own cheeks at the sight. His chest heaved.

Do you want me back too?” He practically whispered, scared of the tears that threatened to fall down his face.

His fingers touched the tips of my own and my body ignited. I hadn’t realized until this moment that our skin hadn’t touched in so long. He waited for me to say the words, to give him access to myself once more. His eyes bored into my own with such longing and need. I held his gaze with my own exhausted one.

“Oh course I do, Martin. I-I lov-

My words were cut off by his supple lips crashing harshly into mine. All the doubts and hesitations I had before washed off of my body. I had forgotten how good it felt to be pressed against his warm body, to feel his skin on my own. I couldn’t help but melt into his arms.

His hand krept up, squeezing my face. Just as he did so, I opened my mouth, allowing him full access to me. He greedily took it, pushing his tongue gently into my mouth. We both sighed in relief at the sensation.

Pulling away, he fought to catch his breath as he searched my eyes for any sign of discomfort. There was none. I smiled softly up at him.

His eyes lit up, making my heart sore.

He pressed his forehead into mine, still holding my face in his hands.

“It’s been too fucking long since I touched you.”

His words sent a familiar heat between my legs that I hadn’t felt in ages.

“I know…I know we have so much to work through, this doesn’t make any of it go away. But I fucking need you right now.”

I pulled him in by his neck, suffocating him with my lips. I felt him chuckle, smiling into the kiss. His mouth quickly caught up.

Before I knew it, Our sludge covered clothes were quickly disregarded as we undressed each other hastily in the kitchen.

I broke the kiss, staring down at his exposed body that I hadn’t seen in so long. He was slender but trim. Tanned skin and freckles scattered all over his chest in that annoyingly perfect way.

It was in this moment, standing there in my bra and panties, I realized how much of an effect pregnancy had on my body and how little he endured physically. I wasn’t the same woman he used to be in love with, both physically and emotionally. Everything had changed me.

Becoming more aware of how quickly this had all escalated, I crossed my arms over my stomach, attempting to hide as much as possible from him. I sought out his approval, always.

Seeing nerves wrack through mg body, he stepped closer, running his rough hands softly against the newfound stretch marks over my belly and hips that Ive never let him see.

“You’re even more perfect than I remembered.” He suddenly kneeled down in front of me, holding my hips in place as he kissed over the marks softly.

Every kiss sent a shiver up my spine. I smiled softly, brushing his thick hair back with my hands. He hummed into my skin.

Then his eyes met mine.

“I needed to be there for you and I wasn’t. Will you let me be there for you now?” He whispered as he fisted the fabric sitting at my waist, pulling it down to my ankles and gently lifting my feet up to step out of them.

He sighed in satisfaction and licked his lips slowly, staring between my legs. I squirmed anxiously under his stare.

“Relax, love.”

My head fell back in a sigh as his mouth disappeared from under me. He kissed against my slit before tracing his tongue up and down, collecting the wetness of my hole onto his tongue.

My hands fisted in his hair as I leaned my ass against the countertop. Without stopping, he pushed my leg up and over to rest on his shoulder, giving him more access to my pussy. He turned his head into me more, groaning at the taste. I pushed him into me even further with my leg.

“You taste so good” he mumbled out, never stopping as his tongue became more erratic, flicking up and over my clit. His single finger teased my hole, pushing it in just far enough to leave me wanting more and then removing it completely again.

“Please…” I didn’t even know what I was begging for at this point.

“Tell me you want me baby, tell me how good i make you feel.” He pulled away to moan out.

“I want you inside of me, Martin please” I gasped as he shoved his tongue in and out of my pussy without warning, swirling it around inside of me.

“Then come for me baby. Let go for me. Then I’ll fuck you.” He grunted out more harshly this time. He was always dominant in bed and I had missed being his ‘good girl.’

So I came as quickly as he demanded it.

His tongue didn’t relent as my leg squeezed around his back, shaking uncontrollably. White dots blurred my vision as I came hard as fuck on his mouth. He forced my hips into his face, holding them hostage until I was completely spent.

Once my legs relaxed again, he wasted no time to stand up and release his hard cock from his briefs, fisting it in his hand as he smiled deviously. His chin glistened with my juices that he didn’t bother to wipe off. Instead, he grabbed my face harshly and shoved his tongue down my throat, forcing me to taste myself. His hand wrapped around my throat as he did so.

“Turn around and bend over the counter.” His voice scared the shit out of me in the best way. I must’ve not moved quickly enough for him, because he grabbed my waist and roughly turned me around and pushed my chest into the cold countertop. My tits smashed down onto the counter, making me whimper.

He ran his hand down my spine and grazing down my ass, until his fingers reached my pussy again.

His fingers massaged my clit softly before smacking my pussy with his palm. I gasped at the sensation, my eyes shooting open.

“Spread your legs.” You did at an embarrassing speed.

“Do I give you what you need?”

“No.” I lied. Of course he did. But I wanted him to fuck me senseless, needed it. I wanted to wake up sore and bruised from him.

He chuckled lowly at the challenge. Without warning, he slammed into me, making me yelp.

“Did you already forget who owns this pussy? Did you forget what purpose this cunt serves? Me. All mine, yeh?”

When I didn’t answer fast enough, he leaned over my back to hook his two fingers into my cheek, pulling me up by my mouth. I cried out, drool running down my chin as he fucked into me harshly.

I was immobilized. He had full control over my body and I loved every second of it. My body rocked back and forth to the rhythm of his thrusts.

The delicious sounds of our skin slapping together and his panting made my walls squeeze around his cock.

Thank god he couldn’t see my face because I looked completely fucking wrecked.

“Martin!” I tried to yell out with his fingers holding my mouth open, but it just sounded like nonsense.

A slap echoed off the walls of the kitchen as his hand punished my ass, finally releasing my face, making me gasp at air.

“Fuck, I forgot how good you feel inside of me Martin.” I moaned out, grasping at the counter for something to hold onto but finding nothing.

“I’ll never let you forget what my cock feels like again, ya hear me? That’s a promise.”

I groaned out at the sound of his voice. God, everything about this man was sexy, it was so unfair!

He pumped in and out of me so viciously, hitting every spot that no other man had before him.

His thrusts became sloppier and his fingers clenched down on my hips. Then he pulled out suddenly. I whimpered in response.

“Face me, on your knees now. I wanna cover that pretty face with my come.”

Without hesitation, i fell to my knees. I placed my hands on my thighs and straightened my back.

He tugged at his cock harshly, making my heart stop and my pussy throb again.

I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. A loud groan left his mouth followed by warm shots of come landing all over my tongue and cheeks and eventually dripping off of my nose.

He chuckled at the state of me. It would be humiliating if I wasn’t practically vibrating from the encounter.

I felt him kneel down in front of me. He wiped my eyes clean along with my cheeks. I licked my lips greedily before smiling up at Martin.

He smiled proudly back at me, caressing his hand against my cheek before lending me a hand off of the floor.

“Now, help me clean up this mess you made?” I said cheekily, winking at him.

He rolled his eyes before shooting a dazzling smile at me, almost making me melt all over again.

We both dressed and dropped back down, helping each other clean up the mess that both of us made.

I’m shite at ending these things, sorry:/

Taglist:

@lyarr24

@forgottenpeakywriter

@casa-boiardi

@tigernach575

@crabat-the-queen

@adaydreamaway08

@everysage

@yurmomsawh0r

@delusionalxoxo

@trixie23

@star017

#cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian one shot #cillian murphy imagine #cillian smut #cillian fic #cillian x y/n

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cognitivelypartiallyfurnished · 3 months

Text

Iwaizumi Hajime in "On and about with the hq-boys"🛫

-a series of airport drabbles

Previous: Nishinoya Yu “Your cuteness is making everyone stare. Stop it.”

Masterlist

Next: Suna Rintaro “I thought you knew that you´ve always been my favorite.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"I´m not gonna get sick, just let me hold you!"

Maybe you’ve overdone it again. But on how many occasions does the groupchat plan become reality? Exactly. Probably just this once. A whole week of drinking cheap champagne for breakfast, a beer for lunch, wine for dinner and participating in the happy hour rush got you in the mess that you are right now. Not only your liver was hanging on for dear life, apparently your immune system took a hit as well. Being in a room full of people for hours every night is the reason you´re exciting the plane at the Tokyo International Airport with a slight fever and a big headache. All you want to do is lie in your bed, so you try to gather up all your strength to grab your luggage and make your way to the arrival’s hall, where your boyfriend is kind enough to pick you up. As soon as he sees you, he is by your side, about to go in for a kiss.

“Haji stop, I´m sick and I´d rather not infect you!”

But he really doesn’t care, just one look after a whole week without you makes him desperate enough to throw away all concerns about his health.

“I´m not going to get sick, you baby. Just let me hold you!”

is all he says, before finally leaning in for a sensual kiss. You can’t say that you didn’t miss this feeling. When your vision is about to turn blurry from the lack of oxygen, you softly push him back a bit, a delirious smile on your face.

“I want another, maybe we can be sick together, then we can catch up on all the time I had to be here without you!” he proclaims.

“No, one of us has to be able to go down the store for medicine or some soup, and that’s gonna be you for the next few days, I feel like shit!”

“We´ll see about that.”

Maybe, after a warm soup and some hot tea he can steal another kiss from you, after all he feels quite deprived of your affection after your girls-trip. For now, he is glad to be able to hold you again, even if it means to catch whatever you’re having as well.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A/N: I can´t be bothered to proofread today, I´m just enjoying the thunderstorm thats raging outside.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq fluff #hq drabble #hq x reader #haikyuu x y/n #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi haijime x reader #iwaizumihajimeathletictrainer

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gaslightgatekeepgirlbosscombat · 10 months

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Group H, Round 4, Poll 2:

Propaganda under the cut

Li Lianhua/Li Xiangyi

All men do is lie. He's a "miracle physician" (citation needed) who lies himself out of every situation he's in. Didn't so much as fake his death, rather let everyone believe he was dead and then lie to their face when asked about who he really is. Convinces everyone he's just a weak doctor who doesn't know any martial arts but has a cunning mind, despite the fact that he literally used to be the head of the martial arts world before being poisoned. Somehow nearly everyone he meets is in love with him. He's everything to me

#THE LI LIANHUA PROPAGANDA LEFT OUT HIM DRUGGING PEOPLE MULTIPLE TIMES #TO AVOID (POTENTIALLY) GETTING ASKED ABOUT THE ISSUES HE IS CHOOSING TO LOOK AWAY FROM AND NOT SEE #ALSO THE TIME SOMEONE FIGURED OUT HIS TRUE IDENTITY BUT THEN THEY FELL UNCONSCIOUS #AND HE GOT AWAY WITH IT BY TELLING THEM THEY HAD BEEN HALLUCINATING WHEN THEY WOKE UP

#if he doesn’t lie thirty-seven times a day he will die #you could show him a dna test proving he is li xiangyi and he’d deny it to your face

#HE ONCE SAYS TO A CHARACTER THAT ‘HE NEVER LIES’ TO GET OUT OF A SITUATION AND THAT WAS A BIG FAT LIE #TELLS A CHARACTER AN INTRICATE STORY ABOUT FINDING HIS OWN CORPSE ON THE BEACH COMPLETE WITH PHYSICAL EVIDENCE AND ALL JUST SO THE CHARACTER #REACHES THE CONCLUSION THAT HES DEAD #HE GATEKEEPS THE VIEWER FROM KNOWING HIS FULL STORY ON RELIABLE TERMS AND YOU HAVE TO PIECE IT TOGETHER PAINSTAKINGLY

#continuously lies to the person he calls his jianghu bff to evade his questions regarding his identity #puts on a mask and defends the bff in fights#then shows up later like #🥺 wow that was so scary glad you were here to protect me! i have no martial arts skills #evades arrest by pretending like being shoved against a wall broke his ribs #'🥺 i'm just a little guy and you're so strong you'd better check out my ribs' #and then throws knockout powder at him

Ianthe Tridentarius

She is trying so hard to be the main character by lying and manipulating her sister, her cavalier, her mentor, her ?love interests? (Spoiler???) And also god. Not sure how it's working out for her but she does love to lie and manipulate

Worstie Ianthe is the DEFINITION of gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss. She is one of a set of necromancer twins that are the heirs to their houses rule. Except wait, only she is a necromancer and she has spent their entire lives doing necromancy for the both of them. She is constantly mean to their cavalier, Naberius, who she occasionally nibbles on like a chew toy, before eventually killing and eating him to ascend to sainthood. She goes to gods spaceship with another woman who ascended to sainthood who she has a crush on, this other woman is like…. Both incredibly mentally unwell and also haunted by at least 211 ghosts. Ianthes method of flirting with her? Gaslighting her about the corpse that keeps moving around and hiding under her bed. For no real reason tbh. She is clearly plotting to overthrow god, and at the moment that consists of her manipulating him while he’s too sad about his long term partners betraying him and subsequently exploding to really care. She dresses in terrible outfits and makes soup by burning onions to the bottom of a pot, putting meat in and some vegetables and then it doesn’t taste like anything so she puts in a few teaspoons of salt so it tastes like a few teaspoons of salt. She had her crush amputate her arm and regrow her a new one out of bone and it’s one of the horniest things I’ve read in my life.

"Gaslight = told her lobotomized (she helped), schizophrenic girlobsession that there was no corpse under their bed, even tho there totally was. Gatekeep = girl did NOT share the secret to god-like ascension. She kept that shit to herself until it was time to eat her boytoy, and by then everyone knew already. Girlboss = she has a non-necromancer twin sister, and literally Everyone thinks they r both necromancers because Ianthe is so good at it. She reverse engineered ascending to the aforementioned ascension without even completing any of the supplementary tasks. She held her own in a fight against a 10k year old lyctor. She becomes the figurehead of her entire empire. "

She uses a man as a chewtoy in the first book, literally gaslights the protagonist of the second book about a corpse, and elder-abuses God when he gets depressed in the third book. Nobody is doing it like her.

Dives headfirst with no regrets while basically laughing and covered in blood into murdering her cavalier once she realizes what the gothic locked room mystery/competition leads to while everyone else is questioning it, helps perform lobotomy on harrow so she doesn't remember the person she loves, manipulates everyone to get to the top

idk just everything about her

her relationship with her sister is incredibly Bad, she fosters codependency and views Corona(the sister) as an extension of herself. This does not stop her from keeping up the con that Corona actually has magic (She doesn't, it was always just Ianthe) for 22ish years and every single person who interacts with them falls for it. She killed a man against his will (most dying for this purpose specifically go willingly) and she consumed him and she will be burning his soul for eternity. She's completely repulsive and still somehow incredibly hot.

she takes advantage of the fact that the main character is prone to hallucinations. at one point she gaslights the mc into believing that the corpse under her bed isn't real just because she can. she reverse engineered a set of very complex trials on her own without anyone realizing she had the skills to complete them normally. she's also babysat god through his drunk and pathetic era.

#round 4 #group h #Li Lianhua #Li Xiangyi #Mysterious Lotus Casebook #tlt #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth #the locked tomb #ianthe tridentarius #cw ianthe tridentarius #ianthe the first

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aerodaltonimperial · 4 months

Note

Passive aggressive Jack letting Hook know he is mad by committing every Italian cooking taboo he can think of. Looking him dead in the eye as he breaks the pasta.

(this is the funniest prompt i have ever received, i need you to know this - 💚🧡)

Okay, at first, it could have been... not intentional. Jack's quiet, but, like, he's sometimes like that, and it doesn't always mean anything bad, it just means he's all up in his head about something, and normally Hook just lets him work it out 'cause Jack won't give anything away unless he's good and ready. But it ends up hitting 5 minutes with Hook standing on the other side of the kitchen island while Jack cooks, and Jack hasn't said a word, and Hook... may have misjudged this.

Shit. Did he do something? He doesn't think he did. Did he forget something? Oh, god. Oh, god, what day is it. He's so fucking bad at remembering things. Is today important? Fuck. What month is it? He's panicking when Jack finally raises his face, looking up from the pot of boiling water. He's got the spaghetti in his hands, all bunched together.

He glares at Hook, holds his gaze, and cracks the spaghetti pile in half.

Oooooookay, that's bad. Shit, Hook's absolutely fucked up. He's forgotten something, or he did something, or is it possible that Jack had a dream where Hook did something and he's punishing him for it? No, no, Jack wouldn't do that. Jack's not the kind who...

...pours a jar of pizza sauce into the bubbling pan while the pasta hasn't softened at all.

Oh my god, Hook's gonna die.

"How's... how's your mom?" he asks, though his mouth has gone dry.

"Great," Jack replies. He doesn't break the staring contest as he twists off another lid and dumps the whole jar of oyster sauce into the pasta soup.

Oh my god, why would he even buy oyster sauce?

"Uh," Hook tries. "How's your..."

The rest dies on his tongue as Jack pours in a bottle of worcestershire. Jesus christ. Hook's entire family tree is rolling in their graves right now.

He has to leave the kitchen, but it was the wrong choice, because when Jack finally sets the food in front of him, the pasta is.... soup. It's fucking soup, and it's about the run off the plate. Hook spots chunks of pineapple swimming in the abomination.

Jack leans down, hands on his knees and falsely bright smile plastered on his face. "What day is today?"

"...Monday?"

"Well, you got close," Jack says. "It does end in y. How about an easier question."

Hook squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to look at the crimes against food mocking him from the plate. "Please don't."

"What date is today?"

"The... 10th?"

"It's the 22nd," Jack tells him. "So if you subtract four, what day would it have been four days ago?"

"The..." Oh no. Oooooooh no. "The one-year anniversary of... oh god." He's sweating; it's beading up on his forehead and falling into the food and he can only imagine that it would improve this absolute fucking horror show.

"Yeah," Jack says.

Hook swallows, and it hurts. "I forgot our anniversary."

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna have to eat this, aren't I?"

"Every single bite."

He can't. He'll throw up. He'll throw up, and Jack will absolutely dump the rest of the plate on his head, and he'll have to explain to everyone why his boyfriend broke up with him and gave him a concussion. "I love you?"

"Don't even think about it, asshole," Jack whispers. "You're gonna eat all of that, and then we'll see."

Dear god in heaven. Hook utters a silent prayer slash apology to all his ancestors shrieking in the great beyond, picks up his fork, and prepares to give his entire fucking life, and possibly his functioning stomach, to his relationship.

#tag so you don't lose this shit

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save-the-villainous-cat · 1 year

Text

Cat’s 3K Series

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Part Three

By the end of the week, the hero was an expert in stitching. It was a lot of work.

On the outside, the villain didn’t look that bad but once the hero removed their clothing, the amount of cuts and bruises was scary. Their whole body was full of them and the hero had to use a lot of thread. There were also smaller wounds which the hero covered up with band aids.

Unfortunately, they only had coloured ones with comic animals (their niece had wanted those a while ago) which at first, had made the villain protest again. However, the hero had somehow managed to convince them that the colour of those band aids had absolutely nothing to do with their functionality.

One time, the hero caught them trying to escape again, limping, they’d aimed for the door but the hero had pulled them back, pressing their bodies against each other, hands on the villain’s chest. Handcuffs were useless, the hero had decided. Maybe that was a good excuse but the hero also had seen the marks those handcuffs had left on them.

Slowly, the week passed and slowly, all of the villain’s wounds were stitched and cared for, even those which reopened frequently thanks to their great struggling. The hero placed the last band aid on the villain’s jaw.

“You know,” the hero mumbled. “You’re a fucking pain in my ass.”

The villain’s eyes jumped to the hero’s.

“No dirty joke?” the villain asked.

Yeah, no dirty joke. With the villain around them 24 hours a day, it was more than a little complicated to play a role. Either that and crying themselves to sleep every night or walking around like an exhausted ghost all day. They’d decided on doing the latter.

The agency had urged them to file a report but the hero had called in sick. They knew they couldn’t do this for eternity.

The hero didn’t answer them.

“Your stitches are awful,” the villain said. “They look horrible.”

“You’re mean.” The hero looked at one of the stitches, slightly uneasy now.

“I didn’t ask you to treat my wounds.”

The hero didn’t say anything.

“Still don’t get it why you do all this shit. The agency is bad, I get that. But they’re heroes. Can’t be that bad.”

The hero stared at them, something close to a murder stare.

“You know nothing,” they said. They pushed the flashbacks into the corners of their brain. Deep down so they wouldn’t have to dig them up again. “There are some leftovers in the fridge, take them if you want to.”

The hero stood up and looked down at their shaking fingers. They breathed in, breathed out. But it didn’t go away.

Usually it did but with the agency right behind them, asking for mission reports and more work, psychic evaluations and health check ups and another mission, they couldn’t even fall asleep anymore. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring the villain here. Maybe they were better off alone.

“I don’t wanna eat your trash food.”

“You know what?” The hero turned around with a burning face. “You’re a massive fucking asshole. I saved your life, more than once by now and you do nothing but insult me.”

Anger and exhaustion mixed together, creating a poisonous soup the hero was more than ready to throw in the others face.

“I know my cooking isn’t the fucking best, alright? I know it sucks but I’m trying really hard to keep us both alive.” The hero’s hands formed into fists and they dug their fingernails into the palms of their hands. “Fine. Just leave if you want to. Leave.”

The villain had the audacity to actually look surprised. A little shocked too. What a joke.

“I won’t drag you back into this apartment. Leave. Escape. Whatever. I don’t care. I have better things to do.”

Blinded by overwhelming emotions, they grabbed their suit and walked out of the door. They accepted the mission the agency had given to them on their mobile phone.

Turned out, irrational decisions were the worst. The hero had suspected that with bringing the villain into their home but now, they were certainly sure this was their end.

Apparently their opponent’s evaluation was ridiculously wrong. The information the agency had sent to the hero had described them as “insufficient” and “negligibly violent.” They were anything but.

Within five minutes of the fight, the hero already had a broken rib and a sprained ankle. Ten minutes in and the hero had turned into prey that got hunted. The hero tried desperately to hide, to block where they could but it didn’t get them far. They got hit, could barely escape, got dragged back into the whole mess. Their opponent wasn’t enormous in size but they were quick. Focused. Agile.

The hero wheezed when another strong hit went to their stomach. They felt the crack and the pain, felt how tears formed in their eyes.

They made a noise, a horrible noise and broke down.

“Nothing personal,” their opponent said, voice deep. The hero fought for air but nothing filled up their lungs. Not fair. Not fair.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

Their tears fell to the ground and they gasped for oxygen which eventually found its way into their lungs.

They hadn’t made dinner yet. What if the villain really didn’t like the leftovers? But they’d eaten yesterday…

They squeezed their eyelids together. What were they even thinking about? The villain had probably left the house already, licking their wounds like a hurt dog in their lair.

What a thought. The apartment would be so quiet…

With time, they managed to breathe evenly. But weren’t they tired of fighting? Weren’t they just so, so done with everything?

“Who sent you?” the hero asked.

“I sent myself,” they said. “Wanted to see how strong those little heroes have become. Wanted to experiment a bit with you.”

Experiment.

“Please,” the hero begged.

Their throat went dry. Their breathing changed, breaking, crumbling in their control. They knew they couldn’t afford this right now but god it had never been this bad before. They grasped their suit, gripped the fabric stretching over their chest. It was hot. It was way too hot.

Tears streamed down their face. Experiment.

And then, suddenly, they felt a hand on their shoulder.

“This one is mine.” The hero looked up, finding the villain’s eyes easily. They wanted to cry out of happiness but the building panic attack prohibited it.

The opponent tilted their head, their eyes jumping between the villain and the hero.

“Where have you been?”

“I kidnapped them, they escaped,” the villain lied. Their fingers combed through the hero’s hair and they shushed. “Mistake on my part.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” the opponent asked. Slowly, the hero got a grip on reality. This wasn’t the end. It wasn’t the end, wasn’t the end, wasn’t the end—

“They became attached to me accidentally. I didn’t know if you’d approve,” the villain said. “I wanted them for myself.”

The hero saw the tension in the villain’s jaw, how they swallowed forcefully. They knew each other.

The opponent watched them carefully, suspiciously.

“Fine with me. Make them your puppy.” They looked at the villain intensely. “But don’t forget about my puppy back at home, will you?”

The hero didn’t understand the threat. However, when the villain carried them to the hero’s car, they understood that the villain had come to rescue them.

#Joan going to war is such a mood #some people really make you want to go to war #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #request #3K

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galaxymagitech · 6 months

Text

Bleed the Poison Out

Written for Dick Grayson Anniversary Week: Day 3 Prompt: Apologizing to Dick

@dickgraysonweek

Summary

When is an apology not an apology?

Bruce apologizes to Dick. The apology turns into an argument and the argument turns into another apology. Standing on the smoking dumpster-fire of the past, Dick tries to find a way on. Two steps forwards, one step back.

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Discussions of physical and emotional abuse, possibly depiction of emotional abuse.

Dick drives home in the rain. It’s a good thing that there aren’t very many cars on the highway at this time of night, because he’s doing a pretty poor job of keeping his eyes on the road.

The car skids through a puddle, throwing up a dirty, toxic spray of water onto his windows. Dick ignores it and tries to keep his hands from shaking on the wheel. Things had been going well, damn it! He’d been trying, Bruce had been trying. Batman and Nightwing. Batman and Batman. Surely, the two of them can get along if they just put their fucking minds to it.

But Damian had needled and Jason had raged and Tim had gotten that closed-off look of his and Duke had thrown up his hands in disgust and stormed out, and that had left Dick and Bruce standing on opposite sides of the cave, tempers high and rising higher.

It hadn’t gone well. The fight wasn’t even supposed to be about the two of them, but Dick couldn’t resist bringing up old arguments, could he? It didn’t matter that he was right, they had fucking moved on, and—

Dick swerves, ignoring his turn signal as he crosses over a lane and then onto an exit in an almost 90 degree angle. The momentum throws him against his seat, but he makes it out into Blüdhaven. He needs to focus and leave the self-reflection for when he’s not manning a several-ton souped-up vehicle.

---

Twenty minutes later, Dick enters his apartment, tossing his keys on the table by the entrance with a tired sigh. Immediately, he feels on edge. There’s someone else here with him. It could be one of his siblings, it could be Deathstroke, it could be anyone, but—but it’s probably Bruce. The World’s Greatest Detective can’t ever just leave things be, can he?

That’s not fair. Dick doesn’t leave things alone either. It’s just that he normally waits until the argument’s already started to bring shit up instead of seeking out fights.

He catches a glimpse of a suspiciously-Bruce-shaped shadow and forces himself to relax. If this fight is going to get nasty again, he deserves a cup of coffee first.

Unfortunately, Bruce clearly doesn’t have the same plan, shifting silently out of the darkness.

“Hey,” Dick says, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. He steps into the kitchen and considers the table. There are five chairs, which isn’t enough for all his siblings, but it’s all that could fit. When the Titans are over or there’s a large Batkid gathering, they normally hang out in the living room, sprawled all over the couch and the softest rug Dick could find. It’s now covered in stains, mostly pizza sauce (and some blood, not that the stains look much different), but is still just as soft as it was when he bought it.

“Dick,” Bruce says quietly. Bruce, because the man surprisingly isn’t wearing his Batman suit. Dick resists the urge to comment on it.

“Bruce,” Dick responds, because he likes being difficult.

“Sit down,” Bruce says. Dick bristles. He knows that’s just how Bruce talks a lot of the time, short and to the point, but this is Dick’s apartment and he’s certainly not going to let Bruce stand over him while he yells.

“You sit down,” Dick says tiredly. Surprisingly, Bruce…does. He takes a seat at the table, facing the wall, hands clasped together. Dick cautiously walks around the table and sits across from him. He can see all the exits in the room, but Bruce is between him and them. Was that purposeful? Everything is purposeful, with Bruce, but Dick should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. Bruce is paranoid as hell and would prefer to be sitting where Dick is, with a clear view of everything. Dick in-between him and the exit wouldn’t even be a consideration for Bruce. It shouldn’t be a consideration for Dick, not in his own fucking apartment, where he should be able to kick Bruce out if he feels trapped with him. But if Bruce wants to talk, he’ll talk, and now Dick can’t storm out without getting his path blocked.

For a moment, Dick considers voicing his thought process out loud. He’s well aware of how crazy it sounds, thinking about exits and danger and seating preferences like this. And he kind of wants to shove that in Bruce’s face, like, look, look what I’m thinking about, is that normal, Bruce?

But he doesn’t say a word, just watches Bruce until his mentor is ready to speak. Dick’s paranoia is more of a reflection on himself than a judgement on Bruce.

“Are we okay?” Bruce asks.

What a stupid question. An hour ago, they were wrapped up in a vicious screaming match. “What do you think, B?” Dick deflects.

“I want us to be okay,” Bruce tells him earnestly. “I…you brought up a lot, when we talked.” Talked. That’s one word for it. More like screamed at the top of their lungs. “I didn’t know all that was still weighing on you. Some of what you said, it’s been years.” That sounds like an accusation. “I’m concerned.”

“It’s not like we ever talk about things after the fact,” Dick says. “What, do you think I’m going to just get over things? Well, that’s not how it works, B—” He cuts himself off before he says more. If he continues speaking, he’ll get patronizing.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dick snorts. Does he want to talk about it? Of course he does, but every time he brings up past disputes, it just makes the present ones worse. “You know,” Dick says, “I think we could’ve been fine if you just apologized. But you never did.” Thrown in there is the assumption that Bruce owes him an apology. It’s so out of nowhere that Dick can feel tiny electric spikes prickling across his sweaty palms. Bruce won’t take this lying down.

“I’m.” Bruce looks down at his hands. Up. Meets Dick’s eyes so intensely that it’s painful, and then says three words. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

And. And. And—

And something inside him sinks and something inside him floats and he feels like he’s been crushed even as he’s cleaved in two. This is all Dick has ever wanted to hear. The fact that Bruce is saying it is miraculous. Dick never would have expected this. He expected another argument at worst, and at best a simple handoff of a case with the implicit message that he’s still allowed in Gotham. Not an apology. So, it’s amazing, it really is. But it’s not enough.

Too little, too late, Dick wants to say, but that’s not really fair, is it? And he wants to say it, but he doesn’t want to mean it. Just say it because he could mean it, and then watch Bruce’s face fall, and then reconcile. That’s cruel of him. He shouldn’t be trying to cause pain. He should be trying to fix this. This is the best opportunity he’s gotten to fix things in years, maybe since Jason’s death. He does want to fix this, right?

“You have to say it’s not my fault.” The words slip out before Dick can even realize he’s about to say them. Immediately, he winces at how childish he sounds. He’s adding on requirements, moving the goalposts. And yet, he’s spent years trying to apportion the blame for their every fight, and this could settle that once and for all. Dick needs this.

There’s a long pause, and Dick thinks that maybe this is where Bruce draws the line. But then—“It wasn’t your fault that I…hurt you,” Bruce agrees.

“Get out,” Bruce had ordered.

“I’m not going until you get your head out of your ass.”

“Get out, now, before I get you out!”

And Dick, well, he could never do anything but pick at a scab until it bleeds. “Yeah, how’s that work? Going to hit me, Bruce? Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Wouldn’t be the first time Dick has brought that up in an argument, either. But it’s the first time Bruce hadn’t just shot right past it. Tonight is the first time Bruce is actually acknowledging it.

Dick closes his eyes. He should be watching Bruce, soaking in every second of this. After all, he’s only going to get this apology once. But Dick can’t bear to look at him.

“Do you even understand what you’re apologizing for?” Dick pushes. “Is this about me, about us, or is it you just being upset about your lack of self-discipline?” He doesn’t mean to, he swears. He never means to start a fight, to turn what should be a conversation into an argument, but he always does it anyway. It’s a twisted talent for incitation and escalation, his dramatic stage presence turned toward making his life hell. But no—he’s the one speaking. He can’t pin his constant confrontational attitude on something nebulous like “stage presence.” He has to take responsibility. Dick knows exactly what he’s doing, and he can’t—no, he doesn’tstop.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Bruce says quietly. “You’ve made a valid point that I’ve ignored your boundaries. And when you confronted me after—after Jason’s death, I…shouldn’t have hurt you.”

A valid point. Like Bruce is the final arbiter of that, judge and jury and his executioner’s axe is hanging right over Dick’s neck. It grates on him and his hands twitch, begging to curl into fists. Instead, he smooths them out palm-down on the table and presses lightly, enough to soothe himself without becoming threatening. Bruce doesn’t mean anything by the phrasing, it’s basically like lawyer language, carefully worded so as not to offend. Like Dick is a bomb that can be set off at any moment. The pressure of his hands on the table is the only thing holding his anger in. A valid point. Boundaries. Hurt you. Dick snorts. “Call it what it is, B. You hit me.”

Bruce, to his credit, doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

How dare he be so calm? Dick is fighting everything in him not to yell right now, not to scream and fight and shout. And maybe that’s a sign that he’s everything that’s wrong in their not-quite-father-son relationship, because Bruce is sitting there calmly and apologizing even as Dick gives him a hard time about everything. “You hit me more than that. You didn’t mention those. Just right after Jason.”

“Once more,” Bruce says. “I’ve hit you twice and I—I apologized for the second time.”

The second time—though Dick isn’t even entirely sure it’s the second time, too many alternate timelines and ambiguous mental influence situations warping everything, making it impossible to keep count (and there’s a subtle sort of horror there, that he has to keep count)—the second time, Dick hit first. Bruce was being an asshole, abandoning his civilian identity and the entire family along with it, but Dick hit him first, and he hasn’t exactly apologized for it either. “I don’t care about that one. I attacked you. You defended yourself. It’s fine. You didn’t even need to apologize. But when you—when you thought Gordon was dead…I tried to stop you from going too far, and you hit me. I was just trying to help.”

“I’m sorry if you feel hurt by that, but—”

“I do,” Dick interrupts. How is Bruce supposed to apologize if Dick keeps interrupting? “I do feel hurt, because I was hurt, because you hit me. It’s not if.”

Bruce exhales. “I’m sorry that you feel hurt by that incident, but I threw you off me, Dick. I didn’t hit you.”

The funny thing is, Dick thinks, as the static fills his ears, I don’t think he’s lying. Bruce has never been one for lies. He’ll say he doesn’t care about emotions or something, but it’s about the words, not getting people to believe them. He’s as transparent as glass on that. And he’ll trick villains, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t lie about stuff like this. Dick’s good at reading people—he has to be. So, as he looks at Bruce’s face, he can confidently say that Bruce isn’t lying.

But Dick isn’t lying either, because he remembers it.

Dick should drop this. He has an apology, he has Bruce saying it wasn’t Dick’s fault, he has Bruce admitting it, mostly. Dick got what he wanted, or close enough, and he should just end the conversation here.

But Dick can’t seem to stop pushing. “You definitely hit me, B!”

“Are we really going to do this?” Bruce asks.

Dick stands up, his chair loudly scraping against the floor. He’s escalating again. He knows that, but it—it isn’t enough to make him stop. His heart clenches. It feels like the blood in it has turned to oil, slick and sickening. Everything feels so wrong. “Yes, we’re going to do this! I’m not lying, I’m—”

“I’m not accusing you of lying.” Bruce is still so fucking calm.

Dick hates when he’s like this, because sometimes Bruce is a raging storm and then sometimes it’s like he’s the most reasonable person in the universe. Dick never knows which version of his father he’s going to get. And when he gets one of them, he never knows if he’s just imagining the other.

“I’m saying that it was a complicated situation, and—”

“No!” Dick is breathing heavily and his voice is far too loud. Because he can’t listen, he doesn’t want to listen, he can’t listen, if he listens then he’ll start to believe it and he knows he’s right. But avoiding evidence is a sign of fearing the truth, and that’s not something a detective should ever do. Is Dick wrong? Mistaken? Accidentally trying to trick Bruce into believing something that isn’t true?

No. Deep breaths. Form an argument. Context clues. Dick can prove it, to himself and to Bruce.

“I had blood on my face, because you hit me. And I’m certain I did because I remember smelling it, tasting it. And Babs asked me what happened and I remember thinking, I don’t want to lie to her, and then doing it anyway. Where do you think that came from? My face just decided to injure itself after you politely pushed me off?”

“You’re arguing against a strawman—of course your face didn’t just injure itself. But I know I didn’t hit you.” It’s clear Dick’s sarcasm has gotten a rise out of Bruce, because Dick can hear the tension simmering in Bruce’s voice, watch his shoulders move from his normal awkward stiffness into something ready for offense. “Hitting someone in the face isn’t an effective way to stop them from pulling you away. I wouldn’t have hit you, it would be illogical.”

“Bruce, you weren’t thinking reasonably. I know what happened!”

“And I know what happened too. I’m telling you the truth, Dick. Please believe me on this.”

“But I’m telling you the truth! And you’re telling me—what, my memories are wrong? Come on, Bruce.”

“I am Batman.” Yeah, I fucking know that, no way do you think my memory sucks that much, Dick thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Sarcasm makes Bruce bristle, and Dick really needs to stop pushing things. Not that he’s. You know. Actually stopping. “I’ve trained for years to perfectly remember combat situations.” But not when he’s emotionally compromised. Not when he doesn’t want to remember. “I’m sorry I threw you off of me, but I won’t apologize for something that you’re misremembering. And I won’t let you force me to doubt my own memories.”

Dick lets out a hollow laugh, more for show than anything else. They’re dancing around the word, Dick knows, refusing to call it what it is. And suddenly, Dick can’t stand that. “You’re seriously accusing me of gaslighting you?”

“And what, you think it’s the other way around? I’ve made mistakes, Dick, but that is not something that I do.”

Dick throws his hands into the air. “I don’t know what to think!” He needs to calm down. This was supposed to be Bruce apologizing, and he’s ruining it. “I don’t know what to think,” he repeats more quietly, forcing himself to sit down. It sets him on edge. Batman—Bruce—is still blocking the exits. But he sits. “Okay,” Dick says. He breathes and imagines all the anger leaving his lungs. “I remember what I remember and…you remember what you remember. And neither of us are going to change our minds. So it…it is what it is.” He pivots. “But what about the tooth?”

“The tooth?” Bruce asks, and he’s back to being so fucking calm that Dick wants to sock him in the jaw and, well. If he feels like that, maybe he should have some empathy for what Bruce has to deal with when Dick’s being difficult. And, as this conversation is showing, Dick sure puts in an effort to be difficult. But, difficult or not, he’s still going to say his piece.

“You punched me hard enough that I lost a tooth, Bruce, what do you think I’m talking about?”

“I had to prove—”

“There’s such a thing as an X-ray.”

“I couldn’t risk—”

“No.”

“I didn’t have time—”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“No.”

Dick can feel his heart beating too fast, can feel the rush it gives him to listen to Bruce try to defend himself and cut him off at every turn. But that’s not good. That’s not right, Dick shouldn’t be enjoying this, shouldn’t be playing like this is some sort of game, shouldn’t—

“Three times,” Bruce agrees quietly. “Three times. Dick, I—”

“And Spyral?” Dick asks. “What about in the cave, Bruce? Because what you did then…”

“We sparred,” Bruce says, but his face is closed-off.

“Some spar.”

“You wrapped your hands.”

Dick hadn’t remembered that part. But thinking back…Bruce was right. He did wrap his hands. Why had he done that? Why had he given up the one thing that would defend him now, show Bruce that this was wrong? By wrapping his hands, he had made it a spar. He had agreed to participate. It’s not fair to Bruce to pretend otherwise. But… “I asked to stop fighting.” But that’s wrong, isn’t it? He said no, he asked Bruce what was going on, he made it clear he wanted to stop, but he didn’t say that exactly. He wrapped his hands and he fought back. Fuck, he just lied, didn’t he? Dick just lied, but he didn’t mean to.

“You asked not to go to Spyral. You never tapped out.”

And yet… “I didn’t hit back until you sent me flying off a platform into Jason’s memorial. That’s not a spar, Bruce. I wasn’t fighting. You were, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t fair.”

“Dick.”

Dick feels himself falter. Like a marionette with his strings cut, his head tips down to hang loosely over the table. Slowly, he brings a hand to cover his face. It’s humiliating, it’s weakness, but he just. He just needs a moment. “I didn’t want to fight you, Bruce,” he says eventually.

“You could have said that.”

“Would you have listened? You sure didn’t listen the other times I’ve tried to talk to you. I wrapped my hands, I’ll admit it, I’m not being unreasonable Bruce, but I agreed to a spar, not a beating. I wanted to tap out. But.” Dick’s losing the thread. He was saying something really important, but he can’t remember where he was going. “I wanted to tap out,” he repeats. “I wanted to tap out, but I didn’t think I could. And you just kept hitting.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Dick.”

“I want…” It’s not about what Bruce is saying. He apologized. He said it wasn’t Dick’s fault. But Dick kept pushing for more and more and more. Because it wasn’t enough. Because it was just words. “I want you to be sorry.”

Fuck, Dick sounds like the Red Hood right now. Except, Jason’s grievances are legitimate and Dick’s…well, it’s not that his aren’t, he really hopes he’s in the right here, but his are certainly less important.

“I want you to hit me again,” he admits. It comes out of nowhere, but it’s not a lie. Because if Bruce just…just hit him. Now. After Spyral. Not under mind control. No Court of Owls, or dead sons, or dead friends, or justification. If Bruce just hit him, Dick would be right. He would know. And he tries to be a good person, a good leader, a good son, but he can’t get rid of that insufferable need to be right. Then again, Dick’s been scorning every single one of Bruce’s attempts to make things right this conversation. He’s been provoking Bruce at every turn, like it’s some sort of game. If Bruce hit him now, it probably wouldn’t change anything. Dick would be upset, but he’d know that he was also being an asshole and, when it came down to it, it was mostly his fault.

Bruce agreed it wasn’t, something in him says. But Bruce didn’t mean that.

“Dick…” Bruce says quietly. He sounds. He sounds devastated. And all Dick can think is good, and yeah, Dick’s definitely being an asshole right now. What kind of kid—not that Dick is a kid, but he sure feels like one right now—what kind of kid wants his father to hit him? What kind of kid says that out loud?

“I want to forgive you,” Dick says, “but I can’t forgive you if I can’t figure out if there’s something to forgive.”

The two of them are quiet for a long time. Dick doesn’t have anything else to say. He didn’t start this. He’s not the one who broke into his apartment and forced a conversation. And Bruce…

Dick watches his father sit still as a statue, clearly searching for words he doesn’t have.

Eventually, Bruce swallows visibly. “There is,” he says quietly. “I never meant for things to end up like this.”

Like what? Dick sitting across from him in an apartment a city away? All things considered, this is a pretty alright way for it to have gone. Dick could be away with the Titans permanently. They could be completely estranged. Dick could be dead.

“I should have adopted you earlier,” Bruce says, out of nowhere. “I shouldn’t have told you that you weren’t welcome in the Manor. I should never have hit you. I—”

“Stop,” Dick hisses. It’s too much. It doesn’t feel real even. It feels like someone’s skinning him alive and he’s just out of it enough to realize that this has to be a dream, but it isn’t and— “Just stop. I get it, okay? You’re sorry. Fine.” He leans over, resting his forehead in his hand and propping his elbow up on the table. It doesn’t make his growing headache any better. “I know I’m still allowed in Gotham. We’re fine. Alright?” Dick should be savoring this, but he just wants it to be over. “Now go and focus your efforts on the kids who actually need them. Tim still isn’t convinced he’s part of the family. Jason thinks you wish he never came back. Damian has some of his drawings in an art show, you should—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupts.

“Huh?”

“I know about the art show,” Bruce says awkwardly. “It’s in my calendar. I plan to go.”

Dick feels the wind leave his sails. “Yeah, good. That’s good.” He looks up at Bruce. “Did you want anything else, or did you just feel the need to invade my home so you could offload your feelings and stop feeling guilty?” That was unfair. Really unfair. Dick had just said they were good, he didn’t mean to say that, and Bruce clearly is trying. More than he’s ever tried before. More than he needs to. Dick should be grateful.

Bruce freezes, like he never even thought breaking into Dick’s apartment after an argument could be a bad idea. “I…shouldn’t have come here,” he says eventually. “I really was trying to. To be better. I was trying to be calm. I think I did a good job of that. But I shouldn’t have come here.”

Yeah, Bruce did do a good job. Dick was provoking him at every turn, and Bruce didn’t shout once. Dick wishes Bruce shouted. When Bruce is reasonable, Dick feels like he’s crazy, but…that’s a Dick problem, not a Bruce problem. If people being reasonable make him feel crazy, then Dick has something wrong with him.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Bruce says suddenly, breaking Dick out of his thoughts.

There’s a lot Bruce shouldn’t have said. There’s even more that Dick shouldn’t have said. “What?”

“That I did a good job of being calm. I don’t know why I said that.” Dick doesn’t know why he said half the things he said in this conversation either. He feels like a yoyo, de-escalating only to escalate again. He can’t make up his mind. “It’s difficult not to fall into the same patterns. Not that that’s an excuse.”

“I understand,” Dick says. He does. It’s a familiar rhythm, arguing with Bruce. Fights and betrayal and rage and storming out, accompanied by the occasional physical altercation. It’s almost comforting, even as it tears him apart. And it’s very, very difficult to avoid. “And you weren’t wrong.”

“I was.” The frustration is evident in Bruce’s voice. “I did the bare minimum.”

Dick shrugs.

“What do you want from me?”

Dick shrugs again. He wants to pause this moment in time and save it away and then come back to it later, when he has an actual answer that will leave him satisfied but won’t start another fight. But he doesn’t have that. Right now, he wants to go to sleep. Maybe have some hot cocoa first.

He has a feeling that he’ll be lying awake for a while tonight, even without caffeine.

“We’re fine, Bruce. This is the most…you’ve apologized, okay? Maybe not for everything I wish you would, but you apologized. Just...go back to Gotham and I’ll come over next weekend or something.”

“What do you want me to apologize for?”

Dick shakes his head. “Bruce, you’re not even going to remember half the things I care about. They were big to me, but not to you. I mean, do you even remember our fight after you made Jason Robin?”

“Not very well,” Bruce admits. “I know you were…upset.”

“You broke a display case,” Dick says. It sounds ridiculous when he says it. Sure, breaking things is one the checklist questions he’d ask a civilian—why the fuck is he thinking about the checklist?—but in the grand scheme of things… “It’s not that big of a deal. But I was really freaked out. See? It’s mostly little things.”

Bruce, in an uncharacteristic break from stoicism, rests both elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands. A few moments later, he raises his head again and looks Dick in the eye. “I shouldn’t have done that. And. And I find it difficult to believe I hit you when I you tried to stop me from going after Gordon’s killer, but…I have done similar things enough times that…I probably should not find it so difficult. So, I’m.” He swallows. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

“Just stop,” Dick says. Something’s crawling underneath his skin. This isn’t right, it isn’t real, it’s all just so wrong. Bruce is telling him exactly what he asks to hear, and it’s so ridiculous that he’d be more inclined to believe he’s currently in a simulation controlled by a fifth grader than actually listening to Bruce speak. Wait. There’s an idea. “38D90234FJK16.”

Bruce’s eyes widen. “9021V4Q3.”

Well, he got the identification code correct.

“I should go,” Bruce says, and this time, he stands up.

“That’s not suspicious at all.”

Slowly, Bruce sits down again. “I. You think I’m an imposter?”

“No.” He got the identification response code correct. And despite the weird turn Bruce has taken, he still gets the base mannerisms, the speech, the Bruce-ness correct in a way that Dick has never seen an imposer manage. It’s pretty embarrassing that Dick had to check, but he thought that Mr. ‘It’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you’ would appreciate the diligence. “I just figured…”

“You figured I don’t sound like myself.”

Dick doesn’t deny it.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I said that, and then I kept talking, didn’t I?” Bruce sighs. “Do you want me to leave, Dick?”

Dick doesn’t particularly want to stand up from the table. He didn’t want Bruce here, but right now, well, he is here. They’re not fighting. It’s okay. This is okay. “I don’t know.”

“I…” Bruce exhales. “I won’t hit you again. That’s a promise. If I break it, I want you to deal with me.”

Dick sighs. “We fight plenty, Bruce. I don’t—I’ve hit first, before. That’s not a promise you want to make.”

“I promise,” Bruce repeats. “If you want to talk, in the future, you can come to Gotham. Or call me. But I should leave.”

“Okay.”

Bruce stands up again.

“Wait,” Dick says suddenly.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. I forgive you? But Dick doesn’t, not really. He wants to, but he’s still so angry. Maybe irrationally so. Definitely irrationally so. I want you to stay? Dick doesn’t want the conversation to be over, but he’s too tired for it, and Bruce probably has things to do in Gotham. I don’t forgive you? Dick wants to see what happens. Wants to watch the illusion break the second Bruce can’t get his reconciliation. He needs to say it. Needs to prove that this is all fake. He steels himself for the anger, for the mask to break, for the hurricane to start again and drag him into its winds.

“I don’t forgive you,” Dick whispers.

“You shouldn’t.”

Bruce turns around and leaves. Dick sits alone at the kitchen table for a long, long time.

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