#they'll make it without hate or bitterness

[meatballlady]

Every single fic after s1: "and then they went to Crowley's flat, and they confessed their eternal love, and they stared deeply into each other's eyes..."

Me, not realizing how bad it could be: "yeah, okay, love it, but some variety would be nice - "

Every fic after s2: "And then Aziraphale got to Heaven and immediately realized that he was a fucking idiot and wanted to turn around and grovel on his knees before Crowley but he couldn't because it was all a trap. Meanwhile, on earth, Crowley has been drinking for 84 years ... "

Me: *incoherent screaming*

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it. 

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?  

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits. 

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong. 

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch. 

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius. 

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight. 

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud. 

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child. 

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader. 

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air. 

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you. 

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream. 

And he turns. 

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from. 

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart. 

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him. 

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast. 

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual. 

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . . 

You are brought to his tent, screaming. 

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock. 

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood. 

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot. 

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should. 

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle. 

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately. 

It’s just that none of them were portents of war. 

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless. 

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you. 

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself. 

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself. 

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?” 

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up. 

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know. 

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen. 

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good… 

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful 

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

[twilightkitkat]

Thinking about how Logan is more open about his emotions than Wade despite what people perceive, and how Wade slowly learns to open up and confront his own emotions because of Logan.

Prompted by this amazing thread. Shoutout to @ramblingautisticman and @desperatelyneedcoffee for inspiring me to write this.

---

Most people expect Logan to be the more closed-off one. To hide his emotions behind a mask and keep them to himself.

But that's Wade's role.

Logan is honest about his emotions—when he's angry, he'll growl and thrash and let people know. When he's happy, he'll bark out a laugh and grin and let his eyes wrinkle at the edges. When he's sad, he'll cry and scream and drown himself in alcohol.

He may not be phased by smaller things, but he's honest about his feelings. (Something Wade could never do.)

Wade, on the other hand, isn't. He exaggerates trivial feelings, obvious situational ones—he'll cower in fear at a "scary enemy or pretend to be pissed over a minor inconvenience. He makes his outward, shallow emotions so loud that it turns everyone's attention away from what he's feeling inside.

(Because if people know how he feels inside, they'll see him and hate him. It's easier to be hated when you can chalk it up to "understandable" reasons, to being annoying or loud or inappropriate. It isn't easy when they hate you. When they look at you, bare and vulnerable and open, and hate who you are at your core.)

Wade has spent his entire life hiding his emotions. Even from himself.

He shoves them so deep down that they become a slightly bitter taste in the back of his throat until it all becomes too much and he violently throws them up.

Wade is like a glass bottle: he can steadily hold all his emotions inside, pretending to be OK, until the glass shatters and explodes and the shards dig everywhere and he's left to pick up the pieces.

But Logan isn't like that. He lets himself feel. He lets others see how he feels.

Even from the first moment they met, he let Wade know how he felt. How he fucked everything up. How he wasn't the hero he was looking for. How he was battling with so much grief and rage that he'd reached a point of complete apathy.

(It made Wade envious. To be able to just say it and move on.)

Logan was the first person Wade met to be so blatantly honest. To wear his emotions on his sleeve and act on them and still be strong and keep fighting.

(...Could he still be considered strong, if he did the same?)

When Wade was vulnerable, it felt like he was choking—the words tumbling out without his permission and leaving a mess behind. Even with the people he loved, he couldn't ever bring himself to fully trust them even if he knew he should. Even if he wanted to. (Even if he tried to.)

(He still remembers sitting across the kitchen table from Vanessa. She held his hand tightly, as if she was afraid he would slip away. Was slipping away. She was urging him to let her in. To tell her why he hadn't been himself. To open up so they could share the burden.

But he just... couldn't. How do you tell someone who loves you, who you turned back time to save that nothing was helping? That no matter how hard he tried to focus on Vanessa and just live a "normal" life that it all felt wrong? That he felt an itch under his skin to do more more more and nothing was "more" enough.

That he felt like he was just wearing his skin. Like it wasn't his, not since Francis twisted him into a monster he didn't want to become. That he still remembered her look of surprise and the reluctant way she cradled his face when she first saw it.

It wasn't her fault. He knew that. It was an adjustment.

...But why didn't anyone understand? The gnawing loneliness, the self-hatred, the feeling of everything being nothing and too much all at once.

He hated himself.)

But Logan let his emotions course through his veins like second nature. Wade watched as emotions twisted across his face like it was a form of art.

And, for the first time, he felt comfortable opening up. He let the words spill from his mouth, except instead of feeling the trail of acid burning through his throat it felt like relief. He finally met someone who understood him, who had gone through the same suffering. He saw his loneliness reflected in Logan's eyes and finally, finally, felt he could reach out without dragging someone down. (They were both already at rock bottom, anyway. The only place to go from here was up.)

And so he told Logan about Vanessa. About the family he wanted to save. About how, yes, he vaguely cared about the world, but none of this was to save the world. (It was for just nine people.)

And Logan... didn't judge him. He saw understanding—a tired, but real kind—reflected in his eyes. He didn't make fun of him for his selfish motivations. Didn't snarl in disgust that he could never be a hero because of them. (He saw him and didn't recoil.)

And there, sitting across the table from each other in that shitty building they'd escaped to, Wade finally felt seen. Understood. (Ironic, isn't it? To have to go to the void to open up about the void inside of himself. Wade would write a poem about it if he knew how to.)

He felt that same kinship as they continued their journey. Even through the insults, the exasperation, the annoyance, Wade could tell none of it was serious. Because Logan never really told him to fuck off. To stop.

If Logan didn't like him being touchy, he'd shove him off. (He didn't.) If Logan didn't like him asking questions and rambling about himself, he'd actually try to get him to shut up instead of just grumbling. (He didn't.) If Logan really didn't want to be here, he'd leave. (He didn't.)

Logan's visceral type of emotional honesty allowed Wade to let himself be vulnerable. Because if Logan hated him, he wouldn't be here. If Logan didn't want to hear it, he wouldn't tilt his head and listen and ask questions.

(It made Wade feel safe to express himself for the first time since he'd been strapped to that shitty operation table and torn apart until all that remained was a body not quite his own.)

Things were going good.

They were.

(Wade desperately hoped they'd stay that way.)

But then Logan pulled over the car, real and raw fury in his eyes. He yelled at Wade, his voice trembling with the intensity of it.

He picked apart everything Wade had told him. Threw it back in his face.

And oh. Oh.

Logan was honest. He was true to himself and his emotions.

And so, Wade thought quietly as the tired continued, he really meant it. It felt worse than when Logan had stabbed him.

(It felt like he was back on that operating table, small and weak and pathetic but still trying to keep smiling. To keep cracking jokes and being annoyed. Because, if he didn't, he'd break. If he didn't keep the shards of his personality clutched so tightly to his chest that they dug into his hands, nothing would be left of him.)

Logan dissected him. Using everything Wade told him. (Using the ammunition he'd provided.)

(Was Logan really looking at him with understanding, back then? Or was it disgust? The images blurred together in Wade's mind, distorting his memory.)

Told him how he was worthless. That the Avengers and X-men were right to reject him. (Ouch.) That it was his fault he couldn't salvage his relationship with Vanessa. (He'd tried. He'd tried so hard.)

That Logan saw him for what he was: a pathetic, attention-seeking parasite who clung to others instead of facing his own problems.

It really was God's greatest joke that he couldn't die.

Wade spiraled.

(Was he wrong this whole time? Did Logan really, truly hate him? He had to, if he's looking at Wade like that.)

If even Logan (the only person who could begin to understand his suffering) couldn't accept him, who could?

He felt like the ground was crumbling underneath him and he was falling and floating at the same time. He felt like he was an observer, looking in on the outside, even as his emotions crashed over him like a tsunami.

But he couldn't let himself break down. Wouldn't let himself be vulnerable. Not here. Not now.

So, he slid the mask back on and responded in the only way he knew how to.

"I'm going to fight you now."

(Even when they'd collapsed, bloody and weak and exhausted, the words kept ringing in his head. They'd let out their physical frustrations, maybe, but the words still clung to him like a blanket. There was still a sinking feeling in his gut. Dread twisting his stomach at the thought of being open.)

(The feeling never really went away.)

---

They started living together, in the aftermath.

Wade had called after Logan as he was about to leave and awkwardly asked him if he'd like to come home with him. Just long enough to find a place to stay, or even just for dinner.

(Logan couldn't refuse. Not with the sense of wrongness filling him as the distance between him and Wade grew with each step. When he heard Wade's voice, it felt like hope. It felt like coming home.)

One night turned into two, turned into a week, turned into a month until Logan had his own side of the dresser and nobody bothered to ask if he was leaving. (Thinking of leaving made Logan vaguely nauseous, now. It felt like ripping away the foundation of the home he'd painstakingly started to build here.)

Logan still had baggage. Still had days where all he wanted to do was grab a beer and stare blankly at the wall, thinking of all he'd done and all he'd lost.

But it was easier. Wade would walk into the living room, plop down next to him, and begin talking his ear off about whatever happened that day. He'd sling an arm around his shoulder, flip on the TV, and keep talking.

(Logan would lean against him, slightly. Would focus on Wade until his warmth and touch and voice drowned out his thoughts.)

(It worked better than alcohol ever had.)

Logan tried to let Wade know that he cared about him. That he appreciated it. Appreciated him.

(That Wade's presence was what made everything worth it. Made him finally feel like he was able to tread water without drowning.)

He'd cook Wade meals. (And pay attention to what he liked and disliked, making sure to cook things he knew Wade would comfortably eat.) He'd lean into his touch. Listen when he talked. Answer any questions he asked.

And so, when Logan came out from the shower one night and saw Wade curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the black screen of the TV, he approached him.

Wade had a vacant, empty look in his eyes. The kind that Logan recognized, but hadn't seen on him before.

It made him worried. He'd never seen Wade like this. (It was unsettling. To see Wade, who was so vibrant and expressive, look so bleak.)

"Is something bothering you, bub?" he asked, settling down next to Wade on the couch.

Wade finally seemed to register his presence, eyes flicking over to where he sat.

"Oh, peanut! I was wondering when you'd get out of the shower. Was it nice and steamy? I'd love to join you next time," Wade wriggled his eyebrows (or what was left of them) suggestively.

It was like a switch had flipped. Wade went from blank, like a doll with its strings cut, to animated and excited in a second. His eyes were sparkling again and he grinned at Logan like nothing was wrong.

(It was... uncomfortable. Did Wade not trust him? Was Wade hiding something from him?)

Logan wanted to question him, but Wade kept chattering and he could never really get a word in edgewise. (A part of him wondered if it was intentional.)

Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe Wade was just having a bad day. Logan tried to rationalize it, even as a pit formed in his stomach. A feeling of deep wrongness.

Except it kept happening.

Wade would get that same, desolate look in his eyes (always when he was alone, away from everyone) and Logan would walk in on him. Logan would try to see if something was wrong, but Wade would interject before he could.

(Logan knew his expression was concerned. Knew Wade could tell he was worried, that he cared about him. So why didn't Wade let him in?)

(Wade always listened, patiently, when Logan talked about his problems. It was one of the few times he'd go quiet, only occasionally asking questions and making extra commentary. He'd look at him with a grim understanding. Not pity, not sympathy, but empathy. Free of judgment. It was the first time Logan felt like his emotions were actually being received by someone, cradled and held and protected so that they didn't burn him out.)

Until, finally, one day, Logan snapped.

"What the fuck is up with you?" he snarled, and that didn't come out the way he intended but he was so frustrated by Wade refusing to just let him in.

"What do you mean, Wolvie? I'm—"

"Shut up. You're not fine. I've been alive for two hundred fucking years, I know by now when someone's lying, Wade," Logan interrupted before he could continue his usual antics.

"Look, I'm just having a bad day, alright? You know how it is. I'll be up and running after I take a nap, don't worry about little old me!" Wade's voice took on a faux-cheerful tone.

"This isn't just a bad day, bub. It's been happening a lot. You get this look in your eye, like you're not really there, and just stare at the wall." Logan stared at Wade with concern evident on his face. "It's worrying."

Wade snorts. "You don't have to worry about me of all people."

Logan furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean? 'You of all people?' Of course, I'd be worried about you, dumbass. I care about you and if you're hurting, I want to know why."

And Logan was so painfully honest. It was so clear in his eyes, in his expression, in his body language that he cared about Wade. Deeply.

It made Wade snap.

"Just shut up! Stop fucking talking. I don't want to hear it." Wade wished he had hair right now so he could fucking tear it out. He'd take any kind of physical pain just to distract himself from Logan, worried and open and trying to pry him open.

"Wade, what are you—you know you can tell him about anything, right?" Logan tried to regulate his breathing, to keep his tone calm. To not show the panic he was feeling. (It was obvious anyway.)

"What, so you can throw that back at me, too?"

What? What was Wade—

"So you can tell me I'm a fucking joke? That every superhero team was right to turn me down? That I couldn't even manage to keep a relationship with a stripper?"

Oh. Oh fuck. That was—

"That I should just fucking kill myself, but of course, it's God's best joke that I can't die, so now my pathetic existence is on you?"

He couldn't possibly think Logan meant that, right? Couldn't have been thinking about that this whole time—

"I don't want to burden your royal highness with my stupid problems," Wade practically snarled, "so stay the fuck out of it."

He slammed the door and left.

And Logan was left alone.

Logan wanted to run after him, to grab him and tell him that he didn't mean it. He was pissed off and spewing whatever came to his mind in the moment to hurt Wade. (And he'd achieved that goal, hadn't he?) He felt betrayed and responded in the only way he knew—by lashing out. (But that wasn't an excuse, not really. Not to take everything Wade had trusted him with and twist it. To betray his trust in such a personal, visceral way.)

(Logan knew that Wade meant well. That he was just scrambling to save his world and thought of the only solution that would get Logan to help. That when he made an "educated wish" he'd still try to see it out, had still asked the TVA after everything. But he was so fucking angry and so fucking tired and just wanted any excuse to lay down and die.)

Did Logan really have the right to, though?

Wade had listened to him. Helped him. Even after what Logan had said and done, he'd still cared. (And wasn't that a sobering thought. That this whole time, Wade thought that was Logan's opinion of him. That he still cared about Logan despite having his voice ringing in his ears, tormenting him.)

(It made Logan angry to think that Wade was used to it. To setting aside how people treated him and not expecting anything in return for his kindness. To loving and giving without receiving. It made him want to murder the people who set the bar so low. It made him want to rip out his own tongue.)

(It made him realize, yet again, that Wade was a better man than he'd ever be.)

...And Logan had fucked up. Immensely.

Had given Wade hope that he could finally open up to someone who came from a similar background and understood his suffering. All to tear it away in one glorious, horrible, mistake.

Logan had no right to fix things. To ask for forgiveness. (From Wade. From anyone.)

But what was the alternative? Letting Wade think he hated him? Leaving?

Logan would rather die than go back to living completely isolated from the world. He couldn't go back to waking up every day and drowning his sorrows with alcohol. Letting memories flash behind his eyes as he replayed everything he fucked up and obsessed over what he could've done differently.

(Because, without Wade, he would still be there. At rock bottom. Without a place to belong or any reason to get up in the morning. A samurai without a master. A drifter without purpose. A stray without a home.)

The thought of leaving behind the only thing he cared about anymore made him panic. He felt nauseous, like he wanted to throw up yesterday's dinner and his own heart alongside it.

He knew it was selfish and pathetic, but he couldn't let go. Couldn't handle losing the only thing that made living worth it, after everything.

(Of course, when he finally found someone who was like him, who felt the same loneliness, who couldn't die, he had to go and fuck up. What is Logan good for if not ruining anything good in his life?)

Logan knew he was selfish. And pathetic. And stupid.

(He felt his mouth move around the words. Spit venom at Wade, who was completely, utterly silent. He heard them, vaguely, but they didn't register. He was running on pure rage and adrenaline.)

(Why did he take until now to notice?)

He knew that.

But he didn't think it was this bad. That he'd end up ruining the only good thing to come out of his miserable existence.

He thought, at least, that even if he'd fucked up everything else, he could be good with Wade. Could be good for Wade. It was the one thing he prided himself on.

And now look at him.

Instead of Wade, it's Logan who was God's best joke.

Fuck, he wanted a beer.

[teddybeartoji]

rin doesn't know what to do when you're crying. it hurts, his whole chest hurts and he just wants to make it stop. he kneels beside you as you sob into your pillow and he's just... he really doesn't know; nothing feels right – his words don't seem good enough, he knows they'll come out a bit too gruff and he isn't sure whether the hand he has on the small of your back is helping either.

he doesn't want to leave, that much he does know.

he watches the tears fall one right after the other, he listens to you weep and his fingers curl up in the material of your hoodie. he hates this, he hates it so much. he just wants to make it better, and so he decides to go for it.

leaning forward, he presses his lips against your cheek.

(salty, wet. he thinks about the ocean.)

he kisses the hurt away, he tastes it on the tip of his tongue but remains unfazed, unbothered by the bitterness of it. all he cares about is you.

he's so gentle and he's so warm and you don't know what to do with all of that. he stays there against you for a moment and you wonder whether he feels weird now, that maybe he regrets it, but then he does it again.

and again and again.

soft lips brush against your skin, and slowly but surely, you step back onto the shore. you feel the sand between your toes, you feel the breeze in your hair; the cold water still nips at your heels but he's there and with an outsteched hand, he welcomes you back.

you twist in your spot on the bed and snake your hands behind his neck and rin doesn't waste a second in pushing himself off the floor so he can climb on top of you. he doesn't pull away from you for even a moment, he refuses to do it – kiss after kiss, he tries to soak up everything you're letting out and he's doing so without a problem.

you hiccup and he presses his lips against the corner of your mouth.

it's almost suffocatingly sweet, it's a tender type of love.

his cologne fills your head, his affection your heart. he doesn't even know it, but he's everywhere. he's doing more than he realizes and you're just so grateful; to have this beautiful boy give you his all, even though he's unsure and maybe a bit afraid – it's a blessing, it's something special. it's a gentle little thing in the palms of your hands.

his eyes are closed but he senses it, his reward. his lifeline. your lips curl up, just a little, but they do, and when you move to cradle his face and guide him so you can finally look at him, he sees it in your eyes, too.

the relief, the growing glimmer of happiness.

"pretty."

the sound of your laughter sends a shiver down his spine; he stares at you like you're the one who hung the stars in the sky, like you're the one commanding the sun and the moon – like you're the everything in his world.

(you are.)

"that's– that's what you have to say right now?"

he knows you're teasing him.

now, this does feel right.

his teal eyes flick down to your lips and he lets out a quiet hum. an innocent one, something stemming from pure adoration. he likes it when you smile, he likes it when you laugh. he likes it when you tease him, he likes it when you... are happy.

this is all that matters – you're under him and you're not crying anymore, you're holding him and he's holding you. his heart stammers in his chest but he's grown used to that, he's grown to like it.

it skips a beat and he knows it will all be okay.

[gauloiseblue]

I feel like Price would stop smoking for his partner, not out of love (although it's always about love when it comes to her, but this time, it's an indirect result of it), but out of concern.

The thing is, Price loves a headstrong woman, but marrying her is a double-edged sword. One side, her loyalty is unwavering, but so is her will.

She hated it when he smoked, it made everything around him smell terrible. Not only that, it's slowly taking away his beautiful voice.

She'd say that it's going to take him away from her, or that their days together will be shortened if he keeps smoking his cigar. But he'd comfort her by saying that 'he's a healthy man' and 'he'll probably live longer than her'.

Of course, she didn't buy into his reasons.

After months of persuasion, she decided that it's not enough and stepped up her game.

One morning, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and begins to smoke at breakfast.

To this day, nothing beats his surprised face that morning.

When he asks her why she starts to smoke, she gives him all of his answers to the same questions.

It makes me relaxed. It helps me focus better. Just feel like it.

And when she's feeling a little mean, she'll say; "You know I'll follow you anywhere. If you decide you wanna leave the earth faster, so do I."

And that horrifies him,

The thing is, they both knew that she did it out of spite. She hates the bitter taste of nicotine, and she despises the smell as it gets into her hair everytime. But she keeps going, to the point that she'll buy the non-filter cigarettes.

That's when he decides to stop.

(If anyone asks him what's his biggest weakness is, he'd say it's his wife and her guts.)

He stops smoking almost immediately—not reducing his nicotine doses gradually, but straight up stopping at once.

Of course, after years of addiction, it'll be hard for him to cope with the withdrawal syndrome. He'll get a bad headache, mood swings, and a nasty cough. He'd come back to his old way, if not for his wife's support.

She compensates him by cooking him delicious meals, listens to him when he's stressed, and lets him have his way with her whenever he wants.

Months passed, and he began to feel better. Although he doesn't want to admit it, he does feel that his health is improving. He can run faster, he's experiencing less fatigue, and his mind becomes clearer without the help of nicotine.

His relationship also improves, as she doesn't mind kissing him for hours. They'll go for rounds, to the point that it's tiring her out. Which is a surprise, since she has good stamina.

The boys weren't shocked when they first learnt about it, they said it's bound to happen, sooner or later. Though Soap wasn't happy with it, as he lost the bet with Gaz.

Overall, he's happy with the results. What more can he ask? He already has a loving wife <3

[nectardaddy]

BITTER . . . kyotani “mad dog” kentaro + f! reader

                     𖥔    CHAPTER FOUR : BLOODY NOSES    𖥔

warnings : 17+ to read, language, addiction, toxic friendships/situationships, mentions/allusions to sex, nosebleeds, blood + violence, crime, manipulation, death threats

a/n : last little part is in kyotani's pov, take your bets on what happened to yaku (hint: he's not dead)

She hasn’t heard from Morisuke in three days.

He’s missed three days worth of anger management classes, and three days worth of texts. She’s not terribly worried though, he does this from time to time. Drops off the face of the earth, just to show up again weeks later like nothing ever happened. Like a piece of shit, he’ll text her back in the middle of the night to come over. And she always does. There’s a part of her that’s worried about him when she agrees, just wants to see if he’s alright; the other part thinks Yaku is as good as it gets.

She’s known him since high school, and grew fairly close once they both got into drugs. He hid it far better than she did, because she’d do keys in the parking lot of a supermarket if she wanted to. While he preferred to do lines, pop pills, and drink until he blacks out in the sanctity of his apartment all by himself.

But his tendencies make her feel sick. He gets high, he does something stupid, goes off grid, then he calls her to fuck whenever he pops back up. They’re toxic, oil mixed with water, they scream at each other and fight - then get high like they didn’t just beat the hell out of each other. Rinse and repeat.

An awful cycle she couldn’t get away from, she frankly didn't want to. Because Yaku was the only person who ever stayed. He’s the only friend she has left because she drove everyone else away.

At the height of her addiction, she’d steal money from past friends right under their noses. Would beg them to help her, just to ruin it and relapse a week later. And borrowed from those she loved, only to never give it back and get a door slammed in her face.

She still has their contacts in her phone, always makes sure to transfer them when she inevitably breaks it. They all have her blocked, but she hopes that one day they'll come back around. Because she's finally clean and getting her life together, but feels lonely without a soul next to her.

But Morisuke never left, and she doesn’t want to let him go like every friend did to her. She keeps him around, doesn't block his number, because deep down she knows he's a good person - a good friend.

He has his moments where she'll see it again: he was her call at the police station and picked her up without question, he beat the shit out of her ex that cheated on her. And there's times when she can see the Morisuke from high school when she lays next to him after sex, and they talk until they fall asleep giggling and reminiscing over the past.

He's got good in him. He's just too fucked up majority of the time to see it like she does.

           Sent at 10:34: hope you’re ok, come over when you can so we can talk

She slips the phone back in her pocket with a silent sigh and sinks back down in her seat. She’s next to the guard dog again, but not by choice. He sat next to her when he got in without a word, and every so often she'll glance over at him. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes only proving her point further. And he's littered with bruises, a black eye that's still pretty fresh - black and blue - while the others are a disgusting yellow and green.

She catches herself wondering what he does to have bruises all the time, but stops herself because she shouldn't care that much. The past three days have been lonely, a mundane cycle of leaving class then going to work only to do it all over again. She believes the guard dog only intrigues her because she has nothing else to think about, and she grits her teeth whenever she does.

But he's interesting all the same, and she hates it.

He always keeps his hood up, indoors and out. She's seen him take it off once within the five days she's known him, and noticed he has blonde hair with two dark brown lines that cut through the sides. She finds it funny he dyes his hair, and choked back a laugh the first time she saw it. Imagining a hard ass perching himself in front of a mirror with hair dye made her giggle whenever she thought about it.

He's got bruises he's terrible at hiding. At first, she thought it was just the black eye. But she smoked with him yesterday and they litter his arms too, saw them when he rolled up his sleeves. They muddled with the black ink of his tattoos, but every splotch of skin that wasn't blasted was covered with blue and green marks. His knuckles are always busted, every time he flicks his lighter she sees them. And she's come to the conclusion that he fights - a lot.

He's got an aura that tells her to get away. Like something bad might happen if she gets too close, afraid if she speaks to him too much whatever bad vibes he has would rub off on her too. He's sinister, scary, and he's got a look in his eye that gives her the creeps. Like he could kill her if she locked eyes with him too long; but there's a small voice in her head that wouldn't mind it.

She shakes her head, seemingly tossing the thoughts out of her mind before looking up at the therapist that drones on. She's said the same shit over and over again the past five days, just rephrases it so it sounds new. Some of it she likes, the few parts she actually listens to.

Stay away from what triggers you until you're ready to handle it.

She's checked that box, as far as she's concerned. Any hint of drugs being somewhere, she steers clear and doesn't touch it with a ten foot pole. Too bad her other trigger is sitting right next to her.

Anger is a normal emotion, it's healthy. Learn to show it in ways that are non-violent.

It's good to know she isn't crazy whenever she puts her fist through a wall over a small inconvenience - just neurotic. But then the therapist says something stupid like taking deep breaths and she checks out again. If only she had taken a deep breath when she wanted to claw the vocal cords out of the man next to her, maybe then she wouldn't hate him so much.

She rolls her eyes at herself and groans at the thought. But if she's not thinking about Mad Dog she's thinking about drugs, and she can't decide the lesser of two evils.

“Why do you do that shit, Weezer?” His whisper is sharp, and she turns to look at him with a scowl. She hates the name he's pinned on her, she even went as far as to not wear the damn hoodie anymore; now she wears an old Nekoma one. It didn't stop him though, as far as he was concerned the name was there to stay.

Her eyes meet his and for a moment she falters - he actually gave her the decency of looking her in the eye when he spoke. “What're you talking about?” She's confused when she asks, but it still holds the same bite as usual. But she finds herself swallowing hard and turning her gaze when his eyes narrow.

The look in his eyes scares her, like he knows something she doesn't. Like he can see into her mind and pick out everything wretched and wrong with her. She hates that he can see right through her, so she keeps her eyes down the rest of the conversation.

“That,” he sounds annoyed again and he's gesturing to her leg. She's tapping her foot and she didn't even realize - she wasn’t even counting this time. “It's annoying as hell.”

“Then don't sit next to me, asshole,” she scoffs. “Problem solved.”

He rolls his eyes, but she's none the wiser. “Doesn't answer my question.”

“I don't owe you an answer.”

They don't speak for the rest of the class, and the next 30 minutes they sat in uncomfortable silence.

The therapist lets them leave ten minutes earlier than they usually do, and she thanks the stars she has time to smoke before she has to run home. Her gas station shift starts about an hour after the class and she always finds herself in a full sprint to get home because she wastes time. She resents herself for selling her car, but she lives with the consequences regardless.

It’s windy today, it goes through her hair and she takes a deep breath once she steps outside. It’ll be getting warmer soon and she thanks whatever higher power that it is; her apartment is shitty, and the heat has broken more times than she can count on her hands. The only thing she dreads is having to open every window when it gets too hot.

The wind whips against her cheeks and the cold bites at her nose, but she doesn't mind. She's glad she can take a full inhale without the crushing weight of fiending. It's like she sees the world a little more clearly again, it's still just as shitty, but it's been years since she's noticed small details like leaves blowing.

But life always finds a way to bite her in the ass.

Her stomach drops when she sniffles, and sniffles again, and again. Until she wipes at her nose and only sees red. “God dammit-” She gets nose bleeds often, and the cold only makes it worse, snorting lines of coke for god knows long what will do that to a person. She doesn't have a tissue, frankly she doesn't carry anything of value other than cigarettes. So she uses her sleeve, leans back, and pinches at the bridge of her nose.

“You shouldn't tilt your head back, y'know?” It's the guard dog - again.

“God,” she groans. “Don't you have better things to do than annoy me?” She hates how nasally her voice sounds, but keeps the pressure on her nose regardless.

“Not really, no.” She sees him shrug, and she only rolls her eyes. He's unfazed by the blood that drips from her nose onto her sleeve, by now it's left a stain on the cuff of her sweatshirt. He looks at it a moment before breathing out and reaching for the cigarettes in his pockets. “Didn't know you went to Nekoma.”

She can feel her blood pressure rising from the interaction, and wants nothing more than the man to just leave her alone. “Didn't know you couldn't read the fucking room,” she snaps. It goes ignored.

“Makes a whole lot more sense why you hang around Yaku.”

The name makes her falter and she tilts her head over just enough to look at him. What a conversation to be had over a bloody nose. “How do you know Morisuke?”

“Given name basis too, damn, I didn't know that jackass even had friends.”

There's a split second where she sees red, and she takes her sleeve from her nose. But she only stands there looking at him, he straightens up and she swallows hard. “How the fuck do you know him?”

He doesn't remember the last time he's been this amped up. With blood roaring in his ears, and fists bloodied and spliced. He couldn't place when he'd been in a fight this good. One that made his eyes go wild, his heart race, and plaster on a wicked grin.

Yaku was a good fighter. Too bad he's a rat who needs to shut his mouth.

Kyotani watches him stagger back after he punches him again, he's lost count on how many hits he's landed, until he falls. He falls hard on his side, blood spilling from cracked lips and staining his teeth. He's never seen Morisuke so pitiful, so full of hate, so loathsome.

He takes a step forward and chuckles, a juxtaposition to the situation the two men found themselves in, until it breaks into a laugh.

He kicks Yaku in the ribs as he laughs.

Over and over and over, until the other blonde coughs up blood on his shoes. That's when he stops. And he holds what little restraint he has with an ironclad grip when he crouches down. Even still, Yaku glares at him through swollen eyes - if looks could kill, Kyotani would be dead.

“I fucking hate you.” Spat with venom and followed by a heave. If Mad Dog had a shred of empathy, he would feel bad. But he doesn't, and he chuckles in response.

“You should be thanking me, short stack.”

“Oh, fuck off-” But he's cut off when Kyotani grabs him by the hair. The other yelps, like a scared dog, and grunts in pain when his face is shoved into the concrete floor.

“This is your warning, Yaku, shut your fucking mouth.” His words are like ice, and spoken all too calmy. He's done this before, practiced so much it became second nature. He's grown numb to the pain he inflicts on others. “Run your mouth again, I'll fucking kill you.”

Yaku's coughing doesn't stop, and neither does the blood that starts to seep onto his fingers. But there's only one thing that Kyotani doesn't know about him - he's fried his brain to the point he doesn't even care of the repercussions of his actions. So when he starts to laugh, Mad Dog grits his teeth. “See if I give a shit.” 

taglist (open, reply to the masterlist or send an ask)

@phoenix-eclipses @wyrcan @warlocksoup @yogurtkags @bakery-anon 

@crypt-0rchid @hyunteru @kameyyy @nekozaki @angelichwv

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[di-kot-o-me]

Thoughts on Matt Gaetz and US Democracy...

"I'm a lawyer. Hearing that Trump nominated this pedophile thing to be the nation's attorney made my stomach hurt and it has not stopped hurting since.

I found myself in law school and I marveled at the ability of words and laws to shape justice. I was radicalized when I was supposed to be studying something but sat on my bed, my books ignored, transfixed watching Anita Hill explain why Clarence Thomas was a vile man unfit for the highest bench in the world.

I carry a copy of the Constitution in my purse. I have parts of the Declaration of Independence memorized. It sounds like poetry to me. It was written by a great mind (but a flawed man) writing a great idea.

America has always been an idea. (Aarons Sorkin said that in an episode of The West Wing, which I'm rewatching on HBO Max because I so need a real President now, and Jed Bartlet is better than most, even if fictional.) So far we have done a really shitty job of translating that idea into a reality. But we have never scrapped the idea.

But that's what we did on November 5. People are so offended by transsexuals, people with dark skin, women, and the cost of eggs being inflated by bird flu, that they're willing to give up on the idea. They went with a game show host and the prize he will award to America is hate, despair, racism, and fascism.

2016 Trump was hot garbage. But there were guardrails. He had a team that didn't so strongly resemble the Star Wars Cantina Band. There was Congress. There was SCOTUS. There was the fact he had to run for re-election. That's all gone. He outsourced the actual thinking about governing to the Heritage Foundation and they came up with a doozy of a plan. A fine blueprint for a Fourth Reich. AG Matt Gaetz will be a big part of that. But Trump's so chaotic he may go off script and make things even worse.

And I keep hearing in my head that line that Trump said. "I am your retribution." Trump is a man well acquainted with hate. His own siblings and parents despised him. He is thin-skinned, insecure, and bitter. And he spews out, without shame, who he hates. Taylor Swift, for pete's sake. Trump will give orders that hurt people he hates, and he will get actual pleasure, perhaps sexual pleasure, from watching people he hates suffer. There are names for those people. Biden. Obama. Harris. Clinton. You don't think they'll be exempt from retribution, do you? AG Gaetz will sign their death warrants.

There are no guardrails. Law should be a guardrail. Good lawyers should be a guardrail. That's all gone. Trump's at he head of the most powerful nation in the world, and he has nothing but hate as a motivation. He has no love for America or its people. It has provided him some good money and some adoration. But he's not capable of love, or honor, or even imagination. He is incapable of understanding the idea. He hasn't read the poetry. He doesn't have an American soul. I don't think he has a soul at all, TBH.

What does this mean? It means the Constitution in my purse is about to be a forgotten idea. It means that the fundamentals of this nation are about to be eviscerated. Things will be worse than we can imagine. People will die. Democracy will die. The nation will die. The idea will die. The poetry will die."

-PersimmonTea

[maruyaaya]

OHMYGOSH A SIMPLE LIFE FIC FROM U WUD ACTUALLY MAKE ME DIE NGL.

ur so right. they realy dont know how to be enemies, i fear they're obsessed.

they give me ethubs in a different shade ngl. they're always coming back to one another, equals. they've hurt each other, irreparably even. they know they shoudln't trust each other, yet they'll always come back to one another because thats what they know. they're the only people that they can truly show every ugly bitter part of themsleves and not worry they'll leave.

like. they want to move on, but they can't. they'd kill and die for each other but they hate it.

they're the same amounts of bloodthirsty, almost the same person. if not for the fact, grian will put himself first, and joel will put anyone but himself first.

sighhh. i love them and i hate them so much and they're just dropping lines left and right . like we're getting whole loaves of bread here forget crumbs. they just never leave each others orbit.

sigh some people headcanon joel is a blackhole in the celestial symbolisms and i think thats so perfect what with grian being the sun. they're the same, and yet wholly opposite.

they’re obsessed with each other genuinely they can’t stay away from each other :/ i’m still waiting for a confrontation to the hermitcraft blackmail bc i just know they’re gonna be mad at each other for like 5 minutes and then go back to their toxic yaoi

I REALLY DO SEE THE ETHUBS COMPARISON!! i’m crazy multishipper so i ship gribeans smalletho ethubs gritho shortgrass whatever it is, i probably ship it and IVE BEEN SEEING GRIBEANS/ETHUBS A LOT RECENTLY AND I TOTALLY GET IT??? they’re both pairings that know each other better than anyone else—they’re sickeningly codependent. they rely on each other in an unhealthy way, but they don’t know how not to rely on each. it’s just so much codependency. there’s nobody in the world who will understand them better than the other will so they keep going back to each other

and that’s really the gribeans thesis, isn’t it? grian and joel get each other. they understand each other. they don’t have to pretend to be anything else around each other bc they know that they’re the same. they can actually be themselves without being afraid of being judged and i see that for ethubs too. it’s both comforting and horrifying to recognize that someone understands you down to your very soul.

like gosh just thinking about simple life. “we could just go under and sit there and win” “nah we’d get bored and just kill each other” because that bloodthirst is part of both of them. they both love winning. they like a fight. they like to scratch and bite and kill. and they can be violent with each other because they know that the other will understand. this little convo almost feels like a callback to wild life for me because in wild life, they were the last two left—the only people left after they’d killed everyone around them—and they killed each other with no hesitation. because love is violence for them and they can only perform that violent love around each other. when grian and joel kill each other, it’s essentially the same thing as a kiss.

THEYRE DROPPING LINES LEFT AND RIGHT see i will never understand why gribeans isn’t a more popular ship in the fandom because there is so much content??? like grian and joel are always interacting and being gay as hell why don’t more of you ship this?? like every life series, i don’t have to worry about gribeans interacting because i know that at some point, they’re going to end up on a team together. that’s just what they do. they’re drawn to each other. they can’t escape it. they weren’t soulbound in double life, but that’s only because they literally share the same soul—they didn’t have two souls to connect because they’re sharing the same one.

IM ACTUALLY A HUGE FAN OF BLACKHOLE JOEL i think its my fav celestial symbol for joel (i like comet as well but i prefer blackhole because i think it really shows his thirst for blood and destruction) AND I DIDNT EVEN CONSIDER THE GRIAN SUN / JOEL BLACKHOLE COMPARISON. oh my god i can’t believe this didn’t come to me. this is sickening. they’re he same person, but somehow still different. they share the same soul, the same blood, the same heart, but they’re going to consume each other one day until there’s nothing left. every time they touch, the universe is screaming that they shouldn’t be allowed to do so. there are only two endings to this story: they destroy themselves or they destroy everything around them.

[ilikekidsshows]

It's never been not funny to me when someone said Marinette is a good representation of strong independent woman and also a great female leader because for all Masashi Kishimoto claim about how bad he was at writing female character, Sakura, the most hated character by the fandom, is actually much more well written than Marinette, ever. Which make me wonder if miraculous is Marinette stan's first ever cartoon they ever watch or the show has perfectly gaslight them. 🤷

---

From what I've witnessed, it's kind of both and then something else, actually. A lot of people who are really passionate about Miraculous got here before the original retool. A lot of them were kids back then and Miraculous was their first big fandom instead of just a show they watched. This is also why claims about Miraculous' uniqueness are so common in these circles that still try to hype the show up. They hadn't really been in fandoms before Miraculous and they haven't gotten similarly invested in many other shows since. In addition to this, Miraculous' episodes are often contradictory, claiming at least two things about what's going on, and audiences could just pick the narrative they were more invested in. This earned the show a lot of good faith for delivering satisfying stories that carried it even as the quality started to deteriorate.

The unpredictable release schedule also makes following the show's continuity a nightmare even as it works great at masking the poor quality of that continuity. In other words, it's very easy for fans to come up with their own version of what goes on in the episodes. In addition, the fandom's so old and big by now that you have tons of varied Miraculous content if the canon isn't to your tastes. We can't ignore that fandoms for so many things also have a lot of people who haven't experienced the original story and only got into the fandom through a fan comic or something similar. Like, the amount of “at least we still have fanfics” comments under my posts tearing the Miraculous canon to shreds just proves that, to some people, the canon doesn't matter.

There's also the sunk cost fallacy. Like, we’ve spent years onto this show and fandom, for some it's been a full decade. It's hard to let go of that level of investment. In fact, I will freely admit I still haven't fully let go, but any investment has turned into resentment. I wanna see how bad this show can get before people finally have had enough, if there's such an insistent part of the fandom that they'll hang onto this garbage until the bitter end and turn around to claim Miraculous deserves a spot among the greats like Avatar and Gravity Falls. I actually tried watching S6 episodes after skipping seasons 4 and 5, and I just couldn't enjoy them. It was somehow more of the same bland nonsense, and Marinette is the least enjoyable part of any episode, because she still isn't allowed to do anything interesting, instead managing to find some way of annoying me in every single episode without even doing anything cool to make up for it.

[altocat]

We all know Sephiroth is basically a lost cause after post Nibel and has no chance of redemption, but my biggest guilty pleasure are the post AC/Remake timeline Sephs that get revived or pulled back to sanity even though realistically speaking that’s never going to happen. Even better when he has to face the horrors of what he’s done or how Jenova has twisted his body ie. Safer seph or the wing in general 😈

Any hcs or prompts? Just curious 👀

Interesting question. For a post-AC purified Sane!Seph...

tws below just in case

I think Sephiroth would definitely be ashamed of his actions and without Jenova in his head to offer pretty lies of connection and maternal love, he feels...nothing. His life has no purpose. At the end of the day, he's just a lab-made freak. And now he's a lab-made freak that almost ended the entire planet and all life as he knows it.

Sephiroth would probably struggle heavily with suicidal ideation a lot. Which I think probably would have been the conclusion he'd have come to in Nibelheim if not for his insanity/rage/Jenova. Sephiroth wants to die. He doesn't want to have to think or feel. He doesn't want to exist.

He begs for Cloud to kill him several times, but Cloud refuses. Not because he necessarily wants to prolong Sephiroth's suffering (Cloud isn't cruel) or because he actually thinks Sephiroth DESERVES to live (he's also never going to forgive Sephiroth either), but because he knows he's not a murderer and he wants Sephiroth to actually stick around in order to be punished for his actions.

The whole gang feels the same way. They take turns keeping an eye on Sephiroth while he's in their custody. They're still in the process of figuring out what to DO with him. They can't kill him, especially when he's like this. But they can't let him go free either.

Sephiroth in this state is very physically vulnerable. He's no longer even attempting to take care of himself and he mostly just seems like he's withering away to nothing. He spends most of the day sleeping. Sometimes Cloud will come to talk to him and Sephiroth will either offer advice or they'll simply share words together for several hours. No one REALLY knows what they're saying to each other as it's extremely private.

Either way, Cloud comes out of these sessions very, very conflicted. He hates Sephiroth...but he pities him as well. Even now after all this time.

I'd like to think that the gang's problems are wrapped up in a neat little bow when GENESIS of all people FINALLY reemerges from his long slumber and comes to claim his old friend. After a lot of back and forth bartering and Genesis INSISTING that he will take Sephiroth away and make sure he never returns to cause more problems for the world, Cloud eventually agrees.

Genesis takes Sephiroth into his care and custody and they live in a secluded zone together far away from human society. Genesis is basically his jailor.

Sephiroth still struggles with suicidal thoughts for a long time while still being bitter towards Genesis for the Nibelheim reactor. It takes several years just for them to start talking to each other again.

Since neither of them will really age or die thanks to the Jenova cells, I'd imagine they will be together for a very long time.

Ultimately, Genesis will finally prove himself to be the planet's one true hero by redeeming the planet's greatest enemy.

[99-9percentkills]

RELATIONSHIP CHARTS (PT2)

Kara's Post-Crash Relations

ANYA

Kara to Anya: Platonic Love/Best Friends/Admiration/Respect

She just wants to protect her.

It's all she can do. Anya was always there to protect her, so Kara needs to return the favor. By any means necessary.

Anya to Kara: Platonic Love/Best Friends/Admiration/Respect

She just wants to protect her.

And yet, it doesn't seem like Kara needs Anya's protection anymore. She can see just how capable Kara is now; but that doesn't stop her from trying. She needs to.

DAISUKE

Kara to Daisuke: Best Friends/Romantic Love/Admiration/Respect

Probably at some point either shortly before or after the crash, Kara confessed. Whilst everyone else knew Daisuke's feelings for her, she went into it without any expectation for hers to be returned.

Cue shocked pikachu face.

With the crash and everything, they can't spend nearly as much time together as they wish they could. But Kara's pretty sure Daisuke is the only thing keeping her sane right now. And, hell, even though survival is slim to none, at least they're together.

Daisuke to Kara: Best Friends/Romantic Love/Admiration/Respect

On the other hand, Daisuke? He had an internal aneurysm when he realized 1. Kara was not aware of his feelings this entire time and 2. if she had been, they could've been dating a lot sooner. What the hell, man?

...

He wishes it was under better circumstances. He'd love to take Kara out on nice dates and get to do all those mushy couple things with her. But. Ah. Well, they'll make do.

It makes it a bit easier to face everything with Kara by his side.

SWANSEA

Kara to Swansea: Dislike/Bitter

Possibly the biggest change in attitude Kara has towards the others post-crash; but, to her, it's warranted. She knows how he talks about Anya now. "Rickety elbow of a woman." That, paired with encouraging Daisuke to drink mouthwash like him?

Her opinion of Swansea has drastically plummeted.

Swansea to Kara: Neutral/Respect

In contrast, Swansea's respect for Kara has grown. Slightly. Namely because she's not afraid to chew his ass out, and honestly, he's gotta hand it to the kid. She's got balls.

(... She's not wrong. He's setting the kid down a dangerous path with the mouthwash. But... He'll make it out fine.)

CURLY

Kara to Curly: Neutral/Bitter/Distrust

Kara is the one who gives Curly his meds most days. Anya can't, and she'll do anything to keep the strain off of her. So she does her best to remain neutrality while treating him.

... She's not sure if she believes Jimmy. She's not sure if it even matters who did it.

Curly to Kara: Respect/Admiration

Kara is the only one Curly can handle treating him, honestly. He's half out of his mind with pain, but seeing Anya makes him sick with guilt. With remorse. And with Jimmy...

JIMMY

Kara to Jimmy: Hatred/Distrust

...

Tensions are high. Each time Jimmy snaps, Kara doesn't hesitate to snap back. In the back of her mind, she's aware she's making the situation worse by fighting with him.

She can't hold her tongue.

Jimmy to Kara: Hatred/Distrust/Bitter

WHATDOESSHEKNOW?WHATDOESSHEKNOW?WHATDOESSHEKNOW?

Out of everyone on this god forsaken ship, she's probably the one Jimmy hates the most. He's the captain now. He's the one responsible for these idiots' safety. Yet she always has something to fucking say. She thinks she can ban him from medical. Thinks she can tell him to stay away from ... Curly.

Ridiculous.

[divider credit]

[editedantiendoposts]

Anti-endo systems are disgusting. They are nothing more than miserable, hateful lovers of a psychiatric system that sometimes believes plurality doesn't exist. They can never respect boundaries and DNI either. (Pro) endogenic systems are just trying to live their lives without being hated on by bitter "systems are broken" believing people.

Endogenic systems do not hate trauma survivors. Many of them have experienced trauma as well, but it came after they realized they were plural, not before.

Systems can form for many reasons other than trauma, and not all traumagenic systems qualify to be diagnosed with DID. While some say the term tulpa is racist, it doesn't mean that people who created their headmates are.

Trauma-endos are real. Systems can have many factors in how they form their alters/headmates/parts.

Willogenic systems are real. You can make a system. You are a disgusting hater if you think that's impossible. Systems can form for many reasons other than trauma, stop shoving your miserable hate down people's throats.

You can have roles if you are endogenic.

Protectors? Maybe certain social situations make you freak out and your protectors are there to help you realize things are okay? Memory holders can be there in case you're forgetting things and need reminders. Caretakers are there to help you with self care. You don't exist because you lack trauma entirely, you existed before it happened.

Anti-endos mock trauma survivors who don't have a problem with endogenic systems existing. They will even go so far as to fakeclaim pro-endos with DID. They'll accuse them of mocking their own disorder for being supportive. Shut up.

Traumagenic endo supporters aren't a problem. We are not mocking our own community or making fools out of them unless they're going around spreading hate towards endogenic systems, and that's because they're making all of us look bad by being miserable haters.

-genic labels are COMMUNITY terms. In the eyes of clinical settings we all are multiple, some with disorders and some without.

Being a system and hating endogenic folks is the worst take to ever have.

MAGAs for Trump!

Butchers for slaughterhouses!

Women for Kamala!

Scientists for lab testing!

Bears for forests!

Billionaires for money!

Anti-endo thinking is stupid.

We love syscord. We have never seen servers more full of pro-endo systems and endos than the Tupperbox, Pluralkit and Simply Plural servers, because they are resources made for all plurals, but anti-endos want to gatekeep shit that wasn't made based on their hate.

[pacifymebby]

Hope u r doing okay ❣️

Which of the peaky men would make the best fathers do you think?

ahhh you caught me at a broody moment bestie so

I think of all the Peaky men Bonnie and John would make the best fathers, they both strike me as family orientated, "fun" dads. They're definitely both very into keeping you pregnant haha, but I will get into that later, here are some quick little HCs about the men as dads <3

Tommy

🌿 "Over Protective Dad"

🌿 He's the serious type of dad, the one with lots of rules, the one who definitely means it when he says "Behave, or else." He's very strict and the children definitely know not to cross him, sometimes you worry that he's too stern... and so does Tommy.

🌿 Because he adores his children, he's so proud of them and he has so much love for them, they're his proof that good things can really exist in this very bitter and twisted world... he just isn't always good at showing that love because the more you love something the more it hurts to lose that thing...

🌿 So he's terrified, every single second of every single day, that he's going to lose his little ones, that one way or another they'll be ripped away from him.

🌿 Thats why he has all these rules, and why he's so determined to see them kept to. Because he doesn't want something bad to happen to his children as a result of his "negligence"

🌿 He's also petrified that he'll be the reason their lives are ruined, he's scared he'll drive them away... a fear which is naturally made worse by his cold exterior and his struggle to be close with his family. He's always putting a distance between himself and the ones he loves, and it traps him in a mean cycle.

🌿 The kind of parent thats always trying to hide the worlds badness from his children, he wants them to stay innocent and care free for as long as possible so he wraps them in cotton wool and won't ever want them to do anything which could risk an unhappy ending.

🌿 That being said he rarely "lets" them win at games.

🌿 He gets very paranoid about their friends, the kind of parent that needs to know his children's friends parents before he lets the kids out of his sight. He worries when they're out after school, even more so if he has daughters.

🌿 Will hate his daughters boyfriends, will try his best to intimidate them.

🌿 His children will grow up resenting him for being controlling but in the end they will understand why he raised them the way he did because,

🌿 Ultimately Tommy is a devoted father figure, he's nurturing to the best of his ability. Nothing will hit harder than a "dad hug" when the kids are upset. He's sentimental as fuck so will make sure he is at every big event in the kids lives, he'll be the one taking photos.

🌿 Will never fail to tell his children he is proud of them. Sometimes it's a little scary when he tells them he loves them because he feels the emotion quite intensely.

🌿 Has killed for his children at least once, is determined they'll never find out.

Arthur

🍂 "Overwhelmed Dad"

🍂 Is absolutely desperate to be a good, hands on father but oh my god is it difficult! Theres so much to remember, so many things which need to be done all at once... He's the father who always has food stains on his shirt, the one who is always at least fifteen minutes late, running down the street with the kids to try and get them into school on time... He forgets stuff all the time, sends the kids to school without a packed lunch or dinner money and has to go running back with it.

🍂 He is very awkward at first because he's paranoid that he will be too rough, hold the baby too tightly, that he's going to hurt them. But he is just so full of love and adoration and even when they're very small his children will sense that love and feel happy whenever daddy is near.

🍂 His children are his sun stars and universe. They're his reason to heal and carry on living despite all the pain he often feels inside. They're his hope.

🍂 Always self conscious that he's being too loud or too rough, he's always swearing then apologising for swearing in front of them. "Son your fathers a very naughty man eh, you shouldn't try to copy him yeah?"

🍂 "fook" is probably one of your babies first words despite all of his efforts. His brothers think that this is completely hilarious but Arthur feels so bad about it.

🍂 He doesn't want his children to grow up to be anything like him, he can't see any of the good that you see in him, only the bad so he's always worrying that his kids will have inherited "the bad seed"

🍂 It isn't true however, where Arthur sees himself as over emotional/ unpredictable with violent mood swings, you see him as a passionate man with real feelings. You see him as someone who needs nurture and care. You're always trying to remind him that his "flaws" make him a more empathetic person, that he'll much better be able to understand his children because of his own life experiences.

🍂 A really defensive father, if his kids get into trouble at school for anything he will be 100% on his kids side, if they were scrapping then the other kid definitely started the fight and deserved it, if they were back chatting a teacher then "what the fuck are you doin eh? You're an adult and you can't stand up to a fucking six year old? Thats mad..."

🍂 You're constantly having to apologise to the school on his behalf but on the plus side your kids aren't ever getting bullied.

🍂 If you have daughters they will definitely be doing their best to keep boyfriends a secret... This is perhaps not really necessary though because ultimately Arthur is a desperately loving father who would do anything to make his kids happy... so your daughters don't need to worry about a thing, as long as their boyfriend intends to marry them and care for them until the end of his days.

John

🌼 "Still a Kid Dad"

🌼 He's the "fun" parent, the soft one that the kids know to ask for extra play time or sweets. They know they can get away with bloody murder when it comes to their dad. If they're boys he's going to be impressed when they manage to weasel their way out of trouble and if they're girls all they have to do is pull those adorable puppy eyes and they will definitely get what they want.

🌼 Absolutely spoils the kids rotten! Basically he lives to see his children smiling and to hear them laughing so he will do whatever he thinks is going to earn him hugs and smiles.

🌼 A real criminal when it comes to feeding the kids things like rice pudding, chocolate pudding "one for you, one for daddy, little scoop for you, big spoon for daddy..."

🌼 Always helping them get up to know good. Teaches them naughty rhymes and then daring them to sing them in front of you so that you're permanently horrified.

🌼 They make him behave like a big kid so he's always playing stupid imaginary games, playing cowboys with them, playing tig, always starting food fights with them any excuse to play fight and tickle them... Any excuse to pick the littlens up and squeeze them in a big hug.

🌼 So many Dad jokes just waiting to be dropped it's like a disease, he just can't stop making the worst jokes you've ever heard and yet his kids think he's hilarious.

🌼 Can, very rarely, but sometimes be serious, but it's only when something very serious has happened such as if he thinks the family is under threat or the children are in danger. It's so rare to see daddy serious that the kids always do as he says in these situations, it's like they can just sense that play time is over.

🌼 Absolutely adoring, falls asleep with the baby on his chest all the time, never wants to put the littlens down. Smothers them in kisses.

🌼 Whenever its your birthday he will gather all the littlens up to try and bake mummy's birthday cake, it will be messy, it will be bordering on a catastrophe, the kids and him will be covered in flour, sugar, cake mix, chocolate, the lot. But it will be the best thing you've ever eaten.

🌼 Perhaps the reason John is the way he is is that he didn't get much of a childhood himself, his own father let him down astronomically when he was a lad and so he's determined that his children are going to have as much fun as possible. He hates seeing them sad, doesn't ever want them to feel let down. So even though you do sometimes get very fed up with always being the "strict" parent you can understand why John is as laidback with he kids as he is. It's because he's trying so hard to give them everything he never had.

🌼 Look he's lowkey addicted to being a dad, wants to have so many children with you, can't keep his hands off you... He will always always be telling you what a good mother you are, how beautiful you look when you're pregnant, how proud he is of you, always talking to you about how together you've made a gorgeous family. Whenever you're holding one of the little ones, or whenever you're playing with the children he'll tell you how much motherhood suits you.

Alfie

🐻 "Grumpy Daddy"

🐻 Wasn't ever really expecting to be a father, wasn't ever really expecting to be a husband either to be honest but well, here he is and he can't say he isn't happy with his lot in life. When he finds out you're pregnant he is stunned, but he's determined to be a good father...

🐻 Always grumbling affectionately about parenthood, if his kids ask for help he'll put on a big song and dance of huffing and puffing and "oh I suppose I have to don't I I suppose I can't say no to my little angel..."

🐻 There is absolutely nothing this man will not whinge about, if theres a birthday party he has to take them to, if its the school run, other children's parents, helping with snack time, helping with homework, reading the bedtime story, carrying the kids when their legs get too tired... He will make a big song and dance all "woe is me the exhausted, overworked father, he never gets a minute to himself, never any peace and quiet, always bending over backwards for his family and what thanks does he get eh? What thanks exactly do I get in return for all this?"

🐻 Usually by the end of these speeches his little ones are giggling and you're affectionately rolling your eyes... Usually a kiss on the cheek is all the thanks he really needs to shut him up. And he's never being serious anyway, he actually really loves being a dad, its much nicer being at home with the family, playing the hero rather than the villain as he does at the bakery and in his dealings with Tommy Shelby.

🐻 Makes up the bedtime stories, they always go on and on and on, with the strangest characters.... Often he will ramble on and lose himself all "and then the princess yeah, the beautiful, mesmerising, heavenly princess in the tower... who looks a lot like you now I come to think of it my little cherub... the princess right, she looks down at the prince and she says, oi, mate... you touch my hair again yeah and I'll chop your head off and kick it like a football all the way to Timbuktu..." "Daddy!" your little one will gasp, giggling and fighting him, "a princess wouldn't say that!" "Well you see this princess would right my little angel cause this Princess yeah, she's a feminist ain't she..."

🐻 Honestly he'd be such a soft father to a little girl, he'd spoil her rotten and she'd be the princess of Camden town. Nothing would ever be good enough for his little cherub.

🐻 Would make a point of turning up on the first day of school so that everyone would know who his kids father is, so that they'd know not to mess with them - teachers included.

🐻 Much like Tommy however he is very overprotective, he has lots of rules as a result of him always worrying about his children. He knows the absolute pits the world can sink to, he knows how dangerous it is out there and therefore he will constantly be werriting about the safety of his children, about who they're friends with, where they hang out. He will run background checks on all their friends. He will send Ollie out spying on them.

🐻 He's the kind of dad who won't forget about Mum, he'll see how tired you are and want to dote on you too. He'll definitely be the first to try and hush the kids so that mummy can have a nap, or he'll take them out to the market to pick out some presents for mummy. He's always reminding them how much their mummy loves them and everything that she does for them, always reminding them to make sure they tell their mother that they love her very much.

🐻 Big on manners. Won't ever swear in front of the children and he won't let them curse either. He also is always reminding them of their manners, will not raise rude children who don't say please and thank you or hold doors open for people.

🐻 Similar to Arthur, his children can never do any wrong, the only person who is going to tell his kids off his him, if a teacher wants to talk about his children's bad behaviour he's going to talk to the teacher about why they're failing as a role model.

Bonnie

🍀 "Nurturing Dad"

🍀 Family is the most important thing in this lads life. He is absolutely devoted to you and the children, he would do anything for you. He never misses anything, from birthdays to bath time, story time... anything, he doesn't want to miss a second of his children's lives.

🍀 He's very laidback, often very cheeky, always very quick to make you and the little ones laugh. Much like John he's the "fun" parent, he's always playing games with the children, loves to make them laugh with silly little slight of hand tricks (definitely overdoes the "coin from behind the ear" trick)

🍀 Will teach his kids boxing, will teach the girls to fight too if its what they want letting them punch his hands and try to take him out (if all the kids gang up on him at once they can wrestle him to the floor so that you have to save him... not that you always feel like it - "hmmm I don't know Bon, I think you might have been asking for it?"

🍀 His favourite thing to do is to gather all the little ones up into bed with you and him, all of you tucked under the covers for a bedtime story. He does the voices but he gets shy in front of you so he can't help but blush when he's doing the silly parts. Encourages the kids to join in and do the voices themselves.

🍀 Loves to teach the littlens things, practical skills like woodworking/ hunting/ how to make a fire or a shelter. Any excuse to take them out into the forest to build a den or go camping.

🍀 He's really traditional and would definitely want to raise the children with traditional traveller values, wants to raise them how he was raised however

🍀 He's ambitious and he doesn't want his children to grow up in the bordering on poverty that he grew up in so he will work so hard to give them anything they could ever desire. He doesn't exactly spoil them because he definitely teaches them the value of their work, but he'd never let his children go without. He never lets you go without either, even if he doesn't want to spoil the children he does want to spoil you, "you deserve it sweetheart, for being such a perfect mammy."

🍀 Wants to have a really big family and loves getting you pregnant. He loves taking care of you and being nurturing when you are pregnant and he loves doting on you and the children... One day when they're all grown up his empty nest syndrome will be worse than yours.

🍀 A really nurturing father, will teach his boys that it's alright to cry and express their emotions, will want to kill anyone who makes his little girls cry. Will teach his sons to look after and love their sisters. Will raise his kids to know that family comes first always. If one of his kids gets into trouble at school for fighting, but it turns out he was fighting to defend his sister, Bonnie will be really proud of them and much to the teachers despair, will tell them "you did the right thing, next time hit him twice, one from me eh?"

🍀 Will do his best to be friendly when his daughters bring boys home but he will need so much support from you, so many gentle reminders to "be nice" because thats his little girl and what if this lad isn't good enough, what if they hurt her or let her down or... You'll probably have to remind him that no matter what no ones going to replace her dad, he'll always be important to her.

Isaiah

🐀 "Cool Dad"

🐀 Don't get me wrong, I'm sure that he's going to mature into a decent father but, it's going to take some time and a lot of growing up.

🐀 I get slightly unreliable vibes from him. He won't take parenthood seriously at first, he'll have no idea how hard it is or how out of his depth he is... He'll definitely think that everyone else is exaggerating when they warn him how much of his life he's going to have to put into being a father... Fatherhood is going to hit him like a freight train.

🐀 He assumes he's going to be great at it because he assumes he's great at everything, but then he's overwhelmed by the long sleepless nights and how difficult it is to read a babies mind... So because he isn't immediately great at it it knocks his confidence a bit, he gets frustrated with himself and becomes convinced that he's "just not meant to be a father"

🐀 So this leads to arguments, naturally... because "you really should have thought about that before you knocked me up Isaiah!" You would start to doubt whether you could rely on him, whether he resents you and the children as a burden, whether he even wants to stay with you or whether he's going to leave...

🐀 When you argue about that fact and you come out with "well if you're so fucking unhappy why don't you just leave... if you're so convinced you're not meant to be a father we'll just have to get by without you won't we..." He'd be stunned by this outburst and genuinely have no idea where it's come from. Because he's stupid.

🐀 He'd be really taken back but forced to consider your words he'd start to realise that this is hard for both of you, that you're both doing something you've never done before, that the responsibility is new and tiring for you both... just because he thinks you're better at it than he is doesn't mean you're not also just making it up as you go along...

🐀 And your suggestion that he might want to leave you makes him realise just how much he could lose, makes him realise that he doesn't want to lose you or the little ones, that even if its hard he wants so badly to be a good man and father.

🐀 So then he'd start trying a lot harder, he'd stop expecting to get everything right the first time, he'd start trying to learn from you. Like I said, he's going to be a good father, but it's going to take time.

🐀 In awe of how good at mothering you are, doesn't understand how you can be soft and gentle and patient when the baby won't stop crying... He longs to develop that kind of patience but honestly, you have the patience of a saint and he knows he's never going to be as easy tempered as you.

🐀 He's a strange mixture of over protective and completely irresponsible, he takes the children with him to the pub, he lets them sip the foam from his beer to teach them that they won't like it. He will let them run riot at family gatherings.

🐀 Has definitely forgotten then baby and left them sleeping in their carrier under the table at the pub at least once.

🐀 However, the children are never allowed out of his sight, they can go to these places but only with him where he's there to look after them. His theory is that if he's so strict that his children never get to have any fun, they'll grow up wanting to break rules and do stupid dangerous things just for the sake of rebelling, so he's cool about it, he lets them drink when they're older so that they'll see theres nothing special about it, he'll let them hang around with the Blinders so that the mystery and glamour is taken out of it... whether this tactic works you'll have to wait and see, you're not entirely confident however...

🐀 He will be the kind of parent that speaks to his children like they're adults, they're going to learn swearing and sarcasm and back chat really young and its going to be a nightmare.

🐀 Will be suspicious of all boys who so much as look at his daughters because he was a teenage boy once and he knows what they're like. Whenever you remind him, "we were just as bad at that age..." he'll say "exactly and look where it got us, I'm not having some halfwit knock up my daughter!"

🐀 sometimes you think he says that just so you'll tell him that actually he makes a really good father.

Michael

☘️ "Perfectionist Dad"

☘️ Being a father is probably more important to Michael than you realise... Having been taken from his real family when he was very young, he feels there's a part of childhood which he was robbed of and he's determined to make sure his own children have the best childhood.

☘️ Because of this he has quite a few rules that he sets, he just wants his children to be safe and to not waste their potential... however he will occasionally be soft on these rules and let things slide if he thinks it's going to make the children and you happy.

☘️ He puts so much pressure on himself to be the perfect father. He will never express his doubts to you but he has such high expectations of himself and you can tell. Sometimes you have to give him a kiss on the cheek and remind him that as long as he's doing his best thats all that matters, that his children will love him even if he makes mistakes. That you think he's a really good father and wouldn't ever wish for anyone else to be the dad to your kids.

☘️Tries his best to be supportive, sometimes struggles to be patient because he's a logical thinker and you can't always solve baby's crying the way you can a maths problem. Imagine him trying to reason with a toddler who won't eat their rice pudding... "Look you might not appreciate this right now little one but this snack is highly nutritious, its an excellent source of protein and its got lots of calcium which is especially important for making you grow big and strong just like daddy... so even if you don't like it eh, better to eat it up..." "Michael he's two..." "I'm just explaining...." "T W O"

☘️ You wouldn't expect it of him, and it's definitely something he struggles with a little however he's always determined to be an affectionate and loving father. He definitely comes off as being too serious when he kisses his children on the forehead and tells them he loves them, but they always know they can come to him when they need a hug.

☘️ He's a really attentive father when it comes to things like waking up in the night if the kids have had a nightmare or something, he will let you get your much needed rest and he'll be the one to deal with all issues nocturnal. Can change a nappy in his sleep, can pretty much sleep walk between your bed and the kids bedroom to answer their crying in the night.

☘️Will spoil his daughters rotten and accidentally raise princessy types. Doesn't really see the problem however because he thinks they're perfect in every way and deserve the absolute best.

☘️ Just like Tommy he is determined they will keep their childhood and their innocence for as long as possible. He will do his best to keep his children away from the family business, he doesn't want them to know that their father is a criminal and he certainly doesn't want them to ever know of all the evil things him and his cousins have done in the past. As a result he tells his children a lot of lies, feels incredibly guilty for being dishonest, and then ends up telling even more lies anyway.

☘️ He absolutely doesn't want his girls anywhere near boys, especially not peaky boys. He doesn't even really like them getting to see their cousins at family gatherings, is always reminding them that they're not like their cousins, they're honest well behaved children, their cousins are wild and can't be trusted.

☘️ Will try to teach his children to be brave, will want them to be able to stand up for themselves. He's a man with childhood trauma and he wishes he'd had the "wits" to defend himself as a child so he wants his own children to be able to fight back. However, a key component of this is that he wants his children to be able to tell him anything and know that their dad will always be on their side, he doesn't want them to keep any secrets from him at all. Wants them to know he will never be angry at them and that it's always better to tell daddy everything.

☘️ If anyone ever threatens or hurts his children he will probably genuinely plot to kill them, have them killed.

Taglist: @inalovesrabbits-blog@zablife @jomarch-wannabe @itsghostgirlyo @marwwfairy @toddlerbodybag @everysage @tommyshelbywhore @kas3ylovesyou @starrykit @call-sign-shark @liliac-dreamer @mollybegger-blog @impossibleheartflower @cocoaflowers

[strongestbanner]

What If:

Logan and Victor decide to forgive each other, escape together and live in a small cabin located in Argentine Patagonia (probably in the Río Negro province, towards the mountains of the west) 🏡❤️‍🩹🇦🇷

They both accepted that they are two sides of a same coin, and they'll always be there for each other, no matter the circumstances <3

(If you wanna cry at the end, keep reading)

Logan gets addicted to drink mate and can't live without his thermo (he choose Lumilagro when he just arrived bc he didn't have enough money for a Stanley thermo, but he doesn't give a f*ck). His favorite yerba mate is Rosamonte: the most bitter yerba mate for his taste 👌🏻

Vic shows off Logan the words he already knew in Spanish after so many missions. Now he learned to say to Logan: "enano boludo" (fool runt) just for piss him off.

Victor has become very punctual at merienda time, he always waits for Logan with sweet facturas (like biscuits, croissants) (sometimes Logan is sick of eating sweet, so he asks Vic to bring salty facturas too). Also, Victor LOVES membrillo's facturas (quince jam) (his beard always ends up dirty as if he had blood on it, never forgetting his animal instincts).

Of course, Logan got a job at a sawmill, he has too much experience with wood hehehe. And Victor worked for a time in a food distributor for a bakery, but he got fired bc he was caught stealing some cookies with membrillo. So, now he stays at home doing housework (surprisingly, he's very clean and hates finding cobwebs on the ceiling).

Logan secretly listen to Tango music, somehow he feels internally moved and sometimes cries too!! He also bought some Carlos Gardel vinyls to send for Laura's birthday <3

They both bought earplugs to use once a month bc they discovered that they have a lobizón neighbor 2 km away (the argentine werewolf 🐺).

At first they slept in different rooms, until Victor decided to have a sleepover after watching a chick flick movies marathon with Logan over a weekend (yes, they have Netflix). How did he convince him? He used his secret weapon: kitten eyes ✨ This is how slowly Victor's old room was transformed into a leisure room. Now they have a shelf full of classic literature books (and Spanish literature too bc Vic is so interested in it and he wants to still learning). Some CDs and vinyls of Logan bc he also likes argentinian national rock (He seems to like "Los Piojos", "Intoxicados", and "Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota" 😂).

This is for the argentine fans: LOGAN SUPPORTS BOCA JUNIORS CLUB 💙💛💙 He's not a very huge fan for football games, but he stays focused watching them. While Vic usually falls asleep at half time on the sofa with him.

Victor convinced Logan that he would control his bloodlust, so their household is never short of a good supply of meat. Unfortunately, this is a vile lie. When Logan is away, Victor takes advantage of those free hours to hunt and devour little animals like hares or deer. He knows his schedules and how much time he has to clean up his tracks. Who knows how long he can sustain the lie 🫣

In my mind their first kiss was PURRFECT. The coldest month is July (it's winter there), so, after a week of overcast skies, one night Logan went outside the cabin to smoke a joint. He observed the number of visible stars until he realized that Victor was stalking him with a cup of tea in his hand. They both sat on the front steps and IT JUST HAPPENED. Logan tried to deny what happened, FOR SEVERAL DAYS. But Vic managed to take away his embarrassment and make him enjoy it many times more bc he ✨obviously✨ kissed him first.

It hadn't been a year yet and Logan had invited the X-Men to his whereabouts to celebrate his birthday in October. Logically, Victor didn't like this idea at all, so he decided to flee to the forest. Logan had so many feelings fluttering in his chest, but he knew better than to waste such a beautiful and special day. He looked for Victor and found him cooling off in a river. He was so upset and a little jealous, but Logan convinced him because they would make barbecue. It was a VERY uncomfortable moment for Victor, he was not sorry for what he did, but Logan took care of making him feel part of his family <3

Ofc, I wrote all this with my tears.

I don't consider myself a good writer and my English is very poor, but if anyone wants to make a fanfic or fanart of this TAG ME PLS 😭💖

[potassiumivy]

PLAYBOY. | jjk

❥ mdni. fic masterlist.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 008: HEARTBEAT.

✞ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐎𝐘✞

YOU WERE LISTENING TO HIGURUMA, the pretty man you met earlier talk to you three about what you should do to help your case in front of the higher ups.

you were seemingly listening, muttering little 'uh-huh's and 'mhm's, but your head was empty. every word this man said went in your ear and out the other. 

you just couldn't focus no matter how hard you were trying.

he called your name, effectively getting you out of your trance. "did you understand what you have to do?" 

you smiled brightly. "not at all." 

kirara groaned, grabbing your hand before dragging you to corner of the room. "for the love of god, stop eyefucking him!" they whisper-yelled, "get yourself together!" 

you nodded in determination, lightly slapping your face to get out of it. 

"what got you so bothered anyways?" 

you looked straight into kirara's eyes and replied without missing a beat, "i wanna ride his face."

"...what?"

"i said—"

"wait, wait. i get it. it's the nose isn't it?" they snickered, making you nod enthusiastically. "ahah! i know you so well don't i, pretty?"

"but..."

"yeah?"

"i felt something." kirara raised an eyebrow, intrigued. they wanted to ask more, but they saw higuruma coming your way from the corner of their eye. the man told you guys to make your way back to your seats, since the meeting would restart soon. 

sitting right next to higuruma, you looked down at your lap, trying to gather the courage to look at his face. "psst," you started, getting his attention,  "i'm sorry for not listening. tell me again, i swear i'll try harder to—"

"there's no need." he whispered back, glancing at you discreetly. "just let me handle everything. i promise that they'll let you come back."

"even after gojo's scene?"

"yeah. even after gojo's scence. i'm not narcissistic, but i know that i'm good at what i do." he looked at you again, this time with confidence. "even if you make another scene right now, i promise you'll still win."

you thought about what he said. "you pinky promise?"

his lips twitched, and he linked his pinky with yours under the table. "yeah. i pinky promise."

a moment so sweet, unfolding under the bitter gaze of the zenin heir. 

*✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:

✞ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐎𝐘✞

*✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:    *✧･ﾟ:

naoya was the one talking now, but he couldn't focus on anything except you and the lawyer talking in hushed voices. 

too close. you were both too close to each other. 

after that moment in the restaurant a few years before, he indirectly came to your defence many times. he wouldn't openly take your side, but he would talk shit about the other side. 

when higuruma stood up to talk, naoya took the opportunity to come closer to your side, listening to your conversation with kirara.

"so? what did you feel? your pussy skipped a beat or somethin'?" they asked jokingly, but you answered seriously. 

"i think it was my heart this time," you said, which made naoya's eye twitch. "i couldn't really tell, it's the first time happening. it just couldn't be my heart, right? i don't do relationships. maybe i'm just not getting laid enough."

"hakari literally dicked you down twice this morning."

naoya left, walking back to the spot next to his dad. he had heard enough.

he liked to believe that he hated you, just like how he liked to believe that he was the only guy you were messing around with.

maybe it was out of hate, maybe out of pettiness, but he wanted you to get punished for it. 

he faced your lawyer, smirking mischievously. "you know, it's not the best option to let a whore like y/n back here. she was on the cover of playboy. what would happen if people learn about it?"

"and how would you know about the playboy cover?" hakari asked rhetorically. this made the higher ups who were nodding along to naoya's words stop momentarily to ask themselves the same question.

this was the first time that you were a little scared of being judged. you didn't want higuruma to think less of you. 

"it's scandalous enough for me to know."naoya didn't flinch, although he could feel his father's stare on him. 

higuruma intervened this time. "and what's bad about it?" 

this made you relax a little, and kirara held you hand to show you that everything will be fine. 

"it tarnishes the college's image. it also gives a bad reputation to the jujutsu society. not all clans are so unmannered like the l/n clan."

hakari was fuming so you pecked his nose to calm him down. "i'll deal with him later, kin." 

in his big speech, something fell from naoya's traditional clothing. he froze, his face burning up in embarrassment, knowing exactly what it was. 

that playboy magazine.

"how hypocritical." higuruma commented, making your friends laugh. 

"shut up."

zenin naobito shook his head, leaving the room with his clan. well, except his son. 

you guys automatically won after. not like they could defend whatever just happened. you told your friends to go back to the dorms, saying that you'll join them later. 

you went back to find naoya still standing in his spot. you raised his chin with your hand, making his heartbeat accelerate with no signs of slowing down. 

"you're so pussydrunk. not like i'd blame you." you chuckled. your phone vibrated in your pocket, making you check the caller id. 

"would you look at that... my manager got me another deal. you better watch the covers of monthly magazines." before leaving, you turned back to him, looking at him through your lashes. "just meet me at my dorm tonight, will you?"

getting out of the room, you answered immediately. "should we celebrate with some dinner, shiu? your treat, of course."

✞ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐎𝐘✞

next!!

©potassiumivy, 2024. all rights reserved. do not translate / modify / republish my works.

[pokeballvictim]

Hi n@! What types of heroes make the best victims?

Hiiiii Aria my friend Aria!!!

This is such a good question and I think I have to break it down a bit. The first part is "what actually makes someone a hero" which is such a pain in the ass for me specifically to answer that I don't want to. So, instead, let's review a couple different TYPES of heroes, and then we'll discuss how each of them is as a victim!

Type 1 is, of course, Heroism Through Innocence. This is a very typical kind of hero. They believe that everyone has the potential to be good. They think all struggles can be overcome with effort and love. They believe in happy endings, in redemption, in good and evil, and in the triumph of the former over the latter. You know the type.

Type 2 is the Antiheroic CryptoHero. This one actually has a lot of similarities to the first kind, just buried a little deeper. This hero will be more familiar with tough choices, with failing, with things ending badly. They might drive people away from them with a gruff exterior, or pretend to refuse to help people. Scratch the surface, however, and they're a softy. They feed animals, they want to help people, they still draw their strength from their indomitable spirit and compassion. Their cynical exterior might be real and legitimate, but its all to cover that true-blue-heroic interior.

Type 3 is the Misanthropic Hero. They actually have almost nothing in common with the previous two, despite how they act. This hero might be grizzled and standoffish, or they might be a beaming paragon of goodness. What makes them a type 3 is that their true, internal thoughts are cynical and bitter. They despise the people they're helping, despise the structures of power that exist, and are often slightly megalomaniacal. They might be putting on an act, but they HATE you. What makes this one a hero is that ultimately, their actions and beliefs are for the greater good. Maybe they save the world because their favorite minions are in it. Maybe they hate everyone because they've been disappointed by how people fail to be good. Maybe they do it because they have to. I love this kind, personally, for reasons that I don't care to unpack. My heart goes out to Grisia Sun...

Type 4 is the Depressed Hero. This one is a bit odd, because they're fundamentally NOT heroic; they're a machine running on expectations. Unable to set down their burden, these heroes no longer feel anything but exhaustion. They're often isolated and traumatized, but don't know any other way to live.

I'm sure there are more kinds, but let's go over these four! Starting with type 3, they can be a lot of fun to corrupt, but I don't think they make great victims. Even if they're NOT sadists or narcissistic, they have a certain smug sense of superiority that you can't shatter without ruining their character. They look best when you've earned their willing submission, but that isn't easy! Type 4, on the other side of the spectrum, will practically fall into your hands with the barest bit of effort. Give them an alternative. Find the seams in their mentality and give a little push. Type 4s are so reliant on a single concept or idea that if you can topple that, then they have no defenses. Types 1 and 2.... depend on your preference. Type 1 is easy to break and look good doing it. Show them that their actions are meaningless, show them how they've been taken advantage of, and they'll either rise up with new determination or instantly Fall. If you like seeing empty, mind-broken eyes, then go for a Type 1! But be careful! Type 2 is interesting because they're already half-broken already. Their innocence has been shattered, but they persist. They're probably the type that you actually have to put lots of work into breaking. You have to destroy everything around them, everything they've built, and then defeat their last stand. And then their next last stand, and then their second wind, and so on and so on. Torture won't work. Pleasure will give you a bit of an in, but not very much of one. The exact approach depends on the hero, but you WILL be destroying them and remaking them in your image.

So, in conclusion, I'd have to say the best ones are type 2 and 3. Type 2 for the effort it takes to break them, for the true experience of shattering a mind and turning them into your adoring pet. Type 3 because its a battle between... not equals, but someone who knows what you're doing and is trying to do it back. Type 3 will be a fight for your fucking life that might end with you becoming a "reluctant" hanger-on, confused and trying to figure out how you accidentally spent the past year as a heroic companion.