#joke's on him blood of the hero exists

[skyloftian-nutcase]

ABEL CANNOT CATCH A BREAJ FBDKDBDKDNMD

He needs a good ol classic Goron massage. Maybe they’ll help his thrown out back.

Then he needs a Gerudo spa day. He’ll have to dress up at a vai unfortunately for him but it’s for the greater good!

And then he needs therapy

FJSKLFJDS YOU'RE NOT WRONG LOL

All of these things sound absolutely perfect for him, c'mere, Abel--wait no--stop arguing with me dude this is for your own good--

[dilatorywriting]

Valentine's Day Special: Let Them Fight

GN!Reader x Malleus Draconia vs. Azul Ashengrotto vs. Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: Who knew that in a world of magic, and mayhem, and outright villainy, that it'd be something as stupid as Valentine's Day that would push these idiots over the edge. Or, Malleus, Azul, and Vil go to war over some chocolates

A/N: This MC/Plot takes place in the Heroes vs Villains universe -- specifically Post-Staff's route, rather than any of our other lovely idiot husbands.

There was always some sort of strange overlap of customs from your world to this one. Halloween seemed to have survived more or less intact (even if it was a bit more, uh, extreme than the subtle evening of giving out treats and dressing as ghosts that you remembered). Winter Holidays were still very much a Thing, even if all other connotations had been stripped from them. Moreover, it was like someone had taken your familiar Earthen calendar and just sort of… mirrored it. Distorted it a bit. Just a lil’ bit more chaos than would have been socially acceptable back home.

So when you made a sly little joke about stocking up on discount chocolates after the Valentine’s Day rush and no one laughed—not even a little chortle, or an irritable eyeroll—you initially thought it was maybe to do with the irrationality of Sam’s Shop ever having a sale to begin with. You had not assumed that, you know, there was no Valentine’s Day at all.

“It’s an important holiday, then? Where you’re from?” Azul mused, busy scribbling endless, chicken scratch, notes in the margins of some form that was probably very important.

“I mean, not really,” you frowned, tossing your Mostro-Branded apron onto its hook. “Maybe. Yes? I don’t really know, actually.”

He hummed and moved to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Well, whatever it is, I’m always looking for new events to host at the Lounge. What exactly is it?”

“It’s a sort of special day for couples. Romance. Lovey-dovey nonsense,” you shrugged, and watched Azul’s finger slip off the slick metal frame of his glasses and nearly take his eye out. You waved off his obvious disgust with a dramatic sigh (I mean, why else would he be so stiff and red?). “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s ridiculous.”

“I—I never said that!” he spluttered, and then paused to cough into his fist and clear his throat. “It just—I just wasn’t expecting something like that to…”

“Exist?”

He grinned, wry. His cheeks were still a bit too pink. “Precisely.”

“You would have loved my world,” you said. “Very capitalistic. Lots of cash-grab holidays like that.”

Azul laughed.

“I’m sure I would be fond of any place you came from.” He paused, and his expression puckered up a bit miserably—like he really hadn’t intended to express such a sentiment aloud. But he managed to smooth the sharp line of his frown back into that usual, smarmy, smirk of his easily enough. “But either way! Tell me more!” he grinned, reaching forward to grab a stack of blank paper and a fresh pen. “I’d love to hear all about it.”

.

.

The next day you were supposed to help the Drama Club start building some stage scenery for their newest play. It was proper grunt work, which was perhaps the only sort of work you were actually qualified for. And Vil always made sure that there were plenty of disgustingly healthy but still quite tasty snacks available for the help to munch on. The food spread alone would have been worth the trip, but on top of that, Vil had made you promise. Practically a blood oath, binding you and your meager free time to the shitty supply closet in the corner of the Auditorium. And as sour as he could be sometimes, you really could never say no to him when he always looked so heart meltingly fond whenever you did agree to while away the hours at his side. That lovely face and even lovelier smile of his were fucking lethal. A war crime, surely, to use it against someone as plain and susceptible to bribery as you were.

But today you were now an idiot on a mission—an idiot determined to spread the joy of a trashy holiday that really probably shouldn’t exist in the first place, let alone in a world where people worshipped storybook villains as veritable deities. And you’d already bought all the molds, and the trays, and you really didn’t have a lot of spare pocket money to begin with, so letting this investment go to waste would not only be a shame, but a terrible business investment.

“What do you mean you’re not coming,” Vil sneered, glaring down his perfectly straight nose at you.

“I really am sorry,” you said, mostly genuine. “But I have something I need to do this afternoon.”

“You’ve made other plans?” he frowned, something a little too unsettled to fit with his usual regality twisting across his expression.

“I have to get ready for Valentine’s Day,” you explained, and his brow tugged down further. Though that earlier twinge of panic seemed to have vanished at least. You pointedly shook your grocery bag full of goodies. “I’m going to make chocolates for everyone.”

“Chocolates?” Vil echoed, confused.

You nodded. “It’s a tradition back home. You give stuff like candy and flowers to the people you care about. Normally it’s a holiday for couples, or whatever. But. Well…”

The ‘I Am Fully Aware That I’m Single as a Pringle, Please Just Let Me Have This One Thing’ was left unsaid, but it hung in the air around your head like a very persistent storm cloud nonetheless. Vil, magnanimously, seemed perfectly happy to ignore the Woe Is Me implications spewing from your mouth. Instead, he leaned forward until he was dipping precariously close into your personal space. His amethyst eyes had lit with blatant interest at your ramblings, and he hummed low in his throat.

“Is that so?” he mused, gaze lidded and warm. “That sounds… intriguing.”

You nodded past the heady scent of his cologne fogging your head. What was it with attractive people, huh? It was so unfair. You don’t get to look and smell good. Pick a lane. Save some dignity for the rest of us.

“So, I promise I’ll help another day. I just have a feeling making chocolates is going to wind up being a lot harder than I think it will.”

Because that’s how it always went in your stupid slice-of-life shows. The poor, harried, protagonist thinking they’re doing a good deed—painstakingly constructing their own, special, homemade goodies for all their important people. Making them with love. And then having it all blow up in their face like a goddamn, cocoa flavored, nuke. Nope. Not you, motherfucker. Your chocolates were going to be divine. You were going to take every, tropey, precaution in the book. And that of course included allotting yourself ample time to make mistakes your masterpiece.

“Of course,” Vil grinned. “How could I possibly begrudge you for wanting to spend your time on something so heartfelt?”

“Thank you,” you blurted, relived. Because at least he got it. Azul had been so ridiculously insistent that you should prepare all your Valentine’s Day wishes as a team. Which was not the point. He’d spent hours last night trying to wheedle his way into your plans—with endless platitudes about ‘business partners always being there for each other,’ and ‘how would he know if he was celebrating to your standards if he wasn’t given a model to work off of first?’ Utter bullshit. He’d probably just wanted free labor.

“Tomorrow, then?” Vil beamed and you nodded.

“Tomorrow,” you confirmed.

“Well, then,” he hummed. “I better get to work as well. I suppose the scenery can wait.”

You nodded in farewell and began the trek back to Ramshackle and its marginally functional kitchens. You hadn’t realized Vil was taking on any new projects, but if it was enough to have him putting off the Club’s activities as well then it must have been pretty important. Maybe he’d get you tickets to it whenever he finished—whatever it was. If there were tickets? How did any of the things he did actually work? Hell if you knew.

.

.

Making chocolates was, in fact, a laughably easy endeavor. And you found yourself cursing every goddamn Shoujo Bullshit Manga under the sun for leading you to think otherwise. The hardest part of the entire thing was fighting off Grim and his wandering paws.

You made up some basic truffles which were, again, stupidly simple. Just some messily chopped chocolate, cream, and a little splash of vanilla to make it Special. Once those were shaped into messy blobs, you dipped them into some more melted chocolate and bam. That was it. That was literally it. You felt like a genius—sitting there mushing up balls of cocoa like high-end playdough.

By 6PM, you had all your little darlings tucked into the refrigerator to harden, all the gauzy, red, boxes lined up on your counter and ready to be filled, and Grim had been placated with an offering of all your dirty mixing bowls. The tiny, demonic, beast was passed out at the dingy kitchen table—one of said bowls wedged onto his head like an astronaut’s helmet. Hopefully it was just a food coma and not, like, an actual coma-coma. Real cats couldn’t eat chocolate, but Grim never really seemed real at all. So hopefully he’d be fine.

You wiped down your cooking space once, twice. Paced up and down the narrow hallway until you were wearing away the already threadbare rugs, and spent way too long just standing in front of the fridge—staring in on your chocolates like a psychotic kidnapper scoping out their next victims.

Eventually you realized that you maybe needed to do something with your evening that wasn’t just creeping on your confections, and set out into the frosty, night, air for a stroll.

Which is, of course, where you ran into your familiar, horned, friend—staring up into the starry sky in a wistful manner that darkened his pale complexion into something nearly ominous. He always looked a bit like that, like something unearthly and detached from the rest of the world.

“Tsunotarou!” you chirped happily, and that adrift-at-sea expression of his melted right off his face.

“Child of Man,” he greeted, inclining his head politely. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this evening.” His brow furrowed, almost confused. “Is it not too cold for you?”

Your breath was, in fact, fogging in front of your face. And you couldn’t really feel your toes anymore. But the electric anticipation of tomorrow was keeping you warm enough. Even if only in spirit.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you waved him off. And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you leaned forward on your tippytoes and blurted out, “Happy Almost Valentine’s Day!”

“Valentine’s Day?” Malleus repeated back at you, looking like you’d just handed him an unsolvable differential equation.

“It’s a holiday from back home,” you explained for the umpteenth time that day. “And normally I’m not too fussed about it, but this year I’m really excited to give everyone their chocolates!” You grinned. “And you too, of course. I have to make sure I give them to all my important people.”

The furrow between his brows vanished, but the blatant, gaping, confusion remained. He looked like you’d nearly startled him into an early grave.

“I am one of your most important people?” he asked, slow as a tortoise making its way up an incline.

You nodded cheerfully, still bellied by your earlier culinary successes and excellent mood. “Of course you are! We’re friends, aren’t we? And besides. Valentine’s Day is for showing people how much you care about them.”

“What an interesting concept,” he mused, bringing a finger up to tap at his chin. “To think your world had such a heartfelt tradition—it’s quite a lovely surprise.”

You laughed. “If you think the chocolates are special, you should see what some couples do for each other. Rooms full of flowers, fancy date nights—I’m just managing the bare minimum.”

“Couples?” he echoed, and you felt the first teeny, hot, thread of chagrin work its way past your enthusiasm.

“Well, normally Valentine’s Day focuses on, like, romantic things,” you said, averting your gaze just in time to miss the tension lance through his shoulders. “But it can be for all sorts of affection!” you hastily added.

“Is that so…” the Prince hummed. He lifted his pensive gaze once more and stared you down with that weighted intensity that you’d only just recently learned how not to buckle beneath. “And you wish to celebrate this day. With me?”

“…you don’t mind, do you?” you asked, hesitant.

“Of course not, Child of Man,” he beamed, his lips curling up into a smile that put all his too-sharp teeth on display. “But you’ll have to excuse me now, I’m afraid. It seems I have some preparations to undertake this evening.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes,” Malleus said. “You will.”

.

.

It was officially Valentine’s Day, and you were ready to begin your mission of forcing your sweets onto every, single, one of your reluctant friends. Let them be pissy and tsundere. You weren’t afraid to weep and proclaim your undying, shounen-talk-no-jutsu, levels of friendship. Okay. Maybe you were a little. But these grouchy bastards had very easily become your grouchy bastards, and so help you God, they would suffer under your affection and they would like it.

There were plenty of small boxes—all nice, neat, corners with little bows perched on top. But you had also prepared a singular, larger, tray. It was cleaner cut than the rest, with bold, contrasting, colors and a simple elegance. You stared it down with a strange sort of disquiet brewing in your gut. Maybe you were being presumptuous. Goodness knows you’d more than dealt with the searing, emotionally destructive, consequences of that before. But all the same…

You squared your shoulders and spent a moment convincing yourself that your spine was quite sturdy—a proper, titanium, support system—and then popped the Big Box into the bag with the others.

Your first stop was Heartslabyul, and you burst through the ornate, crimson, doors like a manic home invader.

“I come bearing gifts,” you proclaimed, merrily doling out the boxes to your favorite idiot duo. You set three more aside, with little labels for Riddle, Trey, and Cater respectively. Normally you wouldn’t trust a dorm full of teenage boys not to devour any scrap of unattended food in sight, but Riddle had long since struck the fear of God into these poor lads. So you figured it’d be safe.

Deuce’s face lit up and he accepted the chocolate with near starry-eyed enthusiasm.

“Are these your holiday presents? Like the Santa Claus?” he asked, looking very much like a bouncy golden retriever preparing itself for congratulatory head pats.

You leaned forward with an indulgent huff to give him his pats. “No. But close enough.”

You pawned off three boxes on Ruggie when he tried to duck past you in the hallway—one for him, one for Leona, and one extra as payment for making him do your dirty work of playing delivery boy to Mister Grump in the first place. You slipped Jack his on the way into Trein’s morning lecture, and managed to press a box into Jamil’s hands before he slunk off to the library. Kalim cheered so loudly when you handed him one that your ears started to ring.

And then trouble arrived in the form of two, slippery, eels draping themselves across your shoulders. Normally the destructive duo seemed to act on their own prerogative, but on this fortuitous morning their Lord and Master was surprisingly not too far behind.

“Shrimpy!~” Floyd trilled, dragging you into a one-armed hug that was really more of a slightly-less-aggressive headlock than anything else. “Azul says you came up with this stupid holiday! And he made us work all day yesterdayto put together stuff for the Lounge! It’s not fair!”

Your legs shook under the weight of the new tumor that had made its home on your back.

“Now, Floyd,” Jade chirped. All finely manicured cruelty. “If you’re to blame anyone for going overboard with this entire situation, you ought to lay the fault on our fearless leader.” His bi-colored eyes flashed, amused. “Isn’t that right, Azul?”

Said ‘fearless leader’ looked like he was sucking on a lemon. He glared bitterly at his subordinate, seeming to share an entire, silent, argument with him, before turning back on you with a heavy sigh and the barest hint of angry flush in his cheeks.

“Prefect,” he grinned past his obvious discomfort, all sparkling, white, teeth. “I have to thank you for sharing so much information about this ‘Valentine’s Day’ of yours. It’s such a unique event, and it seems like our preparations at the Lounge are already being received incredibly well.”

“That’s good,” you nodded, trying and failing to shrug the Leech off your shoulders. “I’m glad I could help.”

Azul hummed under his breath, his eyes darting away for a moment. His glasses reflected the muted light of the hall in an odd way—making it difficult to read his expression. He cleared his throat and when he looked back up at you, the tips of his ears had gone pink.

“You���re more than welcome to come by, of course,” he beamed, suave as could be.

“I mean,” you blinked. “I would hope so. I work there.”

Floyd let out a bark of laughter and Jade snickered into his glove. The pleasant pink tinting Azul’s skin was heating to a near sunburned red. He looked down and coughed into his fist.

“Yes…” he mumbled. “I—I’m aware. But what I meant is… What I meant—” He frowned. It was a tight, pouty, little thing that scrunched up his entire face. That mottled red had spread to the bridge of his nose.

“I do believe what Azul is trying to say,” Jade stepped in, clearly taking some sort of pity on his tongue-tied friend. Or perhaps pity was the wrong word for it, seeing how smug he looked, “is that he would like to invite you to the event personally. As an honored guest, not an employee.”

“Oh,” you blinked, startled. Then hesitated, cautious on instinct. There was always some sort of catch to the Octomer’s kindness. “I don’t know if I could afford whatever fancy thing you’ve thrown together.”

“You wouldn’t be paying for it,” Azul assured you, some of that sickly flush having finally started to recede from his cheeks. You hoped he was feeling alright. “You’ve contributed more than enough for the day. It would be on the house.”

Jade loudly cleared his throat and Azul huffed, eyes sliding away yet again.

“I would be paying,” he finally mumbled. And then, even quieter, “As I believe is the custom.”

Just as you were about to thank him for his startling bought of generosity (and also ask after his health, because between the weird, pink, tinge to his skin and the aforementioned generosity, clearly somethingwas out of sorts with him), you noticed a sneaky hand working its way into your bag of goodies, and you immediately were on the defensive.

“Hey!” you snapped, spinning out of Floyd’s stranglehold. “You only get one!”

“Then I want the really big one!” he demanded, making grabby motions at it.

“No!” you squeaked, and clutched it protectively to your chest. The trio looked at you with varying degrees of surprise and you cleared your throat awkwardly. “This one—This one is special.”

“Oh?” Jade cooed, eyes flickering back towards Azul, who seemed determined to look absolutely anywhere else. “Is it now?”

“Awww,” Floyd whined. “That’s no fair! Who’s it for, anyways?!”

You gripped the box tighter and now it was your turn to stiffly avert your eyes down to the ugly carpet. “It’s not—I’m not—” you cleared your throat and forced the jitter from your voice. “I’m not ready to give it to him yet.”

The silence that followed was absolutely the worst thing you’d experienced in a long, long, time. Overblots and all. You could practically hear your blood pounding in your ears. You were just about to turn and beat a hasty retreat when a familiar, snappish, voice called your name from the other side of the corridor.

“There you are, potato,” Vil huffed, coming to stand at your side and bodily inserting himself between you and your tormentors. He met Azul’s petulant sneer with a frankly terrifying one of his own. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed you’d be eating lunch with me today.”

You remembered no such thing, but if it got you out of this verbal minefield of a conversation, you were more than willing to take the claim at face value.

“Apologies,” Azul cut in with all his usual, mafioso, flair. “But the Prefect will be taking their afternoon meal at the Mostro Lounge today.”

“Is that so?” Vil hummed, sounding positively venomous.

“Unless you think you can make an offer good enough to sway them otherwise,” Azul chirped, equally as unpleasant.

Vil laughed—cold and sharp as crystal. It was the most elegant display of blatant irritation you’d ever seen.

“Of course you’d only consider this entire situation on a transactional basis,” he drawled, entirely unimpressed. Azul flinched and his expression screwed up into something near petulant. “I would expect no less. Are you planning to lock them into a contact too, hmm? Sign away everything in formal, sterile, terms?” Vil crossed his arms, and you were reminded sharply once more how very, very lucky you were to not be on his bad side (even if you hadn’t realized before all this that Azul apparently was on said bad side. You had no idea they disliked each other so terribly). “I really hadn’t expected you to have a single, romantic, bone in your body, and yet somehow I’m still disappointed to be proved so entirely correct.”

Azul looked ready to explode, and even though Jade and Floyd and melted back into the shadows at the start of this entire encounter, the pair of them were starting to look a bit murderous too—like sharks lazily circling the dark, ocean, depths.  

“Don’t you think you deserve better?” Vil asserted, turning back to face you with a soft cant of the head. You blinked back in shock.

“Uh,” you gaped, absolutely fucking lost.

And then, like a beacon of unrivaled, black-drenched, hope, you spotted Malleus making his way down the hallway. He was flanked by his trio of housemates-cum-pseudo-bodyguards. Normally you tried to leave him alone when his rabid, green-haired, guard dog was yipping at his heels, and on top of that, the idea of using your classmates’ ingrained fear of the Fae Prince to your own advantage upset your rather staunch sensibilities. But this was an emergency.

“Tsunotarou!” you called, and it absolutely sounded like the cry for help it was.

He perked up immediately and you watched him nearly crash to a standstill. And then his sharp, neon, gaze locked on the dueling Housewardens circling you like a pair of snapping wolves, and his merry expression shuttered into something positively glacial. Which was—Fuck. I mean. Come on. What the fuck was going on today—

“Child of Man,” he droned, crossing the short distance with all the grace of the near-mythical, arcane, master that he was. His posture was more collected and regal than you’d ever seen it, and he loomed all the taller for it.

Azul and Vil had gone tense at your side, one certainly more so than other. The Octomer looked incredibly unsettled at Malleus’s sudden arrival, but Vil just looked angrier. It was the sort of unpleasantness that bloomed whenever someone challenged him or his competencies over and over—inevitably pushing the normally composed beauty into an indignant rage.

“Happy Day of Valentine’s,” Malleus continued, slotting himself firmly into the veritable territory dispute going down. “Are you quite alright?”

No, you wanted to wail. No! I’m so confused! I have no idea what’s going on! I just wanted to give my friends chocolates!

But you never managed to get those words or any others past your lips, because Sebek Zigvolt shot to his master’s side with all the speed of the lightning for which he was so named, and immediately began to scream.

“HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT THE YOUNG MASTER’S AFTERNOON ROUTINE!” he shrieked at the top of his very impressive lungs.

You weren’t sure if he was howling at you (very likely) or just anyone who wasn’t Malleus, but Jade took the opportunity to slink forward from the shadows with a sharp tut-tut.

“Perhaps none of you deserve the Prefect’s special attentions,” he piped in, sounding very much like someone intentionally throwing a cannister of gasoline onto an already roaring fire. “Or any chocolates at all—let alone the ones set aside for someone special.”

At this, silence once more rang through the corridor and you wanted to throttle that stupid eel.

“There is a special box?” Malleus asked first, brow shooting up as his expression tugged with… something.

“I—I mean, I made all of yours special!” you defended, holding the wrapped treasure tightly to your chest. “But… I guess. Yes. There’s one that’s a little bigger than the others.”

At this, all three Housewardens exchanged pointed looks.

Jade smiled serenely once more, and then continued his absolute massacre upon your person.

“Yes, indeed,” he nodded. “And our dearest Prefect only just mentioned that—hmm. How did you word it? Ah. That’s right. ‘I’m not ready to give it to him yet.’”

The trio tensed. All looking absolutely ready to pounce. At—at what, you had no idea.

“Perhaps,” the wretch mused, “it would be best for you all to temper your rage until the victor is decided, hmm?” He paused to tap at his chin for a moment, and then his lips split into a mean, jagged, grin. “Afterwards? Well, I suppose that whole cheery sentiment about ‘love and war’ still holds true.”

You gulped, feeling startlingly like Jade had just tried to serve you up on a silver platter.

But when neither Azul, Vil, or Malleus made any further moves to murder each other… well. As sacrificial as it all felt, at least it must have worked.

The rest of the day passed in a tense sort of fugue. You certainly hadn’t expected your attempts at bringing some holiday cheer to Night Raven to go so… Uh…

But either way, you managed to survive through the rest of the afternoon, and before you knew it, all that remained of all your tireless efforts and good will was the Special Box. The big one. The one that you’d put together with extra care and hopes for better things. You glared down at it for a moment, feeling sweat starting to bead over your palms. But you couldn’t chicken out now. Not after you’d come so far! Everyone was acting so strange, and it was all so weird. And as much as that unfamiliarity had your teeth on edge and your hackles raised, you didn’t want to regret not giving out the last of your well-made sweets.

Well, here goes nothing, you frowned. You took a deep breath, willed yourself to be brave, and smiled your biggest smile.

“Here,” you beamed, more than a little shy and still a bit horrified by whatever pissing match had been going down earlier in the day, and finally offered the grandest of your chocolate boxes to the man standing opposite you.

Divus Crewel accepted your offering daintily, plucking at the crisp, sharp, wrapping with his crimson gloves. He arched one of his thin brows at you and you fought the nervous heat rising in your cheeks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you blurted. “I know it’s not a thing here, but I thought it’d be nice.”

The second eyebrow joined the first—practically jumping all the way up into his fringe.

“I appreciate the gesture. Though from what I understand of all the garish advertising I’ve seen for Mostro Lounge’s new event, I assumed this was a holiday for romantic overtures,” he intoned, wry.

You spluttered and waved your hands furiously. “I mean! Normally! Yes! But also…” You trailed off, fighting the urge to fidget. “If you don’t have a—a, well, someone, then Valentine’s is just a nice excuse to give something to people you care about.” You averted your gaze and lost the battle to twist your fingers into your jacket sleeves. “My family used to give me chocolates every year. So. I thought I could… Well…” you trailed off on a grumble, embarrassed.

Crewel sighed and popped the lid off the box. He plucked two truffles from their casing—keeping one for himself and handing you the other.

“Well, then. A very happy Valentine’s to you, Prefect,” he droned and popped the chocolate into his mouth with a thoughtful hum.

You lit up like a Christmas tree and happily gobbled up your own treat. So distracted were you by the one-two-punch combo of the delicious sugar and even sweeter taste of your Professor’s approval that you almost entirely missed the pointed glare he shot over your shoulder.

“I appreciate your regard,” he said, loud. Sharp. And like he wasn’t talking to you at all. “And while I’m certain that if you do pick a ‘someone’ for yourself to celebrate with in the following years, they’ll have to work very hard to be worthy of such a gift, hmm?” His lip curled unpleasantly, in direct contrast to the indulgent warmth that had been tugging at his expression only a moment before. “I could hardly allow you to waste such a thoughtful gesture on someone unworthy.”

The Octavinelle Housewarden had the decency to look at least a little panicked—his face going pale and gaunt from where he was shrinking into his high collar. There was a frantic look about him, like he was trying to weigh the cost-benefit ratio of going up against his professor in his head, and realizing that he was stupidly, willfully, walking right into a lose-lose situation. And that, sadly—miserably—he was going to keep doing just that. The other two, however, looked entirely undeterred. Schoenheit curled his lip right back at him, more than ready to duke it out here and now, and Crewel fought the urge to remind the blonde that he was the adult in this situation, thank you very much. The adult who could very well revoke the Warden’s access to his Alchemy Labs as it suited him. The very alchemy labs that he knew Vil had been using to concoct all kinds of new, personalized, gifts for you. Draconia simply looked on with that unnervingly ancient, green, leer of his. Like he was staring down a particularly fascinating game. The Fae Prince was the most unsettling of the trio, if only because that while Crewel was more than confident enough in his abilities to subdue his other wayward students, fighting off an Immortal, All Powerful, Dragon was going to require at least a little bit of prep work.

Divus Crewel sighed, and it rattled all the way out from the marrow of his bones.

“Come, then,” he rumbled, directing you to follow him back into his office. “It’s not chocolates, but I probably have some of those ridiculous cookies of yours lying around somewhere.” Which he did. Boxes upon boxes of them. Tucked away special for whenever you came to visit. Not that he’d ever willingly admit that, even under the pain of death.

Your eyes went wide and warm as you positively beamed.

It was rotten work, certainly. He shot one, last, warning glare down the hall at the trio of infatuated interlopers as he firmly shut his office door behind you and your absolute oblivious idiocy. He’d do it. Of course he would. But, Christ alive. He was going to need a stronger drink.

[undiscovered-horizon]

(tw for self-harm -> literally hitting a tree with a bare fist)

[Tav has to carry the world on their shoulders. But when they begin to question this responsibility and the unfairness of it, they need someone to make sure their grief doesn't destroy them.]

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Astarion knows that something is very off when you drop your bag and disappear behind the tree line, never even acknowledging his existence. The certain skip in your step, a bravado of "There's no mountain I can't move" is completely gone, nowhere to be seen. Now, something more sinister has taken its place - a darkness looming over your shoulder that makes even him shudder. Like you've switched places with another creature.

He notices Shadowheart and Gale watching your departure, both of them fidgeting in their stillness. Their hesitancy is all too obvious. Then, they exchange a look of both concern and inquiry. In awkward silence, Gale and Shadowheart part ways, simultaneously deciding to let you have your space.

Be it his curiosity or worry for you that he so vehemently denies, Astarion marches off in the direction he has seen you go, only to disappear behind the trees. He passes by Gale, who grabs Astarion's arm. The bruises on the wizard's face look almost black in the twilight of the campsite.

"I wouldn't do that, Tav is a little..." he hangs his voice as his eyes glance towards the dense forest, "beside themself."

The vampire wears his scowl like a crown. He yanks his arm from Gale's grasp and makes a show of straightening the fabric of his decorative shirt. "Wonderful advice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to happily ignore it."

Without awaiting a rebuttal, Astarion continues his march towards the dense, dark forest where he hopes to find you.

The warm, yellow hue of the campfire quickly disappears as the man ventures into the woods. Low shrubbery keeps nipping at his clothes, almost making him more worried about the state of his pants than your well-being. He is about to call out your name when he hears a loud, muffled thud.

What in Hells is that?

Following the sound, Astarion finally finds you - beaten, bruised. Your clothes look like you haven't washed them since crawling out of the Nautiloid. The blood covering your knuckles glistens in the moonlight as you take another swing at the tree trunk. Another thud resounds in the empty forest. A dent behind to show in the wood where the bark has already been broken off. Just how long have been doing this? More importantly: why are you doing this to yourself?

No matter his confusion and burning worry, Astarion manages to pull himself together. He knows that the last thing you need right now is him blowing up at you, masking his fear for your state of mind with irritation.

"And what did this poor tree ever do to you, darling?" he finally calls out in a light-hearted tone. Truthfully, he couldn't be farther from playful jokes and jabs.

"Just leave me alone," you answer in a harsh tone as you punch the tree trunk once more. A whine escapes your lips as your tender, wounded hand meets the hard wood again.

He's taken aback - you don't normally talk this way. This unforeseen and much unwelcome, sudden change makes him all the more concerned.

Astarion stops close behind you, his arms crossed across his chest. He's unsure what to do. "Not until you tell me what's gotten into you," he states in a firm tone.

You growl in response. "It's so," you hang your voice to hit the tree, "fucking" you punch the trunk again, "unfair!" you scream out.

Your bloodied, trembling hand is about to land another punch but something, someone, stops you. Astarion lunges forward, pressing his chest against your back and grabbing your arms. His firm grasp forces you to keep your hands close to your body.

"Why do I have to decide who lives or dies?!" you continue yelling as you try to ineffectively wiggle out of the man's iron grasp. "I never wanted to be the hero who saves the world! I never asked for any of this!" Suddenly, your defiance disappears. Tired, hopeless and sore, you let yourself lean against his chest. "So why does it have to be me?" you whisper in a weak voice. Then you shudder as tears begin flowing down your cheeks.

The great hero falls and it is only natural that their fall must be of equal grandeur.

Astarion feels your hands shake but he's not sure whether it's because you've scraped their skin down to raw muscle or because you're crying out all the pent-up anger, grief and anxiety. No matter what's the truth, his undead heart breaks all the same.

"My sweet, sweet love," he whispers into your ear. His cold lips brush against the conch before he softly pecks your neck. "Anyone else would do it wrong."

Part of him wants to add 'except for me, of course' but he knows, deep down in his viscera, that even he would falter. So he remains quiet until your sobbing silences and your trembling comes to a stop. Astarion's grip never eases down until you've collected yourself, holding you tight against him as though you're fine porcelain that even a mere gust of wind could shatter into pieces.

__ Guys when I tell you I almost tripped running to my laptop to write this

[slu7formen]

Hellooo helloo, I love all your Luke stories so muchh!!

Could I have a request for Luke x Poseidon’s daughter reader something about her joining him even betraying her brother Percy because love prevails all so like their love is the most powerful thing of all.. hope that makes sense in a way hahaha okay thank youuu 😙💗💕✨

thank you so much for reading my stories, I’m so glad you like them ☺️

luke castellan x fem!reader

warnings: betrayal, reader’s kinda blinded by love but also kinda cute, little fluff at the end

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

Thirteen wasn't exactly the age you pictured discovering you were a demigod. Apparently, you had blissfully –or maybe obliviously— muddled through your first thirteen years completely oblivious to the mythological world that simmered just beneath your feet.

Your life had been a quiet one. Growing up in a sleepy seaside town, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore was the soundtrack to your existence. You felt a weird connection to the water, an inexplicable pull towards the ocean whenever you stood on the beach. But you attributed that to nothing more than a love for swimming and a healthy dose of wanderlust, you thought.

Then came the satyr. Grover Underwood, a nervous wreck of a creature with a perpetually startled expression. You don´t remember much about your life back then, just the way he stammered through an explanation about Greek myths being real, your parentage being linked to a god, and the pressing need for you to get to a safe haven called Camp Half-Blood.

And now here you were. Years went by, living at Camp Half-Blood, and being the only child of Poseidon.

Camp was always bustled with activity. Laughter echoed across the training fields, campers sparred with celestial bronze swords. Yet, amidst the chaos, a subtle sense of loneliness lingered around you. You weren't friendless, not by any stretch of the imagination. You had a close circle of friends, but there was a specific kind of lonely feeling that came with being the only child of Poseidon at camp, a forbidden child.

The other cabins, they all teemed with siblings. —mostly—. Shared history, inside jokes, and the comfort of knowing someone else understood exactly what it meant to have the same god for a parent – these were things you craved. There was a gap, a yearning for a familial connection that none of your friends could fully fill.

Then came Percy.

His arrival at camp was nothing short of spectacular. A blue-eyed twelve-year-old with a knack for attracting trouble. During a particularly intense Capture the Flag game, Annabeth, a sharp-tongued daughter of Athena with a strategic mind, shoved Percy into the lake. The air crackled with gasps and surprises as a shimmering green trident materialized above Percy´s head, claiming him for Poseidon.

The revelation sent a jolt through you. You, the solitary child of the sea god, suddenly had a sibling. Percy looked up at you with wide, startled eyes, a mixture of awe and apprehension playing on his face. It was like looking into a mirror reflecting a younger version of yourself, the same confusion etched on his features.

Percy looked up to you with a hero-worship that both amused and touched you. He saw in you a reflection of his own mother, Sally Jackson, with her kindness and unwavering belief in the good in others. You became his confidante, his guide through the intricate social landscape of Camp Half-Blood.

But you weren't the only one who welcomed Percy. Luke, your closest friend at camp, was equally happy for your newfound family, —or so he faked it very well. Percy quickly found himself asking you both all the questions he had and spending all his training session´s with Luke.

You and Luke were a natural fit. Both of you skilled warriors, blessed with the agility of Hermes and the raw power of the sea. You sparred together often, your movements a dance of attack and parry, a language only the two of you seemed to understand. Your laughter echoed through the camp, and more than once, you caught Percy or other campers shooting you hesitant glances, not really knowing what your relationship was about, a thin line between friends love and-, other type of love, drawn in between.

And yes, Luke loved you, and you loved him. So much, that´d you´d be able to do anything for each other. Little did Percy know.

The metallic clang of your celestial bronze sword echoed through the silent woods, a jarring counterpoint to the chirping of nocturnal crickets. Percy, his breath ragged and sweat stinging his eyes, pushed back against Luke's relentless assault. Betrayal gnawed at his gut, a viper coiling tighter with every parry and thrust.

Luke, his once friendly face twisted with a manic fervor, pressed the attack. Every word that left his lips was a fresh wound: about the Olympians' manipulation, about the power promised by Kronos, about how this wasn't meant to betray him, or anyone.

Suddenly, the clang of steel meeting steel ceased. Percy stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest, as Luke lowered his sword. A flicker of hope, fragile and fleeting, ignited within him.

"Percy," Luke said, his voice quieter now, a hint of desperation creeping in. "This is not what you want, trust me. Last chance."

Percy stared at him, the hope dying as quickly as it had flickered. How could Luke even suggest such a thing, joining him? Didn't he understand the consequences?

Before he could retort, a new figure emerged from the shadows of the trees behind Luke. His breath caught in his throat, eyes twitching as he tried his best to focus on the figure coming from the forest. You.

A flicker of relief washed over Percy as he saw you emerge from the shadows. "yn” he called out, hope blossoming in his chest.

You stepped into the scene, moonlight casting an ethereal glow on your features. But something was off. You weren't rushing to his side, face etched with concern as it usually was. Instead, you stood there, a strange stillness cloaking you.

"Percy" you finally said, your voice cool and controlled, lacking it´s usual warmth.

Confusion warred with the relief. "yn" he repeated, his voice unsteady. "Clarisse didn't – it was him" he stammered, pointing at Luke with his sword. "He stole the bolt. He's joining Kronos"

Percy expected outrage, surprise, anything. Instead, your expression remained unreadable. A shadow flickered across your face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

"I know what he did" you replied simply. The calmness in your voice sent a shiver down his spine. The casualness of your reply was scary. It was like you were talking about the weather, not a world-shattering betrayal.

There was something wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Then help me" he pleaded, a desperate edge creeping into his voice.

You met his gaze for a long, agonizing moment. Percy saw a flicker of something weird in your eyes, something that made your pupils blown. But then, it was gone, replaced by a fire that mirrored Luke's.

A slow realization dawned on him, cold and heavy in his gut. You weren't surprised. You weren't angry. You knew.

Percy's heart hammered against his ribs. He saw the familiar hilt of your celestial bronze sword hanging loosely at your belt, the moonlight glinting off the polished metal.

"Percy, I can't do that" you said, your voice barely a whisper.

Percy understood then. You weren't caught in the middle. You weren´t with him, you were with Luke, all the way. The truth slammed into him, a betrayal far worse than anything he could have imagined. You were a traitor.

Percy felt like you'd ripped open a fresh wound in his chest and poured lemon juice in it. This sister, this family he'd thought he'd found at camp, meant nothing to you in the face of this rebellion? The anger coursing through him was laced with a bitter disappointment that gnawed at his insides. He'd trusted Luke blindly, sure, but you were different. He'd looked up to you, confided in you. The betrayal cut deep.

"You're with him?" he choked out, the question laced with disbelief and a raw, wounded vulnerability. He couldn´t wrap his mind around it.

"I'm not with him, Percy" you countered, taking a hesitant step forward. He flinched back, the movement a physical manifestation of the emotional chasm that had suddenly opened between you. The pain that flickered across your face was a punch to his gut, but he couldn't ignore the conviction in your voice. "We're together" you continued. "We created this."

Percy couldn't believe what he was hearing. You were so convinced, so blinded by whatever twisted loyalty you felt for Luke, that you couldn't see the bigger picture. "How could you?" he roared, his voice raw with emotion. "How could you do this, to everyone who trusts you? To the people who love you?"

You scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Come on, Percy, you want to talk about betrayal? Let's talk about our father." The words hung heavy in the air, a challenge laden with bitterness. A sudden breeze swept through the woods, rustling the leaves and carrying the salty scent of the ocean as if a wave had crashed nearby. It seemed like even the sea itself reacted to your words.

"Let's talk about the gods" you pressed, your voice laced with a bitter venom. "They get bored at the Olympus, so they play their pretty games, making mortals fall for them and then discarding them like broken toys. Mortals like your mom, like mine. And they leave us, their children, to pick up the pieces."

Percy groaned in frustration. "They're not perfect" he admitted, "they're trying their best for us"

"Don't bullshit me" you say. The calmer your voice was, the more fear Percy felt. "I don’t wanna fight, Percy, but they couldn´t care less”

Luke´s face partially obscured by the shadows, but the jagged scar across his cheek was visible under the moonlight. It was a constant reminder of the failed quest Hermes had sent him on, a cruel mark of a father's neglect.

Percy's gaze flicked between you and Luke, a sudden understanding dawning on him. Your words, your anger, your sadness. It wasn't just about Kronos or overthrowing the Olympians. It was about a deeper wound, a festering resentment born from years of feeling abandoned by your father, his father too. He understood, but he didn´t think it was right.

"But you can't be serious" he finally choked out. "This isn't the answer. There has to be another way."

A flicker of sadness crossed your features, a stark contrast to the steely resolve you'd presented earlier. It was a fleeting glimpse, a crack in the facade you'd constructed, and it tugged at Percy's heartstrings. No, it wasn't jealousy or envy. It was a deeper, more profound sense of loss. You weren't angry at him for having a father who cared just a little bit, for having a family he cherished. You were simply… sad. Sad that you never had that, that your only family was Luke, and that his arrival, however welcome it initially felt, couldn't erase the years of loneliness you'd endured.

Percy´s eyes darted behind you, to Luke.

"Why are you dragging her into this?" Percy demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. He knew you weren't the mastermind, Luke was the one who had poisoned your trust, manipulated your resentment.

"It's not that hard to understand, Percy" you answered before Luke could speak. Your voice held a quiet defiance, a loyalty that both warmed and stung him. "We're together" you repeated, the words laced with a quiet strength that resonated deep within him.

Then it hit him, another wave of realization crashing over him like a rogue wave. It wasn't just loyalty or a shared cause that bound you to Luke. There was something more, something deeper that flickered in your eyes whenever you looked at him.

"You love him" Percy whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air. And it wasn´t a question either, he knew.

A faint blush crept up your cheeks, but you didn't deny it. "We understand each other, Percy. We know what it's like to be unseen, unheard. Isn't that what love is? Empathy, understanding?"

A tear escaped your eye, glistening in the moonlight. Percy could see the pain, the longing in your eyes, how you clinged to the only thing that hugged you back; Luke.

“You’re blind” Percy whispered, hand instinctively groping to the handle of his sword.

"No, Percy" you countered, your voice soft but firm. "I'm awake. I see things for what they are. You know what it feels like, right? To have one person who understands you, who truly sees you" you continued. Your voice softened even further, a hint of vulnerability entering the equation. "Sally, isn't it?"

He flinched at the mention of his mother's name.

"That's love, P." you said, using the nickname you'd once shared. The sound of it sent a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill from his eyes, mirroring the glistening in your own. "And to me, to us" you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "that's the most powerful thing."

Percy saw the love for Luke burning bright in your eyes, a love that had blinded you to the potential destruction you were embracing. He saw the pain of neglect, the longing for acceptance that fueled your rebellion. But most of all, he saw a glimmer of hope, a flicker of doubt that your tear-filled eyes betrayed.

The weight of your words settled on Percy like a lead blanket. He understood the path you were on, but he couldn't just let you walk away, couldn't let you be consumed by this darkness. The thought of ever having to fight you, to raise his sword against his own sister, filled him with a dread that eclipsed even the fear of facing Kronos himself.

With a desperate surge of defiance, Percy lunged at you, Riptide flashing in the moonlight. You reacted with lightning reflexes, a blur of blue as you deflected his attack with your own celestial bronze sword. The clang of metal echoed through the silent woods, a discordant note in the tense atmosphere.

The fight was short, brutal, and utterly one-sided. You were older, more experienced, and fueled by a burning conviction that mirrored Percy's own determination. A quick twist of your wrist, a disarming maneuver honed through years of training, and Riptide clattered to the ground several feet away.

Percy landed hard on the leaf-strewn ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He lay there, disarmed, defeated, and utterly heartbroken. Betrayal gnawed at him, a bitter cocktail of anger and sorrow.

A single tear escaped your eye, tracing a glistening path down your cheek. You knelt down beside him, your touch surprisingly gentle on his shoulder. "Percy," you said, your voice thick with emotion, "you're my brother. I don´t wanna leave you”

Percy looked up at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a storm of conflicting emotions. "Then why?" he choked out, his voice hoarse. "Why are you doing this?"

"Come with me” you continued, your voice softening further. “Come with us, Percy”

A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

"I can't, yn" he said, his voice firm despite the tremor that ran through him. "I won't be a part of this, it´s not fair."

A flicker of pain crossed your features. You rose to your feet then, your expression unreadable again.

A curt nod was your only response before you swiped a hand across your cheek, wiping away the traitorous tear. Bending down, you retrieved your celestial bronze sword, the moonlight glinting coldly off its surface.

"Then I guess I won't see you for a while, little one" you said, your voice thick with a maelstrom of emotions. Percy almost flinched at the nickname, a stark reminder of the bond you once shared. The weight of his decision pressed down on him, a suffocating feeling that left him breathless.

Suddenly, a hand clamped softly onto your arm. You whipped around, eyes focusing on Luke, his face grim.

"We have to go" he said urgently, his voice laced with a barely concealed panic.

You glanced back at Percy, his expression a mixture of heartbreak and steely resolve. A million unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a silent plea for you to reconsider, to choose family over rebellion.

But your path was laid. With a final, longing look at Percy, you took a few steps towards a cluster of crumbling ruins that stood there sentinel. Luke reached for your hand, his grip tight with a mix of reassurance and desperation.

Percy watched, a cold dread settling in his gut, as Luke traced a final line, completing the arcane symbol etched onto the column. The air shimmered, a blueish light pooling in the center of the ruins. It widened, forming a shimmering curtain that pulsed with an otherworldly energy.

Luke leaned in, whispering something in your ear. You nodded, a faint smile gracing your lips for a fleeting moment. Then Luke, his face a mask of grim determination, looked back at Percy for a final time. And with a final squeeze of his hand, you both stepped into the shimmering portal. The blue light intensified for a moment, blinding Percy momentarily.

And then just like that, you were gone.

The portal spat you out in a blackness so thick it felt like a physical presence. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and wet sand. You stumbled forward, disoriented, hand instinctively tightening on Luke's. His grip was firm, anchoring you in the swirling darkness.

"Whoa, careful" he murmured, his voice a welcome sound in the suffocating silence.

He took a tentative step forward, then another, testing the ground. You followed suit, your steps hesitant and laced with a growing unease.

"Come on" he said, his voice tinged with urgency, "we gotta get to-"

He cut himself off abruptly as he realized you weren't moving. You stood rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on something beyond him, your grip on his hand tightening almost painfully.

Luke turned you gently, his brow furrowed in concern as he gazed into your tear-filled eyes. The moonlight, pale and ghostly, illuminated the glistening tracks on your cheeks.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with worry. He cupped your face in his calloused hands, his touch a familiar comfort in the unsettling darkness.

You choked back a sob, the tears overflowing again. "Am I doing the right thing, Luke?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the crashing waves. "I lost my family, again. Percy. He doesn’t-…”

The raw pain in your voice tore at his heart. He knew this path, this rebellion, would come at a cost, but seeing the emotional toll it was taking on you was a gut punch.

"Hey, hey, look at me" he coaxed, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. His gaze was steady, filled with a fierce loyalty that had always been a source of strength for you.

"We were on this path way before Percy arrived, remember?" he asked, his voice firm yet soothing.

You nodded slowly, a single tear tracing a path down your cheek.

"I need you to be strong for me, angel” he continued, his thumb brushing away the tear. "You´re what keeps me going."

He placed a tender kiss on your forehead. "I'll give you everything" he murmured, his voice a low promise. "I promise I'll give you the life you deserve"

Then, he trailed a line of kisses down your cheek, his lips lingering on yours in a final, lingering and sweet kiss.

It was meant to be a reassurance, but it sent a wave of conflicting emotions crashing through you. There was comfort in his touch, a flicker of the love you shared, but it was overshadowed by a gnawing doubt.

When you finally pulled back, a shaky breath escaping your lips, Luke took your hand, his touch gentle yet firm. He looked out at the vast expanse of ocean, then scanned the horizon.

You followed his gaze, squinting through the darkness. A faint flicker of white lights danced in the distance, a beacon in the vast blackness.

"Come on" he said, his voice tinged with newfound purpose. "We gotta get to the cruise."

[babyboywinchester]

Yeah, Dean always hated that Sam prayed to God, but not in the “My God are you seriously that fucking stupid”? Type of way, but more in a possessive, horribly irrational sort of way. How could God get a part of Sam that Dean himself wasn’t privy to? What kind of fucked up morality was that? So, he listened to Sam’s prayers at bedtime, because he’d be cold and dead in the ground before he’d allow some magical man in the sky to feel like he was the only one who could hear Sam’s thoughts and wishes… made slight jabs and jokes, “Bet God couldn’t have done that/Did that for you better, huh, baby boy?”

Dean wanted to attack and dethrone this being whom Sam held the highest of praises for, gave all of his love to, whom never had to spill a drop of blood in Sam’s name just to get that type of worship. So, if Dean noticed Sam’s lagging religious beliefs and enthusiasm then far be it from him to tempt his lamb back to the altar. If Sam was to turn ever more towards Dean for all of the answers, even the ones he didn’t have, fuck it, he usually flew by the seat of his pants anyway.

It was far better, nicer, more fitting to see his brother on his knees before his big brother, all wide eyed hope, love, devotion staring up at him like he was the sun and the reason the earth moved on its axis. No one had done more for Sam than Dean and therefore no one else deserved to be worshipped by the same hands he had held to cross busy streets. To be allowed the opportunity to fist his hands in the same hair he had so lovingly washed in numerous gritty and grime covered motel bathtubs.

No one had covered as many scratches and scrapes as Dean had, with kisses and bandaids, and they hadn’t wiped away tears from those cheeks with the pads of their thumbs.

No one in all of existence had devoted so much of their lives to another person, to Sam, quite like Dean had. No, and for that reason alone there was no other worthy hero, Arthurian knight in shining armor, more befitting of Sam’s worship.

[izzywantscheesecake]

leo valdez x female reader!! dating headcanons *blows kiss*

Dating Leo Valdez Headcanons!

Pairing: Leo Valdez x Fem!Reader Fandom: Camp Half-Blood Chronicles/Heroes of Olympus Quick Synopsis: Just some paragraphs headcanons on how you and Leo would meet/what dating him would be like. Tags: Use of Y/N, Fluff, no specific physical description of the reader (other than the fact they're female coded), Comfort

HOW YOU TWO WOULD MEET I imagine Leo to be someone who looks for a person he's able to have a lot of common ground with in a relationship. Of course, he's able to crack jokes (even the not so funny ones) around practically everyone, but there's a difference between small banter and just full on being able to vibe with someone. I think he'd be very attracted to someone interested in the arts, or someone who likes to make their own things as a mean of self expression in general. We all know how Leo is in terms of self confidence - he'd like a person who is unapologetically them, proud of their art and self expression and someone who has enough emotional awareness to give him reassurance in a relationship when they can sense he needs it. You guys would probably first meet at some type of event or workshop, or if you're a camper, probably at the dining pavilion when he sees you and has to do a double take because "who is that cool girl I've never seen before?" he'd muster enough confidence to come up and tell you a corny joke, stumbling on his words, which makes you laugh.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

You looked up from your feet, now practically face to face with this guy you'd never seen before. His clothes were wrecked with dirt and debris, so were his gloves.

He was standing awkwardly, and his hands, clearly shaking, were clenched into tight fists.

"Sure?"

"So um, riddle me this. Why can't you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?"

"Because pterodactyls went extinct 65 million years ago?"

His eyes widened, and a red tint began to become more visible around his face as he scratched his head, messing up his already tangled locks of hair.

"Oh.. That wasn't what I was going to say," He chuckled.

You smiled, suddenly feeling a warm aura coming from this boy.

"Well, what were you going to say?"

"Because, uh.. The P is.. Damn, whatever. My name's Leo. What's yours?"

ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS He was awkward at the start of the relationship, not really knowing what to say or what exactly "being a boyfriend" entails, but once he starts getting comfortable and more confident around you, that's where the fun begins (yes this is a star wars reference) Expect every Spanish nickname to be pulled out of the book. "Mi amor," "Hermosa," "Bonita," "Mi vida," "Corazón," if it exists in the Spanish language, he's most definitely said it. And he won't skip out on variations of your preferred name, or even silly sounding nicknames in public, like: "pookie" and "sugarplum" or some other stupidness. For dates, I believe he'd very much vary between educational and immersive dates and just straight up goofing off. It honestly depends on the season. Late Fall/Winter is for going to museums, workshops, possibly a joint coding class or hanging together in one of your rooms, and Spring/Summer is for exploring the town and having those cute little boardwalk + beach + ferris wheel dates. (I also imagine him to be somewhat clumsy and he WOULD drop ice cream all over the pavement.) As the son of Hephaestus, he is most definitely a human radiator. Definitely had a lot of fever scares just because of his temperature alone. But don't worry, he's fine. And the heat is an extra bonus if you're cuddling. Speaking of cuddling and physical proximity, Leo's love languages are gift-giving and physical touch. It doesn't matter if you guys have been apart for 2 minutes or 2 days, if he hasn't seen you in a little bit, he will greet you with one of those spin around hugs or a kiss on the hand. And for gift giving, he enjoys giving and receiving gifts. He likes to either make you little trinkets, or make/buy your favorite foods. He is a firm believer of giving his lady princess treatment, even on a dollar store budget. Though he wouldn't consider himself much of a photographer, I think he probably enjoys taking lots of pictures of you, both with and without him. It's to savor the moment, and also because he wishes he could've taken more pictures with his mother when she was still alive. He has a photo album of just you, him, and the adventures you two go on. You're not a stranger to pranking by him, by the way. If anything, he probably pranks you the most, out of love. You'll chase him down for a few hours, and he gets a thrill out of it knowing you won't stay mad at him forever. In conclusion, dating Leo can be rocky, calming, and give you a whirlwind of emotions, similar to how being on a floating trireme would feel.

A/N: I'm going to be real I never really paid much attention to Leo in the books, so I'm hoping this is accurate?? my bad if it isnt gang 🙏🏽🙏🏽

[merakiui]

Mother

yandere!kabukimono x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, pregnancy, implied codependency, brief mentions of murder/death, brief mention of childbirth note - recently i was inspired to write a kabukimono story, so i hope you can enjoy it!

i. the miracle of life.

There is a little human growing within you.

Kabukimono has never heard of such a phenomenon, but according to you it’s a normal facet of life for all creatures. He, who has only ever interacted with men, young and old, and the occasional grandmother, has never known the word pregnancy. It’s a complicated concept he struggles to parse at first—like that first sip of sake or the stickiness of a sweet. It’s something that leaves you pleasantly rounded like a ripe lavender melon, softens the skin on your bones, and allows you to grow into the kimono that was once two sizes too large. It’s something you speak of with overwhelming warmth, a fondness so enticing it’s almost tangible. It’s something the men at the furnace discuss with great pride and merriment, swapping stories of their beautiful, beloved wives and the tiny miracles that dwell within the womb, adoration painted upon weathered countenances. 

Miracles. Kabukimono has heard the word once or twice. Miracles, as he has come to learn, are wonderful things wrapped in silks. Newborns swathed in softness. Frail humans who manage to overcome illnesses that are said to snuff both body and soul with the excruciating passage of time. Sometimes a miracle is simple and not nearly as exciting as tales of heroes and villains or a mortal fight for recovery. Sometimes a miracle is waking up to begin another day. Sometimes it's torrential rain battering thirsty farmlands. Sometimes it’s a delicious meal prepared by a loving hand. 

If Kabukimono’s existence were to be defined as a miracle, it would be both a grandiose, gilded lie and bittersweet flattery all in one pretty package. Miracles are wanted, loved, and accepted. Disasters, curses, failures—however you wish to name the wandering puppet—are unwanted, despised, and abandoned. Kabukimono may not know every truth of this vast world, but this is one he’s understood from the moment he awoke in a lonesome pavilion. 

There is a little miracle growing within you. 

“Although they’re not very little now,” you remark, taking his cold, bloodless hands in your warm, blood-filled ones.

You guide them to your belly, secured snugly with a hara-obi, and he averts his gaze, if only to be respectful of the bare flesh you’ve put on display. The men at the furnace note he often stares at you; they’ve said it’s unbecoming of a young man to fix licentious eyes upon a maiden. Once, they joked of repentance for invasive gazes: A man who strays too far from his honor when a lady is involved shall gouge his eyes out and present them to her in hopes of earning forgiveness. Kabukimono, unable to comprehend the sarcasm or the laughter, procured a shard of shattered glass, raised it to his eye, and was promptly stopped by a very concerned Niwa. 

“Now listen here,” he had said, addressing the group of chuckling men, “it’s not very honorable to trick others.”

Kabukimono knows that there are two types of tricks: the painful kind and the painless kind. Betrayal falls under the painful category. Swapping his bitter tea for sake falls under the painless category (though he was not spared of the dizzying, disorienting effects or the subsequent hangover). Had he sliced his eyes from his skull, he wonders if he would have felt the sting, the agony, the fluid filling empty eye sockets—if such fluid even exists within his unique anatomy. Kabukimono is grateful for Niwa, for he often rescues him from painless tricks that may turn painful should he follow through with blind trust. 

And, had he truly lost his eyes that day, he never would have had the pleasure of looking at you like he does now. 

“Not very little…” he parrots, and he can practically feel the heartbeat from your miracle the moment his hands rest upon your belly. It shimmers in the candlelight, but that’s only because you’ve applied herbal oil meant to soothe weary muscles and prevent stretch marks. “How big will it become?”

You hum, idly trace patterns onto the tops of his hands, and say, “It’s difficult to approximate. Imagine…a very big lavender melon.”

Kabukimono can do that. He peers past you at the purple pile on the table, spoils from his last walk. He always returns with too many, but then pregnancy leaves you with a voracious appetite and sometimes you can eat more than one melon in one sitting. It’s very admirable, so he brings more each week and you never stop him. 

“That’s big,” he mumbles, awestruck, and he slides a hand across the width of your stomach. “How does it fit?”

“It’s a miracle.”

“Oh.” He leans closer, suspecting he feels movement from within, and he’s proven correct when something shifts under his palms. His eyes, blown so very, impossibly wide, flick up to yours. “It… It moved!”

“Of course,” you say, smiling, and your eyes are the prettiest gemstones in the moonlight. He could stare at them forever. “They kick and squirm often. This, too, is the sweetest miracle.”

“How so?”

“A restless baby means they are alive and well within.” You look like a statue of the gentlest goddess when you cradle your stomach. “It’s all I could ever hope for.”

Curiously, Kabukimono withdraws his hands and lifts the hem of his silks to view his own flat, porcelain stomach. He presses a palm against synthetic skin. It’s cold, but there is life crackling beneath his hand, just barely contained within the frame his mother personally sculpted. 

Mother. It’s another word he knows well, but he cannot seem to apply it to anyone other than his creator. But, as he has come to learn, a mother is meant to provide and protect. His mother is currently absent, so she cannot do those things. 

“You must have something you want.” 

Kabukimono lowers the fabric, cinches it tight, and peers at you. “Something I want?”

“Like a miracle of your own.”

“I am unable to conceive a miracle.”

You stare at him for a moment before laughing a quiet, melodious laugh. “It doesn’t have to be a child. It can be anything you want.”

His hands rise to his chest and he intends to admit his true wish—a heart and a place amongst humans—but instead he says, “I would like a mother for myself.”

“Do you not have a mother, Kabukimono?”

“I do… I did.” He shakes his head, finding that the admittance is too troublesome on his tongue. “I’m…unsure.”

You nod, your features softening with understanding. “Perhaps something else then?” Kabukimono reaches out to touch your belly, hesitates, and draws away, conflicted. You offer an encouraging smile. “You can touch. I don’t mind, and I don’t think the baby minds either.”

And so he does.

“I want to see your miracle when it’s brought into the world,” he whispers, speaking more to your baby than to you. “And I would like to know the miracle of life.”

As if in response, your little miracle kicks.

ii. the miracle of death. 

Your little miracle almost fell from the sky that envelops it.  

On the way to the furnace, a man bumped into you and you were sent stumbling on uneven ground. Kabukimono does not want to think of what could have happened if he hadn’t been a few steps behind—if he hadn’t rushed to your aid with a quickness rivaling lightning. He’d caught you in his arms and, noting the raw panic sullying such a friendly face, could only exhale a slow, relieved sigh. 

When you fell, you were holding your belly, shielding it as if it was worth more than your own life. When you fell, the man who had been the catalyst for this short-lived horror did not jump in to catch you. When you fell, you were a sliver away from tragedy. 

Kabukimono tastes red-hot anger in his throat, but he cannot understand where it’s coming from or why it consumes him entirely. But he must get it out of his system. It’s unpleasant and wrong and sordid. He doesn’t like it. Not at all.

And so, later that same day, he repays terror tenfold and leaves the man clinging to the strand he calls life.

“I won’t allow you to take my miracle away.” It’s spoken like a fact, shot through with syllables of deadly certainty. The sharpened tip of his blade prods at the man’s abdomen, a warning, a threat, and a promise all at once. For nearly taking a life, you shall pay for it with your own.

“Your mother?” the man had sputtered, terrified and confused, sticky with sweat and tears. 

Kabukimono does not let the man speak again, for the sword sinks into his stomach, and unease morphs into painful torment. To be certain the man won’t survive, Kabukimono twists the sword, sullies his hands in the process, and yanks it free with startling strength. Blood speckles a pristine canvas. It’s warm and wet.

He did not say mother. He did not. You’re a miracle. You are not his mother. You will be a mother to your miracle, not him because he isn’t a miracle. 

He did not say mother. 

Kabukimono finds himself sitting across from you now. There is a ghastly tear in crimson-spattered silks. You suspect the truth in the liquid staining his attire. Surely you must. But you keep your lips pursed and thread the needle through with expert fingers, humming as you work. Kabukimono sits primly, watching you with bright, indigo hues. You hum a melody he has never heard before.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m uninjured.”

“I’m glad.” You snip the excess string away and tuck the needle into your sewing kit. “It’s fixed. I’m sorry if it looks a little awkward. I’m not the best at—”

“It’s perfect,” he insists, admiring the stitching as if it’s the most valuable thing in all of Teyvat. Irreplaceable, for no one could replicate your exact pattern, and that’s what makes it so special. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He’s quiet for all of two minutes before the silence shatters his resolve. “Your miracle…” He frowns, suddenly ashamed. “He almost hurt your miracle…”

“But he didn’t, and I have you to thank for that.” You hold your hands out, palms up, and add, “Your hands aren’t meant to break and destroy others. You were given these precious palms to embrace others, to protect others, to respect others.” 

Slowly, he places his hands in yours. His seem to weigh heavy like a grimy sin, yet somehow all it takes is a single touch from you and all of his filth is cleansed. His fingers curl around yours, entwining like vines.

“I will embrace others. I will protect others. I will respect others.”

You squeeze his hands reassuringly. “When you’re upset, rather than acting rashly, take a step back and sit with your feelings. If the unpleasant thing persists, come to me and we can discuss. But please don’t take your frustrations out on others. You weren’t made to hurt others.”

“Then if I was not made for destruction, what else could be the purpose for my creation?”

To that, you’re unable to produce a satisfactory reply. Instead, you pull one of your hands free, lick your thumb, lean towards him, and scrub the blood from his cheeks. He blinks at you, unaccustomed to such consideration. The men at the furnace often tease him for trailing after you like a lost, little duckling, seeking your approval and affection. Tonight, since the men are nowhere in sight, he thinks he can allow himself to be greedy without any admonishments from Niwa or Katsuragi. You sure do like that (Name), huh? the latter often muses, exchanging wary, furtive glances with Niwa, as if both are preparing to weather a calamity. 

Kabukimono always speaks the truth unless he must take care to conceal it. So when he tells them, I like her more than I like the world that surrounds me, he means it. Because without you there is no world.

“Thank you, Mother,” he murmurs, as if it’s a secret, a title not meant to be uttered by him. 

Oh, he said it again. He said mother. 

iii. the miracle of motherhood.

Kabukimono kneels at your bedside like an angel of death dressed in the purity of white. He watches you throughout the hour, listening to your cries, your groans, your hisses, while a grandmother assists below, whispering soothing consolations that somehow reach Kabukimono’s ears despite the shrill noises that fill the room. Kabukimono has learned she’s a granny who delivers life, so he puts his faith in her to take good care of you and your miracle.

The process is much longer than he anticipated. Though you’re covered in sweat and tears, your chest heaving, your hand searching for him in the midst of the commotion, you are the most beautiful miracle he has ever known. He closes his hand around yours and you squeeze so hard you might just tear his wrist from the joint. But it doesn’t hurt him, and he spends the afternoon at your side, watching the toll the miracle takes on your body.

He never blinks, burning the scene into his retinas. 

Some time later, you are holding your miracle in your arms, tears tracking down your cheeks in salty streaks. Kabukimono watches mother and child with wide, adoring eyes. After all this time, your miracle is finally here! You’re holding such a fragile human and there is love trickling from your lash line. Kabukimono wants to cry with you, but the tears won’t come. 

So instead he smiles. You seize his wrist and drag him down to where you rest, and the smile widens.

“Your miracle is leaking,” he observes, and you snort in amusement.

“Crying,” you correct, bumping your forehead with his. “She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

Kabukimono is inclined to agree, but your eyes are not on him. For the first time in the many months he’s been acquainted with you, he is not all you see. Somehow that saddens him, carves a hole into him, but he can’t mourn. He shouldn’t. He’s come to learn that the miracle of childbirth is an occasion worthy of celebration. He should be happy for you—and he is—but there is a pang in his chest. Something is not fitting where it should. Something is amiss.

“I think I’ll name her…Aika.”

“Is it common to give miracles names?”

“Of course. Everyone has a name, even you. We’re all given one the moment we’re born.”

Even me… 

Aika continues to cry and you rock her to and fro in your arms, shushing her with a song. She settles within minutes, lulled to sleep, and you follow shortly after. He refuses to leave your bedside, preferring to watch over you like a dutiful guard.

Kabukimono weighs his two warring wants: a name of his own, generously given by his mother, and you. In this very moment, you are attainable. A name, however, is not. But perhaps he can survive without one if it means you’ll accompany him through nameless wandering.

He’s only ever whole when he’s with you. 

iv. the miracle of rebirth. 

The Balladeer stands at an all-too-familiar doorstep. He has since swapped his pure linens for a shroud of darkness, and he’s taken on a new alias (he refuses to call it a name, for only you can grant him one). You haven’t changed in the many years that have since followed, for you are not fully human like him. Yet you veil yourself in the wonders of humanity, always empathetic in nature, tainted with weak emotions. You will never be human, but then neither will he and there is catharsis in similarity. The both of you stand on equal ground in that regard, or so you might have thought. 

He is better because he feels nothing, or so he believes. Perhaps, in the center of the labyrinth that is his mind, he recognizes his flaws and the fact that he is worse because you can accept the many aspects of humanity. 

Shrugging these irritations away, he composes himself, squares his shoulders, and knocks thrice. He could forego etiquette altogether, kick your door down, and force himself inside for the sake of a cruel surprise, but he refrains from doing so. He suspects your newest miracle might tumble from your sky if he shocks you and then you will never know the sweet cycle of motherhood again.

You know better than to ignore Death when he comes knocking. The door opens wide; there’s no need to crack it and peek through the thin sliver when you’re already aware of the person who awaits you on the other side. 

As he has observed over the course of many months, you do have another miracle, hidden under the softness of a floral-patterned kimono. He smiles at you, sharp and wicked under a blanket of stars, and spreads his arms for a hug.

“Mother,” he says in a sarcastic singsong, knowing it unnerves you terribly when it spills like sin from his lips. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Like an old habit, you welcome him in. Beyond your doorstep, the corpse of your most recent lover lies slumped and bloodied, decapitated and disemboweled, dragged so far there’s a vermilion trail marking the path. Sometimes you think these humans are not killed by The Balladeer but rather by the sheer ferocity of the hatred and anger he harbors. He’s always diligent with each of your lovers, swooping in the moment he catches their scents, like a predatory cat finely tuned for slaughter. 

He palms at your stomach, uncharacteristically gentle. “Aren’t you just full of miracles, Mother?”

There is a little human growing within you, and The Balladeer has made it his duty to bear witness to the birth of each one of your miracles.

[partycatty]

liu kang > in the new era

reader used to be a sweetheart and hero in the previous timeline, but something changed this time around.

warnings: :(, i'm a bit of a yapper in this one

notes: idk this one kinda flew off the handle but i had a vision

masterlist <3

•liu kang creating everyone with the strength and humility he carried in thunder god raiden's honor following becoming keeper of time

•he made everyone beautiful, everyone worthy and capable of good, honest work and for that he was proud

•of course, some of them strayed from the ideal path and sought to increase their strength, but perhaps it was always in their character to conquer. that, liu kang couldn't change.

•but you... it was you that he least expected to abandon that honor you always had.

•you were a good fighter, an honest worker and a force to be reckoned with when it came to kicking shao kahn's ass. the shaolins looked up to you. the shirai ryu used you as an example. the lin kuei knew not to fuck with you. the special forces practically begged you to lead their army alongside the Cage-Blade family.

•he could have had you, the romantic attraction was heavily implicated. but alas, the only time you two interacted was during a horrific Koliseum brawl or otherwise breaking bones.

•the last time he saw you was before his battle with kronika. you said you hoped to see him after the battle, and perhaps get to know each other sometime.

•he was sad to see that version of you erased from existence, but you were absolutely first on his list of people to shape. it felt wrong at first, to create you from nothing like the god he was. but he wouldn't be able to make a perfect world without you.

•when he came to your home to recruit you, he was nearly winded with your beauty. you looked just like he remembered, but with an innocent sparkle in your eyes, the eyes that were yet to see murder and magic. skin that wasn't stained with deep red blood. clothes that were neat and ordinary.

•you were always so curious, so willing to step in where you were needed. so it came as no surprise when you asked the fire god where to begin to defend earthrealm.

•months of training passed, and you naturally found that fighting skill. you joked about how it must be in your blood to know how to fight, and liu kang would hold his tongue, his eyes staring down at you with that deep feeling of loss and longing. he would simply smile and innocently agree.

•the time came for you to confront shang tsung in his laboratory and take him in for questioning. you went with the other earthrealmers, yet found yourself naturally leading the way.

•kenshi lost his eyesight, johnny got his shit kicked in, and kung lao got clotheslined. you were the only one of the group to remain conscious. shang tsung inspected you closely, claiming that you were just what he was looking for.

•you go missing for over a month. liu kang gets the help of the royal family despite their lack of knowledge about the mission in the first place. everyone is searching for you, and he has to resist the urge to burn down every forest and smash every boulder until he finds you.

•the hunt for you turns into a search for your body, as most presume you dead. it brings a heavy blanket of depression over the earthrealmers and liu kang.

•liu kang spends far more time than usual in his personal quarters, meditating with a tense posture. how could he let you get away from him? it nearly drives him mad, missing you dearly, but he wouldn't be able to express it. you were your new era self, with no clue about your previous self.

•the mourning only lasts so long before an all-out timeline war begins, and liu kang has to shove past the grief eating away at his godlike heart and gather the titans and heroes of other timelines to band together and defeat titan shang tsung.

•liu kang stands at the foot of the pyramid, fists clenched and jaw shut tight. behind him are hundreds, thousands of pure-hearted titans, ready to combat evil. the tension only grows when titan shang tsung saunters into view, a dark aura surrounding himself.

•"there is nowhere to run, shang tsung," liu kang shouts upward at his mortal enemy, channeling his anger of his lost love. "nowhere to hide. we have banded together to rid all timelines of your evil. the threat you pose to them ends today. in all timelines, the arc of history bends toward justice."

•"such certainty, liu kang, that this battle will end in your favor," shang tsung replies with a devilish smirk, a peculiar confidence radiating from his words. "in this timeline, it bends toward me."

•and from behind shang tsung, you walk out, eyes dark and wearing armor that resembles an enemy. your mind had been corrupted by power. after being captured, you were passed onto titan shang tsung, who knew of your strength and potential from the previous timeline. he filled your mind with ideas of power and endless possibilities at the cost of betraying Earthrealm.

•liu kang does not often feel physical emotion, but seeing you in that moment crushed him. his stance faltered and his arms lowered to his sides. the once innocent glimmer he saw in you was now gone.

•liu kang fights his way up the stairs, sending various evil versions of his friends into the green, hellish pit. he knocked the glasses off of dark star cage, beat kitana kahn into submission, and even took down a fiery scorp lao.

•when he makes his way up to the top, winded but still ready to battle if needed, he feels that pang in his chest return when he sees you stand beside shang tsung in a fighting stance.

•"please... i do not wish to fight you," liu kang tries to reason with you with a hint of desperation. "it is not too late to return to the light."

•"i know of your deceptive behavior, fire god," you reply with a nasty tone, mind corrupted by shang tsung's lies and delusions. "i will not hesitate to take you down."

•liu kang really, really did not want to fight you. he couldn't even use the defense that you weren't his (y/n). but you were. you were from his timeline. he made you, and fucked up. bad.

•all he could do was stand there, fists clenching and unclenching rapidly as he debated his options. but all the while, he held eye contact with you and your snarling face. you looked at him like he was a villain, because you were convinced that he was.

•for the first time in eons, liu kang wondered if resetting the timeline would be best. he knew he shouldn't, he saw what the power did to kronika. but god, it had never been that tempting until this very moment.

[tenderleavesbob]

Warriors's head rested in Time's lap, and the tangle of feelings was almost overwhelming for Time. He ran his fingers through Warriors's soft hair, being careful to avoid the bandage tied around his head. Hyrule warned that he would have a headache when he woke up, but he was pretty confident that Warriors would be all right. Time just needed to keep an eye on him.

The battle had been hard today, the fight riddled with black-blooded monsters. Twilight and Wild were curled together, as were Sky and Wind. Legend was keeping watch, and Time refrained from smiling at how his attention kept flicking to Warriors. He knew the Vet would deny it if someone pointed it out. Four looked half-asleep on the other side of the camp and ignored Hyrule's admonishments to stop trying to repair Warriors's shield and just go to sleep already. It had been rough but all of his people were here. Everyone would be okay. Malon liked to laugh at him when he did his count of the other heroes. "Papa cucco," she joked.

Before his marriage to Malon, Time had never thought about having children of his own. The concept was alien. Even now, it was mind-boggling. What did he know about being a parent? Caring for a child? He had seen parents and children, but as a child, the closest thing he had to a parent was the Great Deku Tree.

That was until he met Captain Link during the war, of course. Time smiled at the man sleeping in his lap. There was a fading bruise on his cheek, but overall, he looked well. He certainly looked healthier than he had during the war. He had done everything he could to take care of Time and Tune but was awful at taking care of himself. Time hadn't realized how bad it was until after he had gone home. From their very first meeting, Captain Link had done everything he could to protect and care for Time and Tune, claiming them as his own, no matter the cost to himself.

Time had put some pieces together after he had gone home, but he doubted he would ever know the full story of what Warriors had gone through to take care of them. Even now when Time was older than Warriors, Warriors refused to share certain details from the war. Time could not bring himself to ask about Cia.

Warriors liked to say that children had no place in the war, but Time was confident that those three years were some of the best years of his life. Even if he fought Warriors in the beginning, Time had never felt as loved and protected as he had during that time.

There was a little bit of blood in Warriors's hair. Warriors would hate that. Time gently brushed it out while keeping a close eye on Warriors's face. The man continued to sleep peacefully. Time hoped it was because he knew he was with Time and that he was safe.

Twilight's existence proved that one day he would have children. He hoped that he had learned well enough from Warriors's example. He hoped he could be a good father, too.

Hair now clean, Time moved his hand from Warriors's hair to his chest and felt Warriors breathe. Time had always known that Warriors had showed him what kind of man he wanted to be. Only later did Time realize that Warriors had taught him what kind of father he wanted to be, too. He doubted the man had any clue the impact he had on Time.

Warriors shifted in his sleep so he was closer to Time. Time better tucked Warriors's scarf and blanket around him. He gently touched the bruise on Warriors's cheek.

Never had Time imagined that he would feel those paternal instincts around his big brother. He certainly hadn't imagined feeling all right about that. Time ran his fingers through Warriors's hair again, brushing against the bandage there. He hoped he could give back some of the love and support that Warriors had always given him. In the meantime, he could at least protect and care for Warriors tonight.

[4ce-of-2pades]

Imagine a Heroes of Olympus AU where, due to the empathy link, Hera can’t snatch Percy and wipe his memories without also messing with Grover’s mind. (That or she’s just worried Grover would use the link to find Percy before the time is right, so she gets him out of the picture too.) Maybe she sends both of them to the Wolf House together, but more likely she doesn’t think Grover is very important and just drops him in the wilderness somewhere.

So Percy’s following Lupa’s instructions and heading to Camp Jupiter, fighting every single monster within a five mile radius along the way, and the whole time he’s got this feeling like he’s getting close to something. He assumes it means he’s getting close to camp, but meanwhile Grover has been traveling towards him, following that same unidentified feeling like a compass, as the only lead he has to go on with no memory. After like a full week(?) of fighting weird monsters that want to kill him, Percy encounters some guy with horns and goat legs and probably attempts to slay him on sight to get things over with. Grover of course yells “I surrender! Don’t kill me!” and they get to talking. Percy is mildly suspicious, but takes Grover’s word that not all animal hybrid creatures are out for his blood. So they set off for Camp Jupiter together.

When they get there, none of the Romans are too happy to welcome another “good for nothing” faun onto their territory, but Juno gave Percy her endorsement, and Percy gave Grover his endorsement, so if the Romans want to follow Juno’s instructions and make sure the son of Neptune sticks around, they’ve got to let the faun tag along. Grover is uncomfortable with being so utterly disliked on first sight by so many people—and he can read emotions, so the message is coming through loud and clear. Before he encounters the fauns of Camp Jupiter, he probably just assumes he’s a random monster on par with the gorgons, and that’s why he’s so hated. Monster or no, though, Percy is already unwaveringly loyal towards his new friend. Grover is the first person he’s met who hasn’t wanted anything from him but his companionship. No harsh training to survive, no fighting to the death. Just traveling and talking and making stupid jokes together to make everything seem less scary. The way they clicked, it was as if they had been friends for far longer than a few days. In fact, Percy can practically feel Grover’s fear and shame at the Romans’ reactions as if they were his own emotions, and it only makes him more defensive of his friend.

Eventually Grover and Percy encounter Don the Faun, prompting Hazel to explain that fauns, collectively, aren’t much more than beggars, thieves, and freeloaders. Of course, she probably phrases it just a smidge more tactfully, given that Grover is, y’know, standing right there. He now understands the dismissive way he’s been treated. A faun welcomed right into camp and given the “New Legionnaire” tour alongside Juno’s chosen hero. What a joke. He almost wishes he really was a monster instead. Evil or no, at least monsters are powerful and impressive, not… useless. He sees what Don is like, what all fauns are like, apparently, and he feels ashamed of himself. Percy tries to cheer him up, tries to remind him that the Lares keep calling him a Greek. An enemy. Nevermind how Neptune and his children are apparently barely respected here. If Percy and Grover are outcasts at Camp Jupiter, then they’ll be outcasts together.

That makes Grover feel a little bit better. But not much.

Grover certainly doesn’t want to seek out the other fauns. Even if it is off-putting that no one cares they’re all basically homeless, Grover still finds those that he’s met to be unfocused and irritating. He feels different from them. Grover sticks close to Percy, because Percy is pretty much the only person in the Legion who acknowledges his existence. Grover is not invited to join the Legion with Percy. Not that he particularly wants to sign up for ten years of army, but at least it would have given him a place to belong. Grover also isn’t invited to join the War Games, but no one stops him from coming either. They don’t seem to think he’d make a difference one way or the other, so if he wants to go charging in to his death, why stop him? Hazel and Frank have interacted with Grover enough, by way of interacting with Percy, to know that he’s at least a little different from other fauns, so they don’t mind having his help. And besides, the Fifth Cohort knows what it’s like to be the underdogs. How much worse could one faun make things?

When the Fifth Cohort takes the War Games by storm, and Hazel, Frank, and Percy prove their abilities, Grover is right there alongside them, using nature magic as a crucial part of their plan. Through this shared victory, Hazel and Frank and the rest of the Fifth gain respect for Grover as an individual, and the rest of the Legion at least has to notice that he’s there.

When it comes time for the quest, of course Percy wants Grover to come with him and Frank and Hazel, even if three is the usual quest limit. (I don’t remember if it is with Romans.) Whether three is the limit or not, though, the Romans aren’t too keen on letting a faun join a quest. Best case scenario, they think, Grover wouldn’t take it seriously, and would run away at the nearest sign of trouble. A waste of a choice for a companion. Fauns aren’t heroes. They’re just nuisances. Percy is clearly angry and about to argue, but Grover stops him, instead speaking calmly for himself, and putting to use his skill for convincing people of things. (You’d think he could charmspeak, honestly.) Grover swallows his pride and recommends himself as more of an assistant than an actual member of the quest. Someone to carry the equipment, set up camp, get groceries now and then, etc. A servant, practically, for the real heroes.

“You know you’re not getting paid for this,” Reyna points out.

Grover has to bite his tongue to keep his temper. “Yes. I know.”

In the end, Grover is allowed to join Percy and the others on the principle that, again, his presence shouldn’t make that much of a difference one way or the other. And besides, if he’s not technically part of the quest or the Legion, they can’t stop him from happening to travel to the exact same places at the exact same time, can they? If the questers don’t have an issue with it, then sure. Let the faun go on a quest.

Grover is laughed out of the Senate House. He tries not to get too upset. He got what he wanted, after all. But at the cost of humiliation.

Percy asks Grover why he would even want to come on a dangerous quest when he doesn’t have to, especially when the Romans made it as hard as they did for him to be allowed. Grover says he wanted to help Percy because they’re friends, and because Percy is the only person who’s ever stuck up for him.

Percy says, “I appreciate that, but we’ve only been friends for the better part of a week. Is this really worth the risk, for someone you barely know?”

“Even if it wasn’t,” Grover replies, “I can’t stay here. I won’t stay somewhere I’m hated. I’d rather be out there with you, doing something useful, than get treated like I’m worthless.

“Besides,” he says, “I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do.”

[gatorbites-imagines]

I'm back wayy too early, Just as promised!👍🏻

How are you?

Would you like to explain, in the Reader of your choice that "Flaxans' king is kinda..", mister?🤨📸

Aaand that's It for now, drink some water mr. Allig-author, I'll do the same.

See you in the close future! ~💙🌺✨

Flaxan Leader x antihero male reader

Headcanons

straight up cant find any flaxan gifs

What do you mean 🤨📸 I said what I said 🗣️

Reader is kinda based on Deadpool, but with some tweaks. Insert also flaxan headcanons, cuz I thought it was funny.

Working with teen team had never really been something you planned to do. You were more of an antihero than an outright hero. Majority of the public didn’t even know about your existence, since most of your dirty work was done in the shadows.

But seeing as the guardians of the globe weren’t responsive, and you had been in this business for a long time, Cecil called in a favor you owed him, which lead to you fighting alongside this group of young heroes.

To you it felt like being a caretaker or kindergarten teacher, since you were older than all of them with a lot more knowledge and experience. Your lack of care about spilling blood and killing seemed to unnerve a few of them, invincible being one of them.

Your regeneration seemed to shock the flaxans you fought, as they’d blow your head off with their blasters, or would slice your limbs off, only for them to regrow in seconds as your damaged body kept on fighting.

Invincible may have scarred his face, but you were the one the one who would become the flaxan leader fought head on. You may not have super strength like some of the others, but your expertise made you even more of a bother to fight.

Since we know nothing about flaxans, let’s say that they flirt through sparring or fighting, so you being your joking usual Deadpool self could be seen as advances of some kind. The kiss you blow him as they flee the first time doesn’t help your case.

After the first invasion, I can already imagine the likes of invincible freaking out a little or a lot about how easily you kill and how you make a joke out of everything. It results in you having to give these young heroes a reality check, that being a hero isn’t easy, and that they’ll probably end up killing more people than they save. That’s your feelings about it anyways.

The second invasion has you involved again, since your extreme healing factor also means you barely need to sleep, eat or drink, as your body keeps itself going without issue. And once again you end up fighting the flaxan leader, whose now got a different look.

The first words that leave your mouth is ooing and awing, purring that you like em a little grey so you are happy to see him. All the talking you did during your first battle also meant that the flaxans, or maybe rather the leader, has a much better understanding of human speech.

The second invasion ends like the first, except the leader is too busy fighting with you to focus on invincible and atom eve, so Robot ends up finding their weakness on his own. Sometime during the fight your mask also ends up getting ripped off, letting you plant a big kiss on the flaxan leader’s forehead before they flee.

When members of the teen team ask why the hell you did that, you just shrug and make some comment about how you two “have a connection”. Its clearly a joke, because you take nothing seriously, but the flaxan leader seems to see it as legit.

The third invasion goes differently from the show, since the leaders risen up to rule all of his people, and instead of wanting to invade earth this time he comes through to court you, much to everyone’s surprise, both you, the teen team, and the media that’s been watching the entire time.

Imagine your surprise when the flaxan leader, now a good deal older and in a powersuit, rocking up to you with flowers native to his planet and what looks like a bracelet made out of similar material to his armor.

It takes some translation and some help from Cecil and his people to figure out what its all about, and honestly you feel a little chuffed at this big guy pretty much proposing to you after two fights. It seems completely out of the norm for humanity, but apparently its normal in flaxan culture.

In the end it helps create more of an allyship with the flaxans than them getting eradicated by omni-man. And you end up scoring a hot older guy who doesn’t seem to mind your many many scars. Its not everyone who can say their husband developed technology strictly to be able to exist in your world, is it? you definitely brag online about it, “if he wanted too, he would” and all that.

[kitthepurplepotato]

Chapter 2 - Smile for me, Red.

Summary: Kirishima comes to collect his usual coffee with a worn down, fake smile on his face. Y/N’s having none of it.

I know I said the next chapter will come in two weeks, but you guys sent me so much love I can’t help but post another one. The next one will be late, though!

Warnings: Swear words

First Chapter Master List

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Did you just come in through window?” You deadpan as your himbo of an uncle sneaks in through the manager’s office window, ten minutes late.

“Didn’t want people to see me.” The old man sighs as the plops down on the nearest chair.

“You shouldn’t have put your signature on the wall then.” You raise your brows and your manager nods approvingly. “Also, Red Riot works next door. He won’t be much of a help to the society if he dies in a heart failure after seeing you sneaking around their private parking spot.”

“How did the boy like the present, Y/N?” Crimson Riot winks, his hair just as obnoxious and spiky as always; okay you have no right to say anything about his hair as your own is the same color, but still, those spikes might have worked when he was 30, but they aren’t working now. “I can’t believe my little girl finally met her crush. Do you remember, when…” Your uncle is about to start reminiscing but you ain’t having any of that.

“This is a work meeting, Uncle. I know you hate talking about numbers but you are the fucking owner so shut up and listen to my manager.” You sigh, already knowing he’ll try to change the topic again as soon as the meeting actually starts.

Okay, so here’s the deal: your uncle is like a second dad to you. Why? Because your mom and dad are both businessmen and they travel around a lot which made your retired uncle your almost full time babysitter after you grew up enough to be able to move around and exist without choking on air. Your parents love you, you know that but they live for their jobs.

Watching the school festival in the TV was one of your favorite things to do with your uncle; he adores seeing the young heroes challenging each other without the putrid smell of death lurking around the corner; being a hero can be quite fun when you are still in school but the real deal is nothing like the silly little work studies; it’s gruesome and cruel, full of blood and loss, but watching these young students fight so seriously for nothing but a gold medal kinda makes you forget about all of the dark side for a second and just enjoy the show.

You were around fourteen or fifteen when the young, sturdy hero wannabe appeared on the screen for the first time; his passion and positive attitude caught both of your eyes right away and it didn’t take long before the word went around about the boy being a massive Crimson Riot fan so needless to say, you two spent most of your time searching the internet for more information about the young boy and eventually, this became a family tradition every time you had to spend the night at your uncle’s house. First, it was only tiny articles you could find, but eventually as he got older there were full interviews available for you to watch with your uncle after a shitty day at work. You don’t come by his house that often anymore, but when you do, Red Riot always comes up. The story your uncle was about to tell is probably about you having an absolute crush on the boy when you first saw him on the screen; you remember getting really flustered by his adorable smile, shark teeth and all. Crimson Riot always liked to joke about how funny it would be to have Red Riot join your little family and you always yelled and laughed at your silly uncle for being ridiculous, but seeing him in really life really made you question if your uncle secretly wanted you two to meet and make your dreams a reality, hence why the cafe ended up to be so close to their agency.

Also, it’s not like you actually had a crush on him; maybe when you were 15 you really did crush on the boy but now you are 25 and definitely way past the celebrity crush phase; you two kept up your tradition and watched his interviews every week, but it was more of a habit than anything else.

The meeting doesn’t take long; your manager mumbles out a bunch of numbers then after one look at your uncle’s confused face she realizes that “the big boss” did not check his e-mails this week so she tells him that the business is going well and that’s enough for him to leave your manager alone for another week or so. He doesn’t really care about the money anyway; having a cafe was on his bucket list so he made it happen and he really doesn’t give a fuck about the rest until he’s not actually loosing money on it. This whole meeting isn’t really necessary to be honest but it’s a way for him to feel included; he doesn’t want anyone to know his connection to the cafe so he can’t really lurk around during opening hours. It’s quite silly as the name of the coffee shop literally has his name in it, but to be fair, he’s been retired for a decade, no one really gives enough fucks to put one and two together. Except Red Riot, but he’s too busy being an excited golden retriever to question how did you manage to get him a signature so soon.

“Okay, it’s almost opening time, let’s get shit done.” You sigh, not ready for another 12 hour shift.

Why do you work so much? The answer is really easy; you have nothing else to do. Yes, quite sad. Now let’s move on.

“Language!” Your manager reprimands but you only roll your eyes at that; you’ll never understand why are people so obsessed with swear words. They are just words. They are completely harmless.

Red Riot appears a few minutes after the doors open; he doesn’t jump around this time, doesn’t even look at his favorite poster, just comes straight to the counter with the fakest smile on his tired, but handsome face.

Oh no.

First of all, Red Riot being sad? That’s unacceptable. That guy is a ray of sunshine all the time, you swear you can see a trail of rainbow coming out of his gorgeous and juicy ass as he skips towards his agency every day.

Second of all, how dare he look so fucking handsome even with those massive Gucci bags under his eyes? How dare he make you feel like you need to smush his face between your boobs until he gives you that typical shark-smile you adore so much?

Oh man, you are so gone. So fucking gone and the man in front of you has no fucking idea about it.

“Can I have my usual, please?”

“No.” Red Riot looks gobsmacked. He’s clearly not in the mood for teasing but he schools his face anyway; he tries to laugh it off, he really tries, but he can’t hide the sadness in his eyes. “Not until you tell me who made my favorite customer look so miserable. I need to start plotting a murder here, fella.” You mumble to him in a baby voice. Your upper body is basically laying on the counter at this point; you try to get as close to the red haired hero as humanly possible without being too obvious. Well, this is already extremely obvious but you have a feeling you could kiss this man on the mouth and he would still think you are just being friendly. Silly boy.

“You can’t murder something that doesn’t exist, Y/N.” He tries to smile again and fails miserably.

“It’s all in your head, isn’t it?” You mumble to yourself, but he jumps into your sentence.

“No, I mean there is no problem, I don’t know what you are talking about! Can I have my coffee? Please?” The redhead begs, but you can’t let this go. This man won’t leave this shop until he gives you a real smile.

“There is a lot of things I hate you know, but what I hate the most is when someone I care about lies into my face.” You retort angrily. “But I will give you another chance to redeem yourself by asking this: what can a poor little barista do for you to make that smile on your face a real one?” You can’t help it; your hand reaches out to the two sides of his lips and you push the skin up to force him to “smile”. His cheeks redden from the sudden closeness and it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “I’m a good listener, you know. I also give good advice. This is also the perfect opportunity for you to say that a date with me would cheer you up. I’m just saying!” You finally let him go. Damn, thank god for your poker face because deep inside, you are absolutely freaking out about how close you were to him just a second ago. He smelled so fucking nice, quite strong but there is a hint of sweetness to it which you absolutely love.

“I… I think… that… maybe…” The man stutters adorably, his whole face as red as a lobster. “I just need a …hug? I might cry a bit though. I feel a bit lonely today plus I had a nightmare and…” You don’t wait for him to finish his sentence. You jump right through the stupid counter; you did get some training from your uncle so you are more than capable to do all kind of tricks like that; then run right into the stupidly tall man’s arms.

First, he just stands in one place, his arms hanging by his sides as you cuddle into his humongous chest; then slowly, he lets the facade crumble. There are tiny sniffles coming from the redhead as he finally puts his arms around you; the hug is tight, almost suffocating, but fuck if it doesn’t feel amazing. You are not sure if it’s him who needed that or it was just you.

“Stop being so nice to me, I’ll fall in love with you.” He mumbles into your ears; you can feel the goosebumps going down your spine from his husky voice.

“Stop lying to yourself, Red, you are already in love with me.” You giggle as you leave a cheeky kiss on the man’s chin to make sure he has something else to think about today.

“Guilty as charged.” Red Riot’s signature grin is finally back and damn if it doesn’t hit differently from this angle. Your heart has a really hard time with the fact that he didn’t even try to deny his crush on you.

“Go to work, Red.” You smile at the hero and make your way back to finally make his coffee. “On the house.” You give him his latte, but not before you leave a tiny kiss on the redheads cheek. “And this too.” You smile at him fondly.

“Amazing customer service. 10/10. Tell your manager to give you a raise. Or something. Yeah. Uhm. Bye.”

You’ll never forget his manic grin as he ran out of the door and went the wrong way by accident. He almost head butted a pole as well.

Fucking hell, you absolutely adore this man.

Is it a crush? Is it love? Or is it just fondness? You have no idea. One thing for sure; you can’t wait to meet him again tomorrow.

~•🪨•~

Kirishima is in pieces.

He got a hug from his favorite barista. And a kiss. On his chin. And his cheeks… fuck, that’s two whole kisses. Not one, but two. And a hug.

Did he say, he got two whole kisses today?

Oh. He did.

Well, he will say it again.

Kirishima Eijirou just got a kiss from the most amazing girl in the whole city.

Who did?

He did.

“Wake the fuck up, Eijirou!” Katsuki yells into his face, the violent action topped up with a not-too-sneaky explosion attack, but even that’s not enough for him to completely get out of it; he stares at the lovely coffee in his hands, caramel latte with extra whip cream and chocolate shreds.

You know who made this coffee for him? The girl who kissed him. She did. Kiss him. On the cheek. And on his chin. Two kisses. Two.

Ahh, what a day to be a guy named Kirishima Eijirou.

What a day indeed.

“Katsuki, I think I’m having a fat ass crush.”

“Fucking marvelous, now can you give me the fucking agency stamp before I explode you through your asshole?” Katsuki sighs.

Kirishima is so proud of his bro. He’s been through a lot this year; he’s lost his assistant (no, she’s not dead, just pregnant. No, not from Katsuki, you cheeky bastard.) then got a new one he fell in love with, then he almost lost that person due to a quirk accident. Oh, and he almost died due to a quirk called “anguish” that makes you relive your worst nightmares until you give up and decide death is much better than the suffering that comes with it.

If that’s not enough, Katsuki’s feelings were reciprocated and Katsuki is basically a married man now who wakes up early every day to pack two bentos for his fiancé and himself, sometimes three when he feels generous towards his best bro. Katsuki is still his own, explosive self, don’t get Kirishima wrong; but he’s also much more emotional, much more patient when it comes to Kirishima’s silly flaws. He loved the old Katsuki just as much as he loves this one but he does feel like they’ve got much closer since Katsuki managed to open up to the world a bit more. He’s so proud of his best buddy.

“Sorry, bro.” Kirishima smiles at his best bud with nothing but fondness. Katsuki only rolls his eyes.

“So… how is she? Or he. Or whatever. They. Dunno.” He mutters and Kirishima perks up right away; his bestie is so open-minded, goddamit!

“She’s beautiful and kind. She smells really nice. She teases me all the time and doesn’t even see me as a man I think, but every single moment with her feels like a gift.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything first, he just looks at Kirishima, searching for something; Kirishima has no idea what he’s looking for.

“You know there is one thing I realized since I… uhm. Fell in love or whatever…”

“Yeah?”

“No one will be able to love you if you can’t even love yourself.” Katsuki retorts with his ears tinted red. “So work on that before you do anything stupid.”

Hm. Love yourself. Kirishima can do a lot of things, but self-love ain’t one of them. Self-hatred? Kirishima is secretly a pro at that. Self-pity? He’s number one at that as well.

But self-love? Zero points.

He has a long way to go before he can ask the girl of his dreams on a date then.

… Next Chapter!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Potato ramble:

- Wow, this chapter was so short! Sorry about that! The chapters will get longer as the story develops by the way, so don’t worry :D

- Thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter, I couldn’t fucking believe it, to be honest. I literally thought no one will respond to it, yet it got hundred likes in less than a week. Thank you so much, you actually made me tear up. I hope you will like this story until the end! 💜

TL (how is this so long already, I love you guys so much, honestly!): @porusuniverse @sixxze @unofficialmuilover @cheesenmax @readingfan @sammmm29 @pwinglez1 @happydragonfrog @magicalhandsherringclam @lovingnightharmony @theequeenofcurses @kirishima-eijirock @nerinefy

[nightwolf14292]

The Favorite Child

(This is not an OG concept, it's very much inspired 👍)

Dick knew that he wasn't the favorite child. Maybe he had been once, a long time ago, but he saw the way Bruce had lightened the moment he met Jason. The kid might've stolen his tires, thrown a tire iron at him, and called him a 'Big boob' the first time they met, but Bruce had just simply laughed and brushed it off. Plus at the end of it, he still had the kindness to send Jason to a respectable, expensive school to get him off the streets, and when it was revealed that the school was teaching these kids to be criminals Bruce had immediately gone to get Jason away from all of the corruption. Even as Jason grew and it became apparent that he was troubled, reckless, and sometimes even violent because of his past, Bruce had still tried his best to be patient and understanding to the boy. Dick had seen first hand the way that Jason's death had affected Bruce, the overwhelming and unending feelings of grief at losing another person who was close to him, and the guilt at not saving him, not being there to protect the one person he wanted to protect the most. He had watched Bruce retreat into himself, and even Alfred had defeatedly said that Bruce was acting just as he did when he lost his parents, all of those years of progress growing and healing from his traumas thrown to the wind because of a crazed man and a crowbar. Yes, Dick knew the truth. Jason was definitely the favorite child.

Jason knew he wasn't the favorite child. When he was Robin he had known it to be Dick, and after his resurrection he had thought it was his Replacement, though when the new little shit had shown up it became blatantly obvious to him that the favorite child was Damian. Of course it was, he was Bruce's biological son after all, why wouldn't he be the favorite? The kid might be an ankle-biter who swings around a sword, a trained assassin with blood splattered across his hands, but Bruce just pats his head, gives him a hug, and lets him keep filling the cave with various animals like Bat-Cow. Despite this kid clearly having the ability to kill without remorse, just like Jason himself nowadays, Bruce still wants to baby and coddle him as if he isn't the least deserving of being coddled. This kid is a trained assassin, he had been long before Bruce ever knew he existed, while the other Bat-Kids were just that when they met him. Kids. Regular, run of the mill kids. (Well, 'Regular' might not cut it what with Dick being a circus acrobat and Tim having some strange stalking tendencies. If anything Jason himself was the most normal back then, but you get the point..) And yet the tiny killer, who acts cold and unfeeling with his flashy words and hard stare, gets coddled far more then the others (at least in Jason's eyes) who were once small, sensitive, defenseless children who looked up to Batman as their saviour. Their everything. Yes, Jason is painfully aware of who the favorite is. It's Damian, no doubt about it.

Tim knew he wasn't the favorite child. He was the observant one after all, even before he started his training he had watched Bruce, followed his patrol routes each night to take photos of him, hidden in the shadows as he fought, constantly studied the hero he idolized.. From the beginning he saw the chemistry between Batman and his first sidekick, the way young Dick had stuck so close to Bruce's side through all of the battles, the graceful and fluid way in which they worked together as if they had been doing it for years, and on some nights when he was feeling bold he even got close enough to hear their banter and jokes. Perched behind the dumpsters in an alleyway, camera in hand, he listened each night as the two casually talked about eating dinner when they got home, about watching movies together in the in-house theater, about spending the holidays by each others side. They were so close that the young detective could practically see the bond holding them together, and when he moved into Wayne Manor it became even more obvious. The way that Dick had helped Bruce through Jason's death. The way that Dick would always come to Bruce's rescue, as quickly as possible, no matter what. The way that Dick is still so close to Bruce even today. Yes, of course Tim knows who the favorite is. It's obviously Dick.

Damian knew he wasn't the favorite child. Overall he didn't really care, he had no interest in being the object of his father's affection, but the fact that his father had chosen his rival as his pride and joy annoyed him to no end. If it had been Richard he might've understood, or even Todd would've been better, but his father so blatantly showed that Drake was the one he adored the most and the young assassin found it infuriating. Everyone was constantly praising Drake, saying that he was 'Sooooo smart', 'Soooooo bright', 'Sooooo cunning'. Damian tallied each time he heard Bruce compliment the nuisance, and for every kind word that was spoken, he gave his katana another strike against the sharpening stone. It wasn't just Bruce, all sorts of people kept complimenting Drake for his many 'achievements', and it made a deep seated rage boil within him every single time. He was always determined to one up Drake, he had to. He has to prove that he's superior, he's the better Robin, he's the smart one, he's the most skilled. But.. He really doesn't care about being his father's favorite. Not.. Not at all.. Yes, Damian knows which of the children his father cares for the most. It's clearly Drake.

[bestanimatedmovie]

Choose your favorite!

Either way, Puss is losing a life here

Vote in the other polls!

What fans say:

Puss In Boots: The Last Wish:

It has a very well done and mature depiction of serious topics (mortality) and mental health. My favourite scene is the depiction of Puss having a panic attack and Perrito comforting him. Also great animation and all the characters are amazing.

The trio of puss+kitty+ perrito was really fun and I loved Puss and Kitty’s relationship. The scenes with Death gave me chills when I saw it in theaters. The animation was gorgeous, the character arcs are very well done, every character is entertaining to watch and it's paced impressively well. Probably the best animated movie I saw in 2022

The animation, the characters, the details, the story, the comedy, the messages, the animation style, All OF IT!

I absolutely love the characterization, the fact that they managed to wrangle BLOOD into the movie was insane to me when I watched it in theaters. I was so entranced lol

It’s a fucking cinematic masterpiece. I nearly cried this film changed a part of my soul. The animation is incredibly stylised especially for the fight scenes, the locations are beautiful and the characters are all enjoyable in their own ways. The music is so good i recommended it to my music teacher on the basis of looking at it for leitmotifs. Genuinely one of the best films I’ve ever seen.

The opening scene is absolutely gorgeous + Kitty & pib's relationship is so important to me. they invented true love. <2

I've been fixated on this movie for five months now and it's not stopping; the animation is inventive and stunning, the characters are all in-depth and well-written, the antagonists are all a delight, the themes stay with you ages after you walk out of the theater, it has the most realistic depiction of a panic attack I've ever seen on the big screen in my entire life. It's all incredibly stylish, the music all goes hard, every single scene matters to the greater plotline, never is a character mocked by the narrative for their weakness or naïvete... I'm not a big movie person, but I've watched this over twenty times honestly, and it's impacted me for the rest of my life.

Shrek 2:

Shrek may be one of the biggest memes on the internet, but this movie legitimately SLAPS!!! This is the movie that most Shrek Conoisseurs agree is the best for the mostly great storyline and it's REALLY great comedy throughout. This is also the movie that introduced us to Puss in Boots! The ending is also INCREDIBLY iconic just saying. 10/10

"One of the greatest sequels of all time. Still holds up nearly 20 years later. It's got everything you could ask for. Diegetic music, a giant gingerbread man Godzilla parody, dancing, death/self-sacrifice, Puss in boots, and, most importantly, a banging song that mixes things up (Seriously, the cover slaps way harder than the original. The alternating highs and lows in terms of tempo and intensity really makes it).

Shrek is a good movie. But Shrek 2 is a great movie. It builds off of the world in the previous film, expands and make it more compelling, while still being a fairy-tale modern tale that critiques family relations. There's great jokes, like Shrek pretending to be from the union, the Fairy Godmother breaking her diet as a punishment for someone else, and a knight planting drugs on Puss in Boots. It's an absolutely iconic movie with THE BEST use of an existing song for a climax in any film (fight me) with the I Need a Hero scene, but also is able to slow down and perfectly capture the awkward first meal with disapproving parents.

[themadlu]

I absolutely love Zelie!

Could you write something set right after the game ends? She is tired as hell and overstressed and Astarion tries to make her feel better?

Thanks for the ask @spacebarbarianweird! I'm so happy you like her, as I love Tiriel! Wonder if they'd get along, uh.

Premise, I have never done asks (unless it's for a writing exercise) nor I am good (capable?) of writing fluff. So beware, there's as much fluff I can muster here, with a smidge of angst.

TW: none.

Tags: end-of-game spoilers (I haven't finished it yet, so if something is incorrect sorry!), fluff (kinda?), these two love in quality time and acts of service.

Hope you like it!

The charred edges of a frayed shirt stare at Astarion from the floor. He glares at them, at what they represent, in contempt: his return to the shadows. All that unprecedented (and mostly unwilling) heroism he displayed in fighting the Netherbrain served him nothing. Nothing. Not even saving Baldur’s Gate makes him worthy of a life in the sun, it seems, because, as soon as that jiggly monstrosity fell to its death, Astarion began to burn and the hunger tore at his insides.  

On the run, again, nothing more than a ravenous monster lurking in the shadows. 

(Somewhere, his conscience reminds him that real monsters don’t have impossible little heroes shielding them from the harming light with their own broken bodies.)

The elf laughs bitterly at that, hissing when his grimace irritates the still-healing skin around his mouth. 

And yet…

Steps resonate further down the hallway with a familiarity that makes his ears twitch in recognition and his body tense in eagerness. 

…she’s here. 

Zélie opens the door of their shared bedroom (Only theirs, finally.), closing it promptly behind her to block the stray sun rays from the corridor’s windows. A funereal darkness, one that Astarion is all too well-acquainted with, shrouds the room in a still embrace. 

Astarion is almost glad that his Zélie is human when surrounded by shadows. Back then, before the blooming trust, the tense friendship, the impossible devotion, he despised the maddening woman (He was terrified of her, so inconceivably real.) The darkness was the only time he had the advantage when her pale eyes would squint in temporary blindness and not witness the violence her stern kindness did to him. How it undid the tenets of the world, one by one. 

You ruined me, darling. Look at me, a fool in a doomed love. What a ridiculous joke of a vampire you made me!

He should be prowling for blood and cursing the sun, yet here he is, smiling, trying his damn hardest not to rush into his woman’s embrace. You will return to me begging when she’s gone, what’s left of his spite whispers. He ignores it, because that part of him has never known what it means to be cherished simply for existing (It knows all about being wanted, although comparing that with whatever stolen miracle he and Zélie have makes Astarion gag.)

“Finally, darling! Here I thought I’d seen the last of you, lost among all that dreadful politicking—” his snarky quips (They are part of him and Zélie loves them, so he’s decided he’ll greet her with one every single day.) die in his throat when he properly looks at her. 

Hells, he had gotten into the habit of scanning her for possible injuries during their travels, but now the fight is over, without visible wounds or bruises, Astarion can fully see the toll their adventure has taken on her. Her eyes are tired and bruised from lack of sleep (Of course, she’s been foregoing sleep to spend time with him at night.), her face tauter than ever, skin so sallow she looks sick. Astarion presses himself against her and bristles when he feels her ribs poking his body through their clothes. 

Worry, guilt, anger grip him. His brave, little saviour looks so unlike herself. So fragile and exhausted that he fears she’ll crumble to dust should he touch her. He forgets she’s human and not a divine being sometimes, with all that practicality and stony attitude of hers. Never complaining, never relenting (He knows it well.)

You moronic creature! How dare you reduce yourself in this state.

“Darling, what—”

“Oh, hello, Astarion,” Zélie seems to take notice of him only when he’s practically caging her against the door. She’s making an effort not to slide to the floor, he can tell. 

Fucking idiot. 

“Are you well? I hope the room is comfortable enough?” she nearly slurs.  

“Am I well?” Oh, now he’s angry, “Love, what the fuck—”

“Language! No need to be rude,” Astarion feels some relief when Zélie’s irises spark with that annoyed light he coaxes out of her oh-so-well. She inhales deeply, continuing “I came to tell you that I will be late tonight, so you could come and meet me near the main city gate? There’s barely any Fists left, and lots of properties have been robbed or vandalised since there are no guards so Wyll asked me—what’s with that look now?”

The pale elf stares at her perplexed face down his nose, nostrils flaring. “Do you hear yourself, you wretch?!” Her eyes are reduced to judging slits and she’s about to chastise him, but Astarion is undeterred. “No, rather, have you looked at yourself recently? Literal corpses have a healthier…flair than you do now, darling. Myself included.” 

Zélie scoffs (Scoffs!), “Oh Astarion, I admire how far you’ve come with showing concern, really, but,” she tries to push past him, but even her martial art is worthless against his full vampiric strength, “there are things, oh you vexing elf! Things that need tending to even if I’d much rather spend the foreseeable future here with you–hey!”

Astarion feels somewhat proud of the shout she lets out when he picks her up with ease (Not so puny, after all.) She is so light something lodges in his throat (Frustration at his inability to keep her safe.) and he hopes that his renewed strength is what makes his gesture so effortless. 

No one should be this light.

She used to weigh almost the same as him, all muscle and sinew from her training and a life of comfortable abundance; now, her shirt hangs loosely around her frame. 

 Fuck. Why in the nine hells haven’t I noticed before?!

He realises he voiced his thoughts when the woman in his arms replies, “Because critical stab wounds take precedence over hunger, Astarion."

"No need to blame anyone,” Zélie says as he unceremoniously throws her on the bed. She fights not to melt into the mattress. “Astarion,” his infuriating lover speaks slower, as if he were a child, “I need to go. We didn’t save this city only to let it implode in chaos. It needs me; Wyll needs me.” 

Jealousy (Unfounded but very much present.) soars in Astarion’s chest. “Well, darling, our selfless Wyll can kindly go fuck himself and find his own lover and stop pestering mine. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of offers now he’s back in line at the next Archduke. Those horns also add a certain ragged flair that many sheltered young nobles will find irresistible.” 

Zélie rolls her eyes so much only her sclera is visible. She makes to stand up, but Astarion holds her by the shoulders with one hand, pointing an accusing finger at her with the other, “Hush, you. Is that how it’ll be for the rest of time? I am tired of seeing you hurt.” That makes her expression twitch with guilt. 

Good.

He glares at her, “Now, you stay here as the good girl I know you can be and I’ll go to the kitchens to see if anything edible is left. Hopefully, it’ll be better than whatever the wizard cooked.” Astarion forces himself to tear away from Zélie’s inviting body (He did miss her all day.), but she catches his wrist before he can step away. 

“What now?!” he snarls. “You’ve driven mad for days with your ‘Respect others’ and ‘We are a group, Astarion!’ and ‘You can’t be that selfish’, and you won’t let me—”

“The sun,” she simply says, defeated. 

Oh.

How quickly Astarion has forgotten his pathetic limitations. On a quest for tavern food, defeated by the light of day. He can’t even venture outside their room. Zélie is the only person he wants to protect and can’t even feed her when she’s fed him countless times before. He snarls loudly, balling his fists, “Fuck!”

“It’s all right,” Zélie pulls him to her, unfazed by his temperamental mood, and he lets himself fall on top of her on the bed, his mortification soothed by her closeness. 

“Tell you what,” she says, breath tickling his face. Astarion holds her cheeks, sharpened by tiredness and hunger, in his hands. He rubs his thumbs over them in small circles, as if he could make them meatier, healthier, by force of will alone. “I will go downstairs, where a Fist captain is waiting for me. I will tell her to ask Wyll if the issue can wait until tomorrow or if Jaheira or Minsc,” she grimaces in worry at the idea, “can take over for the evening. Then, I’ll see if the cook has something prepared. If not, I’ll make do with some cheese and bread.”

Astarion feels a soft dizziness spreading through him. She is talking with that calm and collected voice of hers as if nothing could ever shake or hurt them when she knows what it does to him. He tangles his fingers in her curls, messing them up (An arduous task when they already look like a harpy’s.), before cradling her face into the base of his neck.  

“Then,” his little hero wraps her arms around him, under his shirt and on his scarred back. Astarion is still unused to how careful her hands are on him, like a gentle breeze. She looks at him in search of discomfort, but she finds none. The elf hopes Zélie knows that nothing she does will be the cause of any uneasiness he may show in the future (Even she can’t shield him from all his memories.)  

“I will come back here, to this bed. We’ll eat and rest and when the sun sets, we’ll go to the rooftop to see the stars and enjoy the summer air. How does that sound?” She boops his nose with hers. 

Astarion swallows loudly, “It sounds perfect, love,” he concedes. That’s as close as anyone has ever come to convincing Zélie to drop her duties and rest. Small victories. He is sure he’ll persuade her to live a life of rest and luxury, one day. If everything goes as he desperately hopes.

He is rewarded with a content smile he does not deserve, so he kisses her soundly instead. 

____________________________________________

The night is warm, comforting even. How strange; Astarion can’t remember darkness in Baldur’s Gate ever being so welcoming. A loud munching resonates on his left, and the pale elf has to keep himself from grinning too overtly at his precious woman digging into a simple beef stew as if it were the nectar of the gods. Her cheeks puff out as she takes another mouthful, her usual composure nowhere to be seen in what Astarion hopes is another first. 

(He wishes he could have been her first at everything, just as she was his.)

Midnight strikes. He would have been in some dirty tavern or dingy brothel by now if the mind flayers hadn’t mercifully kidnapped him. He would have been truly dead if the impossible creature next to him hadn’t insisted he was worth saving.

Zélie looks at him as if he performed a miracle, “This, munch, is, chomp, utterly amazing. The best thing I’ve eaten in a long, long while.” 

“Tut, love, I resent that. And here I thought I was special,” he purrs it in offended seduction just to witness his lover’s cheeks and forehead flush in embarrassment. She looks healthier already. 

Good. 

“Oh, you, sassy, snarky…ugh,” Zélie narrows her eyes at him, then immediately composes herself. “Let me specify, the best thing I’ve eaten of any nutritional value in a long, long time.” 

Astarion laughs so loud that a few pigeons fly away in fear. “Touché, love. Well played.”

“Where did you even find this? When I checked the kitchen—”

When she checked the kitchen, the useless cook was not meant to start his shift for another couple of hours, which left her with two slices of bread and a portion of cheese so small even a rat would have ignored it. So Astarion, spurred on by his newly-uncovered protectiveness, waited for his Zélie to be busy with the Fists captain before putting his daggers to good use. It was convenient that the cook had no will to test out the elf’s gutting technique. 

“Oh, darling, I am extremely resourceful. You should know this by now,” he says with a telling smirk. 

“Right. That means I don’t want to know. Though I wouldn’t be against getting more of this,” she points at the bowl of stew in admiration, “from time to time. It reminds me of my grandfather’s cooking.” 

Astarion tenses a bit at the mention of the family she left behind for him; he waits for (No, expects.) Zélie to eventually consider the whole thing as the massive mistake it is and…leave him. Hate him. Become another person he cheated not of her life (At the very least.) but of her future. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, dear?” She asks, head tilted. She can see him even without the tadpoles, and it unsettles him in a good way. 

It feels right, to be known by her. To know her in return. 

He doesn’t want to lie to her now (She’s rubbing her annoying righteousness all over him.), so he opens his arms and she scoots against him, full belly and satisfied gaze. 

Lovely. 

Astarion gently guides them to the mattress he brought up from the bedroom and curls up around Zélie. He could laugh. He despised heroes for so long and here he was, lulling one to sleep. But she was his hero, which makes all the difference; he still doesn’t believe in the natural goodness of others, but he believes in hers, and that’s all he needs. 

And she fits against him, around his jagged edges so perfectly, Astarion would believe she was made for him if he were a religious man. 

“Sleep darling,” he coos into her ear. 

She’s already halfway to the dream realm after, but she’s ever the stubborn woman. “But the sun—”

“I don’t need sleep, love; I’ll move us downstairs when dawn comes. I’ve wasted the day in bed already,” he plants little kisses on her hair, her face, her hands. Worships her as much as he can without waking her up. 

“But that’s the issue…want to…spend time with you,” why must she make it so impossible for him not to fall for her?

Every time the elf is sure he hit the bottom of the devotion he is capable of, she pushes him further down. And she doesn’t try that hard, his pesky love. 

“Hush,” he murmurs, wrapping them in a thick blanket to keep his undead chill at bay. “Rest, idiot. I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Astarion tightens his grip on her sleeping form. “We’ll take all the time we need, love. I promise.”

[saintobio]

LOST WORLD

“when the end approaches, but the apocalypse is long lived.”

pairing. satoru gojou, reader

genre. angst, post apocalypse au

warnings. unedited, gore, death, zombies infectious diseases

Do you remember what life was before Satoru Gojou?

It was sad. Miserable. Pathetic in every sense. The world had no meaning, and existing felt like a punishment rather than a privilege. The things you were doing had no purpose. They were repetitive, soulless, and depressing. Each time you’d find yourself staring outside of the window, the skies were becoming gloomier. The miasma of decay was getting thicker. There was scarcity in food and water. Yet, there was no option to go outside of your abandoned home when an eerie fog with the acrid smell of rotting flesh and blood were everywhere haunting you.

At one point, rather than trying to survive in a world that no longer welcomed you, you believed it would have been easier to just perish. Die at long last just like everyone else you knew. The people who once had a family, a lover, a pet, and a friend—they used to be people like you. Alive and breathing under your warm skin and fully-functioning set of human organs. But now, they were the opposite of what you once knew. They had become ghastly, tottering creatures looking at you with their frenzied, colorless eyes, and their putrid, saliva-filled mouths. In fact, when a couple of them managed to break into your home, staggering to chase you around the house with the rabid eagerness to masticate on your innards, you thought of finally just letting things be. After all, no one was left. You were probably the only living being in an area full of decomposing, white-blanched corpses. With their wretched appearance and fetid smell, the last bits of humor inside of you wanted to go along and mimic their series of raspy growls. You were dying, anyway. Finally.

You knew you were dying. You anticipated how their disease would soon be inching its way into your flesh.

That, with no resistance, you would let yourself be one of them.

That was your plan. That was… until every single zombie in your vicinity was sniped with a shotgun. You could barely move as bits of flesh, blood, and sinew flew all over the place. Their skulls—busted. Their entrails—falling out. You would have screamed in disgust after seeing maggots crawl out of their eyes, but then your eyes caught sight of the hero who saved the poor damsel in distress. His arctic white hair, electric blue eyes, and porcelain skin. There was no sign of a single disease in his body.

Damn. How could one person shoot a shotgun with such precision and accuracy? But more importantly, how much of a cliche was it for him to show up and be your savior at the brink of your death?

“Satoru Gojou,” he’d easily introduced himself, pulling his makeshift mask down while standing tall behind the army of foul-smelling beasts that he just massacred. What a cool man. What a dream. What a… what a… hold on, wasn’t he too good to be true?

“I must be dead,” you even joked at the time despite your struggle to catch your breath, “There’s no way a random guy would just come up here and save me like this.”

One smirk from him was all it took to completely win you over. “You don’t look dead to me.” And then a hand to help you up. “Come on, we gotta leave this place.”

And so you did. You were brought to a safe haven that you never thought existed. You were acquainted with people who had a beating heart and an uninfected brain. You were given the golden ticket to cohabit with them in a secured camp and an acceptable living condition. Everything was rationed, but you had no right to ask for much in a situation like that. All you could offer was your gratefulness, and every time you saw your godly, angel-faced hero, you could not help but think of how much you owe your living life to him.

So much so that you would think about ways to approach him without becoming a bother. He was your typical popular guy, expected by the others to rescue their lives. You were just one of the many. He had the virtue of a soldier, ready for war just to make sure that his people were safe and sound. Maybe he actually was in the army before, which could explain the reason for his expertise in guns and survival. There was no way for you to know when you barely had the chance to talk to him, and sincerely thank him at the very least, for saving your life when you almost lost it.

But then, he must have heard the same thing from the countless women who followed his tail each time he arrived back in the camp. The ladies would scramble on their feet just to make sure that they were tending to his needs; feeding him warm meals, treating his wounds, making him laugh.

You see, crushing on a stranger was a ridiculous idea, especially in the middle of an apocalyptic world. You kept that thought in your head as you stepped through a pile of mud, cursing under your breath while continuing towards the pathway to the bonfire. No, you didn’t make it there. Because someone had smoothly pulled you by the belt loop, dragging you behind the tree before he revealed his most admiring self.

“S-Satoru,” you stammered without a reason. Or maybe you did have a reason. He was good-looking enough that your thoughts were becoming jumbled. A hot mess, truly, with his mop of white hair and his piercing blue eyes. Not to mention his parted, pink lips and his slightly exposed toned chest.

“You’re really out here pretending I don’t exist, huh?” There was that playful tone and that goddamned attractive smirk. With his hand moving to your lower back and his forearm resting on the trunk of the tree, you almost let out a swoon. “I was waiting for you to approach me.”

You turned your face away a little, only to a certain degree so he wouldn’t notice the heat on your cheeks. “That’s funny ‘cause… since that day, I’ve actually been waiting, too.”

“Hmm?” he tilted his head and deepened his gaze.

“I mean, waiting for an opportunity,” you clarified, releasing an awkward chuckle, “to talk to you and thank you. You’re just always surrounded by people, so…”

He straightened his posture as he pulled away and began nodding his head, as if he was connecting the dots in his head. “You can always walk up to me. Anytime,” he assured, “I’d actually love to know you more.”

You knew what everyone else might be thinking; ‘Seriously? You’re having a love affair in this situation?’

Well, if you were going to meet death, anyway, why should you settle being a miserable, lonely woman?

“You’re a miserable, lonely woman,” spoke one of the survivors in your cabin, Meredith, glaring at you with her arms crossed across your bunker. “That, or you just truly lost it.”

While she was laughing and moving her index finger in circles beside her head, the other survivor was decent enough to shush her, telling her to stop throwing insults towards you. “Quit doing that. She needs time to adjust,” said Shoko Ieiri, “It’s traumatizing out there, you know?”

“Yeah, but she still needs to help us with some errands here! We’re not living here for free. We have duties. Ugh… I’m so sick of cleaning the nasty toilets.”

“She’ll come around. Be patient with her.”

“She’s been here for two months! She can’t just stay in her bunker all day and do nothing!”

“Meredith—”

“Hey, lunatic!” her amber eyes bore into you. “Wake the fuck up and get your ass workin’. If you really wanna survive, you need to do your job.”

You took a deep breath and sighed. “Can I… Can I see Satoru first?”

Meredith let out a groan. “Here we go again.”

“Wh-Why?” you asked, frantically. “I just… I wanna talk to him. I wanna thank him for saving me.”

This time, it was Ieiri who sat at the corner of your bed, patting your back in a soothing motion. “Satoru is…” she hesitated. “He’s not here, Y/N. He never was.”

As if lightning struck your entire body. “What do you mean? What do you—? He was here. He was just talking to me last night!”

“I know, I know.” Ieiri sent you a look of sympathy. Sympathy that you didn’t really ask for. “I understand it’s been a difficult time. It’s been a really traumatizing experience, but trust me, everything’s going to be okay.”

You held onto her arms as tears pooled your eyes. All those voices in your head, the pain in your heart… “S-Stop. What are you saying, Ieiri? He was… He was with me.”

“He’s dead,” she said the very words you refused to hear. “He didn’t survive the first wave of zombies that infested our town.”

“But…” You shook your head in hard refusal. “But he was there, he rescued me.”

“It was Suguru who did,” Ieiri confirmed, reaching what appears to be a bottle of Fanapt pills under your pillow. “Satoru’s not with us anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss.”