#completely selflessly

[icanttakethemonmyown]

just slightly tipsy on christmas eve and thinking about the nature of love and how my extended family who have never been to america all have texas-themed items of clothing because my cousin married an american and his mother insists on sending us all presents even though she has never even met half of us

[dennisboobs]

my biggest sin is that i actually really like mandy and wish they'd bring her back

[thebirdandhersong]

day 1 after watching Free Guy. ladies it's safe to say that I have not yet recovered

[motomamita]

fugitive!könig × naive!farmer!reader

warnings: smut, +18, no condom, innocence kink, breeding kink, baby trapping, virginity loss, female reader, dub-con!!

fugitive!könig who managed to escape the law, after committing several crimes, and now travels throughout the country hiding his identity.

On one of his many trips he ends up arriving at a small town, almost lost in time, where its few inhabitants live off their animal farms and orchards. Apparently no one had televisions, and the few radios only broadcast music that was overshadowed by static. This ensured that no one there would be able to recognize him and gave him the opportunity to stay and rest for a few hours.

Tired of walking and extremely hungry, König sat down in a small cafe to have a drink. The people around him looked at him strangely, not only because they didn't know him but also because of his intimidating appearance. His back was broad, he had long legs, and the muscles in his arms were noticeable even though he was wearing a wind jacket that covered him. However, no one seemed to be bothered by his presence, the people there loved tourists and König seemed completely like one.

When it was time to pay, he noticed that he had ordered and consumed more than he could afford. He was about to offer some of his "camping" knives in exchange for the money he was missing until a figure approached him.

"Don't worry if you don't have the money to pay." you spoke with a sweet voice and doing everything possible so that Konig would not feel embarrassed. "I sell the fruits to the owner of the place so I'm sure I can reach an agreement with him."

König was fascinated by you. Not only because of your timely friendliness but also your very natural and almost unique appearance that was very difficult to find in other places. You were wearing a jean gardener, some comfortable shoes and you were carrying a basket that minutes ago was full of fruits and vegetables from your garden. König looked down, somewhat shy and not knowing how to react to you, the truth is that during his escape he had not met many friendly people.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you for anything in return." You smiled when you saw that no words came out of his mouth. "Here we greatly appreciate tourists and travelers, after all they are the ones who keep this small town from turning into a ghost town."

You invited König to take refuge in your small house for as long as he needed before leaving again for another place. König accepted, surprised at your remarkable naivety in letting a complete stranger into your house and providing him with all the care.

When he arrived, you showed him where the shower was and what his room would be where he could rest. You left a clean change of clothes on his bed and selflessly went off to make dinner. Once he cleaned, König followed the delicious smell and came to the kitchen where you were on your back stirring a large pot of what seemed to be a stew. You were so focused that you didn't notice the presence of the big man behind you. he thought about how easy it would be to cut your neck with one of those long knives you had there. But the idea quickly disappeared when you turned around and a wide smile formed on your face when you saw him.

That stew was the best he had tasted in a long time, so much so that he served himself 3 plates, leaving you totally pleased. The next morning, König didn't really know exactly what to do. He could stay one more night and wake up in the middle of the night to raid your entire home, even leave after having a trip with you. He was hesitant, and that hesitation turned into doubt when you offered to cut his hair and trim his long beard, which he accepted.

That same afternoon König sat down to drink a lemonade made by you while he watched you harvest super large, red strawberries from a distance. He fixed his gaze on the way your pants hugged your butt in a tempting way and how you hummed a melody quietly that he couldn't make out. A tingling appeared in König's tummy and he suddenly noticed an erection growing inside his pants. You looked so pretty, so innocent. It was obvious from afar that you didn't kill a fly and that your care for him was sincere.

The days passed and König seemed to have no intention of leaving, that didn't bother you at all. Now he helped you with the heavy work on the farm, carrying large amounts of hay on his shoulder and feeding the animals. His favorite activity was watching you milk the cows, fantasizing about your hands and the way the milk dripped from them.

His approaches to you intensified, taking advantage of the slightest opportunity to touch you or rub against you. he soon discovered that you had no idea about any sexual activity, acting confused at his double meaning words and insinuations. You were the perfect muse to fulfill all his fantasies without anyone being able to stop him.

Your parents had died a long time ago, leaving you alone in charge of the big farm and all the obligations of the adult world. That led König to think that life on that farm couldn't be bad. He knew how to handle hard work well and you did everything you could to teach him and please him. The idea of ​​starting from scratch, with you there, totally convinced him.

You were a healthy, hard-working woman and you needed someone like konig with you. But König needed to have something that would force you to keep him there with you, forever and that would confirm the mutual love that you both had to give each other. That's when he found the solution: he had to get you pregnant.

That afternoon he made a point that you wouldn't leave the stable until you were full of his cum. He started by complimenting your dress and how pretty that color looked on you. Then the caresses that increased in intensity until he managed to let you be carried away by him and his carnal desire. Now he had you under him, with your skirt up and your underwear hanging from one of your feet. Out of desperation, König only lowered his pants to his heels, even with his work boots on. You were on a large pile of hay, sweating from the great summer heat and moaning loudly.

His thrusts were brutal, making their way inside you that you barely had time to understand everything that was happening. The pleasure was so much that you could barely think about anything other than König's gaze and the way his balls slapped your ass.

"Oh, baby. You're so so tight.. And wet, shit" König groaned, sighing loudly at the pleasure your pussy was giving him. "Tell me, how did a cute little thing like you stay a virgin for so long, huh?" You opened your mouth to answer but only moans came out. "Uh? Talk to me, sweetheart, talk to me.."

"I.. I don't know.." you managed to say, overstimulated by everything. König's rough shirt rubbed against your clit, giving both pleasure and pain. König was so big that he covered you with his entire body, leaving you with almost no place to breathe air other than his breath.

"Uh? Don't you know? These farm boys are idiots... They wouldn't know how to please a pretty thing like you..." König cut off his sentence to get even closer to you and kiss you, putting his tongue inside your mouth. You tried to keep up with him but that triggered the kiss to be even wetter and hotter for him.

"König.. Give me more, please!" He smiled as he heard the urgency in your broken voice. You looked so pretty like that, almost not understanding what was happening but still pleased and eager for him to give you even more.

He, ready to please you, grabbed your legs and raised them to your shoulder, adopting a new position. His thrusts continued, his fat cock forcing its way into your no longer so virgin pussy and the simple sound of your skin slapping together made your warm walls embrace him. Not really knowing what to do, you brought your hands to König's big, muscular shoulders, feeling a few scars on them.

"Oh, my pretty little thing.. I'm going to fill you inside and you're going to be the prettiest mom in this whole damn town.." You dug your nails into his shoulder and your gaze was filled with confusion. "You like it, huh? You're going to make me so happy, isn't that what you want?"

You hesitated for a few seconds, not sure what he meant but his cock rammed even deeper into you leaving you almost without any thought. Tears formed in your eyes from the pleasure and absolute adoration with which he looked at you.

"Come on, mommy.. Make me happy, carry my precious baby.."

In the same way that König had managed to get his way in prison, he had gotten his way with you. Now you both lived together as a couple on the farm, happy and with a baby on the way inside your fertile womb.

[readychilledwine]

span it into March, Liz. Make us cry instead

You asked for it.

Pieces of You Pt 1

Summary - After losing Feyre to childbirth, Rhysand finds himself leaning on one of her friends much more than he'd ever expected

Warnings - depression, self destructive behavior, babies, grieving, loss of motivation in life, Rhys feels his spark is gone, we haven't seen into readers headspace yet

Prologue

Rhys had not left his bed in 7 days. He had not changed. He had not bathed. Dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes as a permanent reminder of the lack of sleep he allowed himself.

It took one week. One week for him to feel the light Feyre lit in his soul to go out. One week for him to feel the last of his spark die. One week of tugging nothing but an aching empty void. Rhys saw no joy in life anymore, just burden and heartache.

Cassian entered the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. It had been like this the whole time. Each day, a different member of the Inner Circle would come to his newly claimed room. They'd try to tell him about his son, try to force him to eat, to drink something other than another bottle of whiskey or wine. They all would leave when they realized he wouldn't budge, and that's how Rhys wanted it to be right now. He wanted to be alone. To drown himself in self hatred, in guilt, in anger, in the depths of sadness he had never felt before. “She's asking when you're going to come see him. She's concerned you aren't bonding with him and-”

“Tell her I just lost my fucking mate and I will see him when I'm ready to.” Rhys growled out every letter, glaring at Cassian. “She's fully fucking capable of caring for both of them.”

Cassian's shoulders fell. “Rhys, she just lost her mate, too, remember? The so-called accident in the port? The one we are fairly sure Beron and Koschei planned? He was one of the males killed.”

A moment of sympathy crossed through Rhysand's face before his own grieve ate through the emotion completely. “She was one of Feyre's friends, Rhys. Trust me. She's mourning as hard as we all are as well as mourning her mate, and trying to process it all while caring for two newborns in her home unexpectedly.”

Rhys rolled away from him, indicated he was done, and Cassian sighed, looking down towards his feet. “She's keeping Nyx alive, selflessly, Rhys. Our last physical piece of Feyre. At least consider going and seeing him.”

-

Members of the Inner Circle had all but moved into your cottage.

You had gone from just you and Wen to you, Wen, Nyx, and which ever member or members arrived to take care of you that day.

Today, Lady Death stood at your door with Cassian. They were holding baby supplies, food for lunch, and clothes for both of the babies. Nesta was a shell, moving into the home in silence and setting things down as if time was moving at a slower pace for her.

Cassian tucked your messy hair behind your ear. “I asked him to come see Nyx.”

Your eyes lit up, hope for the little heir shining in them. “And?” Cassian just shook his head, eyes beginning to water as he did.

“Is he asleep?” You nodded at the question. “And Little Mor?” You nodded again.

“I fed them both about 20 minutes ago.”

“Go do something for you,” Nesta's voice was lifeless. “We will make lunch. Azriel will be here soon.”

Azriel had become a constant companion. As soon as he realized Rhys had no interest in seeing Nyx, he had been here, standing in where a father should be. Doing whatever you needed, whatever the babies needed. Even though he was there for Nyx, he still treated “Little Mor," as the Inner Circle had all named your daughter, like he was here for her too.

You moved into your bathroom, looking at the now lukewarm bath you had drawn for yourself. It would be fine. You'd be quick. Then you would be ready to go be super mom and nanny again.

-

Azriel froze when he saw Rhys dressed in casual clothing, waiting for him at the door. He had lunch for the High Lord, hoping he'd be able to make him eat before leaving to be with you and his favorite babies. A shadow curled his ear, whispering how Rhys wanted to go see his son. How he needed to meet you officially. How he was struggling to set aside his own needs. How he was a scared lamb where a lion once stood, ready to run the second things became too difficult.

Azriel held a hand out, reaching for Rhys like the brothers had reached for each other so many times before. He waited, smiling softly at Rhys as a shaking hand placed itself in his and he walked them through the shadows before Rhys could change his mind.

-

Struggling flowers in pots sat outside of the cottage, wilting slightly from the lack of time and care put into them. A blue door sat on silver hinges, greeting them brightly. Mocking Rhysand's sadness with its cheerful presence.

You were an artist, Rhys knew that much. Where Feyre loved to paint, you used charcoal to express yourself. He also knew the two of you were fast friends, constantly having lunch together, shopping together, giggling.

You had been all Feyre spoke of when she met you 4 months ago. Her first true friend with no ties to a lover, to the inner circle, to obligations. You chose her, and she relished in every moment of your love, and from what Rhys understood, you relished in hers.

Rhys had a piece of your artwork. You had sketched out Feyre, mind and hands deep in paint, glowing towards the tail end of her pregnancy as she worked on painting Nesta rising from the Lake as Lady Death.

You had an impeccable eye for details and for making emotions readable through lines. You were a true gem to the Rainbow. A valued member of Velaris. He knew your name long before Feyre had mentioned you, but now, you were irreplaceable.

To him, to Nyx, to the Inner Circle.

They owed you. Rhys owned you. The very least he could do was drag himself out of a bed, throw on clothing, and come see his son. Rhys shook as his hand reached to knock, before scarred ones gently lowered His and twisted the knob.

“We don't knock. We just enter. No loud noises, okay?" Azriel opened the door, nodding to where Nesta sat with her hands on her hand, and Cassian was making lunch. “They must be sleeping?”

Cass nodded not turning his back to face them yet. “Little Mor and Nyx just fell asleep 25 minutes go. Y/n is Bathing in cold water because Mother forbid that female takes a moment for herself-”

As if on cue, as if sensing Rhysand's presence, a piercing cry broke through the house, and they heard a door open and then another. Azriel pulled Rhys with him to the nursery where Nyx and Morwenna slept during the day. "That cry was Nyx," Azriel said softly. "He struggles during naptime. Little Mor has a more rattle cry."

Long hair dripped water onto the wooden floorboards as a small winged figure rested his head on a bare shoulder. “I know, sweetheart,” you bounced him so softly, soothing him back to sleep. “I know you're lonely. It's okay. We can cuddle, I don't mind.” A deep huff left his mouth as he settled in, basking in the contact you were offering him.

Rhys moved like a ghost to the second bassinet where a sweet girl slept, happy and content for what he hoped was a few more moments.

The two of them could have been twins. Same dark hair, similar noses, similar lips set in a forever baby pout.

Aside from gender, there were only two glaring details sitting on Nyx's back that were the tell-tale sign of their different parents. Two glaring details that killed his mate, his wife. “And your son's mother,” a soft feminine voice whispered. “She was his mother, too, High Lord. He is missing her just as much as you are.”

Azriel looked to Rhys, calling for him in his mind. Daemati. Check your shields.

"His shields are fine. He's just screaming his thoughts like they're going to manifest into life if he does."

A deep voice finally answered, void of all emotion. “I don't think he misses her half as much as I do, my lady,” Rhys continued to look at Morwenna. A picture-perfect babe who caused you no harm.

“Little Mor,” Azriel said as he stroked her tuff of dark hair. "This is Morwenna, but we call her Little Mor.” Azriel then moved to Nyx, a ghost of a smile as his lips quickly trembled before he masked it. “You should hold him, Rhys. He might remember your voice.”

“It would be good for both of you,” you whispered. “He needs you. Look into his little mind and then Wen’s,” a pointed look to Azriel allowed Rhys to finally see you.

Tired eyes, features pale from exhaustion, a small smile that didn't reach your eyes. Your beautiful eyes. You were stunning, even by high fae standards, Rhys knew that, but he could hardly appreciate it the way he once had. There was no more beauty in his world. No more light. Feyre had taken it all with her.

“High Lord, please, holding him. Even just for a second.” You moved to Rhys, standing before him, offering so much more than just his son. “He needs you, and you need him. Just open your eyes and see that.”

Rhys held out shaking hands, taking his son in his arms for the first time, holding him for the first time. Bright blue eyes looked up at him, laced with sleep and confusion, before snuggling so closely into his chest that Rhysand felt something stir again. You moved him to the chair, forcing him to sit and handing him tissues as the tears began to fall.

He looked up to where you had grabbed your daughter before she could start crying, soothing her as well. He listened to the soft whispers of your voice, he watched you care for her no differently than you had Nyx, treating them like they were both your own.

It explained the little heir's health, the rolls beginning to form on his little body, the rosy cheeks. You loved him like he was yours, and he loved you.

Rhys looked back down, and as he stared at Nyx, watching each little movement of his chest, feeling his warmth, his happy thoughts and dreams of his and Feyre's voices, of you singing to him and rocking him to sleep. Looking at his son, Rhys realized that maybe, just maybe, there was still some light left in this world. He felt for the first time in a week that maybe, just maybe, there was still something left to live for.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tayswhp

Rhys taglist:

@tothestarsandwhateverend @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @avajustreads

Pieces of You Taglist:

@dr4g0ngirl @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @blueeclipsepaperstudent @thisblogisaboutabook @mybestfriendmademe @novalovi @rachelnicolee @sleepylunarwolf @sidthedollface2 @acourtofbatboydreams @bunnyredgirl @fandomrejects

If your username is in bold, tumblr is not allowing me to tag you. Hopefully it will fix here soon, though!

[inamindfarfaraway]

In the first episode of Season Six, “Startouched”, a white-haired girl in her late teens has emerged from a body of water onto a beach lit by the sun, and seen her not-actually-dead father who she lost two years ago restored to complete life with a dark magic spell that demands blood be spilled. She’s distraught after the intense trauma of killing another member of her family. Her father made peace with passing on, but she selfishly couldn’t bear losing him and acted to keep his spirit tethered to the mortal world, hurting him in the process. She stands, then falls. Someone she loves dearly, the male former high mage of Katolis with brown hair who has repeatedly used dark magic but solemnly sworn off it, embraces her and she returns it. But then he abandons her. She is unbalanced, despairing, directionless and lost.

In the last episode of Season Six, “Stardust”, a white-haired girl in her late teens has emerged from a body of water onto a beach lit by the moon, and is about to see her not-actually-dead father who she lost two years ago restored to complete life with a primal magic spell that demands blood be spilled. She’s relieved after the intense catharsis of enabling other members of her family to die. They made peace with passing on, and she selflessly accepted losing both of them and acted to heal and free their tethered spirits. She falls, then stands. Someone she loves dearly, the male high mage of Katolis with brown hair who has repeatedly used dark magic but solemnly sworn off it, embraces her and she returns it. He will never abandon her. She is mature, hopeful, purposeful and found.

[joyceisfox]

Girl's Vintage（13 items）

hello!hello! hope you guys everything is well:)

I'm so honor and pleasure to create "Girl's Vintage" CAS content with （@wsyzxkw 、@huiernxoxo ）two outstanding creators this month, Let me introduce this series to you：

The girls have a wild romance, wandering the farm with her good faith, enjoying the afternoon sun, maybe a good day.

Each with 35 swatchs

Base game

13items

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go to see Huien's part & JIUMIQAQ's part

After completing this content, I'm very thankful them , QAQ teaching me many tips on creating CAS content, I really learned a lot. and thanks Huien for using Blender to create our cover. anyway, thank you both for selflessly helped me when I needed help, love u two♥

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Thanks to other creators：

🪴Hair：simstrouble ；

🪴Shoes：Jius-sims 、DallasGirl 、charonlee 、Madlen ；

🪴Necklace：Serenity 、Rimings 、christopher0672 ;

🪴Posepack: helgatisha

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Public on August 6th

Download（Patreon）

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TOU:

Please do not claim as your own.

请勿声称创作者是你自己

Please do not re-upload.

请勿重新上传

Please do not re-edit.

请勿重新编辑我的网格

[enviedear]

While Jace is cool tempered and holds himself like the true prince that he is. His betrothed is all fire and spite, and she loves putting people in their place who disrespect what’s yours.

i feel like jace would flourish in a relationship like this! especially with how much the show is highlighting his issues with self vs purpose!! stay with me, jace’s entire being lies within his want to ascend the throne after his mother. yet, his own being continues time after time to make his duty harder (“did you think i would have dark hair?”). in the case of a partner who is less mild than him, who will speak out if the prince is not respected, someone who, completely selflessly, is angered at his sake. who reminds him that it is okay to be mad, upset, seething—he’d finally have an outlet for all his rouge irate thoughts. there is that classic targaryen temper within him (rhaenyra is still his mother) but he sacrifices it most of the time because he knows that’s what an heir should do. i think jace would finally start to feel and act more affirmed just because of his partners passionate defenses of him. why would he seethe with his rage for hours on end when rather he can seek you out—he will listen to you, let you meddle through his anger, and he’ll gladly turn to the cool waters known to halt fearsome fires when you get too fierce over him.

[greensaplinggrace]

the fact of the matter is that buffy ends up isolated no matter what the scoobies do because she bears the burden of the slayer alone at the end of the day and nothing can change that. the problem with this isn't that she's separate from them, it's that they don't want to acknowledge that she is, and in doing so they drive a wedge between them that just grows and grows. the best thing about spike is that he's similar enough to this other side of buffy to understand it and her by extension. he is the only person around who can support that side of her.

most of buffy's issues in season six stem from the scoobies rejecting a part of buffy that spike accepts. and this shame she feels for her reliance on spike and the presence of this darkness and isolation she cannot avoid is largely because of them. i'm sick of this bizarre assumption that pointing out where the scoobies go wrong in their relationship with buffy somehow equals an uncritical uplifting of spike. just because he understands her and represents a certain aspect of her doesn't mean he doesn't fuck up. i mean that's kind of the whole point of their season six dynamic. one of his biggest issues is that he thinks he's helping her by enabling her completely because he doesn't have the ability to properly identify the line between self acceptance and self destruction - pursuit of the id is one of his biggest character traits. that's what makes the end of season six and his decision to get the soul so interesting (although of course there's just as much i can say about the narrative framing of that in regards to lore consistency and the story's obsession with angel, but that's a whole other thing).

point is, the scoobies cannot understand all of buffy, and when they refuse to acknowledge this they destroy their chances of building any bridges to even a simple relationship with that other side of buffy or helping her carry that burden in any way. meanwhile, spike is in the proper position to understand buffy as the slayer and hold his own with her in such a way, but his definition of love is wholly obsessive and destructive. while i disagree that he's incapable of love and even of loving selflessly without his soul, i think spike's version of love in particular is self destructive in a way that enables buffy's own desire to hurt herself through hurting him (see the aforementioned shame regarding her shadow self). spike cannot identify why allowing buffy to give in to her dark side in such a way is bad because he struggles to understand how she could use this to resent herself - although i do think he realizes it's happening on some level.

spike is also buffy's only form of catharsis and the only one that actually listens to what she is saying during a time when everybody else is dismissing her because of the aforementioned inability to understand her as the slayer. it's a clusterfuck - and a clusterfuck that needed to be shattered with a hammer for any kind of relief. and quite frankly to disregard the scoobies' own part in this situation does a disservice to buffy as a character. to be honest, she deserves fucking better than what everyone in her life gives her, especially the scoobies, who grow to take her for granted and feel entitled to controlling her life as a way of keeping her conformed - again, due to the aforementioned lack of desire to acknowledge this other part of her that they cannot connect with.

which leads to season seven, where spike is the only person on the show who has developed and changed enough to remain at buffy's side helping her carry the burden. while everyone else suffered during season six, none of them opened their eyes to what they were doing to buffy - and if they did, none of them acted on it. spike is the only one to acknowledge the damage he's done and work to become better for buffy in any way he can. he is the only one that ends up able to carry that burden with her because he is the only one capable of facing the truth and acting on his desire to do better.

the fucking problem isn't that he hurt buffy - because to be quite frank everybody did - it's that he's the only person on the whole damn show to acknowledge his place in buffy's life, and to acknowledge the burdens she bears, and actively change himself for her. did you know he has almost all of the genuine apologies in the entire show? seven seasons and all of the harm the scoobies cause buffy, and it's fucking spike that is acting like a mature person capable of being a proper partner.

[flowerandblood]

The Gate of Salvation [1/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: sexual tension, angst, anxiety, manipulation, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

What happened after the conclave took everyone by surprise and caused complete chaos in the Catholic Church; she was one of the people who watched the live coverage from St Peter's Square.

She prayed in spirit that her uncle and her mother's brother, Cardinal Reene, would not become Pope.

Admittedly, it was thanks to him that she was living in Rome, and without his financial support she would not have been able to study, however, her uncle was a person who did nothing selflessly.

He recalculated to himself that if his niece wanted to study marketing at University then he would help her, reminding her at times that he would count on her help in the future, to create a good, sympathetic image of him.

She had the feeling that listening to him she was even losing her faith, which, despite her many internal disputes and doubts, was strong in her. She returned to the bosom of the church of her own free will when she was in high school after years of not attending Mass; she discovered that she felt attached to this tradition, as well as to God himself, whose presence she subconsciously felt all around her.

She knew that her uncle would certainly try to bribe other cardinals and she guessed what his pontificate would be like, so she begged God in her prayers not to allow such a man to become head of the church in his name, and heavens, as always, heard her prayers.

When she saw the white smoke on the screen she let out a loud breath, closing the textbook she had just been reading – she heard shouts and applause of joy coming from the television; the bells rang out, the solemn moment when the new pope comes out onto the balcony to greet his faithful was about to begin.

This went on for an astonishingly long time and she wondered if something had happened or if the votes had been miscounted, however, she heard the cheers of the crowd again as the doors opened. What stepped out was not a procession, but an ordinary priest in a black cassock; she recognised in him the secretary of the late Pope, who was certainly not a cardinal.

He seemed tense and frightened; he approached the microphone and said only two sentences.

"We have a Pope. The Holy Father, who has taken the name Pius XIII, asks you all to pray for him." He said in a trembling, uncertain voice, all pale, and then disappeared back behind the door – voices of disbelief and disappointment spread throughout the square, the gathered people, like her, were shocked.

However, all the internet portals published the name of the cardinal who had been elected; it turned out that the new pope was Cardinal Targaryen, a very little-known, withdrawn and shockingly young priest.

He was only two years older than her.

Journalists despaired that there were no official or unofficial photos of him, no statements from him, as if he had lived for years locked away in some monastery and never stepped into the light of day.

The world was confused and anxious – the young pope had not stepped out onto the balcony of St Peter's Basilica even once despite the crowds gathered in the square below chanting his name day and night.

She wondered if, in this way, he wanted to focus the world's attention even more on himself by standing in the absolute centre of it, and thought that if so, it was not a good beginning to his pontificate.

Two days later, her uncle paid her an unannounced visit at the flat he was renting to her, dressed so that no one would recognise him, just like the other cardinals still hounded by journalists and paparazzi.

"I need your help. The matter is very delicate." He said quickly, handing her his coat, which she hung on one of the hangers, looking at him over her shoulder in surprise.

"Me?" She asked with her eyes wide open, wondering what was going on there that required the help of someone from outside the Vatican.

"Pius XIII is a cripple. He lost his left eye as a child. He insists that if he is to show himself to a crowd, it should only be with his artificial eye, but not an ordinary one, one that resembles the real one, but a completely white one. He thinks this suits his attire and position better, but we think it will create additional confusion about him. Additionally, he wants to keep the Pope's public appearances to a complete minimum. He has fired all the Vatican marketing people with years of experience. This is some madness. Can I have a coffee?" He finally asked after his verbosity, sitting down in a chair at the living room table, placing his black wide-brimmed hat on the tabletop, sighing heavily.

She nodded, snapped out of her reverie and the shock of his words, pulling a mug and black coffee from her cupboard. Her uncle drank coffee made from three heaped teaspoons without milk, and although she didn't know how he could swallow something so disgusting and not have a heart attack in the process, she made it the way he liked it.

She swallowed loudly, pouring water into the kettle, putting it on the burner and turning the fire on under it, analysing everything he had told her.

"It sounds like he has a very low and a very high opinion of himself at the same time. How could I help here, uncle? I'm just a student." She said in dismay, shrugging her shoulders; her uncle nodded his head as if convinced that this would be her answer.

"You are young, you have a fresh outlook. He doesn't want to listen to us old people, he thinks we're out of step with the world and what it needs, whatever that means." He said with a sneer, looking out of the window, spreading himself comfortably in his chair with a creak of wood.

"I'd like you to try to talk to him, to understand what he means, what his vision is. Guide him to the idea that young people too want peace and predictability, not perpetual rebellion. I told him I could introduce you, that you are very talented and he agreed." He said finally and scratched the back of his neck – she heard the kettle whistle and turned off the fire under it, feeling that she had simply run out of words.

"− what? − I − oh God, uncle, I don't know − what if I make things worse and you lose in his eyes because of me? −" She muttered, feeling adrenaline start to bubble throughout her body; she poured hot water over the coffee in her mug, grabbed it and set it in front of him, then started walking back and forth across the room, panicking in some kind of way.

"This would just be a consultation − two young people want to change the image of the church to, let's say, a more welcoming one − this could be your big chance." He said, lifting the mug to his lips, taking a sip from it and murmuring contentedly, apparently finding that his coffee was exactly the way he liked it.

He persuaded her for so long that she finally agreed, but she regretted it as soon as he walked out.

She was inexperienced in discussions with this world, with such people, and was afraid she would make a mistake, do something against protocol and embarrass herself.

Her uncle sent her a message on the day of the meeting saying that she must dress modestly, preferably in white or black, her dress must end at least past her knees, her toes must not stick out of her shoes, her shoulders must be covered. Sharp, defiant make-up was not acceptable.

She was to address the Pope as Holy Father or Your Holiness, keep the proper distance, not sit with her legs crossed, not put her elbows on the armrests, not lean or crouch in front of him, approach him only if he wanted her to kiss his ring.

The amount of information she received overwhelmed her; she took a quick look in her wardrobe and found that her simple black dress with white embroidered collar and cuffs was the perfect length – it had no cleavage, it looked elegant, innocent and girly at the same time.

She decided to wear flesh-coloured tights with it and sleek black shoes, which she had previously polished. She styled her long dark hair in a braid around her head, keeping it in place with pins, short, unruly strands on the sides of her face.

She used only mattifying powder and mascara as her make-up, deciding that this was enough, around her neck a necklace with a small gold cross that she had been given once by her grandfather.

At the appointed hour, a black car pulled up in front of her townhouse; she got into the back seat and greeted the driver, who, however, did not answer her, driving off without a word.

After several minutes they were already in the Vatican itself; she looked through the car window at the crowds of people spilling out of St Peter's Square, saw a group of men and women holding cardboard sheets in their hands with the handwritten words:

Our Pope does not love us.

She lowered her gaze, silently contemplating all that was happening, and shuddered as they stopped in front of the gate – a Swiss Guard officer dressed in colourful historical attire with red, yellow and navy blue stripes stopped their car.

Her driver showed him his ID and the man nodded – the gate opened and they drove inside into a small courtyard that she saw for the first time in her life.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the figure of her uncle waiting for her in his full, opulent cardinal's robe, a cross on his chest of pure gold, adorned with rubies and diamonds.

He greeted her with a broad smile and joy, with a gesture of his hand inviting her inside – they ascended the baroque staircase to the corridor, the view of the interior of the entire complex took her breath away.

She was surrounded on all sides by paintings and sculptures by the great Italian masters of the Renaissance, Baroque and Classicism; she felt a solemn mood, though she did not know why, as if she had in fact entered the truest home of God himself on earth.

The guards as well as other men passing her looked at her intently – she thought with horror and shame that women, with the exception of nuns, were a rare visitor to this sanctuary and aroused curiosity mixed with distrust.

Here, what Eve did in paradise according to the Bible, because of whom sin possessed man, was never forgotten.

They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and then stood in front of a large white door, high up to the ceiling, with two men in the same colourful garments standing in front of them. Her uncle sighed heavily, as if stressed himself, and looked at her comfortingly.

"I'll do the talking, you keep quiet for now." He said lightly, surprising her completely – she had no time to reply as he nodded and one of the guards opened the door for him.

Her uncle moved ahead, so she moved behind him, entering a spacious, bright room with six windows overlooking St Peter's Square – to their right stood bookcases filled to the brim with books, and to their left a huge wooden desk.

Only after a moment did she notice someone standing by one of the windows; he was turned to them with his back, looking out at the crowds knowing they couldn't see him, a white cassock on his body, his short hair looking elegant and carefully styled, pulled back, almost white, glistening in the sunlight.

"Holy Father. As promised, I bring before you my niece, who I hope will allow us to come to an agreement." He said in a light, cheerful tone, as if addressing a friend, but they were answered by an uncomfortable silence.

She swallowed loudly when he finally turned to face them, her heart stopped for a moment when she saw how sharply shaped his face was – his cheeks and jaw were clearly outlined as if someone had carved them with a chisel, his mouth full, a pale scar running across the left side of his forehead to his cheek, his artificial eye completely white.

She felt that she was looking at him with her lips slightly parted and some sort of concern, so she lowered her gaze, reminding herself that she shouldn't do that.

"Hm." She heard him hum under his breath, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"Leave us alone, Cardinal." He said finally, turning his face towards the window again – she and her uncle looked at each other horrified, for this was not their plan.

She was only going to be an accessory, he was going to be the one doing all the talking.

"Your Holiness, I…"

"Get out."

Her uncle pressed his lips together and grunted, bowed his head and left, not even bestowing a glance on her despite the despair written on her face, leaving her to her fate.

She swallowed loudly as the door closed behind him and intertwined her hands in front of her, not knowing what to do, where to look, a cold sweat on her back.

"Do not be afraid, child. I know your uncle's nature. If I didn't let him bring you here he wouldn't let me alone." He began reluctantly, as if the very fact that he had to talk to her made him very tired; he moved with his hands entwined behind him ahead, walking along the windows, his profile illuminated by the sun.

She lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of shame surge through her, understanding that he knew perfectly well what her uncle wanted.

That it wasn't just about his image, but that he, as a cardinal, wanted his favour and the high position, money and comfort he could give him.

"What do you think of my decision not to show myself in public?" He asked finally; she raised her eyes at him, surprised, horrified that she had to answer. She swallowed loudly and licked her lips, dry of stress, thinking intensely about what she should say.

"Go on. You're supposed to know it, after all, it's an image issue." He growled and looked at her with an anger that sent a shiver through her; she stared at him in disbelief and fear trying to decide what kind of man he was.

She wasn't sure this was how a pope should behave.

"Driving here I saw people holding cardboard sheets saying: Our Pope does not love us. I felt sadness at the thought that many people feel rejected by your decision, Holy Father." She said at last, feeling that involuntarily her voice trembled and broke; she saw him tighten his lips, his nostrils moved nervously in accelerated breathing.

"Is love a perpetual vying for attention, standing in the centre? Is love only the deeds that can be shown, that anyone can see and name?" He asked frustrated, and she felt a squeeze in her throat, her lower lip quivered. She shook her head.

"People are afraid of what they do not know. You don't let them meet you, Holy Father." She whispered, and he snorted, turning back, going the other way, as if thinking over her words.

"So you think I should speak? Go out on the balcony and give them what they want?" He asked dryly. She let the air quietly out of her lungs, feeling her body tense all over – she had the feeling that she had adopted a defensive posture, as if ready for him to hit her.

"No. But I think it is necessary to find a way in which they can see you, Holy Father. To feel that you are in their lives physically as well. They need a guide, not another invisible God." She said finally and fell silent, lowering her gaze, feeling that her last sentence might have been too far-fetched.

She noticed with horror that he stopped hearing what she had said.

"You think I'm doing this out of vanity?" He asked in disbelief. She lifted her gaze to him, for some reason feeling that she was on the verge of crying.

"I don't know, Holy Father. I do not know you, nor do any of your faithful. We are sheeps who do not know where to go and where is their shepherd. Do you think we are too sinful? That we don't deserve to see you?" She asked finally in a trembling voice, his healthy eye fixed on her.

Our Pope does not love us.

She shuddered, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart as he moved towards her with a slow, lazy step, not taking his eyes off her, towering over her. She didn't know what she saw in his gaze, proud and cool; she felt heat in her lower abdomen as the pleasant scent of his masculine perfume filled her nostrils.

She thought he had approached her far too closely.

She froze and swallowed loudly as he lifted his hand; she thought for a moment in horror and disbelief that he would touch her breasts, however, he grasped her golden cross in his hand and turned it between his fingers, looking at it thoughtfully.

"I am not a hypocrite. There is no greater sinner in this world than me. I am vain. I am proud. I am cold. I am eternally, eternally thirsty." He murmured softly and looked into her eyes, her lips slightly parted in disbelief.

She felt panic begin to overtake her body as her insides throbbed wonderfully hard at his ambiguous, unsettling words.

Something about him she found disturbing, even though she was surrounded by whiteness and daylight it seemed to her that the room had gone dark.

She was only able to breathe and look at him, nothing more.

"Do you believe in God?" He asked, still playing with her necklace, however, he did so in such a way that once in a while his fingers rubbed against the material of her dress lying between her breasts, each time a wonderful shiver ran through her spine.

There was something evil, menacing, lewd in the way he asked the question, in the way he acted and the way he looked at her and she knew it, she was horrified by how strongly her body reacted to it.

"Yes." She whispered, as if she was admitting something she was ashamed of, something that was her secret.

He hummed again under his breath, as if accepting her words – his hand let go of her necklace and returned to the other, placed behind his back.

"I'm hiring you. You will be my image specialist. I expect you here tomorrow at 8am. That's all. You may go." He said indifferently, turning away as if nothing had happened; she sighed quietly, terrified, and nodded with a rapidly pounding heart.

"Holy Father." She mumbled, then turned and walked out.

Her uncle ran after her asking her what they were talking about and what had happened – he made the sign of the cross with some kind of relief on his face when she told him in horror that he had hired her.

"What did you say to him about me? I'm only in my second year of university, I don't have the right experience yet." She muttered in a trembling voice; her uncle sighed, correcting his glasses on his nose with his pointing finger.

"He doesn't care about your experience." He said amused, and she looked at him in disbelief.

It suddenly dawned on her what her uncle had been planning all along, and what she had gotten herself into because of her foolishness and naivety.

There is no greater sinner in this world than me.

I am eternally, eternally thirsty.

She felt a squeeze in her throat, tears filling her eyes again as she moved forward, covering her mouth with her hand, distraught, humiliated.

Her uncle didn't want her to be his worker.

Her uncle wanted her to be his lover.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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[thedomesticanthropologist]

I present to you: at no point in the game is Astarion actually ready for a romantic relationship

Tav is the first person he drank from

The first person he has consensual sex with after 200 years

And he says to them: no one is like you. You're YOU

He genuinely believes that Tav is the *only* person who would be this way, even if it isn't true. He does fall in love with you, he does want you, but I present to you the idea that if things hadn't gone down EXACTLY as they had, Astarion NEVER would have initiated a partnership/romantic relationship for YEARS after escaping Cazador for good.

The man is coded for survival, for self-preservation, and is inherently selfish by nature. It is only because Tav gives selflessly and determinedly reinforces wanting to be with him that he caves in and allows it, but if you try to leave he's thrilled. This is for the best he says, you don't deserve this facade from me he says.

"I don't know how to be with someone even if I want to. I want this to be real but I don't know what real is. I need to not have sex right now"

In act 2, if you break up with him, he agrees with you. He thinks it's the right thing for you because hes not ready. He won't say this unless you initiate a break up but how could he possibly let go of the best thing that's happened to him in his entire undead life? He wouldn't toss out the treasure of you even if he didn't feel ready.

It really does take a patient, calm, supportive Tav to get him in the end, and he DOES want you, I'm not arguing that

I'm arguing that that man is not ready for a committed relationship, doesn't know what a healthy relationship looks like, and in an ideal situation if he thought he had time and options in his life and if he felt safe he would have focused 100% on himself first for a VERY long time.

The tadpoles, the adventure, the pressures of the battles, the fighting the revenge the ascension and the ritual he has to fight or succumb to the fact that the sunlight is gonna nerf him again- all of this contributes to the perfect scene where Tav gets him right "out the gate", first by being a mark and a target and then by simply *not breaking it off with him*

And yes he's in love to the best of his ability to know what love is at this point

And yes he wants you very much

But the man is going through the biggest whiplash of his life and I can say with confidence that he's not... *Ready*. And after all is said and done, Tav will have to continue to be patient with many things with him. There are still a lot of hurdles. He may be with them for a long time before he wakes up one day and realizes, really really realizes, that he's ready.

The power dynamics are off, they're imbalanced. How could he say no to a perfect mark that gives him everything ? Blood, sex, waits when sex is off the table, never breaks up with him never leaves no matter how he rails against them? He can't. He won't, and he doesn't want to, but that doesnt make him emotionally ready for what a genuine relationship is.

He has to learn it, with you, over time, but I don't think he'd jump into learning that and going for it and seeing it as worth it if the situation were in any way different

Without the perfect storm of events, I don't see Astarion jumping into "commited relationship" to be clear, I'm not saying that he isn't capable of feelings or doesn't want tav it's just

It doesn't *seem* to match his character or his struggles to me. For a man that is completely self serving, he accidentally catches feels and then doesn't have the strength to cut you loose even though his act 2 confession is practically him asking you to leave him. If you take the Araj route in particular, he VERY plainly lays his shitty behaviour on the table as if daring you to punish him for it... Or maybe just expecting.

In his spontaneous scene it's softer, it's I love you but I don't know how to do this. And still if you say "I don't think you're ready to be in a relationship" he immediately agrees. In act 3, if you've stuck to him the whole time like glue, he never wants to let you go. Again, I think this level of connection is impossibly rare and everything had to happen as it did to get you there, but the power balance is off still. He says partner, equal, and he wants that. And he WILL get there

But he not only has to struggle with his past, his issues, his trauma, he has to struggle with the power imabalance that you're his Savior. YOU defeated Cazador. YOU protected him in camp and didn't stake him on sight. YOU fed him from thinking creatures for the first time. YOU are one of "a very few select people" who have had sex with him and not been slaughtered immediately afterwards.

You're everything to him

And by the end of the game you already see him trying to shift that power imabalance because HE SEES IT. If you say you'll protect him he WINCES and disagrees, he doesn't want that. He doesn't want to be below you, but he sees himself that way anyway. And to me, that's the sign that he wasn't ready, he still isn't ready,

But he will be, one day. And I think that makes it a better written romance than thousands I've read, because it's not perfect. There's grey areas. There's things that can make you uncomfortable. There's parts of it that aren't healthy and won't be for a while. Who knows how long until he feels like he's your equal? Until he feels like this relationship is something he ever would have chosen if things were different?

But he does choose you. He does. He wants you. He'd just never have gotten the chance to if it hadn't been "right place right time" imho

[adore-laur]

DADRRY: PART ONE

— just harry being a doting dad & husband 🍓

——

Saturday nights haven't been this peaceful in a while. Harry and your daughter left home about an hour ago to attend a father-daughter dinner organized by a group of parents at the daycare, so you're left by your lonesome to enjoy a relaxing time without your child's newly developed and daily tantrums. She's two-and-a-half years old, meaning it's out with the newborn bliss and in with the "Terrible Twos" phase every mom has warned you about. 

She was always an easy baby; she never cried for too long or was fussy too often. There's no doubt that she's still the sweetest little thing, but some days, it can be a nightmare to deal with her. You're thankful for her otherwise reserved nature, but even then, a toddler will do anything to get what they want, and your daughter is no exception. 

Nonetheless, you and Harry handle it as a team. Both of you choose to deal with her sudden outbursts by using a calm and understanding approach. She listens most of the time. If she got one trait from her father, it's the ability to be an annoyingly good listener and hang on to every word you speak. With Harry, it's always complete eye contact, well-placed affirmations, and asking all the right questions. You suppose it's because of his job, but he claims he was just naturally born with it. 

Having been together for seven years, you and Harry have lived a beautifully intimate life on the coast of southern California, consisting of no neighbors, a secluded beach, and your little family of three. Harry works as a sous chef at a restaurant on the outskirts of town. He used to be the head chef before your daughter came into the world, but the wearisome hours he worked then would have never worked out with being a new father. He still hasn't accepted his old title back, much to your secret dismay. When he decided to demote himself, he suffered from a salary decrease and disappointed comments from co-workers. He didn't care, though. He told you that if it meant he had more time to spend with you and the baby, he would selflessly accept the consequences. 

During your postpartum days, he promised never to have a shift that had him arriving home after five in the evening unless necessary. It was a promise to always be with you for dinner, to watch the sun dip down the horizon, and to fall asleep next to you. He sometimes comes home in a palpable mood of frustration after a hectic shift, but as soon as he walks through the door and sees his girls, it's like magic the way his visibly tense shoulders sag with relief. 

There are instances when both of you need an independent getaway, but most of the time, it's the three of you together in your domestic bubble of love. You've never known a man quite like Harry. Nothing compares to his heart or drive to be the best possible husband, dad, and son. Also, you appreciate how he's so attentive and gentle with every part of your lives and how he'd go against that gentleness if needed to fight tooth and nail for his family. You've built a life worth living with him. He's yours entirely. 

And yes, his daughter has stolen some of that love, but each night before you fall asleep, it's like he can transfer every ounce of love in his precious heart to you with a simple touch. Or a single glance topped off with the softest kiss. 

As you sit alone by the blazing fire, you realize that nights spent by yourself no longer appeal to you. You want your family next to you all the time. You want your daughter to ask a million questions, mostly incomprehensible blabbering, but it melts your heart anyway. You want to watch Harry cook dinner, always putting on his actual chef coat and reading a recipe in a terrible French accent, just to make your daughter laugh. You want to watch him put a spaghetti noodle below his nose to act as a mustache, or watch him keep your daughter on his hip while letting her add an ingredient to a dish. Then, when she does, he looks at her with faux surprise and tells her she's better at his job than he is. 

Yet when your chef husband isn't home to make delicious food, you're stuck making frozen pizza. You considered having a glass of wine with it but decided not to because waking up on a Sunday morning with a pounding headache and a cranky toddler at the breakfast table is not something you want to deal with. 

With a reminiscent glint in your eyes, you finish the last slice and think about what they could be doing now. It's a little after seven, so you assume they're done eating dinner and socializing with the other dads and kids. Harry had said the restaurant was connected to a botanical garden, so they might be walking through it. Your daughter is probably exhausted. She woke up at five this morning and has been hyper all day, asking if she could go to dinner now, even if it wasn't lunchtime. 

You decide to text him and ask if he could take some pictures in the garden. Your and Harry's camera roles are filled with images of your daughter. 

I hope you guys are having fun! Please take some pictures of you both at the botanical garden. Miss and love you. Get home safe. 

You shut your phone off and stare at the moonlit water, waiting for your favorite people to come home. 

—— 

Harry is waiting for the check when he gets your text message. His phone screen lights up, displaying his lock screen, which is a photo of him and his baby girl on a hotel bed in Italy. They're both wearing fluffy white robes and are passed out from a long day of swimming under the sun and eating a boatload of food. 

That family vacation was six months ago. It was her second birthday, so he wanted to go somewhere special. Let's just say that being a chef at a nice restaurant has its perks. He had saved a lot of money after he started working more hours. Then, one day, he secretly bought three plane tickets to the Amalfi Coast.

Harry wants to go back more than anything. He has never felt more content and full of love (and carbs) anywhere else except for Italy. He swears he gained ten pounds from that trip alone, and he blames it on his daughter, who begged for raspberry gelato and ciabatta bread every chance she got. He had wanted to go back to the gym to lose weight, but you changed his mind when you told him on the last day in Italy that you found his new body attractive. You had also whispered in his ear that his thighs were thickening, and it was making you hot in the face. 

So, naturally, he took you into the shower, had you ride his thigh, and then made you come twice in twenty minutes. 

But that's beside the point. 

Harry reads your text, smiles, and then types out a response. Of course, love. We'll be home soon. We're full of spaghetti and love you very much. 

It's getting late, so he settles on taking the little rascal for a stroll through the gardens before she zonks out. He untucks his black shirt from his trousers, leans back against the chair, and rubs his hands over his stomach. It was a spaghetti dinner with seemingly endless garlic bread, so they are both now feeling the after-effects. 

Harry lets out a dramatic sigh that catches his daughter's attention. "Are you full?"

She mimics his position while nodding with a pout on her face. He laughs and starts folding his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, which he wore before it started getting dark out. He pushes their dirty dishes toward the middle of the table to make things easier for the busser. He then leaves a fifty-dollar bill as a tip. 

Reclaiming his credit card from the checkbook and putting it between his teeth, he grabs the coloring sheet the restaurant supplied and tucks it under his arm. He knows she'll want it on the fridge. 

He returns his credit card to his wallet and asks, "Ready to see the pretty flowers before we leave?" She hums a yes, and he can't help but reach across the table to pinch her cheek fondly before standing. "Let's go, sleepy girl." 

She lifts her arms in a request to be carried, and Harry picks her up with a groan. He's only thirty-one, so he really shouldn't be struggling to carry his daughter, who weighs the same as a sack of potatoes. He supposes that working in a kitchen and hunching over counters all day for the past decade might have something to do with it.

He hikes her up on his hip while she snakes her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. She'll be asleep in a matter of minutes. 

After he pushes their chairs in, he waves goodbye to the other daycare fathers before making a beeline for the commercial kitchen to bid adieu to the staff. He's friendly with some of them since he's a local chef himself, and he always tries to show his appreciation to chefs. He knows firsthand the hard work and stress of successfully running a restaurant behind the scenes.

Harry pushes the door open using his elbow and quickly catches the gaze of the head chef, whom he has talked to a few times at past culinary conventions and events. He takes his free hand and covers his daughter's exposed ear since it's noisy in the kitchen, with metal clanging and orders being shouted.

"Hi," he says, smiling politely at the head chef. "We're heading home, so I just wanted to give my thanks. The food and service were excellent." 

"Harry, it was good seeing you!" he replies cheerfully, reaching under a stainless steel countertop. "Stop by again soon. We love having your family here." 

"Will do, man. I'll bring my missus next time." 

Harry plans date nights every other week, usually finding restaurants he's never visited in the SoCal region. You've told him he gets endearingly talkative when explaining certain establishments' different cuisines and recipes. The restaurant he's at tonight has always been a favorite because he's taken you there a handful of times when the both of you were still in the early stages of dating. He even worked there as an assistant chef for two years. 

On the third date he took you on, if he remembers correctly, he may or may not have convinced his boss at the time to let him take you back to the kitchen so he could show you how to make chocolate-covered strawberries. You'd told him you had made them before, and he blushed while mentally facepalming himself; he thought he was being clever. That didn't stop him, though, because he ended up pulling something out of thin air. Turn up his charm, so to speak, by saying that his version of the classic recipe was extra special. 

Well, he had lied. 

They were just regular chocolate-covered strawberries, but he pushed up his sleeves (metaphorically and literally) and used fancy chef jargon to try to impress you. It worked—at least he thought so. Later, you admitted that you were actually just ogling his biceps every time he dipped the fruit into the melted chocolate. 

Once the strawberries were finished, Harry wrapped them up nicely and drove you home from the date. He fed you one before you got out of his beat-up Subaru, the only thing he could afford as a broke assistant chef. He will never forget you walking to your front door, half the strawberry still in hand, and then seeing you suddenly turn around to return to his window to feed him the last half. He had taken it in his mouth, chewing after taking a strangely erotic bite. He smirked at you and glanced down at your lips, which were stained a glistening red from the tart juices. 

"You're something else," he'd said sincerely, his voice raspy from work. 

"And you just scored another date with me."

From that moment on, he was gone for you. 

After shaking hands with the other chefs, Harry leaves the restaurant and walks to his Bentley. He rationally decides to skip out on the botanical garden tonight because he wants her to be fully awake to see the blossoming flowers. 

He unlocks the back door and gently straps her in, tucking her favorite blankie under her chin as she sleepily blinks at him. His heart melts into a puddle. "Let's go home to Mama, okay?" he murmurs, brushing her wispy hair back with a delicate sweep of his fingers. "I had such a fun time with you tonight." 

She yawns as ferociously as a toddler physically can, then lunges her arms forward for a hug. Harry hugs her the best he can with her in the car seat. He inhales her apple-scented shampoo while pressing kisses to the side of her head and then pulls away, poking her button nose with his thumb. 

"I love you this big," he says, spreading his arms as wide as possible. 

She giggles and copies his gesture. "Love big too," she replies brokenly with her sweet voice. 

Harry puckers his lips and kisses the air before sliding into the driver's seat. He takes out his phone to send you a quick update: She's in a spaghetti coma, so we're coming home now. We can go to the garden as a family next weekend. 

Pressing send, he smoothly pulls out of the parking lot and drives along the coastal highway with slightly cracked windows. He listens to his daughter's soft snores and thinks of you the entire way home with a dreamy smile.

—— 

You're still sitting by the fire, its flames dying with flickering embers, when you hear the garage door grinding open. You grin, immediately feeling warmer now that they're back home.

You had briefly gone inside to get a juice pouch for your daughter, just in case she came back awake. You also spontaneously decided to make chocolate-covered strawberries since you felt sentimental while reminiscing about the honeymoon phase of your relationship with Harry. 

The sound of footsteps sifting through the sand makes you turn your head. You find your husband with a sleeping angel clung to his side, his shirt untucked, and no shoes or socks on; he probably didn't want sand in his loafers. The shadow of scruff on his face is more noticeable, and the orange light from the campfire dances off his features. He looks at you, a soft smile gracing his lips as he carefully treads through the beach grass to reach you.

"I've got a delivery," he whispers, sitting next to you on the blanket you spread out. "She's unconscious and full of spaghetti, so I don't think she'll be useful to you." 

You laugh quietly and stare at your baby, who is sleeping peacefully. Your knuckles stroke her round cheeks as you ask, "How was it?"

"Good. I ate my weight in pasta and bread, but it was worth it. We had fun." 

You sling your arm around his waist and pat his stomach. "I'm glad you guys spent some time together." 

He hums thoughtfully, unbuttoning his trousers to release the strain. "I need to start watching what I eat and cut down on the carbs. Otherwise, I'll look like Santa in five years." 

He says it like he's joking, but you know he's been insecure about his weight since you were pregnant. He naturally put on sympathy weight during the nine months you carried the baby, and then afterward, it simply reached a point where he never had time to work out, whether being too busy working or spending his free time with you and the baby. He ate healthily, but some nights, he caved and ate carbs like there was no tomorrow. Plus, he's a chef, so you can't necessarily blame him for enjoying food.

When you met him seven years ago, he was twenty-four and had skinny legs and a slim torso. But if one thing hasn't changed about his body, it's his strong arms. They've held you through several situations — hugging you whenever you needed a companion, feeling the natural warmth radiating from him. Or holding your baby girl for the first time, his black tattoos beautifully contrasting the precious pink blanket that swaddled her. He could easily cradle her in one arm, fitting perfectly in the crook of his elbow like she belonged there. She still does. 

Or, arguably, your favorite, which is when he holds your body up, your back pressed against his chest, as he fucks you like no one else can. His bicep across your collarbones, his hand gripping your shoulder like he's physically claiming you, and his other hand gripping your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach...

You're getting carried away. 

The point is that his body is lovely. He still has abs from being generally fit and strong thighs that can chase after your daughter during playtime. His back muscles are masterfully sculpted from the physical exertion that goes into being a chef. His flawless face, too, but that goes without saying.

"I love your body," you say, wanting him to feel good about himself. "No matter the changes it's gone through, I adore all of your soft parts." 

He looks at you, trying to hold back a smirk. Of course, his mind immediately went to a dirty place. 

"I'm being serious. You're allowed to have insecurities. Remember when you felt bad eating all those carbs in Italy? What did I tell you?" 

Harry gazes at the ocean tide. "I was thinking about that at dinner tonight. When I saw my lock screen, I thought about that trip." He sighs and adds, "I don't know why I'm insecure when you're the only one I try to impress." 

You stare at him with nothing but adoration swimming in your eyes. "Are you feeling these insecurities because of the dinner? With all the dads there?"

He leans forward and kisses your forehead. "Why are you so fuckin' smart? I swear you're too good for me," he says with a breathtaking smile.

"I just want you to talk through these things," you explain, touching his neck. "I know how miserable it can be to keep those thoughts bottled up until the bottle breaks." 

Your thumb strokes along his jaw as you continue, "You're thirty-one. It's never too late to realize those insecurities and either come to peace with them or work on them. You know I'll always help you with whatever you decide." 

Harry exhales through his nose and settles his forehead on your shoulder. "Never stop talking to me," he says sincerely, kissing your skin tenderly.

You pinch his chin with your thumb and pointer finger. He moves his head to gently nip the pad of your thumb before kissing it. "I love you." 

"I know it," he whispers. "I just compare myself to rich, douchebag dads that own literal corporations and would probably ask me to be their personal chef in their ridiculous mansions if they knew what I did for a living." 

You offer him a sympathetic smile. He shouldn't look down on his career. It pays well, but it's nothing compared to the So-Cal dads who own Lamborghinis and have a million different job titles. 

"Harry, don't make me use my mom voice," "you say in a scolding tone. 

He grins delightedly. "I don't mind." 

"I've been with you for seven years. I was your girlfriend, married you, and pushed out a baby because I wanted a family with you. Your job doesn't matter to me in the way you're thinking. I love that you're a chef. When you first told me, I told my friends how hot I thought it was. I still find it hot." 

He's full-on blushing now. You continue, "You come home and are in such a good mood most days. Do you know why? Because you love what you do. You love the people, the food you make, and the environment, which matters most. Not money or how many cars you own. Without hesitation, you made the difficult decision to step down from being in charge so we could start a family together. You have no idea how much that meant to me. Now you have a daughter who watches you cook her favorite meals and loves you insanely. That's what you should be proud of. And that's what all those other dads should be jealous of." 

Harry's gaze flicks between your eyes before he kisses you with so much passion that you feel dizzy. You kiss him back, and he inhales like he's breathing you in. Your daughter is still asleep, so you pull away before it escalates. 

He finishes with a big kiss on your cheek, then rests his cheek against yours. "I love you so much," he whispers into your ear for only you to hear. "I'm pretty sure you just gave me a love boner." 

You laugh, feeling his dimple form against your cheek. He leans back to look at you and shakes his head. "No joke," he says, infectious laughter crawling up his throat. "You just made me hard by telling me how much you love me." 

You roll your eyes playfully before standing and stretching your back. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get her to bed." 

Harry stands and hikes up your daughter a little. With a frown, he glances down at his pants when he realizes they're still unbuttoned. He obviously can't button them with one arm preoccupied with sleeping beauty, so you help him. You lift his shirt an inch to kiss his soft stomach first, then rest your chin on it and look up at him with a smile. After admiring his handsome face for a moment, you button his pants.

Your daughter is carefully passed from his arms to yours for a brief cuddle session before she has to be tucked into bed. Harry throws an arm around your shoulders and guides you inside the house. His steps falter when he retrieves a coloring sheet and gives it to you. It's a simple one that restaurants provide, and this particular one has a scene of two bunnies frolicking in the grass. It is what it is for a toddler with no concept of artistry, and you smile proudly when you take it from him. You'll hang it on the fridge with her other scribbled creations. 

Harry opens the porch door and lets you inside first before locking it. He turns on the lamp in the living room. Then, as if reading your mind, he grabs tape from the junk drawer and attaches the drawing to the fridge. While he tidies the kitchen, you head in the opposite direction toward her bedroom.

After a few minutes, you see Harry in your peripheral vision and pat the floor in invitation. He kneels beside you, his knees cracking. He dramatically lets out a fake cry of pain, and you silently laugh while flicking his chest. He opens his mouth in offense, acting as if you just insulted him, to which you just shake your head and gesture zipping his mouth shut. He slyly smacks your ass, and you give him a warning glare before standing and kissing your daughter goodnight. 

Before you leave the room, you get revenge by tickling Harry's sides from behind and then quickly running out of the room. You know how much he hates being tickled, but you were feeling the mutual playfulness that always trickles around bedtime. You reach the bedroom, hearing his heavy footsteps down the hallway. He pokes his head past the doorway to the master bedroom. You look at him with wide eyes and sit at the edge of the bed, waiting for his next move. 

Harry saunters through the doorway while looking around and nonchalantly whistling a tune with his arms behind his back. He walks to the connected master bathroom, your eyes trained on him the entire time. He turns around to close the sliding door just enough so that you still have a partial view of him.

"What?" he asks innocently, catching your eyes in the bathroom mirror. He's messing with you. And making you sweat.

"What are you doing?" you retort, crossing your legs partly to act unaffected and to ease the ache between your legs. 

He casually leans against the jamb. "Let's see... someone left me with quite a problem, so I thought I'd take care of it before bedtime like the gentleman I am," he says smugly, maintaining a stellar poker face. 

"What do you suppose I do while I wait?" you reply, confident enough to play his game. 

He deeply hums while standing straight and removing his trousers. With his thighs on display, you admire the tattoos there—a tiger on one and your name on the other. "I suppose you could get some sleep. Perhaps read. Whatever you'd like, darling, I'm not picky." He now stands in black boxers and a loose T-shirt. So cocky. 

"And what will you be doing if I decide to sleep or read?" you challenge, sliding up on the bed to lean against the headboard. 

Harry lets a smirk take over his face as he says, "What would you like me to do, honey?" 

"I'd like you to not be in there alone." 

"Will you be a good girl while I take care of the little problem you gave me?" 

"Of course, baby. You know I always am." 

One side of his mouth tugs up as he slowly nods, seemingly agreeing with you. "Always so good," he whispers, just loud enough to hear. He inhales deeply before turning around frustratingly slowly, finally pulling his shirt and boxers off. He's tan from the daily sunshine, and his back muscles flex with each subtle movement. Your mouth quickly goes dry. 

He disappears to turn the shower on but leaves the door open, which you know is an invitation. You had already changed into your silk pajama shorts and a tank top while he was in the kitchen, so you shut your bedroom door before entering the bathroom. 

Oh. 

The sight has your breath hitching. Harry's silhouette is behind the steamed, see-through shower door. One hand on the wall, the other... well, he didn't even wait for you. He has already started. You hear his quiet groans being stifled by his mouth buried in his arm, causing hot and bothered tingles to prickle your skin. 

You don't think he sees you yet, so you take your pajamas off and quietly close the bathroom door. For some reason, you suddenly remember you have chocolate-covered strawberries in the fridge. You leave him to his fun and quickly grab a towel to wrap around you before walking to the kitchen. You open the refrigerator, grab two strawberries, and then shuffle back into the bathroom. As you drop the towel, you realize he's still going. You didn't think you got him worked up that much just by talking about how good of a person he is. Each to their own. 

After hastily eating one of the strawberries, you gently knock on the glass. Harry stops abruptly and rests his face on his arm. He slightly cracks open the door to see and hear you. It takes everything in you to not look down. 

"Hi," you say quietly. "I'm here." 

He's breathing heavily, water dripping down his slick body. Wet strands of hair fall over his forehead as his eyes bore into yours. "You are, aren't you?"

You subtly glance down at the problem you gave him; it's throbbing and needs assistance. You're sure he will disapprove of you interrupting his session with a dessert offering. 

With your eyes focused on the floor, you absentmindedly draw a heart in the steam evaporating on the glass shower door and say, "I made dessert when you guys were gone." When spoken out loud, your sentimental baking idea seems stupid. "I almost forgot about them and then remembered they were in the fridge, so I brought you one. I was reminiscing about when we started dating and thought about the strawberries. Anyway..."

You're rambling too much. He was pleasing himself, and here you come, waltzing in with dessert while stumbling over words like you just met him. You need to get it together. 

Harry is still looking at you with his chest heaving, his left arm taut, and his large hand pressed against the shower wall, while his other hand still grips his cock. His piercing eyes have become darker, and they peer down at your hand holding the strawberry. The chocolate at the tip is gradually melting. His eyes travel even further down to your bare legs, then to the heart you drew. His lips twitch. 

When his gaze meets yours again, his tongue presses into his cheek before he straightens his posture. He steps toward the crack in the door and leans slanted against the shower wall, his naked body shamelessly in full view. 

You wait for him to interact with the Strawberry of Nostalgia, but he just looks at you smugly. Jutting your hand further, you indicate that he should take it again. It feels like he's secretly judging you. He's barely said anything, and now he's gazing at you like he wants to eat you for dessert. 

"The chocolate might melt off since it's pretty steamy in here," you mention with a nervous and breathy giggle. 

Harry regards the strawberry again before moving his head toward you. "Yeah?" he says with a wicked smirk. 

"Yeah," you reply, refusing to look into his eyes. "They haven't been in the fridge for very long." 

He laughs huskily, then clears his throat. "Well, I'm waiting right here, darling. I'm not a huge fan of melted and mushy chocolate-covered strawberries." 

So, he wants you to feed it to him. Like you did all those years ago when you first realized you were so gone for him. Good lord.

The steam in the bathroom is not helping your feverish body temperature. You take a few deep breaths before touching Harry's swollen lips, which you assume he's been biting on to suppress his noises. He maintains intense eye contact with you as he slightly opens his mouth. You guide the strawberry into it, and he bares his teeth while sensually biting the fleshy fruit. 

Once half of it is in his mouth, he tilts his head and chews slowly. He groans, his eyes rolling back. "So fuckin' good." 

You eat the other half to move the tension along, then throw the leafy stem on the ground. On trembling legs, you step away and admire the water droplets on Harry's lips that turn pink from the juices. 

His thumb and pointer finger wipe the creases near his mouth. He then reaches through the door's crack and brushes his slick thumb across yours before sucking on it. In desperate need of relief, you clench your thighs and shakily exhale. 

"I'll be good," you plead, utilizing your angelic eyes to get him to give in. "I won't touch you, but please let me watch." 

Harry tuts. "Are you sure you'll just watch? Or are you going to be a brat like you were with that little stunt you pulled earlier?" 

It's no surprise he's still hung up on the tickling. His ego can't take what he dishes out. God forbid he teases you because you know his precious pride will be crushed as soon as you do it back.

You bite your tongue and promise yourself to be good for him. "I'm sorry for doing that. I didn't mean to be a brat. I swear I'll behave this time." 

He beckons you by curling his fingers inward. "Come here, then."

You slide open the door further until you can squeeze through, then shut it tightly before standing across from him. The shower is spacious with a built-in bench--both of you have done your fair share of indecent activities on it. 

"Hey," Harry says lowly. "Be my good girl and sit. No talking or touching, okay? Watch me until I finish."

Nodding, you obediently sit on the bench and cross your legs to relieve the subtle pressure growing between them. You glance at Harry with innocent eyes that you know will weaken him. He gives in for a split second when he leans down and places his hands on either side of your thighs, nudging his nose against your cheek before kissing it roughly. You try not to smile at his momentary infirmity. 

"Stay put, or I'll walk out of here and go straight to bed," he warns, resuming the position you walked in on, except this time he's right in front of you. His palm on the shower wall is closest to you, with his other hand gripping his cock. 

This is going to be torture.

——

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hii! Could you do a mizu w reader where one is injured (doesn't really matter which one haha) and it's like a hurt/ comfort?

Take your time and get some rest!!

Write this when I was on the verge of falling asleep, so if any of it sounds like it was coming out of my ass, it was. 🦦

‘Why did you do it?’ Mizu asked, choosing not to look at you but instead focus on your injuried chest with a hard glare.

‘Do what? Protect you from that smiley coward who was about to use unethical means to completely blindside you?’ You replied as though the answer wasn’t already glaringly obvious, you honestly didn’t understand why you had to explain your reasonings as for protecting Mizu and putting your life at risk, but if it meant showing them that someone did give a shit about whether they’d live or die; then you’d happily be that person for Mizu.

‘You had no need to protect me, I could’ve-‘

‘Easily defend yourself, I know Mizu.’ You interrupted them before grabbing ahold of their hand, memorising the feeling of callousness to memory, as you rubbed your thumb against the back of their hand reassuringly. ‘I know how strong and powerful and amazing you are. I’ve witnessed your fighting spirit first hand and it took my breath away. Literally because when we first met you knocked the wind out of my lungs with the butt of your sword, all because you thought I was some stranger about to attack you.’ You finished recounting the tale of how you first encountered Mizu with a small smile. Why? Maybe it was your way to direct their mind to a more happier and healthier memory, rather then have it stuck heavily focusing on the one where they had their back exposed to the enemy; the reason you now had a massive gash running across your chest. A gash that would surly become a permanent part of your body but also a painful reminder to Mizu.

A reminder that you could’ve been easily taken away from them.

A reminder that you’d always selflessly put them before yourself, even if that meant getting hurt, maimed, loosing a limb or worse yet; your life.

A reminder that they’ll have to get stronger if they wish to prevent you from doing so in the nearby future. Mizu knew that their revenge took presidency over everything else, even their own health, but they don’t want you to ruin yourself beyond recognition for them; It just didn’t feel right to Mizu to have you be the barrier between them and the ill intentions of other people. They were strong enough to deal with it but as it’s been made clear countless times before, you didn’t give two shits about that, and instead focused all your time and effort into showing them that they matter so much to you; Which is an admirable and respectable trait to have in Mizu’s eyes.

However that did little to quell the unease they felt upon witnessing your body drop at their feet in what felt like slow motion, just as the first sighting of blood that began to pool beneath you in such quick succession, that at one point Mizu genuinely thought they were too late to save you, this was proven especially more true when you didn’t awaken within the first couple of days after Mizu had stitched and then later covered your wound; all in due to the amount of blood you had already lost. So the feeling of being able to properly breathe again upon seeing you wake up made the uneasy feeling that little bit more bearable for Mizu.

‘While it’s appreciated to know that I can fully count on you to have my back in the heat of battle, it is not a necessity.’ Mizu states, bring the conversation back to where it was needed most, causing you to frown. ‘I should’ve known better than to think that he would honour me with a fair fight. I should’ve known that he’d play dirty the moment he realised the odds were stacked against him.’ Mizu adds, clenching their fists into the seams of their clothing, jaw clenched and their eyes become an unforgiving steel blue; all signs of their underlying rage toward themself and the cowardly man.

‘You didn’t know and that’s perfectly fine.’ You grunt as you slowly sat yourself up with Mizu’s hands supporting your endeavour whilst being mindful as to not reopen your wound. ‘It’s normal to not foresee things before they happen, otherwise it wouldn’t be considered an authentic human experience.’ You let out a little chuckle, all the while Mizu was left to sit there and narrow their brows at what you could’ve possibly thought was so humorous. ‘And to live an authentic human experience is to accept that you have limitations, especially during the moments where you wished you didn’t have any at all.’ You said as you looked into Mizu’s eyes hoping that your words were somewhat getting through to them.

‘We always question ourselves on how we didn’t see it coming, or how we didn’t see the signs but what we’re not taking into account is that we’re human. Not super powered beings of mythical origins nor gods but just plain old humans. We don’t get the luxuries that they do, however if there’s one thing we can pride ourselves in having, it’s how we take these moments to heart and learn from them going forwards.’ You smiled softly, seeing the sea of emotions within Mizu’s eyes. ‘Another thing we can pride ourselves on is our resilience and our willpower to continue paving the way forward. We get hurt but we always get back up because that’s the indomitable human spirit. That’s what we do.’

‘Where are you getting with this and what does it have to do with me allowing you in getting hurt?’ Mizu asked, curious and a little restless as to what this was all meant to mean. ‘The moral of this for you to not beat yourself up over being human for being human is all we’ll ever know how to be until our final breath.’ You explained, lifting their clenched hand within yours to press a kiss to the back of it, before placing it back onto their lap. ‘Instead of focusing on what has already come to pas, how about bringing your attention to the fact that I’m still here and I’m still breathing. Yeah?’ Mizu stayed quiet for a while, allowing for your words to sit with them as Mizu thought long and hard before finally reaching to a conclusion.

‘Only on the pretences that I get to teach you in the basics of defence.’ Mizu said. ‘As a precaution.’ They add.

‘As long as you don’t go hard on me.’ You chuckled, already visualising it.

Mizu gave you an almost missable smirk. ‘No promises.’

[mothwingwritings]

Why The Baki Men Love You, Feat. Baki, Katsumi, Hanayama, Biscuit, Yujiro, Jack, Doppo, Retsu, And Musashi <3

Here’s just a silly little thing I wrote in between working on bigger stuff. I was feeling sappy and wanted to write something with a bit of a lovey-dovey flair. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ The Baki men love you for loads of reasons, but I wanted to pin point some of their more personalized reasons for loving you. (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ I hope you enjoy!

(Also I have so many responses and questions that I need to answer, I apologize that it takes me 5-7 business days or longer to reply to basically anything. (´∀｀；) Thank you all for being kind and lovely and patient and talking to me, I will be getting to those soon! (シ_ _)シ)

WARNINGS: None really, it’s all pretty fluffy. The editing is probs ass though because I did sorta whip through this, so there is that. (ノωヽ)

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ﾟ。 Baki-Love

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That’s all he’s truly looking for in a partner, really. Someone who unequivocally loves him without him having to prove himself in some way was the dream, and through you he was able to achieve that dream. Back when you first met you had welcomed him into your life so readily, arms open and heart bared- there were no caveats or stipulations to your love. His upbringing lacked tenderness, a sense of family something that was sorely missing from his life as a small child. He yearned for the feeling of a warm home, a caring family, and he has found that in you. For this he treasures you, and loves you more than he could ever say. He’s completely devoted to you, his love and adorable boundless, and he plans on spending the rest of his life reciprocating the affection you have so selflessly provided him.  <3

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ﾟ。 Katsumi-Support

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It hasn’t been an easy road for the inheritor of the Orochi legacy. His young life has been full of as many defeats as it has victories, possibly even more so. He’s no strange to intense moments of frustration, so overpowering he loses control of himself. But when he hears your voice cheering him on, or when he I sat his limit and feels your steady hand on his back, he’s filled with such confidence he feels like he could take on the whole damn world and win. Simply seeing your face in the crowd, eyes bright and smile full of hope, fills him with a sense of certitude that he can’t achieve anywhere else. You are his lucky charm, his courage, his entire heart. He could spend his whole life thanking you and telling him how much you mean to him and still not be able to convey how much he adores you. <3

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ﾟ。 Hanayama-Understanding

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Kaoru is a busy man with a lot of responsibilities. It’s hard for him to find time for a relationship, let alone find someone who is willing to put up with all the red tape that comes with being his lover. But to you, it was never a huge issue. You had the patience of a saint, never once pouting or putting up a fuss when he couldn’t end up keeping promises to you. He knew it upset you, knew that you often felt lonely when he had to leave you behind. But you always smiled so brightly the next time you saw him, never cursing him or giving him the cold shoulder, just thrilled that he returned safely to your side. Any grievances you may have felt were completely overcome by your happiness to see him again, and witnessing that joy light up your face never failed to warm his heart. Many people respected him, pledging their lives to him, awarding him their earnest devotion. But your love was different, much sweeter and tinged with a kindness he had never previously experienced. His love for you was boundless, and even with all your empathy, he would make any negligence up to you tenfold the moment he returns-always. <3

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ﾟ。 Biscuit-Affection  

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Biscuit’s romantic obsession began when he got to know you, but truly blossomed once you began to reciprocate his feelings. He remembers very vividly the moment you became officially his-holding you in his arms as he sang your praises, practically begging you to become his partner, he expected you to be overwhelmed, maybe even somewhat annoyed. But when he nervously peeked over at you and saw that you were looking up at him with those big, love-struck, doe eyes, his heart nearly exploded. He lives for your praise, yearns for your touch, melts in your presence, and when he sees his presence has a similar effect on you it makes his heart beat so rapidly it may just rip out of his chest. To love someone so incredible, and be loved back in turn, is all he has ever dreamed of.  This man is absolutely head over heels for you, and his affections will only grow the longer you remain his. <3

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ﾟ。 Yujiro-Entertainment

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Maybe it’s not the standard definition of love, but there is definitely something about you that caught the ogre’s eye and kept him intrigued. The way you move, talk, think, act- all of it is so interesting to him. Your reactions and thought processes so far removed from how he would respond to a situation that he can’t help but be intrigued. What would you say if he told you this? How would you respond if this occurred? Silly thoughts like this plague his mind, eating away at him so much he’s halfway tempted to hunt you down so he can answer his own questions and move on. But even if he finds his infatuation asinine, his focus always seems to be drawn back to you. It’s ridiculous, and he can’t quite sort out why he cares so much, but your magnetic charm definitely has an effect on him. It pisses him off and amuses him in equal measure. Where you fit in his life is an enigma, but it’s one he’s happy to grapple with. The paradox of your company has held his interest much longer than he ever imagined it would, and he intends to ride that out as long as he’s able.  That certain je ne sais quo you have about you is what keeps him coming back for more. <3

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ﾟ。 Jack-Strength

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Not necessarily physical strength (though he loves that too), but what really got him was your emotional fortitude. He’s seen you get through situations that would make lesser people roll over and quit, watched you handle problems that would make even the toughest of people second guess themselves and break down. But you always pull through, no matter what situation you are faced with. You may cry, you may scream, you may kick and thrash and question the trial you are going through… But you always make it through and come out the victor. He draws strength from you, admiring you greatly for all you have struggled to achieve. You are an inspiration to him, and he loves you more than he thought he could ever possibly love another. He just wants you to know you never have to struggle alone again, your burdens are his, and he’s happy to shoulder them with you. <3

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ﾟ。 Doppo-Morals

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It’s not that you were squeaky clean (and he wouldn’t necessarily want you that way, either), but there is a conviction about you that he can’t help but be attracted to. You stand up for what you believe in and don’t mince your words. Even if you are facing your opposition with a shaky voice, tears in your eyes, legs wobbling so bad you can barely stand… You still make you stand. It’s inspiring to him, and has made him so fond of you that he has vowed to never leave you fighting on your own. Maybe you don’t see yourself as particularly brave or outstanding, but Doppo begs to differ. You are an incredibly strong willed person who will put up a fight for their beliefs, and you have his full love and support each step of the way. <3

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ﾟ。 Retsu-Sincerity

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Retsu himself is a very earnest person, and like attracts like. From the moment he met you, he was taken with how authentic you were. You didn’t have a disingenuous bone in your body, responding to people and situations in such a heartfelt and unfeigned way he couldn’t help but fall hard and fast. Everything you did was so profound. Your actions, words, and emotions, were all so beautiful to him. You spilled your heart to the world, never fearing any backlash or mockery. He deeply admires how you wear your heart on your sleeve, facing the challenges of each day with a clear head and a caring heart. He knew you could hold your own, but he always wants to be near you so that he may protect and support you through anything life may throw your way. Your natural candor never ceases to stir him, motivating and influencing to be a better man. <3

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ﾟ。 Musashi-Respect

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When Musashi was revived, he was born into a whole new world. It was unrecognizable, foreign and distant, and he often felt as if he were just a phantom passing through. Just as in his previous life, people are star struck when they see him, vying to meet and speak with him, eager to challenge him. But it’s all a farce, a mockery of the past when warriors presented themselves to him for an honest battle, not some spectacle born out of misunderstanding and underestimation of him. It made him sick, to see how soft and ignorant mankind had become in the hundreds of years since his passing. He felt damn near ready to give up on this new humanity entirely, the notion that he may find someone he desired long term companionship in this new age laughable. That is, until he met you. From your initial meeting onward, you held him in a high regard, genuine in your esteem and admiration of him. He was quite struck by you too, as you were always polite and courteous, always indescribably beautiful. You carried yourself with a quiet dignity, having a distinct personality he found quite endearing. He was quickly ensnared by you, a warmth permeating him at finding a kindred spirit whom he felt safe sharing his heart with. The world is only destined to keep changing, but his love for you will remain everlasting. <3

[oceansssblue]

SW REQUESTS:

"Would love to see a Wolffe x reader fic where the AFAB reader is injured in battle, Comms him and then their Comms get jammed and he's just freaking the hell out. Love some angst of him carrying her back to a ship and losing his mind over it"

Some minor alterations but I'm SO HAPPY with how this one came out! I love wolffe and there aren't that many fics about him. Do recommend your favourites! Xx, sky.

"RADIO SILENT" –WOLFFE/F READER

WARNINGS: BATTLE, WOUNDS&BLOOD, ANGST AND FLUFF. 📩💔💖

Halsakaa is a nightmare. The Republic hasn't been able to redirect more forces to the Outer Rim planet to help you; and your troops are struggling to keep the droids battalions at bay. It honestly feels as though the Republic –and the Jedi– have abandoned you to your wrath; no-one coming to this remote location in the galaxy to save you. The destine of your own life, and the lifes of your soldiers, are solely in your hands. And you'd give everything for them, even sacrifice yourself if you have to. After so many experiences together, for almost three years straight now, they have becomed such an important part of you it feels as if you have ingrained every single one of them in your soul. You know you should'nt be so attached to them; Master Ploo quietly reminds you from time to time –though you know he's not exactly indifferent either–. The wolfpack is his own just as they are yours. Yours. Growing up as Jedi you haven't had this kind of... ownership over anything but your saber. Obviously, you don't see the clones as something you can posses, use; but they do belong to you in some sense, and in that way, it's your responsability to command them, to take care of them. And you... love them. It's a dangerous word for a Jedi. But it's the truth. It is the reason why, right now, your soul aches. Each death is a strike right to your heart. But how can you see them any different, when they are such loyal friends? Such fierce soldiers, who fight and die selflessly for the freedom of other citizens in the galaxy, a freedom that hadn't been given to themselves?

Your dark emerald green lightsaber flies in your hands, deflecting one bolt after the other one. Sweat makes your usually comfortable jedi robes stick to your body; minor scratches and wounds tingling painfully at the friction of the fabric. It doesn't make you move any slower, though; you feel unstopable jumping from a cluster of droids to another, the hum of your saber following you around while you slash through your enemies with persistent focus and skill. General Ploo is doing his own thing on the other side of the battlefield; your clone troops split in half to defend both sides of Halsakaa's capital.

You don't know how much longer you can hold this off. All of you have been trained for this, and you're used to drawing strength from the Force, increasing your usual endurance; but even you are feeling exhausted, muscles straining like painful cords, and the thing about the droids is that they never tire out. You know this has to end eventually. Right now, Master Ploo's orders are to hold on til some other battalion can come to your rescue –the other option abandoning Halsakaa to the separatists, which would cause a disastrous impact on the Republic–; though you don't know when that will be. It may be days, or weeks. A month, maybe two. Even with the system of rest-and-takeover you've got established with the clones you're afraid you're going to lose.

The night falls, and some troopers fall back into the delicate safety of the makeshift camp, a decent distant away from the battlefield; they'll try to shut the eye for some hours before replacing other brothers positions again. You keep fighting, completely exhausted but knowing perfectly well that your presence in the battlefield equals the force of ten clones; pushing through your energy limits and fiercely holding your own.

Hours pass, and the two suns of Halsaaka rises again; your tired eyes getting used to the new light while you keep slashing droids with your saber.

"We're pushing them further away from the South Door" Master Ploo's calm voice picks up through your coms. "I have been informed that the 442th have been dispatched in our way. They will join us in two sunrises".

You can't help but give a relieved sigh. The 104th have worked with the 442th more than once in the past. They are heavy infantry; and you wouldn't say no to some of that now. Any fresh soldier would be a welcomed addition. You can see the strain on your troopers; though none of them would dare say a word out loud.

"Copy that" you answer through your channel with your Master and the 104th's commander and sergeant. "I'll feel as happy as a kid with a popsicle when I see that green stripped armour along our light gray one".

You dodge a shot and use the Force to push a wave of droids to the side; your troopers quickly using the oportunity to blast them down.

Wolffe's deep husky voice pipes up in a tiny, well-humoured comment.

"Still a kid yourself, General" he teases you, voice still firm and contradictionally serious.

Your lips pull up on a tiny smirk.

"We can't all age in a blink of an eye, my dear Commander" you chirp back.

The coms pick up his raspy chuckle before the frequency goes back to silence.

The droids make way for something bigger and you groan under your breath. The first bolts make the earth beneath your feet shake slightly; orders and screams shouted all around you.

"Bad news, boys" you open the general coms this time so everyone gets updated in this very unwelcomed surprise. "We've got some spiders".

You focus yourself on them; flying through the battlefield and jumping on one droid after the other one, sinking your saber into their red sensors or cutting off their laser canions. Then, when you're in the middle of jumping off of one, a surprisingly well aimed bolt crosses the air and hits you; and you fall down with blood quickly soaking your side, staining the fabric of your Jedi clothes.

"Fuck" you mutter out loud, jaw clenching til your teeth hurt while you stand up quickly and deflect another bold with your saber, trying to cope with the pain. You open your private frequency with Sinker and quickly inform of your state.

"Sinker, I've been hit" you grit between your teeth while you kill the droid responsible for your wound and step back between your troopers to cover yourself momentarily.

You pull your clothes up and quickly glance down at the wound. Usually the bolts inmediately cauterizes the wounds; but this hadn't been a normal droid, but a combat-J1, with it's weapon specifically designed to make the most damage to human's skin without it's predecessors side-efects. The apparently less dangerous bolts are quite the opposite; dividing into smalller ones that diverts into different directions when hitting a surface with enough resistance. Right now, there's only one entrance wound on your right side; but you know they may have carved more than one path inside of you, making it a life or death situation depending on how lucky you are.

"How bad is it?" He asks, slowly but effectively advancing through the droid lines towards you, an easy person to locate with the shine of your emerald saber.

You grunt in pain, hand soaked in dark scarlet blood, and take a deep breath in, knowing what you need to do for now.

"Bad" you just answer, carefully lowering your own saber towards the wound "It's a shot from a J1. I'm going to cauterise the wound for now, but I might go into shock in the next hour. Just a heads up."

You chuckle weakly, and then carefully graze your lightsaber against the wound. The skin quickly hardens and clots; the smell of the burn quickly reaching your nose. Your knees buckle while you swallow your scream of pain; legs shaking weakly and tears springing to your eyes while you finish putting a momentarily solution to your wound. At least you won't die from blood loss for now.

"Maker, General" Sinker is suddenly there, taking a strong hold of your opposite hip to stabilize you. "That really doesn't look good. You should go back to camp, Sir".

You find solace in his strength for a minute before rightening yourself again and getting ready to move. You close your eyes and center yourself with the Force. You're hurt, but you're still in the middle of open fire; you need to swallow the pain and dizziness down and hold on.

You give Sinker a firm nod.

"I'm letting this side of the battlefield on your hands, then" you tell him, his own back inmediately straightening too under such responsability. "Just one more night and we'll have reinforcements with us tomorrow".

Sinker nods in understanding, appreciating your words of encouragement. He quickly orders Comet to help you get safely back to camp; while he inmediately takes the role of leader and commands your part of the 104th clone troops. You need to protect the North Door of Halsaaka while Master Ploo and Wolffe take care of the South.

One arm around Comet's shoulders and finding strength in the Force, you quickly start your dangerous way back to safety. Even though Comet's alert with his own blaster and you're still deflecting bolts with your saber, you're vulnerable now. You just hope you're both able to make it.

You open your coms to inform of the new situation.

"I've been hit with a J1" you warn Master Ploo and Wolffe. You don't like how weak your voice sounds. "Wolffe, I..."

There's a small explosion right beside you; and the force of it pushes both you and Comet to the ground. You whimper in pain, but quickly grab him and push the two of you back up, resume walking –more like stumbling forward–. You try the coms again, wanting to tell Wolffe you've left Sinker with command before retiring for the night; you grumble in irritation when you see your com device has detached from your forearm and has been left abandoned behind.

"Do you have your com?" You ask Comet.

His voice is barely audible under the protection of his helmet.

"My audio appears to be broken after that last fall, General."

You sigh, tired. There's nothing you can do about it now. Sinker will communicate with them sooner or later.

"Let's just make it back to safety then" you say, and Comet nods diligently.

You'll just focus on not collapsing to the ground before reaching camp.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Wolffe's heart stutters inside his chest when he hears your voice in the coms. You're always strong, always fierce; something he had admired from the very first time he had had the chance to work under your command. He had been cold towards you back then; not purposedly harsh against you, but not friendly either. You hadn't cared. When one of his men had pointed out to you it wasn't personal, but just Wolffe's reserved, unpolished personality, you had answered unbothered and completely understanding. He could still hear those words in his head; "I get it. I'm a stranger that holds the lifes of his brothers in her hands. None of you know me yet; trust is earned. I hope I will with time. I'd like us all to be comfortable with each othef. But if not, it doesn't matter. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to fight. I'm here to protect people; and I'm here to direct my assigned troops as best as I can in order to achieve the best results with the minor number of casualties. If Commander Wolffe opens up to me I'd be honored. If not, I'm sure we could still be good comrades in this war". He still remembers the way you had tilted your chin upwards; staring defiantly at the clones in front of her, completely unaware of him standing not so far away at her back. "Now, I believe there's still some preparations needed for Jaal; and we're taking off in an hour". With that not-so-subtle signal that the conversation had ended, the troopers around you had quickly fell back to place; and Wolffe had silently followed Master Ploo Koo towards you. "Look at you, little warrior" the older Jedi had told you, a pleasant smile wrinkling the corner of his covered eyes. "Already displaying such good lidership traits". You had turned around in surprise; so many life presences around you, and experiencing a rush of your own emotions, you hadn't been aware of both of their presence. Your cheeks had flushed slightly; though that same defiant glint hadn't left your eyes. "Master" you had slightly bowed towards him. "You see me with good eyes" you had smiled softly at him, in a clearly opened affectionate way Wolffe wasn't used to seing in other Jedi. "Just having a chat with the troops". Master Ploo had chuckled quietly and pointed at him with a hand gesture; Wolffe quickly taking a step forwards towards them. "I have just had a quick meeting with the Council. Commander Wolffe will update you on my behalf, as I need to go have a word with the pilots" Master Ploo had glanced back at him pointedly. "If he'd be kind enough...". Wolffe had inmediately nodded, firmly. He had high respect towards that specifical Jedi; and he didn't usually hold others in such high regards. "Of course, sir" he had then turned towards you. "General, if you can follow me to the strategy room...". You had firmly hold his stare for a few seconds; and the quiet inquisitive gaze had felt as if the young Jedi Warrior had scanned his own very soul. Wolffe had had his first tingle of that uncomfortable but curious feeling back then; a feeling that had only increased with the following years. Nowadays, he...

Wolffe cleared his thoughts and focused on battle. Your voice had sound weak and tired, but you were perfectly capable of holding yourself, and this wasn't the first time you had been hurt before. He had actually patched you more than once in the past and... And then you mentioned a J1, and whispered his name, and there was a loud ringing sound through the coms that sounded too close to an explosion for his comfort and... And the sounds died, leaving nothing more than radio silence. And Wolffe, going against everything he had learnt and was trained for, pannicked.

"General?" His frantic, afraid voice was enough for Master Ploo to focus his attention on him, a graze at his Force life enough to make him understand his commander's feelings. "General. Come on. Com in, kid..."

There was only static.

Wolffe's heart pumped faster, adrenaline shooting through his veins. His hands trembled. A knot formed in his throat, slowly chocking his voice. He never broke down. He never broke down, but...

"Cyar'ika" he begged in a whisper. "Please, please answer and tell me you're okay".

He still got no answer back from you, and he felt his soul hurt.

Master Plo's hand suddenly renched him back into reality; a comforting wave of what could only be his Force washing over him. Wolffe turned his face towards him. The Jedi watched him in understanding.

"I can feel your turmoil. It is such it's difficult for me to focus on anything else. You are in no state to stay in the battlefield" he told him, cautiously gentle. "If my padawan has been gravely injured someone has probably helped her return to camp. You must go and make sure she's okay".

Even if Wolffe wanted nothing more than to start of a run and find her, he still hesitated in front of his General. He was a soldier. A commander. He couldn't leave his place just because he had stupidly, oh so fucking stupidly, fallen in love with her...

Master Plo squeezed his shoulders once. He knew him so well.

"Go" he insisted. "That's an order".

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Wolffe quickly wrenched the flimsi excuse of a door of the tent open. He had gone to the makeshift infirmary first; his doctor quickly informing him of the state of his Jedi, and where he could find her resting at the moment. "A dangerous wound, but surprisingly stable" he had told him while he took care of the wound of a fellow brother. "She's a tough one, our General. It was a good idea to use her own lightsaber as a cauterizer. She wouldn't have probably made it all the way back here otherwise". That probability had made Wolffe tremble.

His own eyes quickly scanned the Jedi's state now. She was laying down on a rucksack, unusually clad in just a sport top and his Jedi pant's; outer robes discarded and clean bandages effectively wrapping around her lower torso, with just a small amout of blood transpairing on her side. Her lightsaber had been carefully placed at her side. Her hair was untied and a mess; some sticking to her dirtied face and some falling around freely behind her. Despite her evident exhaustion, Wolffe hand't ever been so happy to see her.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Commander?" You asked in a surprised voice, slowly and carefully propelling some of your weight in your elbows in order to see him better. "Shouldn't you be back on the battlefield?"

Your face quickly changes into a deep, worried frown as you scan him up and down quickly.

"Are you hurt too, Wolffe?"

His heart clenches again. He steps inside the tent, slowly falling down on his knees besides you, and closes the door.

"No" he simply answers, observing you quietly.

You're completely lost. He's looking at you in a different way. He... Feels different, in the Force. Usually he feels much more reserved, almost as if he had learnt how to shield his emotions from a Jedi; however this... This felt raw.

"I'm afraid I don't understand" you chuckle and then wince at the way the movement tugs at your wound, a bit nervously now. You pointedly look at him. "You wouldn't be here just because you got worried, right?"

Wolffe's expression doesn't change.

"You went radio silent" he answers, quietly.

You arch an eyebrow.

"Our coms died" you explain, still confused about his attitude.

Wolffe can't help himself. He reaches forward and carefully grasps your chin in his right hand; eyes boring into yours. You gasp in surprise and can't do anything else but stare at his breathetaking mismatched eyes in response; emotions inside of you swirling dangerously with his move.

"You were hurt" he enfasises, almost as if he's trying to tell you something else, something you're not quite understanding. "You were hurt, and you went radio silent".

Oh. Oh. He thought you might be... You might have...

"Oh, Wolffe" his name is an understanding, affectionate sigh on your tempting lips. "I'm okay".

He doesn't want empathy. Doesn't want that almost condescending type of comfort. He needs to make sure you're still here; with him. He needs to exteriorize all this raw, painful emotions he has been keeping hidden for so fucking long, and he wants you so fucking bad it makes his mind and soul burn...

He bends down over you, holding himself against one hand proped against the floor while the other one tugs your neck forward, and then he's kissing you –fiercely, dominantly, real–; he kisses the same way he fights and a surprised but delighted whimper of a moan can't help but escape from your lips, hands quickly clinging onto his shoulders desperately.

You... You hadn't thought you'd end up having this. With you being a Jedi and him being such a perfect, respected clone Commander, you had always brushed your wants aside and...

"Wolffe" you whisper, trembling inevitably when his plush warm mouth moves from your lips to the side of your neck, biting gently. "Wolffe, I...".

He breathes and looks up at your face again; cupping your cheek with his right hand and observing your reaction with his eyes shimmering in needs and desire.

His Force signature blasts. He loves you. He loves you, and you...

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum" you whisper, risking it all and giving your heart to him.

Tears blur your sight. They're not sad tears; they're not happy either. They're a mix of emotions that make you feel like a mess and...

Wolffe sighs. You love him. You love him, and the fact that you've told him in Mando'a...

He closes his eyes and gently presses his forehead against yours; finding solace and peace in your embrace, in this Keldabe. His eyes then flutter open, and he holds your face in both of his hands, slowly joining your lips in a kiss much more sweet and unhurried than those from before. You hum, surrendering in complete bliss.

He caresses your smuged cheek with his thumb, taking some of the dirt and exhaustion of the battlefield away.

His voice is a secret whisper as well.

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, cyare".

Your fingers tug at the hair at the back of his neck, and you crash your lips onto his.

You imprint those five mandalorian words in your soul.

THE END.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

This one was a blast to write! Felt the emotions so raw myself tooo bfbfbsfb this two are so cute. I hope I get to write more of Wolffe in the future, I really like the guy.

Did some minor alterations –like him not been the one to actually carry you back to safety– but it kinda wrote itself and I'm happy with how it came out. Hope you liked it as well!

Also, dear friends, if you ever want to request something longer than a one-shot, you're able to do so as well (if the plot goes accordingly or I find it expandable). I'm not writing whole stories, but a short one of maybe 2-5 chapters max would be okay.

Stay tunned for the next one yall. It will be a little angsty one with Echo, and then we'll have a flirty fun one with Crosshair.

Xx,

Sky.

Back to main masterlist here!

[greenhappyseed]

MHA ending drabbles #2

I’m gonna disagree with the folks who say that our main heroes and villains didn’t “close out their character arcs.” Of all the possible criticism, I just don’t get this one because:

Izuku became the greatest hero, even if he only held OFA embers for a short while afterwards

Bakugo saved All Might, admitted to Izuku that he wanted them to stay in the same orbit together, AND selflessly worked with All Might on the new suit for Izuku.

Ochako had a heart to heart talk. She also proved that she is capable of handling the most brutal of fights, as acknowledged by Izuku (and to some extent, the rest of 1A).

Shoto saved his entire family and all the surrounding civilians with his ice because he chose to, free of his father’s influence

Tomura got a few brief moments completely free of AFO’s interference. Not only that, he got to share those moments with Izuku and tell Izuku what was really, truly in his heart

Toya destroyed his father’s hero career and now gets to spend the rest of his life in purgatory with Enji. He also gets a chance to build relationships with his other family members, and at least Shoto is interested

Himiko’s greatest fear was being caught and forced to live in ways that went against her nature. She didn’t want to be a martyr; she simply wanted to be free to make her choices. She chose to die saving Ochako

Spinner wanted a purpose, and he found it in writing his book

Moreover, to the extent anything was left unfinished after the final battle, the epilogue tied it up. Izuku wanted to be a hero that saved people with a smile, and he finished the story that way, “pro” hero and “ordinary” hero.

Ochako had a more scattered “arc,” going from wanting to help her parents make money to saving the heroes to … well, Ochako basically solved the quirk singularity doomsday, allowing kids like Eri and Himiko to grow up with sufficient counseling to live freely in society, which had the knock-on effect of reducing villainy.

And Shoto is achieving his desire to be authentically himself, breaking free from the cycles of abuse in his family. Unlike his father, he treats his fans well, earning the trust and ease his father demanded but never earned.

In other words, the failure to save the lives of Himiko and Tomura, and to save Toya in time to live outside of a hospital, was NOT the endpoint of our heroes’ arcs. The end is how they reacted to that failure and what they chose to do AFTER. Turns out, they never stopped trying to be better heroes and better people while staying supportive and friendly with each other.

…..seems like resilience in the face of failure is a major theme, yeah? Good thing I’ve got more on that next time!!!!!