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unclewaynemunson · 1 year

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Tadaaaa here is the sequel to this post, which came from an ask that got me in a chokehold for days now so kudos to the lovely anon who sent that prompt to me! You can also read the whole thing on ao3 :)

As soon as Eddie got into the passenger seat of his Wayne's truck, he saw the whole world go blurry. He tried to blink away his tears, but it was no use – nothing ever escaped his uncle's notice anyway.

'Wanna tell me what's wrong, boy?' he asked while he started the car.

Eddie grimaced. 'You know how they say you should never meet your heroes?'

'Hm?'

'Well, I met mine. On the fucking train. Just yet.'

Wayne shot him an incredulous glance.

'What was the Black Sabbath guy doin' on a train?'

'What? No, it wasn't... No.'

'The Hobbits guy?'

'Jesus Christ, Wayne, Tolkien died like fifteen years ago, keep up.'

'You want me to keep guessin' or you gonna tell me?'

Eddie rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, no, you wouldn't guess it right anyway. It's this poet.'

'Don't think I ever heard you talk 'bout poetry before,' Wayne remarked.

And that was exactly the thing. Ronan Right had been something... private. Something between Eddie and the faceless blob in his mind that embodied Right – and maybe Jeff. Okay, and Jeff's mom. But it wasn't someone he'd talk people's ears off about on any occasion he got, like he did with plenty of other musicians or writers that he'd get all obsessive about.

Until Steve, that was. Steve, who had been casually listening to his music. Steve, who had recognized the book in his hands and effortlessly opened the floodgates of his obsession. Steve, who had said the most beautiful things about Corroded Coffin without even knowing who Eddie was. Steve, who had talked with him about their shared passions for hours. Steve, who he now somehow had to merge with Right in his mind.

Steve, who seemed so perfect that it made all of Eddie's alarm bells go off at the loudest possible volume. Because this couldn't be real. This was something straight from a disgustingly sweet romcom scenario, and if there was anything Eddie could be certain about, it was that his life was no romcom.

So during the short walk from the station to Wayne's car, Eddie's head had already come up with a dozen scenarios that were completely spiraling out of control – even though they'd all make for great songs, no doubt about that. Steve would die some kind of tragic death on his way to their first date. Steve was secretly addicted to crack. Steve was a stalkerish fan who had lied to him about being Ronan Right to get close to him. Steve would cheat on him on their wedding day.

The list of possibilities was endless and terrifying – while the list of possibilities for this having a happy ending, on the other hand, was exceptionally short.

'Was it that bad?' asked Wayne while they headed out of the city.

Usually, Eddie enjoyed amping up his dramatics to a maximum around Wayne, providing the much-needed balance to his uncle's calm and steady demeanor. But right now, Eddie felt himself deflate in his seat. He couldn't bring himself to make a show out of it.

'No,' he said, quietly. 'He was perfect.'

And Wayne must've heard it in his voice, must've picked up right away that this wasn't Eddie being dramatic, that something serious was going on here, because he gave him this look that was cutting way too deep into his heart.

'Nobody can be that perfect, you know,' Eddie continued. 'It's impossible. And he – he gave me his number. And I just know that if I call it, and we get to know each other better, I'll get crushingly disappointed sooner rather than later. Because something has to be, like, disturbingly wrong with this guy.'

Anyone else than Wayne would probably tell Eddie that he was being ridiculous, that he should get over himself and call Steve; that he should allow himself to let good things happen to him or some shit. But Wayne wasn't just anyone. Wayne was the one person who knew exactly what Eddie meant. The one person who had seen from up-close the shitshow that Eddie's life had been, who had retained a front row seat through all of it. And he had had his own fair share of misery himself, Eddie knew that much. He was too old and had gotten punched down too many times to still hold naive illusions of the possibility of good things.

So he didn't give him some bullshit advice. He merely patted Eddie's knee and turned up the radio.

---

Ever since Eddie had left Hawkins, it had become a habit of him to stay with Wayne for a couple of weeks every now and then. For all his desires to get the hell out of that town when he was younger, he still spent way too much time at his uncle's trailer. But it wasn't Hawkins that he came back for, it was uncle Wayne.

It was home. And it helped him breathe whenever the city got too intense. Helped him get detached from everything that distracted him from the shit that actually mattered. Helped him get his head right when Chicago was threatening to make him lose it.

Time seemed to move differently in Hawkins than in the city. Slower. More naturally, too, somehow. Maybe it was because of the lack of nightlife and flashing neon signs when the world was supposed to be wrapped in darkness. The fact that he could still see the stars when he stepped out of the trailer at nighttime. Maybe it was the quiet, which allowed him to actually hear himself think. Or maybe it was the predictability of it all: Wayne waking him up with a cup of coffee in the morning, the two of them sharing cigarettes on the porch, Eddie helping Wayne with some chores and then trying to write new songs until well into the night, when the world was his and his alone.

He kept reading Right almost religiously, but it was different, now. Now that he could hear Steve's voice say those words, now that he could envision the way in which the sun shone on his hair through the dirty train window and the shape of his hands clutching a walkman that had Eddie's music in it. It was all different.

After a week, Eddie had a whole album worth of songs about the deception of things that seemed perfect. He hadn't been able to write even one song about things ending well, about things working out. That wasn't his life. Things never worked out. Why would they, for a boy born in a household where the trifecta of poverty, addiction and violence was all he had ever known? In the five albums he had produced so far, he'd never experienced a lack of demons to write about.

So no, he wouldn't be calling Steve, even though he had read the number that was written down on the sleeve of his own album so often that it'd probably be impossible to ever erase it from his mind again. He'd protect himself, this time. He'd cherish the hours he got to spend with Ronan Right, the memories that were already starting to feel like a fever dream, and not let his heart break any further. Not this time. Not again.

---

'Got mail for ya.'

An envelope landed in Eddie's lap.

'What's this?'

'I dunno, 's your mail,' Wayne answered.

Eddie didn't recognize the handwriting and the Indianapolis post stamp didn't give him much of a clue either. It didn't make sense that someone would send him a letter at his uncle's place.

He frowned, roughly tore open the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper out of it. It was neither directed at nor signed by anyone, but that wasn't necessary for Eddie to know who sent it.

'What is it, boy?' Wayne asked, a worried edge to his voice upon hearing the choked sob that freed itself from Eddie's throat.

Eddie knew that the words were only meant for him. But he and Wayne were a unit, always had been, ever since Eddie moved into Forest Hills. So he wordlessly handed the paper to his uncle, roughly wiping the tears from his eyes.

Wayne assessed the text with a wrinkled forehead, holding the paper at an arm's-length in order to read it.

'That from the boy you met on the train?'

Eddie nodded.

When his uncle looked up from the letter, Eddie caught an almost unfamiliar look in his eyes. It was soft, hopeful. Optimistic.

'You know I ain't any good with words, like you, or this – this poet,' Wayne said. 'But this...' He pressed the letter back into Eddie's hand. 'This looks like he knows you, Ed. Like he sees you. For all that you are.'

He didn't tell Eddie what to do; that wasn't his style, never had been. But what he did say kept bouncing through Eddie's head unceasingly, making him unable to sleep, unable to write, unable to think about anything else.

---

Eddie desperately wanted to say something meaningful when Steve picked up the phone. He wanted to thank him for reaching out, to apologize for being too much of a coward to call earlier – but what came out of his mouth instead was, 'How did you know where to find me?'

'Eddie, is that you?' It sounded like Steve didn't quite believe it.

'Yeah – yeah, it's me,' was the only thing he managed to get out of his mouth.

'Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped,' Steve told him. 'I just – I couldn't get you out of my head and it all felt so right, you know, like fate or some shit, so I just had to... I needed to try. And I knew your name, and that you were staying with your uncle, so I got help from some friends and they managed to find your uncle's address.'

And as if Eddie hadn't been enough of an emotional wreck over the past week, his vision got blurry with tears yet again.

'Sorry, was it – did I go too far?' Steve sounded nervous.

Eddie could perfectly envision the way he would be frowning and anxiously running a hand through his hair; as if they had already shared a whole lifetime of getting to know all about each other's mannerisms instead of a few stolen hours on a train.

He hated the idea of Steve thinking he had done something wrong when all he ever did was so fucking right, so he determinedly shook his head, then realized Steve wouldn't be able to see that, and started scraping for words.

'No, Steve, you... You're perfect. And that scared the shit out of me, because so far, my life hasn't really done perfect. Most of our songs, they're – well – creative retellings of my own shit.' Now that he started talking, the words actually came a lot easier. 'They're all real, at the core, when you peel away the layers of, like, monster slaying and fantasy imagery. Like, everything underneath all that, it's all... me. Damage, betrayal, fear, violence – all that shit is true. Life hasn't been kind to me, Steve. And I was convinced that you'd only become an addition to that long list of crap, because you seemed way too perfect. I never thought I could have something good. And you're good, Steve, you're so fucking good. So I couldn't believe it.'

A long silence ensued at the other side of the line. Then, a sigh.

Then, 'Eddie,' in the softest voice possible, like his name was something breakable. Eddie didn't remember ever having heard his name said like that.

'I think that was exactly what I heard in your songs. Why I kept listening to them. Why they inspired me so much.'

Eddie tried to swallow away the lump in his throat, suffocated by the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

'I wish I could hold you, right now.'

Eddie's breath caught. He knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to stop running. He needed to trust that Steve could be right, for him. That Steve could be something good.

'I mean, you could come over to Hawkins and do just that, you know,' he suggested.

'D'you want me to?'

He nodded, again forgetting that Steve couldn't see him.

'Yeah, I'd like that. Probably still got half that cookie somewhere in my pocket, y'know. Maybe we could share it.'

Credit where credit is due: the line “He sees you, for all that you are” isn't mine, it's one of my favorite quotes from Schitt's Creek and I really wanted Wayne to say that to Eddie about Steve, so here we have it <3

@ My beloved 🥐 anon: I hope you like this ending, and that I came close enough to your suggestion to have Steve make Eddie a character in his next poem <3

Taglist: @kathorakiryu @goodolefashionedloverboi @undreaming-rambles @fangirlycupcake @ghouligans-central @henderdads @dolphincliffs @anglhrts @ajamlessbaby @yearningagain @vampireinthesun @xxbottlecapx @kissaphobic-kas @mad-h-w @booksandsience @obsessivlyme @ppunkpuppyy @barnes-bestgirl @capital-p-platonic @eddiemunsonmeltdowns @callme-keys

#tumblr didn't wanna format the poem right so i hope it's not too annoying i ended up inserting it as an image #also i'm v nervous about this one bc i can't write poetry yet here i am pretending like i can #don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #fruity ficlet

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the-everqueen · 7 months

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action items white people can consider to make fandom spaces more inclusive for bipoc:

rec/kudos/comment on fanworks made by poc

consider what roles characters of color take in your own work. do black and brown characters exist solely as emotional support for central white characters? are black and brown characters sidelined for white character arcs? do black and brown characters appear solely to Talk About Racism (aka be the Magical or moralizing force for a narrative)?

(consider: Not Doing That)

reflect on whose voices get centralized/prioritized in any given narrative

listen to poc who express discomfort/frustration/critique of the text or fanon without feeling the need to defend either (or recognize you don't need to insert yourself into some conversations)

conversations around racism in fan spaces almost always get derailed into debates about ships or The Literal Text, but in my experience some of the most alienating aspects of fandom are the subtle ways that white people signal us as "other," i.e. acting as though race and queerness are distinct categories (there are queer bipoc! we invented a lot of queer culture!), framing nonwhite characters as unrelatable or undesirable, and reproducing stereotypes in fanon narratives. these become exhausting to encounter, whether or not we're part of the larger fandom ecosystem, and because it's systemic, it becomes impossible to avoid. which means white people's escapism corner is another site that poc have to navigate very, very carefully.

#fandom discourse #i don't want to get into the debates about shipping #some of my favorite fics involve Main Fandom Ships #i also project onto white male characters in media #that's fine! i'm not here to dictate your desires #what frustrates me in any given fandom is the underlying rhetorics that uphold white supremacist thinking #kill the cop in your head #and that's really all i have to say about that #because i would like to get back to my unhinged reblogging of gifsets and discussions on critical race theory #also again! i know a lot of ppl who are into the Main Ship in the current fandoms #who are doing really really good and nuanced shit #i follow some of them!

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blues824 · 1 year

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I loved your Morticia Reader and I was wondering, could you do a Wednesday Addams Reader with the 1st Years? She rarely smiles (Unless someone’s in pain) with her being incredibly morbid, emotionally reserved and her fascination of the macabre and the dark forces? (I love Wednesday) Bonus if you want to; she has Thing with her (I loved how sassy he was in the show) Kudos!

Reader’s gender isn’t specified here, but request calls for female Reader.

Ace Trappola

He was very intimidated by you. You never smiled unless he got hurt or punished, but never when he was intentionally trying to be funny. Not just that, but you had a walking hand accompanying you everywhere. YOU EVEN KNEW WHAT IT WAS SAYING!!!

You were incredibly smart as well. You knew the scientific names of the freaking plants that they were studying, and you knew a magic that was darker than anything he was familiar with. We’re talking about ‘conjuring spirits’ kind of magic. In fact, the time he saw you conjuring Goody Addams, he audibly screamed.

One time, he had been thrown out of Heartslabyul for the nth time and he decided to go to Ramshackle. However, he stopped because he heard something. It sounded like an instrument, one that was deeper than a violin. He kept walking until he saw you through the window, playing a big version of a violin in the living room.

He just bursted in like he owned the place and asked how the heck you know how to play this oversized violin. You threw a knife so close to his head that it cut a piece of his hair off as it flew by. You didn’t even apologize when you corrected him by saying it was a cello.

Everyone is surprised when you both get together. You both are polar opposites: you actually had common sense. You didn’t even know either. Maybe it was the confidence he had carried himself with, even though it got him into a ton of trouble. Plus, he actually understood sarcasm.

Deuce Spade

He was also intimidated by you, but it was in a good way. He found Thing unsettling, but decided that there was no point in being creeped out and decided to learn how to communicate with him. When you are away, they act like middle school girls and gossip about Deuce’s crush on you.

He was in awe of all the pure knowledge you have. In a short amount of time, you were able to rise to the top of your classes. The teachers loved you, so he decided to go to you for tutoring. He had explained how he was an Honor’s Student because of his promise to his mother, and that hit close to home for you.

It was during one of these study sessions where he wasn’t getting the material for some reason, so you suggested a break. You went into your closet and brought out your cello. Deuce was surprised when you got into position and started playing a sad tune.

Another time, he walked in on you performing some sort of ritual. You were even speaking in a whole other language that he didn’t recognize (you were speaking Latin). However, it didn’t seem to work because you let out a frustrated sigh.

When you both get together, no one (besides Ace) was surprised. You both spent a lot of time together, so it did not come as a shock to anyone. Ace was angry that Deuce was able to rizz you up but he hasn’t been able to rizz anyone up since middle school (sounds like Takemichi from Tokyo Revengers).

Jack Howl

Wasn’t intimidated by you at all. In fact, you both held a mutual respect for one another, since you both were the only ones at NRC with common sense. He did find Thing creepy at first, but eventually got used to him. Most of the time, he is often perched on either your shoulder or Jack’s.

You both were good in the academic aspect. You excelled him in many ways, but he was fine with where he was at. There was no way he would be able to remember every little thing the teacher had said in class, but he was happy for you since you could do it.

During the period where you both were trying to stop Azul, he walked to Ramshackle to try and come up with a plan with you. However, his ears detected the sound of a cello. He continued walking towards your dorm (since that was where the sound was coming from), and was surprised to hear it come directly from inside. He then knocked on the door.

You opened it, and Jack looked inside to see a black cello in the middle of your living room. He complimented your skill and immediately got back to work. You were sort of relieved when he didn’t make a big deal out of it since you did have more pressing matters to focus on.

No one is surprised when you guys get together. In fact, it made sense to everyone. He was the one who helped the most with taking Azul down, so it was only a matter of when he’d ask you out. Sure, you both aren’t very romantic, but you show your love in different ways than what would be considered ‘orthodox’.

Epel Felmier

Was most definitely terrified of you, but tried to act like he wasn’t. He would have to summon so much courage to try and talk to you, only to stutter through each and every one of his sentences. Poor guy doesn’t know when he started to sweat so much. He nearly fainted when he met Thing.

He admires you in an academic aspect because you rose to the top of your class very quickly. You even managed to surpass most of the older students when test scores were released. Later that day, you received an apple in the shape of a skull with a note saying “Good job on the test! -E.F.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was from.

One time, you both agreed to meet up to do some homework. He had been having trouble with a specific problem and figured you would be the best person to go to. When he made it, he heard the sound of a cello coming from inside.

He quietly entered the dorm and hid behind a wall while he listened. Once you finished, he came out of his hiding place while applauding you. You had already known that he was there, but you couldn’t help but feel a smile trying to fight its way onto your face. It never stood a chance against your will to force it down.

I feel like some people were surprised when they found out you both were together, but others weren’t. You both had a temper, but your anger would come out in different ways. You offered him a few different outlets, like mastering an instrument so that he could play alongside you (Vil was totally in favor of this idea, since he thought you played beautifully).

Sebek Zigvolt

He would also act like he wasn’t intimidated by you. It came from a place where he thinks you would do better as one of Malleus’s knights, so he grows scared that Waka-sama might see more value in you than him. Plus, Thing wasn’t helping anything.

You both are instant academic rivals. He always gets frustrated because you always hold yourself in a calm manner and always manage to get top marks while he was stuck in second place. It angered him to no end.

One day, he decides to go and ask you some questions because there was no way that you could beat him in a fencing duel, when he heard a cello coming from inside the rickety dormitory. He had to admit that the player was doing amazingly. He knocked on your door and waited for you to answer.

When you invited him inside, he saw that you were in the process of putting your cello away. So you were the one playing so beautifully? He acted like he didn’t hear any of it whilst he asked you to a duel. You asked if he would want the bout to go until 15 touches, or until someone drew the first blood. He picked the latter.

The next day, at around the same time, he lay on the ground with a cut on his face. You explain that you had been training since you were 5 years old, and therefore had that much more experience than him. However, when you named your price for winning, he blushed. You asked him out. Every onlooker gasped in surprise, and their eyes went wider when the half-fae accepted.

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gatorbites-imagines · 1 year

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bro you’re. you’re so cracked. for months bro i’ve looked at you in shock and awe, i could never keep up the way you can man. huge respect for you.

i know you posted it sunday, i saw it when it still had 5 kudos, and i was going to say something but then i got a little shy. my extraverted-ness immediately leaves when i get online. but i am begging you (respectfully) for more of the Jolly n Ghost knifeplay fic. that was fucking fantastic dude. on your A+ game per usual. it’s absolutely fine if you don’t get around to it, no worries.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x male reader

Part 2 to the knifeplay prompt

Headcanons

Hehe im glad you liked my first part to this, you’re making me blush with the compliments. isn’t any blood n stuff in this but I hope you still enjoy :)

- After that night in the practice room, Ghost and you had gotten closer. What you had didn’t have a label, but everyone could tell you both had come to some type of agreement, and it was making you two tolerate one another, even enjoy the others company.

- No one knows what happened, but there ended up being multiple rumours about what two of the teams best and bloodiest soldiers could have gotten up to, especially after the bloody mats were found.

- You had done your best to clean the mats, but there was only so much you could do, especially since you and Ghost had been so busy humping like rabbits and the blood had dried when you were done.

- The time you spent together outside of missions and duties was like the first night for the most part, dangerous, hot, and bloody. Neither of you ever went without a few cuts or bruises, your late-night sparring regularly ending with one of you on all fours as the other held the first down by the back of their neck and went to town.

- That didn’t mean there weren’t short moments of softness, where after you had both been wrung dry of all you had where Ghost and you would lay side by side, even cuddling at times. There were times where Ghost would turn to you and kiss you so softly and carefully, as if you were made of glass and would break if he went any rougher.

- It always made something unfurl like a flower in your chest, basking in his careful touches as he revealed some tiny vulnerable part of him.

- Ghost had been called away on a mission with the main folk, meaning Soap, Gaz and Price, leaving you behind on base with the rookies and alike.

- You knew they could take care of themselves, so you just went about your business, training rookies and helping out where you were needed. Staying close to your callsign you never let the grin drop from your lips, your mood always high and bubbly, though this did not make you weak, many of the other people on base could say this from experience.

- You were in a great mood when the team returned, and as you went to go welcome them back a ruckus caught you attention as they landed. Soap was out first, Price quickly following after, the two of them lugging somebodies limp, bloody body.

- You heart gave a lurch as you recognized that body, it was Ghost. The grin you knew was on your lips tightened as panic filled your being, his hands tightening into fists by your side as medics quickly arrived and carted your partner? Away.

- The other three made their way to the medbay, all looking like they had been dragged to hell and back as they stumbled past you, though they were all standing and conscious, which could not be said about Ghost.

- Price must have seen the look in your eyes as he patted you on the shoulder as he passed you, “he’s alright Jolly, don’t you worry, Ghost is tough” he said to comfort you.

- You knew better than anyone how tough Ghost could be, seeing as you both spent a lot of time ripping each other to bits and putting each other back together afterwards, but it didn’t lessen the painful feeling in your chest.

- You tried to stay yourself during the next few days as Ghost didn’t wake up, but you couldn’t help but be short with people, your anxiety for the Brit growing more and more every day.

- You still had a smile on your face, it was something you had trained into yourself after your violent torture, even if you hid it with your balaclava. But seeing Ghost like that, so cold and still on the medical bed, it was like it ripped open every scar you had on your body and left you freezing.

- You visited Ghost every day, more than once for that matter, always hoping he would be awake to roll his eyes at you and tell you not to worry, maybe even insult you for being such a worrywart, but he didn’t move, not even a twitch.

- It was impossible to sleep at night, the dark bags under your eyes growing day by day even as they were hidden by the black paint you wore around them. You knew it was obvious you weren’t coping well, and it was obvious to others as recruits avoided you like the plague and your friends looked at you with worry.

- Finally, one day when exercising in the bases gym, you overheard a group of people talk about Ghost, and when one of them made a comment about how they hoped he didn’t wake up, something in you seemed to snap.

- Because during those long sleepless nights you had realized what you felt for Ghost wasn’t just some random spark that came with an exciting bed partner, but it was love. You had realized you were so in love with Ghost the idea of losing him was destroying you.

- Your world had bled red and when you came back to yourself it was because you were being held to the ground by Price, Soap, and Gaz. Price was talking to you, but you could make sense of anything he was saying, your eyes stuck on the soldier you had jumped as he was taken out of the gym by his mates.

- You had been benched after that, not allowed to use the gym, or get involved with anything involving planning, training, or the likes. All you could really do was clean, do kitchen duty or sit with Ghost.

- So that’s what you did, you sat with Ghost. Sitting in silence with your hands clenched tight, shoulders tense, and scars burning as if they were brand new. You got little sleep, most of it by Ghosts bedside sitting in those horrible chairs all medical facilities seemed to use, arms crossed over your chest and body ready to spring into action if needed.

- It was evening, not too late but late enough that no one was moving about, and Ghost had been moved into a personal room a while ago as he still didn’t wake up, at least there was the privacy of the room being like that.

- You found yourself by his bedside again, holding his limp hand as he stared down at the white sheets that covered him. All of a sudden, the fabric around your face felt so constricting, and frustration flared in your chest as you reached up and tore it off, balling up the black fabric of your balaclava and throwing it at the floor.

- Your hair was a mess, you know this for a fact, having not washed it since Ghost went into this coma of his, it just didn’t seem important when the man who had wormed his way into your heart was here and not waking up.

- For once you weren’t smiling, a painful frown on your face as you clasped onto Ghosts hand, trying so hard to will him to move, or make a noise, anything. Your eyes blurred as tears gathered in them as scenarios played through your mind for the thousandth time.

- What if he didn’t wake? What if he didn’t return your feelings? What if, what if, what if.

- You had been so consumed by the painful feelings and thoughts that you didn’t notice Ghosts eyes fluttering, slowly opening, or his head turning in your direction as you sat with your head ducked down, trying so hard not to start sobbing.

- “Never thought I’d see the day” a raspy voice said from the bed, your head quickly snapping up and trying in vain to blink away tears, the tears running down your cheeks and leaving wet lines down your face.

- You didn’t know what to say, keeping Ghosts eyes that looked at you softly, he still looked exhausted, but he gripped your hand back when you didn’t react.

- “And here I thought id never see you not smiling, Jolly” he chuckled softly, his voice rough and dry, sounding slightly pained as the chuckling made his body move just a little. You just let out a pain noise at seeing him awake, finally springing to your feet and knocking the chair you were sitting in over.

- “Ghost” you choked, eyes welling up with tears again as the iron cold grip that had been on your hard loosened, trying to find words to express just how relieved you were to see him awake, how much you loved him, how much he meant to you, but nothing came out.

- Seeming to notice your dilemma Ghost just huffed a laugh and pulled you close with the grip he had on your hand, and when you were close enough to leant in to press a soft kiss to your lips. His lips were dry and chapped, but kissing him was the best feeling you had ever experienced.

- A wobbly noise left you as you reached up and held onto his face almost desperately, kissing him over and over, your tongues rubbing against one another and getting spit all over your chins.

- Ghost was the one to finally pull back, not giving you enough time to whine at the loss of contact as he pressed his forehead against your own, his hands coming up to comb through your messy hair.

- “Hope you didn’t miss me too much Jolly” he joked, a scoff leaving your lips as he grasped onto his shirt, not wanting to let go any time soon.

- “Don’t you dare do that again Simon” you growled, staring deeply into his eyes, his eyes seeming to grow even softer and fonder as you used his name, his hand coming down to caress your cheek.

- Pecking your lips one last time he just muttered he couldn’t make any promises, to which you let out an annoyed grunt. You stayed like this for a while, not wanting to let go of the other and just needing to feel the others contact and attention.

- The feelings that had been brewing in your chest didn’t seem to be able to be contained anymore as the quiet words of confession fall from your lips, the fear or losing Simon too great, the knowledge that you had almost lost the ability to tell him.

- Simon tensed up but slowly relaxed again, his beautiful eyes looking into your own. Carefully, Simon reached up and pulled off his balaclava, revealing his scarred-up face and blonde hair to you.

- It made the warmth inside you grow even further to see him. He had never been a man of words, but as he pulled you in to kiss you once more, you knew his answer, and it made you want to weep tears of joy.

- You could almost forget you were in a hospital room, on a military base. Being here with Simon was more than enough, to know he loved you back even though he couldn’t say it was enough. This was all you needed, all Simon needed too. To have each other, nothing else mattered.

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pastadoughie · 4 months

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Read over what was going on with anon asks and your posts, and tbh, if you are 16 and you are reaching this kind of critical thinking and actively trying to better yourself through meaningful debates and convos, you are doing god's fucking work from early. I couldn't even begin to form the kind of arguments you are articulating at your age in your posts, so fucking kudos.

I have a similar opinion of sexism being bad no matter the form it takes, patriarchy affects everyone because it imposes roles on everyone, not only women. Breaking those roles on all sides and genders should be the ultimate goal, not try to benefit from the system to become the oppressor.

In any case dude, good luck with the unavoidable influx of people who will misinterpret your posts. Also, your art is hella cool!

i think that alot of ppl just have a rlly hard time like, getting over the gut response to defend themselves when they recieve some kind of serious critisism, like, i think ppl understand on some level that sexism as a concept is stupid, but it can be hard to fully see all the nuances it takes and like, actually recognize it when its subtler

sexism is bad and when i point out that alot of you guys believe ideas that are like, really sexist then thats like, im assuming none of you are like "YEAA SEXISM RUELZZZ!!!! I HATE PEOPLE BASED ON THIER GENDOR" and u rlly rlly dont wanna be lumped into that group

its rlly normal to not wanna be mischaracterized and if you dont self identify as sexist then when someone points out sexist retoric it feels like an unfair and reductive veiw of u

and its like, you really really really need to work past that, im talking abt this stuff because i want ppl to change and be better and if you want that for yourself u have to like rlly chew on these kinds of things

i think what alot of people have issues with is like, relatability in artwork, like "of course im gonna like art with queer women in it more and find it more valueble if im a queer woman" but i think that this points to a really rigid and uphelpful veiw of gender

ive discussed before that, because the mind numbing ammount of biological differences people have theres no actual objective definition of sex or gender, its socially constructed and entirely arbitrary and subjective

i think that labels for sexuality and gender are useful shorthand in our current society though ideally we wouldnt need them, but you need to remember that these things arent rigid

butch lesbian is not a definable group, gay man is not a definable group, they are arbitrary words that mean something different for literally every different person

likewise acting like those meaningless labels somehow make some artwork more or less valueble just points to a bias against people with a certain label

like, the labels dont mean anything they shouldnt change your veiw of a work, if you resonate with a peice of work why does it matter what label is put on it? why does that affect your veiw on the peice?

and yes you are objectively going to relate to some experiences more then others, but i dont think relatability should effect how you value the work, infact id argue seeing perspectives different then your own is incredibly incredibly valueble and, if your disregarding (even subconciously) certain things because theyre made by men then that not only hurts men but it hurts you, it isolates you

maybe i didnt word that perfectly im not always the most articulate but like, i think most of the issues people are having with this are coming from me articulating things maybe not as intuatively as i could or from people refusing to properly engadge with what i have to say

idk, regarding the people accusing me of transmysogeny i just wanna say that like, I AM NOT ALLERGIC TO TALKING TO YOU ABT THIS!! i want to be better and i dont want to be mysogenistic! and if you do see concerning behavior in me i want to be told of it, you keeping these kinds of things to yourself or refusing to engadge with me when i actively am trying to be like, thourough and nuanced about things is just kinda, not productive

#the beast speaks #ask #asks #the-fifteen #retchid opinions

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wisp-enclosure · 24 days

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So Wisp, what's this about the Catrats being in love?

Let me preface this all by saying that Lucasta and Kudo are very good friends.

This isn't me being facetious by the way, it's a fundamental part (to me, because I'm delusional) of their 10+ year slowburn. All this elder dragon nonsense might have forced them into proximity, but it's NOT what's keeping them together.

The catrats' interests overlap; Lu's rune crafting and Kudo's research into practical magitech often go hand in hand. Kudo admires (and honestly envies) Lu's tendency towards out of the box thinking, and thinks she's brilliant. Lu, meanwhile, knows that Kudo is a certified genius and thinks that absolutely sick, and values his insight.

And it goes further than that. Kudo appreciates how kind and caring Lu is (even though he worries she sometimes goes overboard at the cost of her own comfort). Lu finds Kudo very sweet and selfless (even though him doing things for HER instead of the other way 'round makes her antsy). Kudo appreciates her unwavering support, Lu appreciates his seemingly infinite patience with her intricacies. They're similar in many ways and perfectly complement each other when they aren't.

They're both shut-ins that hate leaving the house and just want to talk about their projects together, basically.

What else?

Well, turns out they're broken in the same way too.

Kudo's destiny was never his own to write. He was going to be Kudu or he was going to be Snaff; if anything, being Kudo was more of a temporary state of being. A blank slate for other people to mold. He isn't sure there's anything to him. At least, nothing good.

Lu was born to serve. Her Legion, her father, whatever mate was picked out for her. Lu wasn't afforded the chance to find out who she was because it didn't matter. What she's supposed to be is useful. That's it.

Neither of the catrats have a solid sense of self. Different circumstances, but same core issue. And becoming commanders at such young ages certainly didn't help. They can't see who they are deep down.

But they can see each other. And they love what they see.

Lucasta and Kudo might not be sure in their own identities, but they recognize the other as clear as day. There is an unspoken understanding. It sucks, but there is a certain amount of comfort in having someone by your side that's just as lost and confused as you are.

They can't see what the other sees in them, but they do paint such a beautiful picture of it.

So when does this all happen?

Well, that depends on how you define "when" and "happen". And "this". Arguably the first time their blossoming romance starts to bubble to the surface is during HoT.

Where they're fighting for basically half the expac.

The specifics of the fight are for another lore post, but it culminates in a big blowout argument in Tarir and ends with Kudo pleading with Lu to share her burdens (both commander-related and emotional) because he cares about her dammit! Lu can't put her finger on it, but she starts to see Kudo in a slightly different light after that.

LWS3 is when things become much more obvious, because that's when the crush Kudo's unknowingly been nursing reaches its peak. He's still oblivious, of course, but he does recognize that SOMETHING is happening to him. Why is he so frustrated and jealous when Lu gets flirted with? Why does he keep staring at her when she isn't doing anything? Why is his heart racing? Is he dying? Must be.

PoF is THE BIG ONE. Arguably the most important catrat expac just by virtue of how it affects their relationship. Kudo dies. But you knew that I'm sure.

But he dies FOR LU. And as she cradles his lifeless body 300 realizations hit her at once, but they all lead to the same conclusion: she loves him. She loves him and now he's gone. It took her this long and now it's too late.

Kudo meanwhile is having his fun little field trip in the ghost zone and comes to the same realization at roughly the same time as Lu. Sacrificing yourself will do that I guess.

Okay so what's the hold up?

Me. :} Just kidding. Sort of.

You'll notice that PoF takes place halfway through the story and as of EoD they're STILL not together, what gives?

The problem is twofold.

Lu, ever reluctant to share her negative feelings at the risk of being a burden, had started to open up to Kudo after that fight in HoT. By PoF and onward he is her emotional anchor and confidant. It felt so good to not have to hide or lock up her feelings in front of someone. But that's also sort of the issue. Lu is being open but she still feels like a burden when she does it. Every time she comes to him for comfort she feels so so guilty to put him in that situation. Like a liability.

To Lu, telling Kudo how she feels is yet another of her problems he'll have to shoulder, on top of everything else he's dealing with. It's selfish. And she's not even useful to him, has nothing to offer; why would he ever love her? Not to mention the whole "different species" thing.

Kudo has his own laundry list of reasons why he's not confessing to her either. Most pressing though is that time he almost killed her. He still feels so agonizingly guilty over the whole incident years later that it makes him sick. Haunts his dreams. In what world could she possibly feel the same? He doesn't deserve her love.

So they're both stupid, basically.

#catrat lore

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canary3d-obsessed · 1 year

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed, Episode 36 part two

(Masterpost) (Pinboard) (whole thing on AO3)

Warning! Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Breakfast Al Fresco

After a nightmare about falling into the burial mounds, Wei Wuxian wakes up all misty.

I guess this is supposed to be sweat, but sweat is usually not distributed in a fine spray over the surface of a person’s face like this, at least not the kind that happens while you sleep. My fellow menopausal people can attest to this.

For the first and probably last time in their lives, Wei Wuxian is up for breakfast before Lan Wangji.

This means that we, not Lan Wangji, get to watch him eat.

What? I’m a simple woman with simple interests.

(more behind the cut!)

I Sit And Watch the Children Play

While he eats his breakfast, Wei Wuxian watches a group of kids playing “Sunshot Campaign,” complete with shooting toy arrows at a kite that represents the sun. A reference, presumably, to that kite that Wang Lingjiao used as an excuse to attack Lotus Pier.

Doing things I used to do They think are new

Wei Wuxian smiles with genuine pleasure, watching these small fry play-acting the central trauma of his and his peers’ lives; only the mention of Jin Zixuan’s death brings his mood down.

He appears to carry his damage very lightly, but we know that this bright morning began with a nightmare. Perhaps every morning begins that way, but he is an expert at clearing his mind and embracing The “Now” of Wolf Thought the present moment.

Seeing kiddie Hanguang-Jun and Jiang Cheng cheers him right back up again. Kudos to whoever was in charge of casting kids in this show. I particularly love baby Nie Mingjue’s big boss energy.

BBNMJ: Don’t make me shank you

The kiddos do a good job of embodying the conflicts of the cultivation world, roleplaying a bunch of guys trying to be in charge while smack-talking the other guys who want to be in charge.

Wei Wuxian politely asks the kids where’s Yiling Laozu? which sets up a gag in which their...nanny? shows up and hollers at them and they call her Yiling Laozu and run away. It’s funny and it does illustrate Wei Wuxian’s ongoing bad reputation.

It misses an opportunity, though, to show us a cute baby Yiling Laozu like the one we see in the Donghua.

There’s Got To Be A Morning After

Lan Wangji finally emerges from the inn, and proceeds to have more facial expressions in 60 seconds than he usually has in an hour.

Wei Wuxian has a good time teasing him about his drunkenness, while managing not to actually tell him any of the things that happened, other than their discussion about rabbits.

Note that this conversation is even more entertaining if you mentally substitute the word “ass” for the word “rabbit.”

Trust Me

Wei Wuxian mercifully changes the subject, asking Lan Wangji if he recognized the Ghost-Masked guy’s sword style. Lan Wangji doesn’t remember anything from last night except the sword fight, which is very on brand for him. He loves: sword fighting, rules, and Wei Wuxian, not in that order.

Wei Wuxian, because he has a perception bonus of +10, noticed that the dude put a spell on his sword to disguise it, meaning that he and his sword must both be well-known cultivators. He also noticed that the dude knew Lan Clan sword moves. Wei Wuxian very gently asks if the guy is someone that Lan Wangji knows.

Lan Wangji thinks for a moment and says No. Wei Wuxian accepts his answer so readily that Lan Wangji is taken aback, and thinks that WWX doesn’t believe him.

He asks if Wei Wuxian trusts/believes/believes in him, using the same word,信, that we looked at in Episode 33, and that will come up again in a couple more places.

Wei Wuxian reassures him, although his reasoning--that Hanguang-Jun has never spoken a lie--is not 100% correct. Unless we think he really was night hunting in Yiling all those years ago.

At this point the Qiankun bag of Plot Convenience tells them to mosey along to scenic Yi City.

An Inauspicious Place

When they approach their destination, we get to see the more mellow side of their camaraderie; their interaction has a lot of the flavor of their first road trip together, but with more maturity and mutual respect. As in the old days, Wei Wuxian handles the social interactions, talking to a dude by the road to get directions, while Lan Wangji hangs back.

In discussing the name of the place, Lan Wangji listens with interest while Wei Wuxian explains the layered meaning of the name, and we’re reminded that Wei Wuxian was a formidable scholar before his life went to shit.

Wei Wuxian 2.0 has some catching up to do, both in cultivation and in reading, to be a match for his 30-something boyfriend once again, but his fundamentals are strong as hell.

When they reach the gate of the city they take a moment to share some unnecessary eye contact. They probably think they’re about to have a fun low-angst adventure.

They start walking through the almost-deserted town, which has random paper funeral swag rolling around. The whole town was apparently focused on funerals and making funerary offerings, which seems like an unreliable basis for an economy.

Everything is covered in a haze that makes things difficult for sword dudes and gifmakers. They’re led a little ways into town by a mysterious running person, who is A-Qing running at breakneck speed, presumably to hide from Xue Yang while she also tries to make contact with the newcomers.

A little more running, and Wei Wuxian find a whole crowd of juniors, including all of our favorites. Bright boy Sizhui immediately figures out that if “Mo Xuanyu” is here, Lan Wanji must be here too. Jingyi immediately fangirls about Hanguang-Jun, recognizing Bichen’s sword light through the haze.

Jin Ling has never had a cool teacher in his high school, so he doesn’t get what the fuss is about.

Wei Wuxian encourages the kids to dump a heap of exposition about why they are here. They are here because the plot wants them to be here.

Then they start squabbling, because they are a bunch of teenage boys, and Lan Wangji, who is not anywhere in sight, silences them with the Lan silencing spell. Despite the fact that they’re all lost in a fog in a strange, inauspicious place. Fuck safety, amirite?

Naturally the next thing that happens is a bunch of zombies come up behind Wei Wuxian and the kids try to warn him, but without speech they’re reduced to impassioned pointing. Don’t bother drawing your swords, you useless twits.

Wei Wuxian temporarily stops the zombies with a finger snap, but then they start up again. Lan Wangji shows up and guqins them into oblivion, accidentally poisoning a random selection of juniors in the process.

The adults figure out that there’s a Yin Tiger Seal in operation, but it’s not Wei Wuxian’s. Wei Wuxian takes this opportunity to brag about his superior corpses.

Lan Wangji: I know, dude; I distinctly recall one of those fuckers slicing my Wei-Ying-catching arm open

Then the ghost-mask dude shows up to fight, making the most of the low visibility and his uncanny ability to not actually be in the scene for most of the fighting.

Camera Operator: sword fighting while I hold this camera sure is difficult

Lan Wangji elegantly goes after Ghost Mask guy, heading over the rooftops to have a smoke a prolonged offscreen fight while Wei Wuxian handles things in town for the next...hour or two? However long it takes to make congee, anyway.

Wei Wuxian leads the kids to find a house with a functioning kitchen so he can cook up a remedy for the poisoning.

He tells the juniors that getting poisoned is good because it’s an experience they can talk about when they’re older. By that measure, Wei Wuxian has had the best life of anybody ever.

They find a creepy house with a creepy lady who has corpse lines on her neck, which is as good as things get here in Yi City, so Wei Wuxian talks his way in.

He’s very polite but he shows the juniors that he’s got the door blocked with his foot so that he can push his way in if necessary.

Sizhui lights a candle and all of the kids freak out when they see the full-size paper servants hanging from the rafters, even though paper servants would be a pretty normal thing to see in their lives, and they are all, like, professional ghost and monster hunters.

Wei Wuxian, looking fine as hell, steps into the creepy lady’s room to ask her permission to use her kitchen. He notices that she’s working in the dark and sees the lines on her neck, but he’s not prejudiced against corpses so he doesn’t comment. He uses his beautiful hands to thread her needle for her before going to cook fire congee for the juniors.

Soundtrack: As Tears Go By, by Marianne Faithfull or by The Rolling Stones, take your pick; There’s Got To Be a Morning After by that girl in The Poseidon Adventure.

Further Reading: The “Now” of Wolf Thought is a reference to Elfquest, which is an awesome comic book series that launched back when I was a teen. You can read all of them for free at Elfquest.com without registering or anything.

Bonus: Beautiful Hanguang-Jun

#restless rewatch the untamed #the untamed gifs #yi city #wangxian #canary3d-original #the untamed #ep36

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airas-story · 2 months

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hi!! hope you’re doing well. I was just wondering if you ever plan on continuing the Drabble with Stephen and Tony having been kidnapped together? Really interesting concept, kudos to you!!

...Looks like the answer is yes! Here's an additional installment! Not sure if it's going to go further? Maybe? I'm playing with some things.

“Oh, Stephen.”

Christine’s arms were tight where they wrapped around Stephen’s waist and Stephen found it was suddenly hard to breathe, though for a different reason entirely.

Christine was here. Safe. Alive.

For months Stephen had been forced to wonder. The wondering had plagued him, had been an exquisite torture all its own, not knowing if she was alive or dead. Wondering if she was okay.

Now here she was. Tony had offered to fly her out the moment they’d ascertained that she was alive and safe.

He could hear quiet steps moving away. “Don’t,” Stephen said, turning his head to find Tony almost to the door, hand outstretched to push it open. “Tony…”

“You need time with your friend,” Tony said quietly.

Stephen shook his head as Christine drew back. She wiped at her eyes discreetly, dashing tears away. “I know.” He swallowed. “But for once I have both of you where I can see you. I’d like to keep that a little longer.”

Tony paused, but then nodded. “Food?” he asked. “I can… while you talk.”

Stephen nodded. “That’s… perfect.” Because he did want time to talk to Christine, to really make sure that she was okay. But Tony was…

It was co-dependence. Stephen was no psychologist, but even he could recognize that. But he didn’t know how to push past it. Things were just easier when they were together. The sight of Tony out of the corner of his eye a reminder that he was safe. That Stephen had kept him alive.

Tony moved into where the kitchen was connected to the living room and Stephen led Christine to the couch. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Really?”

Christine let out a choked up laugh. “Stephen. I wasn’t the one who was taken. I… Of course, I’m okay. I should be asking you, that.”

“I got out,” Stephen said. It was something he told himself regularly, that he was out, that he was free. “Tony… Tony got me out.”

Christine’s gaze flashed to Tony where he was in the kitchen prepping a pot of water for pasta and pretending to ignore them. Gratitude was heavy in her eyes. Some part of Stephen relaxed. It would be so easy to blame Tony for what had happened to Stephen to someone who didn’t know what had happened.

But Stephen hadn’t been taken because of Tony, the ten rings hadn’t planned on keeping Tony at all, not then. No, Stephen and Yinsen had been there as forced medical service. His and Yinsen’s presence had been a lucky miracle for Tony. Stephen wasn’t sure there were many other hands out there that would have been capable of keeping Tony alive.

And Stephen wasn’t actually talking about his own hands. It had been Yinsen who had directed him. Yinsen who had known how to construct the electromagnet they’d placed in Tony’s chest. Stephen might have theoretically been able to pose it as a solution, he would never have been able to make it a reality.

That wasn’t to say that Stephen hadn’t helped. He had. There was no doubting that. It had been him who had pushed to remove some of the more dangerous shrapnel. Not enough—so long as there was metal in Tony’s chest it would never be enough—but at least some of the danger posed to Tony was mitigated.

“I’m… I’m so glad you’re coming home,” Christine said voice warm and soft.

Stephen flinched a little. Because coming home… he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. “I… I’m not sure I’m coming back.” He took a deep breath. “There are hospitals in California,” he said quietly. He couldn’t quite meet her gaze.

Christine’s eyes widened in surprise.

From the corner of his eye he saw Tony freeze.

They hadn’t talked about this, yet. They should, Stephen knew. They needed to. There was so much they needed to talk about that they didn’t. So much that they let slip by because staying as they were was… was something neither of them was ready to change. They had each other.

Stephen wasn’t ready to lose that.

Christine’s gaze turned understanding. “Any hospital would be lucky to get you,” she said quietly. “Even if I will miss you.”

Stephen managed a smile. “I’m sure they’d take you, too.”

Christine laughed, her lips twitching with her smile. “I’ll think about it.”

Stephen suspected that was a no, but… well, he could pretend. He glanced to the side to see Tony watching him. Relief and concern fought in his eyes, neither quite winning the fight for dominance.

He and Tony needed to talk. Needed to get past this phase of desperate need they held for each other.

Just… not yet.

#ironstrange #fic #tony stark #stephen strange #christine palmer

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flowerpotmage · 8 months

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Tight Grip, Broken Dam (10)

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: blood, gore, semi-graphic descriptions of injury

Word Count: 5.3k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

The sound of city traffic washes over you like a chorus of songbirds, like the rattle of rough pebbles gently dragged against each other by retreating waves. Up here, high on the old domed rooftop, the sounds of the city feel as much a part of the natural world as the post-twilight darkness that blankets the sky. It’s only the beginning of the night, so your suit is still clean and your skin still dry, unsalted from sweat.

You never go out on weekends, at least not as anyone other than Spider: it’s too busy of a night to neglect your responsibilities. Too many people clashing in the night, like so many bumper cars at the fair. Everyone wants something on late, free weekend nights. And it’s your job to play referee.

You snort as the thought crosses your mind. You’ve been spending too much time around the serious Spiders if this is what your internal monologue has become. Bumper cars? Referee? You’re a mutated human in a custom made suit swinging on material that comes out of your own damn body in the dark of night to thwart petty criminals. Hardly something to be poetic about.

At least you’re not the only one. Even putting the others in the Spider Society aside, it’s a relief to know that there’s other heroes here in your own dimension putting in the work. The X-Men, Tony Stark, even the historic legend of Captain America. You. And, over the last year, the masked man of Hell’s Kitchen. Having someone else local leaves one less neighborhood for you to worry about.

There, in the distance: Frantic flashes of red and blue catch your focus. You pull your mask down, the barrier pushing away the soft caress of cool night air on your skin, and swing off into the city towards them.

Upon arrival you see a ring of police cars radiating around a nightclub entrance, blockades on either end of the street. They’re surrounding a venue you’ve never heard of before, much less actually been to.

“Howdy, officers,” you say, dropping down near a cluster of uniforms talking nervously amongst themselves. “What seems to be the problem?”

The one with his back turns towards you, and you recognize something familiar in the blue of his eyes, his blond hair. Your eyes dart down to his uniform—Ah. This must be the new captain.

“Captain,” you greet, with a little salute.

“Spider,” he says, glancing from you to the club building. “It’s been a while.”

You know what he’s referring to: your abrupt and sudden withdrawal from cooperating with the police force.

“Family matters,” is all you say. Not a lie.

This new Captain looks like he wants to say something, but then with another glance at the building and a shake of his head he thinks better of it. “We have a hostage situation,” he says.

“Any demands?”

“Not as of yet,” he says, and the two of you begin walking closer to the building, closer to the edge of the perimeter. “Our guess is at least five men.”

You don’t miss the way he seems reluctant to even be telling you this, the uncomfortable sideways glances and the tension in his shoulders that you just know isn’t only from the turn his work has taken for the night.

You perch your hands on your hips, surveying the building. It’s at least four stories high, no windows except at the top floor. You point up at them, looking at the Captain.

“I can get in and at least give you a better picture of what’s inside.”

He purses his lips. “I don’t kn–”

But you’re already pulling yourself up into the air on your web, landing on the brick between two windows. The lights are off inside, and the reflecting red and blue of the lights off the glass doesn’t give you an easy look inside. Neither do the drawn curtains.

“Spider’s going in?” you hear someone say down below, the faint voice bumping against your focus.

You don’t catch the captain’s returning comment, but you do hear the gruffness of his voice.

You push your thoughts aside, crawling on the wall over to the next window—Aha! A gap in the curtains lets you peer through and scan the room as best you can. It seems to be a managerial office for the club. There’s a desk and a couch, art on the walls, a freestanding wardrobe to one side. The door across from the window is cracked, letting a sliver of light shine through, the characteristic pre-green era yellow cutting across the carpet.

Carefully, you slide the window open.

No alarm. Cocky.

You glance back at the officers on the street below. You wave, point a thumb in through the window, salute, and vault in—but not before catching the way the captain throws a disbelieving hand in the air.

You slide the window closed, staying crouched to the ground and strain to listen.

This floor is silent. No, wait—

The creak of a floorboard in the hall outside the room you’re in.

Still crouched, you half-crawl your way to the cracked doorway. If you stay low they’re less likely to see you peek through out of the corner of their eyes—People never expect you to come from below.

In the hall is one man, shifting from foot to foot under the weight of his tactical gear. Everything about his stance screams casual, confident, relaxed.

Good.

When he turns his head away to cough into his elbow, even with his ski mask covering his mouth (aw, he cares!) you pull the door open and make your move. He’s webbed against the wall in the blink of an eye, his ski mask stuffed in his mouth.

He yells at you through it, voice muffled, when you pat his cheek and slip down the hall.

That’s a promising start, you think to yourself.

The third floor is empty, the space containing a large dressing room with sprawling messy vanities covered in makeup and spare bits of clothes. At least, you think it is until you hear a voice whisper–shout your moniker.

“Spider!”

You whip your head around, looking for the source of the hiss, when a clothing rack in the corner rustles and a face peers out from between two sparkling slinky dresses. You glance back over your shoulder, rushing over in a slight crouch.

“Are you alright?”

She’s pretty, you briefly think. Full round lips, dark glossy brown hair in 1920s style fingerwaves–

She nods. “Thank god you’re here, I don’t know what–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure, reaching out to calm her with a hand on her forearm. “The police are outside. How many are there?”

She shakes her head frantically, body trembling.

“What happened?” you press.

“A bunch of men came in, all geared up like some kind of action movie SWAT team,” she whispers. “I was working the top balcony, bussing tables. I was near the stairs when they came in.”

“How many?”

She shakes her head again. “And then there was this bright orange light, not the club lights going up, and–” she somehow manages to look you right in the eye through the lenses of your mask. “This big, huge monster came rocketing through and then it— it— it started eating–”

You freeze. An anomaly? Again?

“I’ll take care of it,” you reassure, squeezing her arm. “But, just to make sure, when you say eating-”

“It bit one of the guys’ heads off. Literally.”

Your stomach lurches. “Got it.” You start to go, pause and turn to look back at her. “Stay here.”

She nods, retreating back behind her shield of sequins and silk. You turn to go, and then realize—

“Hey, where are the stairs?”

One of her hands pokes back out and points you in the right direction.

“Got it. Thanks.”

It turns out the first two floors of the club are one big open space, a wraparound balcony lined with booths and tables taking up what would be the second story. The music is still playing; a song with a lively beat for dancing and a crooning man’s voice, one you think is trying too hard to sound sexy.

People are cowering and crying in their designer clothes, and it doesn’t take you long to figure out why they’re in such a state despite the absence of the armed men that had originally brought the swarm of officers to the door.

You’d never thought you’d describe crunching as wet, but that’s the only thing that comes to mind when the sounds reach your ears through the somewhat dulled music. Wet crunching, and slurps, and—and pleased growls.

“Tasty. Different.”

You know that voice.

Nobody sees you on the ceiling, crawling on your fingertips. There’s a splatter of blood and shredded black fabric on the balcony, where you guess one of the original perps had stood.

Your stomach squeezes, twisting and rocking in unease. Much like the sound of him eating, the smell of blood now carries through the smells of designer perfumes and colognes and spilled drinks, finding your nose under your mask. There’s a sickening rip and slurp, the sound of something wet hitting the floor, and then you’re far enough into the room to see him down below.

Venom.

He’s not your dimension’s Venom, no—this one looks, for lack of a better adjective, wetter. The club lights bounce off his form, shining and shimmering and enhancing every inch of hulking alien flesh. In his hands is–

You have to cover your mouth. This is not your Venom.

You worry that you might be out of your depth with this one. But he’s almost out of armed men to eat, if the… If the unrecognizable thing in his hands is enough to go off, or the unconscious man six feet away with a missing lower leg, face down and shaking on the tile.

You decide to start with him, while this Venom is still eating.

Silently, you begin lowering yourself down on a web to the dance floor, gesturing at various patrons to be quiet, to not give you away. You drop the last few feet to land beside the man on the ground, forcing down your roiling stomach at the sight of his knee. He’s barely conscious, and for that you’re glad. It means he’s silent when you cover his bleeding stump with your web to stem the flow of blood and remains so when you lift him into your arms. He’s bigger, but you’re strong, and you swing him up to the balcony to tuck into a booth with crying and cowering patrons.

“I need you to do me a favor,” you whisper to them. “See that door over there? That goes to the next floor. I need you to all start, as quietly as possible, start getting out of here. And I need you to bring this guy with you. Can you do that?”

Wide, wet eyes stare back at you.

“Can you do that?” You ask again, voice firm. They nod.

You have to trust them, and you start sneaking people out of the top balcony out to the next floor.

They’re almost all gone when Venom finishes his meal and turns to find that his next course has disappeared.

He roars.

“Okay, no more sneaking, go, gogogo–”

The last stragglers run for it, and you web the door shut behind them, vaulting over the railing to keep Venom’s attention off the lower floor guests and on you.

Venom launches at you with big angry teeth and claws, chasing you up to the balcony when you swing out of his reach.

Step one: Get Venom away from people. Check.

“FRONT DOOR!” You shout over the railing, dodging Venom’s outstretched talons with a spin that would have left you dizzy before the spider bite.

You don’t bother looking to see if the crowd below listens, all your attention on dodging Venom and keeping him up here, away from the civilians. You leap from floor, to ceiling, dropping and leaping back from a swipe of claws, landing on your back on the booth table—

Cornered.

Venom’s on you in seconds, claws ripping through the leg of your suit, shredding across your ribs as you scramble backwards, the table splintered into pieces where you had been moments before. Muscle memory and instincts take over, and you flip up onto the ceiling again, shooting off and away over his head.

He’s big, strong and hungry.

But you’re fast. And clever.

You get him to follow you, your back to the balcony—a quick look over your shoulder confirms that the club doors are open, the last people scrambling for the exit. Venom’s tackle crashes you both through the metal railing, a quick web to his face preventing him from swallowing your arm whole before you crash to the floor.

Another glance, the last person is out the door.

Step two: Get the first floor clear. Check.

You kick him off, his hands still clawing at the webs on his face. Two more webs stick them there, another rooting his feet to the floor.

A quick flick of your wrist sends a containment generator out of your watch and skittering across the floor, the polyhedral containment field springing out around his massive raging form. And none too soon, as his hands rip free of the webs less than a second later.

“Fuck,” you sigh, head thumping back onto the floor where you still lie from the tackle through the balcony railing.

Your heart pounds, and as adrenaline recedes, the sharp sting of your injuries comes to the forefront. You touch your hand to your ribs and it comes away soaked. “Great. Now I have to make a new suit again.”

You push through to lift the watering can above your head to water the pothos nearest your kitchen, medical tape pulling uncomfortably at your skin. The unpleasant feeling almost distracts from the way the cuts, if you can call them that, prickle with warmth—you lower the watering can, touching the bandage through your shirt. It hasn't bled through but you can still feel the wetness of your own blood on your skin, the prickle of it beading through the cracks between stitches and scabs, the strange tickle when a droplet runs down under the bandage, and worst of all the sticky not-quite-squelch of the bandage drinking the blood off your skin when you press on it.

You hate having to take the night off. On a Saturday, no less.

Deciding to leave the rest unwatered for now, you leave the watering can on the counter and lower yourself down onto the couch, propping your injured leg up on the coffee table for a long night of television, rest, and guilt over staying home—or what would have been a long night if you hadn't fallen asleep twenty minutes after turning on the TV.

It's the warm gentle weight of a hand on your knee and the soft whisper of your name that wakes you. If you were more conscious you would probably be embarrassed by the grumble-groan that leaves your throat as you stir.

The hand squeezes your knee, a gentle twitch in the palm as it returns to rest.

You open your eyes.

Miguel is crouched on the floor in front of you—not a Spider-Man crouch, no, just a casual crouch to bring himself down to your level.

He says your name when your bleary eyes find his own, his tone as firm as his voice is quiet. As if he doesn't want to wake you. As if you're in trouble, hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Why do I smell blood?”

You blink once, eyes widening as you sit up, and then you wince.

The bandage on your ribs actually does squelch this time, without so much as a prod or poke from your hands. It seems your rather unfortunate injury had partially split back open by your inconvenient sleeping spot and the contorted position you’d eventually slumped into. You look down, lifting up the edge of your shirt to check the bandage on your ribs—it hasn't bled through or started to leak, thank goodness, but your bandages do need changing.

Miguel’s hand is still on your knee, and when you lift the hem of your shirt his hand tightens, the muscles and tendons tensing.

“What happened?”

You drop the fabric back down, quickly. “Venom anomaly last night.”

You can see the way his jaw clenches even though you're not looking directly at him, and the silence grows hot and coppery. Something in your mouth tastes like a hot, clean spoon pressed into your tongue.

“Where is your first aid kit?” He asks, voice still low.

The unsettling heat vanishes, leaving you with a burnt tongue.

“Hall closet,” you murmur. “By the washing machine.”

His hand slides from your knee, he sighs almost imperceptibly, and then he stands and leaves to get your medical supplies.

You start to wake further, nervousness practicing its tiptoes in your gut.

Miguel returns, setting the first aid kit on your coffee table and opening it—

“Wait,” you blurt. “I don't want to stain the couch.”

Miguel gives you the dryest Are you shocking shitting me right now expression you’ve seen, perhaps ever.

“Bathroom,” you say. “Easier to clean.”

Miguel grunts, closing the first aid kit. “Alright.”

You don't need the help, but he gives it anyway, carefully pulling you up from the couch so you don’t pull the injury further. You reassure him you can walk fine, but he still shadows you down the hall, lurking in the space barely three feet from you as you sit on the edge of the tub.

“Happy?” You ask, glancing up at him and away again as you adjust to get more comfortable. It comes out defensive; you hadn't realized how self conscious you had become, on top of your nervousness.

“Hardly.” He nods his head towards the toilet. “Just sit on the lid. It’ll be more comfortable.”

He’s right, so you do.

“Okay, happy now?”

He just grunts, turning and leaving to get the first aid kit from your coffee table.

You sigh, staring at the tile and the mat under your feet, the soft green piling hypnotic in your tired, mildly pained state. You consider taking your shirt off before he gets back, the idea of removing it in front of him making heat rise up your chest and neck and—

He’s back, setting the kit on the floor and kneeling in front of you after washing his hands.

“Shirt,” is all he says after a long, silent pause.

You nod, and with only the slightest struggle, you get it off. You avoid looking at him, and he avoids looking anywhere but your bandage.

You realize this is the second time he's seen you shirtless, the first having been when you were crying in a ball on your floor, propped against your dresser. You’re sure you had snot on your face then, and now–

“Can you turn?” He asks, his voice a low murmur, though not quite soft.

You nod, turning slightly so that your injury is facing him head on.

“I’m going to remove the bandage now,” he says.

You just nod, feeling his eyes flick to your own. He nods in response to your silent permission, and then you're holding your breath as his fingers—so warm on your skin—start to peel back the medical tape and the enormous non-stick gauze pad covering half of your left ribcage.

His short huff of disapproval at the sight of your bloody, gashed torso seems to echo in the silence of your bathroom, magnified by cold hard tile.

“You said an anomaly did this?”

You look at him, all creased brows and clenched teeth staring at the mess of red on your skin.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

He turns and reaches for a bottle of saline solution from your kit, switching the lid out for the angled applicator nozzle. You turn your head away, lifting your arm slightly to give him room.

The saline isn't cold, but after the brief touch of his hands it might as well be. Saltwater slides over your skin, blood turning it shades of red and pink as it runs down and soaks into the hem of your sweatpants. Miguel takes a few passes, until the bottle is nearly empty, and then sets it aside.

“There's dried parts still,” he says, and you peer down under your arm.

Your skin is shiny, slick and wet as if just out of the shower. Sheer red lingers in the water by your hip, and the dark fabric soaks it up, turning dark and heavy. Your eye slides up, landing on the three gashes across your ribs. The middle one is the largest, cracked scabs struggling to meet in the center where you had stretched it open in your sleep. The bleeding has slowed, thickened blood doing its best to stay where it belongs, but still you think if you take too large a breath that the movement will break the surface tension and it will begin running down your skin once more. The two on either side are slightly smaller, small beads of blood welling between cracked scabs but not yet threatening to ruin Miguel’s efforts at cleaning you up.

Between them all you see what he means; dried flakes and smudges of blood between and around the torn skin that the gentle saline rinse hadn't dislodged. Just enough to be uncomfortable if he leaves it there.

Miguel turns and retrieves sterilizing pads from the kit, tearing the first open. “Sorry about this.”

“‘S fine,” you say, tearing your eyes away from his hand as it reaches for your skin, the other resting on your knee to steady his reach.

Miguel continues to work quietly and as gently as possible, wiping away the dried blood with the sterilizing alcohol pad. He goes through two of the large ones before opening a third, dabbing at the wounds themselves.

You grit your teeth at the sting.

“Did you at least get this looked at?” Miguel’s voice is wry.

You nod, looking at him sideways. “First thing I did after bringing the anomaly in. Spider-Doctor said it looked worse than it is.”

“Doctor Parker,” he corrects. “How much worse? Because it looks pretty bad.” Miguel meets your eyes for the first time since you took your shirt off, lips pursed and eyebrow raised in skepticism.

Your breath catches, and he looks down.

You realize his hand had frozen on your ribs only when he pulls the sterilizing pad away, crumpling it and tossing it in the nearby bathroom garbage with the rest.

“Surface damage,” you whisper, swallowing and tearing your gaze off of him. “Just difficult to heal because of where it is.”

Miguel grunts, taking out a new, fresh gauze pad and shifting closer on his knees to you. You lift your arm again for him, and he leans in, placing the gauze over your ribs now that the skin has dried.

When the flat of his palms spread the pad smoothly over the curve of your torso, following the bend of your ribs, your breath catches (again) for an entirely different reason than the contact on your injury. Even through the gauze you can feel the radiating warmth of his palms, the gentle pressure sending pleasant static through your nerves.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I’m almost done.”

“You’re handling this better than last time,” you blurt, and immediately grimace when he pauses to stare at you. “When I scraped my hands.”

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, turning his focus to the medical tape in his hands and smoothing it down across your skin. You try not to shiver.

“Done,” he says, and turns away, closing the first aid kit. “I’ll let you change.”

The bathroom door clicks shut behind him when he leaves.

You sigh, wincing at the stretch of your ribs and the pull of the medical tape on your skin, before burying your face in your hands. You don't allow yourself to linger long, finally lifting your head with a sharp inhale and rising from the toilet lid. You shed your clothes, kicking the blood and saline soaked sweats and underwear into the empty, dry bathtub. At least the shallower wounds on your leg are fine. No need to get Miguel even more tense about the state of your body than he already is.

You use the hand towel to dry the lingering dampness on your side and hip, tossing it into the tub with the rest.

Deep breath. Well, as deep as you can safely manage.

With a full towel now wrapped around your naked body you leave the bathroom, walking down the hallway to the light of the living room and the door of your bedroom.

Miguel is standing, back to you, and looking closely at one of your hanging plants near the kitchen. He doesn't turn around, so you wordlessly slip into your room and pull on new underwear, new pajamas. Loose, comfortable sweatpants to let the bandage on your leg sit comfortably, loose shirt to leave your ribs space to breathe.

Again, you pause to take a deep breath. Not from pain, but in an attempt to relieve the buildup of tension in your shoulders.

You slip back down the hall to retrieve your pile of clothes in the tub and throw them in the wash, a hefty pour of hydrogen peroxide onto the fabric foams and sizzles into the color of yellowed seafoam and rust.

You close the lid and start the wash.

Back in the living room, you find Miguel filling your watering can.

“What are you doing?”

He looks over at you, glances over your clean clothes before meeting your eyes again. He turns back to the sink, shutting off the faucet. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.” You cross your arms, trying not to smile even as you frown in confusion.

He gestures at your living room, at the numerous plants filling the space, at the hanging pothos you had watered earlier—the one he had been examining. “You stretched too high.”

You blink. “I was fine when I sat down.”

“And then you fell asleep on the couch, which made it worse.”

You wrinkle your nose, looking away. “Not on purpose.”

Silence, for a long moment, and then you see him walk around the kitchen counter in your periphery. “I know.” Another long pause. “Which plants still need watering?”

You look at him, at the watering can that looks like a teapot in his hands.

“Um.” You straighten, pointing at a standing plant—a dracaena almost as tall as you that had once belonged to your aunt. “That one.”

“Tell me when,” he says, tilting the spout over the dirt.

The two of you continue like that, you pointing out which plants need water and Miguel watering them for you until you give the word. By the end you find that your shoulders aren’t so tense, and you’re even smiling—until Miguel sets the watering can down.

He lingers at the counter, leaning on his hands, his back to you.

You grimace, looking away and crossing your arms. You feel exposed, self-conscious in your pajamas.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“I had it under control.”

He turns around, still leaning back against the counter. “You had it–” he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a breath. “You should have called.”

The silence stretches, once again growing hot and coppery.

“I’m not an idiot,” you say, voice clear as it is quiet. “I know you’ve been keeping me off missions and backup calls.”

You can feel the way the silence changes.

“I–”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Can we just… can we not, right now?” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I just… I’m still tired, and I don’t really want to be lectured by my boss in my own home about how I’m not…”

When he speaks again his voice is quiet, hesitant. Almost hurt. “Not what?”

You shrug, still unable to look at him. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to have this fight again.”

Miguel straightens from where he had been leaning, reaches a hand towards you with a soft murmur of your name. When you don’t pull away, he lets his hand rest on your own where it holds your opposite arm.

You look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowed, though this time the lines spell regret, instead of frustration. “That’s not why I…” he sighs, letting his hand slide away, off of yours and back to his side.

You nod, relaxing the tension in your crossed arms. “Just…” your brow creases as you continue to frown off to the side.

You don't want this. You want to be in bed, melting into the softness of your blanket and the cushion of your pillows. You want Miguel there with you, the weight of him beside you keeping you safe and warm in your sleep, wordlessly reassuring you with his presence that everything will be alright, that despite your injuries (because yes, you're fine and you know you will heal, but right now you still feel like a failure because you can't fulfill your responsibilities to your own damn dimension and okay, yes, you're feeling a little vulnerable too which is normal when someone is hurt) you’ll be okay.

“I just…” you continue. “I hate feeling like you still don't think I can take care of myself, or that I can’t do this. I don’t know—” you cut yourself off. You want to say ‘I don't know what this is and I can't bear to have things feel this way when I'm already hurt and I need you. Please trust me. Please be here for me,’ but all that comes out is: “It’s part of the job. It’s what I signed on for, when I put on the mask. We all did.”

When you finally look at Miguel his brows are angled up towards the center of his forehead some pained mix of understanding and regret and… Something else you can’t immediately name.

“I know you’re capable,” he says. “I don’t…” it's his turn to frown, to turn his head away and grimace at the thoughts and emotions bubbling inside. He sighs, starting over. “I know you know what you…” he sighs again, his shoulders slumping forward. “It was unfair of me.”

You nod, the both of you standing in silence, looking away from one another.

“I’m tired,” you finally say, quietly. “Are you staying over?”

Miguel looks at you, eyebrows raised in equal measures of surprise and confusion. “I didn’t think…”

You swallow, looking down, toeing the air as if it was a pebble under your feet. “I could… I could use the company, I think.” You try to shrug it off, the admission that you could in any way want him there. The implication that you need him in any way.

Miguel softens. “Then of course.”

You nod, glancing at him and then turning towards your room. Miguel turns the lights off, close behind. He overtakes you in the bedroom easily, long legs carrying him to your bed before you’re halfway across the room to pull the sheets back for you. He helps you to climb in with a soft murmur to be careful, before he leaves to change into the pajamas you keep for him. You’re glad when he returns quickly, sliding into his side of the bed—facing you.

It doesn’t take long for the tide of sleep to reclaim you and drag him under as well, his arm carefully wrapped over your side.

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

#x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #atsv miguel x reader #atsv x reader #gender neutral reader #miguel o'hara x gn!reader

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mishy-mashy · 3 months

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Kudo and Lady Nagant are actually parallels and foils to each other.

Kudo led a Resistance to fight for what he believed would be the greater good (taking down AFO), knowing his path was hard and killing many for that purpose.

Lady Nagant follows that same path, Pro Hero version: being a Hero to help others, but killing many in the process and realizing how this bright light she believed in casts a darker shadow.

Lady Nagant's tired, which is why she killed the chairman and was arrested. Exactly because she grew tired of everything and shouldering the duty on her own, she's set apart from other Heroes and inmates

But even though she's sick of platitudes (righteous/flowery words for a greater moral purpose), Kudo doesn't dislike them

Kudo isn't tired of those. He wasn't tired of fighting against AFO. He's still fighting, and in ch. 413, he's still willing to die for this purpose.

Even if All For One is technically dead, the Quirk and will lives in Tomura, and Japan is still collapsing. It's all about to come down, and Kudo's seen this before.

Kudo could've easily been just like Lady Nagant. Fighting against society itself, scrounging things and people to fight, and watching so many die on your path, for and against you, so you can keep doing what you should...

Kudo's not optimistic like Midoriya and Hawks. He's aware of what he's done for his purpose, like Nagant. But he still looks toward the future, and is optimistic to believe in that. That what he's doing will help the future.

Lady Nagant saw Hawks and Midoriya, and wondered how they could keep fighting. Why were their eyes still alight?

Lady Nagant asks Hawks how that can be. AND HAWKS' RESPONSE?

HE WASN'T ALONE. HE'S STUPIDLY OPTIMISTIC. WHO DOES THAT SOUND LIKE?

Hi Kudo.

Can you imagine how bullheaded he has to be to do this? How could you grow up in crumbling Japan, and still think about stopping the great evil looming on the horizon? How could that thought have ever occurred to him, to go against current reality? That the person bringing peace really isn't? That he should stand up and fight?

Even Kudo thought Midoriya was delusional, and Nagant can't understand them for being so hopeful. But Kudo himself is crazy for standing up to fight the greatest evil at his peak, with even less strength than anyone else. First Generations were weak, not only because AFO took everything good, but because they were the base of the age of Quirks. The first Quirks were all weak. They'd only grow as they mixed and evolved through time.

Kudo falls into the group of people Nagant can't understand. The group that Nagant grew out of.

If Kudo had been alone like Nagant, he'd have been just like her in the end. But he wasn't. Even though their paths are so similar. They're both fighting a dark, bloody path for the "greater good" they can't see, and with all the death they're responsible for, the purpose behind this all is becoming muddled. But Kudo still managed to keep his eyes set ahead, and didn't lose sight of it.

Kudo knew he couldn't do it alone, and gathered allies. He had Bruce, and the Resistance, who followed him to their graves.

How could he have the will and charisma to gather people and be able to pull it off? Even All For One has to acknowledge that stupid, stupid light in their eyes that persists.

Kudo's eyes have a similar, if not the same light as Hawks and Midoriya.

The two panels even parallel each other. A shot of their left eye, with that light, and text in the exact same place, questioning the existence of that glimmer.

Kudo may not be a Hero or even a vigilante, but Star still reached out and caught his attention directly.

Bakugo has the same will as Kudo. Like Nezu with that "first step", and All Might paving the way for the next generation, will spreads.

Kudo had allies. Nagant was all alone. Only when Midoriya reached out to Nagant and told her to fight with them, recognizing her will, did Nagant smile and call him a real hero. She even gave them the information needed, and did join their side, to keep fighting.

Nagant had allies late. Kudo had them from the start, and so could continue.

#of all the characters KUDO and LADY NAGANT? wow #honestly id never think of a correlation between those two #until that weird word [platitudes]#i hit an image limit here #this post is all over the place BUT DO YOU SEE MY VISION?#its a bit “not really” but their paths are similar #wanting to do for the greater good. walking the path and blood starts gathering on your hands and at your feet. the end goal isnt there now #but the future has it.#kudo #lady nagant #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #spoilers #when the greater good is actually more exhausting and darker than you think #but you chose this path. society has to be preserved. you have to continue. youre in too deep #such and such yknow

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swissmissficrecs · 4 months

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Top 10 Sherlock fics by kudos in 2023

Top 10 fics completed in 2023 that garnered the most kudos on AO3. Excluded: chaptered "fics" that are actually collections of standalone ficlets and crossovers that are mostly about the other fandom. Fics that began posting earlier (in some cases, years earlier) obviously have the advantage of more time to rack up kudos. Kudo counts as of 2 Jan 2024.

1. 1,720 kudos: The Case of the Man Who Was Wanted by MyDearLadyDisdain (232K, M, Sherlock/Harry Potter) After an inexplicable case in Surrey, Sherlock is after the strangest criminal he's ever encountered: a mass murderer, that has eluded the authorities for almost 14 years. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes is the only one that can see right away that this Harry Potter character is completely innocent. And hang on, is that tea set floating?

2. 1,682 kudos: Shift by stopthat (48K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock is tired. John senses a shift.

3. 1,102 kudos: Ride On by Silvergirl (38K, E, Johnlock) After the disastrous reveal at the Landmark, John tells Sherlock there can be no excuse for what he’s done, and no forgiveness. Sherlock leaves London and starts a new life, and not even the British Government knows where. It’s up to John to track him down and make things right, with a trip around the world and a clue only John would recognize.

4. 851 kudos: Till Death Do Us Part (Not Yet, Not Yet) by Civilized_muppets (8K, T, Johnlock) In which Sherlock and John have been married for years, not that any member of the yard has ever heard of John, much less that Sherlock was married at all, until John is kidnapped from Afghanistan.

5. 797 kudos: The story of the Forgotten Wallet. by Headphones_on_the_Skull (25K, E, Johnlock) Just some dirty Alpha/Omega Johnlock porn.

6. 788 kudos: Nothing to Celebrate by DiscordantWords (30K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. Things only get worse from there.

7. 726 kudos: A Tale of Two Soldiers by batslikepastel (14K, T, Johnlock, Jolto, Mystrade) It's Christmas, and Sherlock and John are finally flatmates again after the tumultuous events of the previous year. But a sudden revelation about John's sexuality and James Sholto's unexpected presence throw a wrench into Sherlock's plans, and his jealousy threatens to overwhelm him even as John remains blithely oblivious. Their relationship has reached a turning point, and the ball is in John's court now.

8. 671 kudos: Nightjet by khorazir (22K, M, Johnlock) Officially deceased for eighteen months and still looking for the last remainders of Moriarty’s criminal empire, an exhausted Sherlock boards a night train in Germany to bring him to his next hunting ground. Due to a mishap with the sleeper cars, he is forced to share a compartment with a stranger – who turns out to be not quite as strange as Sherlock thought. The universe isn’t lazy, after all …

9. 646 kudos: Our Love Keeps the Things It Finds by her_ladyships_soap (25K, T, Mystrade) Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone. It's simple human biology. Over the course of every person's life, they develop tattoos of the things their soulmate loves most. Though he has always disliked the concept, Mycroft Holmes is painted from head to toe with dozens of brightly-coloured tattoos. Greg Lestrade, once-firm believer and hopeless romantic, has just nine. They are all quietly sophisticated, sketched in smooth shades of black and grey and easy to hide. Neither of them has gained a tattoo in years. But when they both suddenly find new markings, things finally fall into place.

10. 636 kudos: In Fine Spirits by EventHorizon (189K, M, Mystrade, Johnlock) A very upscale bar/private club needs a bartender and scruffy, punky Greg Lestrade is certain he has the right skills (and needs the job), so walks in to apply in person. He didn't realize that someone else he knew works there, also. Though… 'knew' probably isn't the proper term for a one-night stand where you didn't even learn their name during the fun…

#rec list #best

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elijah-loyal · 2 months

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liveblog tmagp 7

oh god i forgot how much i hate/love the intro music (see: my post about the fact that parts of it are missing for me bc of my ear and hearing issues <3)

oh no i think celia's smart, oh that poor woman

OH NO SHES DEFINITELY SMART SHE QUESTIONS (pookie no, stay alive </3)

HILLTOP?!!?!!? MOTHERFUCKER NOOOOOOO-

(the chills crawled up my throat and i felt like throwing up <33 thank you episode writer for this horror)

uh oh shouting human face???

hey i think it's funny how she can't remember their names?? whats that all about

"it's all for a good cause" i feel like that's gonna come back to bite them in the ass soon

"personal development sabbatical" my ass

oh god these bitches would have HAD my ass with the printing press and taxidermy vulture and medical equipment

woa who the fuck are these people?? evil anatomy students core??

again, the sound design for this is so beautiful and fucking terrifying, kudos to everyone for that <33

oh god

oh god she recognizes him

oh fuck is it actually jon

is he actually in the fucking computer

(i am on the verge of tears)

SAM

SAM NO

FUCK, JON

JON?!?!

HOLY HSIT OH FUCK NONOJNONN)OIJOIJNJ()IJI

ok im actually crying right now, oh fuck guys, what the fuck

oh shit colin knows

(lmao though bro was funny asf)

everyone just absolutely BASHING on gwen's nepotism lmfao

WAIT HILLTOP BURNING DOWN - HERE'S HOW AGNES MONTAGUE CARRIED HER LEGACY ACROSS UNIVERSES--

#ohhhhhh fuckkkkkkkkk #guys #guys im climbing the walls right now #what do you fucking mean #WHAT DO YOU MEAN #WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU RECOGNIZE CHESTER #tmagp #the magnus protocol #tmagp 7 #tmagp spoilers

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nyoomerr · 3 months

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How do you always pop out banger fics? I feel like everyone and their mothers in the fandom adore your fics and not one of your stuff has ever been a flop! Seriously, what's your secret??

djkhfg but more seriously, there have definitely been fics i've posted that i personally wasn't happy with at the time i posted them, or that i was really proud of but have indeed "flopped" when i posted them**

**recognizing that all success is relative, and considering a "flop" to be a lack in response compared to my other svsss fics from a similar time period

overall though, i have indeed been extremely lucky with how kindly this fandom has treated me and how much support my work gets... but mostly i do think that really is just luck 😅

if you just meant for this to be a very sweet compliment about how you like my stuff a lot, thank you so much, and feel free to stop reading here!! if you were genuine in asking "seriously, what's your secret," though, i do have some tips for fic writing!

first thing is for me to say that it is 100% the most important for you to personally be the #1 fan of your own stuff.

it's super fun that so many people like my fics! but it's mostly fun because it feels like i'm holding up a rock and screaming and everyone screams along with me - it would be a lot less exciting if i was holding up a rock and watching in silent indifference as everyone screamed at it, lol. writing stuff just because it's interesting to you will also help you avoid writing + fandom burnout, and people who read it will always be able to tell when you love what you're writing about.

i also personally think it's really important to see the things you like to completion, which includes either posting it somewhere or saving it alongside your finished works, whatever you personally do to metaphorically put a finished piece "on the fridge."

it is a wildly common experience for creatives to begin disliking their own work partway through the creative process, or to dislike it after it's done. but if you're creating something because you're personally excited about some aspect of it, then you theoretically enjoyed something about that work at some point in time. and, with enough time and distance from it, you'll probably end up liking it again in the future!

if you've made sure to put that work "on the fridge" somewhere it's safe and marked as 'done' in your own mind, then you'll get the chance to create that time and distance. it's not sitting in some guilt-ridden folder of abandoned wips, or discarded because you were never able to write or edit it to your satisfaction - it's just 'done.' i can't count how many times i've come back to a piece i disliked at the time of finishing it and, months later, decided it was actually pretty good.

so - put your work on the fridge, even if you're not satisfied with it! and when your brain is able to let it go, reread it. find the parts that made you write it in the first place, the stuff that got you really excited, and let them excite you again, and inspire you to write even more!!

okok so that's a) write what you like and b) don't give up on your hard work. now i'll address the last bit that touches on fandom reception of your work... 💦💦

... i really do think it's mostly luck 😅

the very first fic i posted on this ao3 account is, without doubt, still my most popular one. i could talk about how i feel about that for a whole separate essay post lmao, but it is a good example of how fic "popularity" often works.

i was still on twitter at the time that i made it, which was where most of the mxtx fans were at. a promo post i made got retweeted by a handful of people with big followings, and that combined with the fact that there were way less binggeyuan fics at the time meant that it kinda hit it big. and since so many people sort by kudos or bookmarks, fics that are already popular just end up more popular...

i think a lot of popular fics are like this to some degree. they use the right tags and post at the right time to get seen by just the right audience, or there's a promo tweet/post somewhere that lands on just the right number of dashes, and their popularity snowballs. of course, these popular fics are also often absolutely fucking incredible and worthy of their popularity, but i've also read fics with very very little "popularity" that are just as good or better than some of the top kudosed or bookmarked fics in the tag.

the only thing i have ever (personally) noticed as something you can control that affects popularity is fic length - from what i've seen in both my fics and those others write, multichaptered fics that update semi regularly and stretch on for multiple months have a tendency to drum up more excitement the longer they go. people start to get more excited for each update + they talk about that on socmed, and that combined with consistently bumping the fic to the top of the tag when sorted by recently updated gives it more and more chances for it to hit that lucky combo of "seen by the right people."

so, that's all to say, actually my advice for this section is also "just write what you like," because you can't control whether or not the people who will also like it will see it when you post it, so make sure there's at least one reader enjoying the ride (you).

...and then of course for more generic "how do you write """well""" advice, just keep practicing, and take note of the things you like in other people's writing and how they accomplish it!

sorry if that was like. way more than what you were really expecting as an answer for this 🙈🙈 i really am truly very grateful for all the super kind feedback i get on my work, but i'm really out here just writing whatever i want in whatever ways i want and then throwing it up "on the fridge" before i can chicken out dkfjh

i hope you (or whoever else bothered to read this far) can also be really satisfied and excited about what you're making, and my fingers are crossed for your luck in the "everyone in the fandom likes this thing" lottery 🤞🤞

#kjfdhg i wrote way more here than intended tbh but i do want to try and be helpful if someone asks me for advice so kfgjh #ANYWAY ty for the ask and for enjoying my stuff!! i rly am lucky with so many lovely people in this fandom supporting me ;w;#nyoomerr ask

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