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#only to promptly lose control of the situation
souliebird · 4 months
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[[and then I met you || ch. 10]]
Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit
Summary:
A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to protect his new family from not only Hell's Kitchen but from the world.
pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Words: 4.2k
banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen
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When Minnie was six months old, you used to sleep on the couch so you wouldn't wake her up trying to get ready for bed. It would hurt your back - your couch was not very comfortable to sleep on - but you would sacrifice your comfort so she could sleep. No one in their right mind would wake a sleeping baby - even one that was always happy to go down for a nap. 
As your mind begins to stir, you become aware of the familiar ache in your lower back and the unfamiliar one pulsing around your eyes. Your hand slowly snakes up from where you had curled it against your chest and press your fingers along the bridge of your nose and up to the curve of your eyebrow, testing to see if the throbbing was sinus related. Nothing is triggered but your memories of the night before creep into your consciousness. 
Minnie with her tantrum and Matt with his amazing senses. 
You groan into the cushion as it all falls into place. Your eyes hurt from crying, not your sinuses, and you must have fallen asleep on the couch after your breakdown. 
Shame and embarrassment course through you. You hate crying and you hate that someone witnessed it. You can't imagine what he must think of you now - losing it like that. You should have been able to handle the news far better than you had and you're going to promptly apologize the next time you talk to him. You had acted so selfishly when it was clear he had control over the situation. 
But you don't have time to sit and wallow in your wretchedness - your daughter needs you to get up and be a capable adult, so you will your aching body to sit up. 
Your phone is sitting on the table in front of you, so you grab it to check the time. It's half past seven and your daughter has probably been awake for at least an hour. More shame courses through you - you always try to wake up before her so you can take care of her. You can only guess what state she is in. 
Your head spins as you stand, but you try to ignore it in favor of heading towards the bedroom. You prepare yourself to find a soiled bed - you didn't bother to change her into her night clothes and a pull-up and she is still mastering waking up when she needs to pee at night. 
The door is partially open and as you near it, you hear her tiny voice talking nonsense as she plays with something. You take a deep breath and push into the room, ready to face the start of your day.
Your mind short-circuits at what you encounter.
Both beds are clean and made, far tidier than you usually make them, and Minnie is sat on the floor with Scooby and some of her other stuffed animals, having what looks to be a tea party. To your absolute confusion, she is already dressed, and her hair has been put into pigtails with mismatched bows. You know for a fact she can't reach where you keep her hair supplies - you put them on a high shelf after she got into them to play salon before and managed to get her hair tangled so badly you had to cut things out. 
It doesn't even take her half a second to notice you and her little face breaks into the biggest smile, “Mommy!”
Still very much confused, you step forward to join the tea party circle and kneel down to be level with her. “Hi, sweetie,” you greet, trying your best to not alarm her. “Did you get dressed all by yourself?”
“Not-uh! Mister Matt helped! We watched lots of videos about hair and he made me pretty!”
You frown at that, “Mister Matt helped?” Had he stayed the night after you fell asleep? If so, where is he now? Your apartment isn't that big, and the bathroom door is open. Had he left before you woke up? You don’t like the idea of him leaving Minnie unsupervised.
Your daughter nods as she turns back to her toys, pretending to pour you a cup of tea and handing it over. You automatically pretend to take a sip.
“He helped make me pretty,” she confirms after putting her tea pot down, “now he's getting foods. Bagels!”
You turn the statement over in your mind - there is a bagel shop around the corner Minnie loves and if Matt is right about her also having enhanced abilities, maybe, just maybe, he didn't leave her unwatched. 
You bite your lip, then dare to push.
“Mouse, do you think you can tell me where Mister Matt is right now? Can you hear him?”
She doesn't acknowledge you right away, fussing with another piece of her tea set. You wait, allowing her to process what is being asked of her and watch as she slowly starts to move her head in minute movements, like she's tracking something. It's terrifying and fascinating to see a look of concentration come over her face and after about thirty seconds, she breaks into another big smile.
“He's talking to a frog!” 
“A frog..?” You ask, wondering if Matt was wrong about Minnie having heightened senses and she's playing pretend again.
“Yeah, he says…he says.. He's telling froggy he can't go to work. He's gonna stay with us!”
It clicks instantly. Matt isn't talking to a frog. He's talking to his business partner, Foggy Nelson, and as far as you know, Matt hasn't mentioned him or Karen yet by name to Minnie. 
“Can you tell where he is?” You ask again, being sure to be gentle with your question. 
“Outside,” is her response, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Froggies can't come inside. Do you want sugar?” She holds up her toy spoon and you offer her your tea cup.
“Yes, please.” 
She pretends to scoop sugar and you watch her in amazement. You are of course going to have to confirm that Matt was talking to Foggy, but it is so hard to believe your little one can hear that. You can't hear what is going on in your own living room, let alone outside your apartment. You cannot imagine how loud everything must be, how much input Mouse must be getting - but she doesn't seem bothered by it at all right now. 
She seems to be completely over her tantrum from yesterday and you want to ask her about it, but you aren't sure how or if she has the ability to express it. You know there are days you get overwhelmed and upset and you can't think of another way to explain it other than “too much”. You can't expect a three year old to articulate it better than you can. 
She's got a sweet little smile and part of you fears if you bring up her previous upset, it will spiral right back into a meltdown. So, you watch instead - watch as she goes back to playing make pretend with her toys, seemingly unbothered. You sip at your tea, making up a list of questions for Matt when he returns from his errand. 
Minnie plays for about five minutes before she perks up, beaming up at you, “Mister Matt asks if you can open the door, please thank you."
Her statement throws you for a moment and you aren't sure how much you like the idea of her being able to tell you all these things. It scares you - her knowing things you don't and not knowing what she does know. 
Maybe it is one of the things you and Matt can talk about - then talk about it with your sweet Mouse. You are going to have to get used to it, either way.
You push yourself into standing and motion for Minnie to come along. She scrambles up and runs out of the room, delighted laughter following her.
You are still in your clothes from the night before and you wish you had taken a moment to check your hair or even brush your teeth. You try to tell yourself it is fine, but your anxiety just argues back, and you feel like a complete slob by the time you get to the front door.
Your stomach and heart both do a funny clench at the sight of Matt, who is still sporting his borrowed shirt. You don't know if you want to fall into his arms or throw up or go hide under your covers so you can pretend all of this is a dream. Instead, you step aside so he can come inside and silently beg your mind to stop collapsing in on itself. 
“Breakfast delivery,” Matt says as a greeting, his entire face lighting up with a smile. He's holding a bag from the shop around the corner in one hand and a drink carrier with two large drinks along with a small one in his other.
You can feel your face starting to heat up and force your eyes down to the ground, mumbling, “you didn't need to do that.” 
He shrugs as he toes off his shoes, “I wanted to, and someone,” his voice turns teasing as he directs his next comments to Minnie, “wouldn't stop talking about bagels.”
Your daughter erupts into giggles, then turns and runs back towards the kitchen. Matt gives a pleased laugh, and your stomach flips again. He follows Minnie, and after you relock the door, you join them. 
They are sitting at the dining table, Mouse watching with a big smile as bagels are laid out on the table. Matt narrates for both of you, “Three egg bagels with plain cream cheese, two large coffees, and one kid’s hot chocolate. Now, is that the right order or was someone taking advantage?”
Minnie giggles more and that relaxes your shoulders. “No, that's right. Thank you, you really didn't -” You cut yourself off as you realize the table is clear of any mess from the night before. There are no plates on the table or in the sink, there's no lasagna stains on the floor, there's no leftovers sitting out. Your eyes drift to Matt. 
He must have cleaned after you had fallen asleep. Guilt courses through you - he shouldn't have to be dealing with your messes, especially in your own living space. You are going to need to not only apologize but return the favor somehow. You aren't sure how you'll do that - no one has ever done this much for you before, and Matt has done so so much in such a short time. 
You're dragged from your thoughts as a coffee is placed in front of you. 
“It's just black, I didn't know how you took it,” the kind, handsome lawyer says, and your heartbeat is so loud in your ears. It beats harder when you remember that not only can he hear your body and mind freaking out, but so can your daughter. 
Your instinct tells you to panic at the idea of someone knowing that much about you. You always try to stay calm on the outside while having a meltdown, but that doesn't matter with him. He'll know you're a mess. You can't hide it. 
You hear Matt ask Minnie something about her tea party and watch as she skips away from the table, but it's like your mind doesn't process it. You feel completely frozen because you don't know how to act - you don't know how to hide yourself from the man in front of you. You don't know how to hide yourself away from your daughter. 
How can you protect her from yourself? Your own body?
Suddenly, Matt is in front of you, cupping your cheeks with his large, warm hands and whispering your name. He's practically right on top of you, gently rubbing his thumbs over your skin, “Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay. Everything is okay. Can you take a deep breath for me?”
“What?” You ask, so confused about what is going on. You don't understand why he's saying it's okay. 
“A deep breath, sweetheart. Can you take a deep breath?”
Your mind will not wrap the reason for the instruction, but you do as you are told. You inhale through your nose and that earns you a soft smile. He continues to pet you, gently instructing you to exhale after a moment and you obey. 
“Again?” He prompts and you nod. You feel shaky as you try to focus on breathing. You've always hated these exercises - they've never worked for you and have only served to frustrate you, and now you are just trying to make sure you are doing it right. How embarrassing would it be to fuck up breathing in front of Matt? 
“That's it,” he says so calmly, “Just breathe. I know it's a lot. I know. One step at a time. Let's have some breakfast, okay? Let's sit and have coffee and we can all talk. How's that sound?”
It sounds good, it sounds like the right thing to do, but your throat is clenching and not wanting to produce words, so you nod instead. 
You close your eyes to try to center yourself and somehow calm down. Matt lingers, keeping a hold of you until you hear Minnie coming back to the kitchen. It seems like he waits until the last possible moment before pulling away. 
Seeing your daughter looking so happy helps to reset your mind. She's fetched Scooby and Pig and runs up to the table to put them in their chair. You smile at the sight.
She really does seem like she's perfectly fine and maybe Matt is right and everything is okay. For now, at least. 
You force yourself into action, moving to set one of the bagels in front of Mouse, setting it on a napkin. You're going to need to transfer the hot chocolate into a mug or Mouse will spill on herself.
“Thank you, Mommy!”
She practically dives into her bagel, picking it up and taking a big bite and getting cream cheese on her cheeks. She is completely engrossed with her food.
“Thank Mister Matt, he got us breakfast,” you advise before going to get a napkin. While you are in the kitchen, you grab your creamer from the fridge.
“Thank you, Mister Matt!” she chimes before barreling on. “Mommy, did you know Mister Matt can braid hairs!”
Guilt courses through you and you remind yourself you need to thank Matt for everything he has done for you. But you tell yourself to not think of it right now - you are terrified of Minnie sensing your panic and that somehow shuts your mind down and you go into parent mode. 
“No, I didn't. Did you ask him to braid your hair?” You ask as you move in to wipe her face. She obediently tilts her face towards you and closes her eyes as you clean away the cream cheese. In the corner of your eye you see Matt sip from his coffee, a smile forming in his lips.
“She wanted puffs,” he advises, “I learned a lot of new hair terminology today. Minnie is a very good teacher.” 
Your daughter preens at the praise before taking another bite of her bagel. More cream cheese gets on her face. You decide to wait until she's done eating before tidying her up again. It will be pointless otherwise.
Instead, you start to fix your coffee, removing the lid to add creamer. You eye your daughter as you do, letting yourself finally take in her appearance. 
“You're a good stylist,” you tell Matt, and it is true. Her pigtails look even and as smooth as can be expected for a toddler. You don't see any tangles and if Minnie is happy, you have no grievances with the outcome - only guilt that Matt was the one who dealt with it. 
“I have some experience,” he hums, before taking another sip of his coffee. Then he directs his smile to his daughter, “my best friend used to have long hair. He has little nieces and they used to do his hair at Christmas, and I got roped into helping. I'm told I do a pretty good French braid.”
Mouse giggles before gasping and pointing at you, “do Mommy's hair!”
Embarrassment floods you - you don't think anyone has done your hair since you were Minnie’s age, and your current hair is a gross greasy mess and you don't want anyone touching it. 
Matt hums as he tilts his head towards you, “I think Mommy is better at doing her hair than I would be. But maybe next time?”
“Maybe next time,” you agree, hoping that will be enough to deter your daughter from this path. 
Luckily, she quickly parrots, “Next time!”
You offer her a smile and take a much needed drink of your coffee. It not only warms you but helps to ground you back into reality. 
You remind yourself nothing has actually changed - you are just more aware of the world. To Minnie, this is the same as any other day and you need to get yourself back on track. 
Which means you need to confirm some things with Matt. 
You set your coffee down, then pick up Minnie’s hot chocolate and bring it to the kitchen to transfer into one of her kid-friendly tumblers. You clear your throat, then dare to try, “Minnie said you'd be spending the day with us?”
“You told the froggy!” Mouse happily adds.
Matt looks confused for a few seconds before it must click, “Foggy, sweetheart, not Froggy. Foggy is my best friend - the one who had long hair.”
“Froggy!” Is the defiant response and you know better than to argue. Once something is named, the name sticks. But of course, Matt doesn't know this and you decide to let him learn.
“Foggy,” he tries. “Like a cloud. Not a frog.”
“Froggy!” 
“Fog. Foggy. No ‘r’.”
“Frog. Froggy! Froggy! Froggy!” Minnie bounces in her seat, starting to giggle. You return to the table, securing the lid to the sippy tumbler before placing it down.
“Ribbit ribbit,” you add and that gets you a delighted burst of laughter.
“Ribbit ribbit!”
Matt practically pouts but seems to realize he isn't going to win this. “But yes, I… told Foggy I wanted to spend the day with you. When I was in the phone, outside.” His dramatic sad face turns into something soft as he tilts his head towards Minnie, “Did you tell your Mommy you heard me?”
“I, uh, asked if she could,” you say, feeling silly for admitting it. But you know this is the path you need to take to start understanding what enhanced senses mean.
“I can hear everything,” your little one proudly says, and you've heard her say it before - but now you know she isn't just playing pretend.
“Yes, you can,” is Matt's soft reply. Unlike your underlying panic, his voice seems to carry a fondness about the whole situation. He is the one with the experience and you want to trust him with the lead on this, but it's still absolutely terrifying. 
But you know you need to set the ball up, so you gently push, “Did you know Mister Matt can also hear…everything?” You know it's not everything, at least by what Matt said, but you aren't going to get technical with a toddler. “Mommy can't, though. Mommy’s hearing isn't as good as yours and Mister Matt's.”
Mouse looks between the two of you, pursing her lips up as she thinks, then she reaches out and pats your arm comfortingly, “I'll tell you what I hears, Mommy.”
Your heart soars with so much love and you turn your hand so you can take hers and give it a gentle squeeze, “Thank you, baby.” 
“I can hears a bark-bark dog and a woofy dog,” she starts, “and there's a puppy going ‘yip-yip-yip!’”
Matt laughs a little and your focus is ripped away from Minnie and over to him. He absolutely beams at you, looking proud as can be. You wonder what this like for him - having someone else who can hear what he can.
“There's a doggy day care about two blocks north,” he informs, and it is so hard to wrap your mind around the fact your daughter can hear that far. “Clients are starting to arrive, and they are lively.”
There's a flash of brown and Minnie is waving Scooby at Matt, “Bark bark bark!”
“Is Scooby a barky dog?” He asks, leaning forward towards her and putting his elbows on the table. “Not a woofy dog?”
“Bark bark!” Is the response before Mouse makes him growl. You finally allow yourself to sit and watch the sweet interaction. Everything still feels like it's too much and swirling inside you, but seeing Matt and Minnie bond is soothing - even if it's over something you can't understand yet.
“What about Pig? Does he go bark-bark or woofy?” 
His question gets Minnie to gasp as if she's scandalized. “Pig isn't a doggy!”
“Oh, he isn't?” Matt teases, “I can't see him. What is he?”
“He's a piggy!” She snatches up Pig and clutches him to her chest beside Scooby. You hope she doesn't have cream cheese on her fingers because cleaning her toys is always an adventure. She hates when they have to get washed and now, you guess, you understand why. They probably smell different after being washed or the texture is off. It's something you'll have to explore later.
“What type of noises do piggies make?”
“Oink-oink-oink!”
“Oh, that makes sense,” he hums, then hunches forward more and lowers his voice, like he's talking in secret, “And what sounds do little girls named Minnie make?”
You finally get to take a bite of your bagel as you watch her contemplate the question. Her face screws up in thought before lighting up when she decides her answer.
“Ooogie-boogie-boo!” 
Matt throws his head back with laughter, which makes Minnie dissolve into happy giggles. The sheer joy between the two of them pulls a smile out of you and the heaviness in your chest starts to lighten more. 
“Ooogie-boogie-boo?” You question and your daughter giggles more. 
“Ooogie-boogie-boo! Like Scooby!”
You don't understand what that means but you just let the positivity continue. 
“What about Mommy? What sounds do I make?” You ask, curious what her response will be.
“Bumbum-bumbum.” They aren't words, but you instantly get it is supposed to be your heartbeat. You feel yourself start to flush. Matt had told you that Minnie listens to your heart to ground herself, so of course that is what she associates you with. But hearing it from her mouth and getting that confirmation still rocks you. 
“It's a good sound, isn't it?” Matt asks Minnie and you can imagine how red you are turning. You try to hide behind your coffee.
“The bestest,” Minnie agrees before adding, “After Scooby Song. Scooby Dooby Do! Where are you!”
“We've got some work to do now,” you half mumble, half sing with her.
“I've never heard the Scooby song,” the man beside you says and that triggers Mouse into action. She slides off her chair, and still clutching her toys, hurries across the room to the television. She knows how to bring up what she wants, so it only takes a few seconds before there is an episode starting to play on screen. 
She drops her toys and the remote before running back to Matt and tugging on his - technically yours - shirt. “You gotta listen!”
He barely gets to stand up before being pulled into the living room. He does not resist in the slightest to being directed to sit on the ground and you watch as Minnie begins to explain the intricate lore of her favorite show. To your wonder she describes each character by their voice first and you can tell Matt is completely enthralled by what he is being told. Scooby gets moved from laying on the floor to being shoved into Matt's lap so he can hold onto him. 
You realize without fanfare that you can barely hear the television. It is still on low volume from last time you had it on, and it dawns on you that you never really have it turned up too loud. Minnie can probably hear it just fine and doesn't need it blasting throughout the apartment. You never got to really watch television as a kid, and you wonder what the normal volume for watching things is supposed to be. 
You sip at your coffee, watching as Minnie plops herself next to Matt on the floor, going on excitedly about mysteries and different sounds. Both of them are smiling and laughing like they don't have a care in the world. 
This is what you want your life to be like, you decide. 
You want your family to be full of love and joy and you have fought so hard to get to this point. You've climbed your way out of a cold and distant household to make your own little corner in the world and right now you need to enjoy it instead of letting your mind be taken over by darkness and despair.
So, you set your coffee down and move to join your daughter and her father in front of the television, asking in a teasing voice, “So who is the blonde man again?”
tags:
@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 
@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt
@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374
@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare @mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @hunnybelha @
Specialagentjackbauer @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets 
@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt  @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium 
@
two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @ astridstark13
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britcision · 2 years
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So I was thinking about Iron Widow and the Hunger Games because superficially, they follow similar arcs; a teenaged girl from an oppressive system fights the government
They’ve both got commodified violence as entertainment, a powerful emphasis on glamorous photoshoots, and lots of sinister machinations for our leading ladies
But when you put them side to side, they’re extremely different, and not just in the themes they explore. I think it comes down to one thing: agency
Katniss is living a pretty rough life before her story starts, and her situation sucks, but she is almost entirely independent. She has people she loves and won’t lose, and can consider just vibing off into the woods, even if she never would
The community is on her side and show it periodically, but things go from bad to worse extremely fast for her
Her first enemies aren’t alien hordes or callous killers who’ve led a hundred girls to certain death; they’re just other kids, in the same shitty situation, and as much as she tries to hate them, she can’t
Katniss is reasonably and understandably traumatized by what she’s been through, and loses her agency at every step as she’s pulled around by other peoples’ plans. She doesn’t want the rebellion and she doesn’t want an army; she wants to go home and be safe
Oh, and her love triangle is missing a side
Zetian though? Zetian’s former life fucking sucks, and we meet her on page one ready and willing to die for what she wants because she has nothing left that is hers
She has tried to run away, enough times to have “yet another escape attempt”, and is completely dependent on the people around her. She’s told her life’s worthless until she believes it, but no one considered “what if she wants to go out with a bang”
Zetian does see the political picture immediately, even if her understanding is as vague as “stop killing girls”
And while the army does spend a time trying to torture her with starvation and neglect before she meets Shimin, it’s really not much worse than how she’s used to being treated
Getting on camera and into battle, into physical violence that she can strike back with rather than just receiving, is a liberation for Zetian, and gives her her first ever taste of agency and power
She’s the first Iron Widow to survive and bear the name in public because she’s the first who went live on camera after a battle and couldn’t just be swept under the rug
The army can’t afford to kill her, but she’s perfectly happy to die for what she wants and she pushes back immediately and constantly against anyone trying to control her. She capitulates only on her terms, only when she gains from it
She’s a happy bisexual with two proud bi boyfriends because fuck what anyone else in the universe says, she wants it and it’s hers. She’ll worry for a moment if she’s got to choose (and if she’ll accept the choice made for her) and promptly decides the whole thing can go fuck itself because only her (and the boys’) wants matter
Nobody wants Zetian to lead a movement and change their world; if she won’t die quietly in a chrysalis, they want her to stand quietly at Shimin’s side as an accessory to make him more powerful
Her life is immediately, materially better from the minute she survives a second battle, and arguably from the moment she enlists because it’s finally under her control
Tl;dr? Katniss’s story is about losing control of her life and everyone has something they want from her. Zetian’s story is about seizing control and doing the shit that absolutely nobody wants her to do because she can
Katniss doesn’t want to lead a revolution
Zetian’s not giving the world a choice because she’s a one woman army and is the revolution
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versaphile · 7 months
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Considering tristamp Vash’s feelings about his plantness compared to trimax Vash. I don’t think trimax Vash had any real engagement with his powers prior to Knives forcing them out of him in July. And then once that happened, trimax Vash is just incredibly upset by any manifestation of his powers until the whole escape from the Ark where he finally gains control over them and uses them defensively with intent. Which makes sense. Aside from the initial traumas of Tesla and The Big Fall, it seems like Vash just kinda hung out for however many decades. First with Knives, then with humans, and like, he actually allowed himself to become part of the fabric of communities (Ship 3, July). Aside from being functionally immortal and able to commune somewhat with dependent plants, he was basically just a human. His interaction with plants is limited, and what we do see is generally centered on helping humans.
But Tristamp Vash is such a different kettle of fish. First there’s the stronger contrast between him and Knives, with Knives being far more plant-like than Vash and that being a source of conflict between them. And then right after TBF he learns he does have plant abilities. He can help/heal dependent plants, which is enormously powerful and earns him a place in the human community. And then the more dramatic discovery of his drain arm, which of course he promptly loses. So like, that’s a LOT to process for him. He had this part of himself he had no idea about and it was super dangerous but it’s already gone, so— ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ And he clearly spends the next 140-odd years going around helping his sisters as his main thing. Like, he also enjoys being with humans very much. He cares for both groups. But he isn’t just hanging out like any human. He has a real purpose in taking care of all the plants all over NML. And there’s no way 140+ years of regular interactions with plants and this power doesn’t change his perspective compared to Trimax Vash.
And not only that, but Tristamp Vash apparently had no idea about this Core thing which could be considered either connected to his other powers or as a third power. So that’s thrown at him, but even though it’s tangled up in uhhhh the whole JuLai fiasco, once all that is unlocked, he bounces right back up, embracing his full strength, the wing, uses his powers to make plant bullets (and making a prosthetic angel arm), the whole deal that Trimax Vash took until the very end of the manga to achieve. And I think a big part of his ability to do that is the 140+ years of embracing his plantness, not ignoring it or denying it. Tristamp Vash is just so much more connected to that part of himself, despite his complicated feelings due to Tesla and Knives, and the general threat humans represent to his autonomy and freedom.
Tristamp Vash does hide his true nature from people (wisely so given his off-the-charts value as a plant that can heal plants), but the bounty is a new thing at the start of Stampede, he hasn’t been forced out of human society like Trimax Vash. Being the planet’s itinerant plant engineer has probably made him everyone’s favorite cryptid. Clearly there’s still chaos in his life, as far back as Rollo he has his Stampede/Typhoon reputation. But it’s a gentler one than post-July Trimax Vash starts his story with. The destruction of Juneora Rock is what starts to darken Tristamp Vash’s rep, cemented by JuLai.
And JuLai is very different from July in so many ways. July was an almost completely involuntary action on Trimax Vash’s part, Knives made everything happen and the only part that didn’t go to his plan was Vash pointing the angel arm at him, and while Vash puts the blame on himself he’s not a reliable narrator for it. JuLai, meanwhile, while it still had a lot of Knives violating the heck out of Vash, Vash was able to fight back and come very close to salvaging the entire situation up until the very end. And Knives put himself in the way of the destruction this time, while Vash begged him to stop and save himself.
Vash will of course 100% blame himself for JuLai because that’s what he does, it’s how he copes. And his failure to safely get rid of that energy cube probably feels like more of a direct responsibility, direct guilt, than Trimax Vash maybe kinda pulling the trigger on the angel arm that Knives had really already fired. More relevant is the fact that while Vash’s powers were what caused the explosion, they’re several steps removed from it. It wasn’t Vash’s body that turned into a gun against his will and swallowed JuLai, with all the body horror that provides. Vash reclaimed his self and agency from Knives, put the energy into the cube to stabilize it, tried to get it out, tried to save JuLai and Knives, and it was a direct struggle between the twins that kept Vash from getting all the energy safely into space. Vash is obviously devastated as Ericks, there’s no way he wouldn’t be devastated at having even a fraction of the responsibility for so much destruction and death. But I don’t see why he would feel the way Trimax Vash feels about being a plant and his powers. It’s just a totally different dynamic.
For Trimax Vash, his identity as a plant represents trauma and loss of agency. For Tristamp Vash, his feelings are complicated but overall his identity as a plant enables him. It gives him purpose, belonging, strength. Trimax Vash is more emotionally aligned with humans because he feels more like a human. Tristamp Vash loves humans but I think he does accept himself as a plant to a significant degree. Tristamp Vash’s greater conflict is being stuck between humanity and plants in terms of the survival of both species. He wants to save both but the best he can do is keep everyone alive until he can’t anymore. That’s devastating to him in a totally different way. I think Tristamp overall is far more focused on survival for entire groups instead of the survival of individuals via pacifism vs killing. Tristamp Vash has a bigger worldview than Trimax Vash, who ignores the bigger picture to overly focus on individuals as a source of hope. Trimax Vash wants to save everyone but Tristamp Vash wants to save EVERYONE. Trimax Vash’s pacifism is driven by his Tesla trauma and subsequent suicide attempt/Rem’s efforts to help him. Tristamp Vash’s savior complex is driven by his Big Fall trauma.
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kingdumkum · 2 years
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WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF, AGAIN?
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feat: Satan (1754) ∻ Asmodeus (1297) ∻ Beelzebub (1402) ∻ Belphegor (1533) synopsis: turns out, fallen angels can have more than one sin. cw: afab!reader | dom!Satan shouldn’t be allowed to play with toys but here we are; vouyerism (on behalf of the brothers but namely Asmo); exhibitionism (on behalf of Satan); brat tamer!Satan x brat!reader; humiliation; cnc in that reader doesn’t actually give explicit consent in this situation but it’s been given for situations like this before; Satan is a closet FREAK and i will be taking questions | kinda public sex (they’re in a closet); fwb; really rough sex; possessive!Asmo knows how to leave a mark; slight mentions of blood; feral!Asmo is something ELSE but I’m here for it | panty-stealing; panty-sniffing; perv!Beel; breeder ball Beel ain’t an agenda, it’s the truth; he’s kinda pathetic and lovesick in this but i fail to see how that’s out-of-character | facesitting (on Belphie); oral (f!receiving); overstimulation (f!receiving); soft!Belphie because writing him mean is really hard for me; it’s really just great to be Belphie’s tbh a/n: i... am shocked speechless at how many people enjoyed part one. this was so self-indulgent, but y'all have been so nice, so have a cookie ya filthy animals. the prince of demons and his angel and his human are next.
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∻ Satan         ↠         w r a t h        ⤲         e n v y
While SATAN does his best to remain calm, to try and not just put up with his anger but control it, his sin is contagious, and more often than not, he inadvertently starts things. Sometimes without even realizing; most of the time with the sole intent to. It helps, he justifies, that he doesn’t have to be the only one angry all the time. It gives him a break, lets him be calm.
Let him regain control.
And control he has, as he plays with the settings of the vibrator nestled neatly in your cunt. A punishment from earlier, when you showed up to your private study session with Asmodeus in tow. Yes, Satan knows you didn’t invite him on purpose, and yes, he knows Asmodeus pulled the but I would fail without your help! card, as if he wasn’t around whispering inspiration into Oscar Wilde’s ear in the first place, but that didn’t help his barely-controlled rage when Asmo decided the best place for you to tutor him would be in his lap.
And you agreed.
Satan knew why, of course; it was your way of trying to get back at him for accidentally standing you up the other night. That wasn’t his fault though; he’d gotten so caught up in his latest work that he’d completely lost track of time, but he’d rushed over to Hell’s Kitchen as soon as he realized. Three hours late.
To where you were sitting with Asmodeus. Drinking, with Asmodeus–laughing, with Asmodeus.
Asmodeus, who promptly left with a brief kiss on your cheek and playful scolding of Satan for losing sight of something so precious, had the sense to not be seen again, and Satan managed to remain calm until your salads arrived, at which point you made note of how Asmodeus helped you picked the menu.
He did pay for the damages done to the bathroom (discreetly, of course; he didn’t need to be scolded by Lucifer for losing control again), and he thought the two of you had come to an understanding. One in which he’d stop making foolish mistakes like losing track of time, and you’d stop keeping foolish company.
Satan had underestimated how addicted you were to making him lose control, though. Almost as much as he was addicted to controlling you.
His face is as stoic as always, even as he watches your reflection in his goblet while nonchalantly flicking his fingers erratically over his phone’s screen. To his more oblivious brothers, who aimlessly talk about Beel’s upcoming game or Mammon’s latest photo shoot, Satan merely looks bored and yearns to return to the library from which he was so ungraciously dragged for dinner; to Lucifer, whose gaze flicks between you and Satan’s apparently apathetic facade, something sinister lies in his creation’s blank stare; and to Asmodeus, who cradles his chin between his palms as he leans across the table towards his older brother, suddenly realizes Satan’s far less interesting than you–you, whose face is flushed, whose jaw is clenched, whose eyes are shut so tight, Asmo knows you must be seeing stars.
And that’s before the smell of your arousal hits him.
With a deepening grin, Asmodeus takes a deep inhale–deep enough to catch Satan’s attention.
The toy stops moving.
With a whimper of protest, your lower lip starts to quiver. Your eyes slowly open, blinking back into reality; and reality being, Satan was about to make you cum for the second time that dinner, with all six of his brothers gathered around the table. You were close–you were so close, and you knew that, and Satan knew that, and–his teal eyes are narrowed in Asmodeus’s direction. His face barely changes; a tightening of his lips, thinning of his eyes, the pause of his hand. But when you whisper his name, hand stretching beneath the tablecloth to grip his knee tightly, he falls apart.
His stoic facade slips, and for a moment, Asmodeus’s smile slips, too–for there, in Satan’s eye, is something Asmodeus had thought to be too intimate for his brother to ever feel; something too tender for an Avatar of Wrath to possess. But it’s there, lurking in the shallow waters of his brother’s eyes as Satan’s stretch for the jug of wine sitting just beyond your reach brings his lips to your ear.
“Apologies, darling,” he murmurs in a tone so light, it wouldn’t be fair to call it air. “Let me make it up to you.”
You cross your arms over your chest and lean into the table, prepared to quip something back about how he better before a gasp slips out instead as Satan, quicker than you thought possible, pulls out the vibrator.
“Satan–” you hiss, but he silences you with a tense glare. One he makes up for by placing a heavy hand back on your thigh, fingers lazily trailing along the soft flesh of your inner thigh.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, and despite the uncertainty biting at your spine, you nod. He’s never given you reason not to… ever. “Good. I think this could be fun.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and you know better than to ask; the last time you tried questioning what the reserved demon wanted to try, you ended up tied to his bed, vibrator strapped to your aching cunt, for eight hours. Not that you minded that particular outcome, except for the fact you were running out of plausible excuses to justify your frequent absences… or hickies.
Satan’s lips twitch up as he fills your goblet, then goes to top his off. You see the glint of something heavy in his palm, then the splash of something making contact with the liquid in his goblet, then the realization of what he’s doing turns your blood cold as he offers his cup to Asmo.
“Want some?” he asks with perfect ease. “It’s particularly… sweet this evening.”
Satan’s smile could be considered cruel, and in his heart, he knows it is, especially with your shocked-still look of terror beside him, but… this was as close to a blessing as he could ever grant. He might never be willing to share you fully, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to let the others know what they’re missing; particularly Asmo. Particularly the only other demon who seems to be better at eliciting wrath than he.
Asmodeus takes the goblet with a coy grin, already knowing what devilish game his brother is up to. He lifts it to his nose, swirling what little liquid is left as he takes a deep whiff. His sultry gaze turns to you briefly before back to Satan, taking a deep sip. “Made it yourself?”
Satan leans back in his chair, fingers circling around your thigh and dipping beneath your skirt. You bite your lip and fist the hem of the thin material, already knowing that when Satan smirks, it’s not because you’re already flustered from his featherlight touch, but rather because you’ve soaked the cushion beneath you already.
“We did together, actually,” Satan corrects. Without warning, he dips a single digit into your fluttering hole, desperate to be filled after being so cruelly teased all dinner, making sure to gather as much slick as he can. “She’s quite the excellent chef. Everything she makes is… sublime.”
As if to prove his point, Satan withdraws his finger and slowly brings it to his lips. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, not just at the lewdness with which Satan wraps his pale lips around his finger, but at the deep laugh Asmodeus echoes as he dips a finger beyond the goblet’s gilded edge, as carefully as if he were stroking a lover. “Oh, truly,” he agrees, popping his finger into his mouth and sucking gratuitously, “I’ll have to have both of you cook for me some time. I wonder what wonderful things you might be able to make for me, hm?”
Satan starts to frown, and your heart starts to race. With thin lips, he replaces his hand beneath your skirt, but gone is the reverence he was stroking you with before; now, he dives in like a drowning man. Plunging two fingers into your depths, not caring at the way your whole body tenses as you fail to keep your breathing steady, all while maintaining eye contact with his younger brother.
“That’s up to her, I suppose,” Satan muses, angling his palm so it grinds against your puffy clit with every deep thrust, “she doesn’t like cooking for just anyone. She needs the right ingredients, you see. High class stuff. Not sure someone like you would understand, little brother, considering the usual… chefs you employ.”
In other circumstances, you would be fuming at the casual way the brothers discuss you as if you aren’t even there. You’d also probably be in a right enough mind to scold Satan for slipping Asmo your vibrator without actually asking, or at the very least tell Asmo off for being such a brazen flirt–but your mind isn’t thinking that far ahead. It’s all you can do to keep up with the pleasurable way Satan is moving inside you, filling you more fully than any toy ever could, pressing against your core as if this were something he was made to do. Your brain is hazy with pleasure, body even more so, to the point where you don’t even notice Asmodeus passing the goblet to Mammon, teasing the back of the white-haired demon’s head as he’s promised this’ll be his new favorite drink.
Your nails dig into Satan’s arm as he brings you past the edge. He lets you bury your head in his shoulder, softly settling an arm around your shoulders as he murmurs, “good girl.” He tells Asmo that you’re just overcome with emotion about the way your book ended, and he tells Lucifer it’s none of his business when the elder demands to know the name of such an offending book, and he tells Mammon he may absolutely not have the recipe, because that’s a secret between just the two of you.
He does this all while still steadily pumping his fingers in and out of you, bringing you to yet another silent orgasm that leaves tear-stains on your cheeks. By the time Satan’s decided he’s had his fill, his fingers are pruning, his lips are coated from his near-constant finger sucking, and his goblet returns empty.
“Come on, darling,” he says after you’ve had a chance to catch your breath, “we’re out of wine. Shall we go make some more?”
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∻ Asmodeus         ↠         l u s t          ⤲         w r a t h
The sound of skin-slapping-skin is the only thing to be heard in the cramped janitor’s closet ASMODEUS pulled you into just five minutes ago. Your hands curl against the wire shelves as you pitifully try to keep your whimpers in. Not that Asmo helps with that, though; not with the aggressive way he’s slamming into you, thumb constantly rubbing your clit in a way he knows drives you insane, sending you jolting forwards into the various cleaning solvents and potion ingredients you did not find romantic whatsoever. His grip on your hips is bruising, but every time you try to straighten, he’s instantly able to shove your shoulders forward and grab your hip once more before you’ve even processed what he’s doing.
“Perfect fucking pussy, sucking me in so goddamn tight,” Asmo growls, letting his free hand trail down your spine to grab your hair. With a sudden jerk, he yanks you backwards, his breath hot against your ear as you fail to suppress a pitiful moan. “Stop pretending like this is too much, angel. This–is–your–fault.”
You don’t know what he’s talking about, he can tell; and it makes him even angrier. It’s not exactly a secret that Asmo has a… soft (or rather, hard) spot for the human exchange students, but there were a few demons that didn’t care. A few pathetic, weak, disgusting demons who thought they could try and steal you away–
He has no right. He’s not stupid, he knows he has no official claim to you. He’d known that since the day you met, and he remembered it when you snuck into his room and shly asked if he had any advice for how to be safe when it came to demons, and he forced himself to tell you, over and over, that he was the Avatar of Lust, and a mere human could never be enough to fully saite his appetite.
So why is he the one who can’t seem to move on?
He was the one who wasn’t searching for something serious, just like he was the one who promised, if you’d let him take care of you, nothing would change. That you’d be friends first and foremost, benefits on the side, no strings attached. No expectations, other than cumming so much you lose count; and no feelings. Except unadulterated pleasure, of course.
It’s a pattern Asmo’s been able to do since the dawn of time, and as the Avatar of Lust, it’s worked out just fine. And then… you, with your soft smiles and softer touch and the way you look at him and see him. Not his beauty, or his charm, or his cock, but–him. Asmodeus, your Asmodeus, only yours–
“Bet this drives you fucking wild, doesn’t it?” Asmo whispers. His tone matches his pace; rough, deep, and full of the things he can’t actually say. “Knowing you’ve got–the Avatar of Lust–pussywhipped–”
Your walls flutter around him, but it’s the low moan of, “Asmo, please–” that causes him to pause. He’s fully sheathed inside you, pulling you back into him as far as he could as he presses his chest to your back. Roughly, he bites at the skin on your lower back, slapping your ass when you yelp and try jumping away. 
“Stay. Put.”
Another bite, this time on your hip, earning yet another yelp–but you manage to suppress your jump with a tremble, keenly aware that whatever mood Asmo’s in is not one to be trifled with.
Another, on your other hip; another, moving up your spine; another, between your shoulder-blades–
Asmodeus keeps you impaled on his pulsing cock, the long member twitching inside with every pitiful yelp you release when his teeth make contact with your tender skin. His hands run up and down your sides before coming to cup your breasts, gently teasing your nipples until the pain of his bites blurs into the pleasure from his fingers.
“Asmo–Asmo, please, I–” you try begging him to move, begging him to pay attention to your clit again, begging him to let you cum–but he won’t have it.
“Oh, so now you remember my name?” Another bite, this time on top of your shoulder. You barely register his words. Asmo snatches your chin and forces your head back. His eyes, usually so full of kindness, are nearly black with rage. Your eyes flutter shut when he snaps his hips into yours, and your whines are pathetic when he stills once more.
“Look at me.”
You can’t. You won’t. You’re tearing up from frustration, and if you open your eyes he’ll see you cry, and if you start crying he might stop fucking, and you don’t want that. Not when he gets like this–when he treats you like you’re his.
This bite breaks skin.
Middle of your throat, right above the pulsepoint he so easily could’ve sliced with just the barest twitch from either of you. Warm liquid slowly trails down to the hollow of your throat, but you don’t know if it’s blood or spit from the messy way Asmo makes out with your neck.
He watches you while he does, pulling back to lick from the nasty bruise that’s already starting to ache all the way up to the corner of your mouth.
“All I had to do was remind you, hunh angel? You don’t need anyone else, yeah? Just me, baby. Just me, just need me-” his voice is soft with desperation, pressing needy kisses to every inch of your face he can reach. His grip on your breast and jaw turns bruising, but you don’t care. You love being marked by him; the pretty patchwork of blues and greens serving as a reminder that your time with Asmo is real. 
“Just--just you, Asmo. Just need–you.”
He doesn’t know if you mean it, but he can’t find it in him to care. Not when you start rocking back on his cock, freely crying as you continue to beg him to make you feel good. 
For a moment, Asmodeus has the sadistic urge to leave. To step back, walk out like nothing happened, and leave you in such a state of want you’ll never think to forget him again.
But then your hand finds his on your chest, and you interlock your fingers while you press a gentle kiss to the palm still clutching your cheeks, and you mumble, “only ever want to be yours, Asmo. Make me yours.”
He can’t breathe, first because he was in shock and then because his lips find yours so quickly, he doesn’t get a chance to. His hips move slowly, minimally grinding into yours as your makeout turns sloppy, only turning into full thrusts when the pleasure gets to be too much and you have to break away from his kiss for air.
“All you had to do was ask, angel. You know I’d do anything for you. But since you seem to keep forgetting, guess I better figure out a way to make you remember, yeah?”
He starts sweet. Sweet as the kiss he presses to your forehead, sweet as the way he caresses your cheek as his hips start to gain traction–but quickly turns bitter when he doesn’t stop. When his hips pick up to the brutal pace he’d initially set when he first dragged you in, slamming against your already bruised thighs without mercy. When the hand on your cheek goes down to your throat, and the other snakes its way down to your clit and tweaks in all the areas but the one you need.“No one else can make you feel like this, you got that?” Asmodeus whispers–though it sounds more like a hiss, with how tight his jaw is. “No one can fuck you like me, so don’t–fucking–bother–it’s just me, angel. You’re–just–mine–”
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∻ Beelzebub         ↠         g l u t t o n y          ⤲         l u s t
BEELZEBUB thought he knew better.
Well, not thought; he does know better, and not because Belphie told him so or he watched Mammon get punished for this before, but because this isn’t like him. This–insatiable need, this gnawing pain in the bottom of his stomach that won’t go away no matter how hard he tries. At least with his sin, the last few millennia had taught him how to manage it (a binge here, a binge there, eating constantly in-between, working out whenever else to try and keep his mind occupied), but… this? This?
He’s never felt like this before. So–empty. Hollow. Weak.
His urge to eat you raw might break him.
He knocks softly on your bedroom door, despite knowing that you’re currently in the mess with his brothers. You’re probably laughing at some corny joke Mammon made, offering to split your rice with Satan, letting Belphie rest his head on your shoulder–Beel’s next knock splinters the wood.
Crap. He’ll have to fix that, before he goes back. Thank Diavolo he’s built up a bit of a reputation for breaking things, though, so it quickly shuttles to the back of his mind as his gaze lands on what he’s here for.
What he should leave alone.
What he can’t.
A small pile of laundry, overflowing from your hamper, poking out from behind your closet doors.
He should not be here, but his body betrays him. Again. Like the way it did when you came down to breakfast in a shirt that was so obviously not yours, apologizing to Asmodeus over and over for letting your laundry get away from you and praising him for letting you borrow from him in the meantime.
Beel broke his spoon. Belphie gave him a new one. Beel promptly broke that one too, when you sat down across from him and asked if he had any laundry you could do, seeing as how that might be all you get to do this weekend.
He didn’t plan on letting his mind wander to what else might be dirty, just as he didn’t plan to nearly get run over on the way to school because he was so caught up in wondering if you even had any underwear left, and he certainly did not intend to run back to the House of Lamentation to rifle through your dirty laundry for just one infuriating pair of your panties.
Just one, he reasons as he cautiously glances into your hamper. He hopes it’ll be right on top, that he can take a pair and race to his room and get one good orgasm (or two or three or however many it takes to get you out of his brain), then return them before you’re ever the wiser.
So how did he end up in his bathroom with six pairs in his pockets?
Oh. Right. Because the pair on top were lacy and black and had him salivating, even before he pressed them to his nose for a deep whiff; and then he caught sight of a white pair, just beneath your school skirt, and he figured two is a safer bet than one, and then he thought he saw a red pair with polka dots and he’s always been partial to red, and then–
And then, and then, and then.
It’s the story of his sin; to never be satisfied, never be full. How he managed to stop at six when the image of number seven (an orange thong that he nearly ripped in half trying to unhook from a pair of tights) he’ll never know; how long he’s been on the bathroom floor, hastily jerking his hefty cock with low groans of your name also escape him; but he does know it’s worth it.
He takes a deep sniff of the lacy black pair he’d first pulled; the most recent. The ones that smell the most like you, and not just the fading clean scent of your detergent or the lingering waft of your soap, but you. He wonders if you masturbated in this pair, or if you naturally stain each panty you wear. He wonders how you masturbate, if you prefer to strip naked and take your time or if you’re desperate like him, if you can’t wait to fully bare yourself like him, if you’re a freak like him–
Beel groans and sticks his tongue out, trying to control himself but failing as soon as the tip of his tongue makes contact with the cool seat of your dirty intimates. His cock throbs in his palm, and no matter how many slow, heavy, hard drags he makes up the girthy length, he is left feeling needier than ever. 
And then he gets an idea; a sick, twisted, perverted idea that makes him feel even grosser than before, an idea he can’t ignore as the heat in his stomach starts to convulse. He picks up another pair (he knew it’d be good to take multiple), the white ones he’d had to wrestle from your skirt, and he grips them tight in hand.
He hesitates for a moment. Holds his breath, staring at the pale fabric in his hand as if he doesn’t recognize it, as if he hadn’t just stolen it, as if he wasn’t imagining what they’d look like on you and nothing else–
He groans. Loud, without care, desperate as he stuffs the black lace so far into his face it nearly goes down his throat, while his other hand wraps your white pair around his cock. They’re… soft, and a little cold, but if he closes his eyes he can pretend it’s you rubbing them against him, and if he breathes deep enough he can pretend you’re doing this after sitting on his face the way he dreams you would.
He’s never been this hard. Never so receptive, even to his own touch. The way the cotton of your undies glides against the precum dripping down his cock is softer than the clouds in heaven, and he swears he could cum like this; sprawled out on his shower floor, still half-clothed from his desperation to be close to you, your panties wrapped around him. He imagines what you’d do, if you were here, with him–not with his brothers, but him. Because he’s the one who has this piece of you, only him. 
But… what would you do, if you came home early and found him? Would you be as disgusted with him as he is with himself? Or would you offer him a fresh pair, stripping bare as you fall to your knees, offering to let him taste from the source–
Beel cums. Hard. White splatters along his RAD uniform, gathering heavily against the dark material and saturating the lower-half of his button up. Thick spurts fly through the air, some landing as high as the tile beside his head, before steadily pooling at the base of his abs. He pants, mouth still covered by the remnants of you, eyes still shut to the thought of you. His hand goes lax, letting the now-damp fabric of your white panties dab slowly at the copious amounts of cum now dripping down his hip.
His heart beats as fast as if he’s just completed a workout, and for a brief moment, he feels full. As if you–the mere thought of you, in fact–is enough to fill the missing pieces of him.
Until his DDD buzzes, and he sees a picture of you and a sleeping Belphie, and reads your message asking where your tied-for-first-favorite snuggle-buddy wandered off to, and his stomach growls. His lip curls in a sneer that morphs into a growl of frustration as his dick starts to swell, his eyes instantly drawn to where your breast presses against Belphie’s sleeping bicep.
It’s not fair, and it’s not right, and Beel knows better. He knows you’re happy to share, that there’s enough of you to share, that he should just fucking share–
But he doesn’t.
He keeps this for himself, this secret of raiding your hamper. Of keeping a piece of you close, always tucked away in his back pocket, and not just because it makes dealing with the random hardies easier. He might not be able to admit his feelings, but he can have this one piece of you for himself.
Why else would you be sure to leave his favorites right on top?
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∻ Belphegor       ↠         s l o t h         ⤲         g l u t t o n y
Death should be an old friend to a creature like BELPHEGOR. Death should be something he’s able to greet with open arms, to plainly discuss the state of the world and how fleeting such things like eternity can be–but Death is not. Death is now as unfamiliar to Belphie as Love, and this is not a relationship he wishes to change anytime soon.
Although, with your legs wrapped around his head, tongue lapping at your folds as he glides your hips across his soaked lips, he knows he could greet Death with a smile. He might even be able to tear Death to shreds, for all the vitality your essence seems to bring. 
He’s lost track of the time he’s spent between your legs. Enough so that even the sheets on either side of his head are saturated, and not just from sweat; but not so long as the painful ache in his stomach has yet to subside. He’s yearning, in a way he hasn’t done since the Fall, for something he hasn’t had since the Fall.
For Love. 
For you.
He can think of no better way to show his love than this; bringing you to the apex of pleasure over and over and over again, until the cry of his name becomes synonymous with this feeling of fullness that engulfs you every time Belphie latches on to your clit.
His technique is the same; gentle kisses along the inside of your thigh before whispering against your cunt, tongue flicking out every-so-often to catch your sensitive bud. Sweet musings you often can’t hear, but aren’t addressed to you. Sweet sentiments you sometimes make out to be, “such a pretty girl f’me,” and “what a mess you’ve made today, pretty,” and the worst–“you’re my perfect pussy, aren’t you?”
You whimper as his open-mouth kisses get closer to your heat. Slowly, you try rotating your hips to force Belphie to land a kiss where you need him most. Instead, he bites your clit.
With a gasp, you shudder and instinctively try rolling your hips backwards, but his hands latch on to your waist–not even your hips, but your waist–with enough force to keep you pinned.
“M’not done,” he mumbles. Spit slides down the swell of his cheeks, matting in his inky locks. His tongue languidly flicks at your folds, and he snickers when you squeak.
“Belphie,” you plead, “either do something or let me go, please–’
“Do something?” he asks. He peers up at you, and the sight of his violet eyes just barely peeking out from between your legs, the entire lower half of his jaw hidden from sight by your sex, has whatever little strength was left in your legs give out entirely. A smug smile curls his pale lips, and he bites your clit again.
“Belphie!”
You try squirming away, but the vibrations from Belphie’s chuckles feel heavenly. He knows what he’s doing when he presses his lips, still thinned in a smile, against your overstimulated nub, gently rubbing back and forth to ease the sting from his teeth. “You should’ve learned by now, little human, to be more careful with what you wish for.”
He blows out a puff of air, warm and cold and euphoric and tortuous all at once. Tears start to pool in your eyes, and the hands that once rested against his velvet headboard come to cradle either side of his face.
“P-please,” you choke, “please, Belphie, I–I need–”
“You don’t know what you need,” he dismisses, and instead of explaining, not because you’re a dumb human, but because you haven’t spent enough time in this existence to know, you don’t have the curse of knowledge that I do, and this is the least I can do to make up for all that I’ve done, so let me teach you to not just know what you need but how to take it, he gives you what you’ve been asking for.
Slowly, deeply, he begins licking around your seeping hole, collecting as much of your nectar as he can. His hands wrap around your thighs to help spread your lower lips, grinding you against his mouth every time you try to breathe. His nose brushes against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, never quite catching the hood but putting enough pressure to keep you on the edge of oblivion.
“I know what you need,” Belphie mutters into your thigh. He sucks a light bruise into your skin before diving back into your folds, humming as happily as if you were the one sucking him off, instead. “I can give you what you need, pretty girl. Want me to? Want me to make you cum?”
“Yes–” you gasp. Your hand knots in his hair, trying to direct that running mouth of his to somewhere more useful–and he lets you. He lets you guide him to where you think you need him most, gently lapping at your folds, alternating between kissing your sensitive clit and guiding his tongue as far into you as he can reach. His fingers trail lightly along the pudge of your leg, nails irritating the skin enough to raise little welts but not enough to hurt, palms applying enough force to keep you exactly where he needs you.
Because he does. Need you, that is. Even if he can’t say as much out loud; even if he doesn’t know how. But this is his confession, can’t you tell? That he lets you use his face as your personal throne, ride him for your personal pleasure, control him for your personal gain. No one, not even Lucifer, has been able to tame the sleeping giant–so shouldn’t the fact that you could mean more than any words could muster?
Belphie doesn’t know what he wants to watch more; the way your oozing sex begs him for more, or the way your eyes are glazing over as you desperately try to keep eye contact with him. He starts to frown, but before he can pull away and ask why you’re staring at him like that–like you think you know what you need, like you don’t believe him, like you don’t need him–you’ve caught his wrists in your hands and pinned them by his head.
He could’ve stopped you, if he really wanted to, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Slowly, you slide down his body, face contorting at every catch of your slick clit against the rigid planes of his body, until you come to rest squarely atop his hips. His cock is erect behind you, thighs sticky with a release you hadn’t realized he’d even let go of, but it’s his lips that get your attention.
His pale, full, sticky lips, covered with your juices, parting slightly as he asks, “what are you doing?”
“You said I don’t know what I need,” you answer softly, placing more weight on your palms, keeping him pinned. You lean forward, letting your eyes drag along the sharp lines of his jaw, lips hovering above his. “I probably don’t. But… I know what I want, Belphie.”
He doesn’t trust himself to answer. His heart races in his chest, which he keeps remarkably steady, even as he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of your breasts pressing against his bare chest. Your fingers tighten around his wrists, and he finally meets your gaze.
Belphie’s throat goes dry. His lips part, and you take that as the perfect opportunity to kiss him. Softly, sweetly, the same way he’d been pressing kisses to your core. You take your time tasting him–tasting yourself, staining him–tongue swirling against his, breasts rubbing against his chest, his throbbing cock finding refuge in the slick staining your thighs.
He thinks he’s found it for real, this time; love. To have, to hold, to keep forevermore. He thinks this might be real, that you might be the best dream he’s ever conjured, that being awake might be worth more than just endless pain, so long as you stay with him–and then the memory of Death floods his thoughts. Death, who stole the last one he loved, who tried taking Beel from him, who’s no longer an old friend but an ancient foe with your name awaiting his collection.
Belphie tenses beneath you, then flips you over. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, thinking all the nightmares away in favor of focusing on the dream beneath him.
“In case it wasn’t clear, I’m saying I want you, Belphegor, now and tomorrow and all of tomorrow’s tomorrows,” you laugh, and Belphie’s heart absolutely shatters.
You can’t lie, not to him; and you can’t know what you’re saying, not about him. You can’t want him, not when Death wants you too, and Death will always win.
But… he can have you tonight, right? And–tomorrow, if you’re still here, and maybe even tomorrow’s tomorrow, if Death doesn’t steal you first. So shouldn’t he make the most of it?
So instead of answering, he presses a trail of soft kisses down your sternum, keeping his gaze fixed on the way your skin disappears beneath his lips. “M’not done with you,” he repeats, and he dives back in.
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| Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan | Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, Solomon |
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tag list: @weebaboobs | @anxiousmomfriend | @my-perfect-machine | @leechlips
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mybworlds · 3 months
Text
CHAPTER 2
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status: ongoing
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…
rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)
Masterlist
Before to start... please remember English is not my first language, so please be kind.
If you like or you want to reblog and/or leave a comment I'd appreciate 🥹
If you don't like my story, don't be rude and go away ✌🏻
Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner
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There are two ways this story could have gone-if it was a story heard in the bar-either the protagonist turns her back on the mysterious and charming man or she gives him a chance, even though she feels she shouldn't.
You decide to look into his face and see a strange light in his eyes, very reminiscent of that magnetic, mysterious light that Tommy emanates. That light you've never been able to understand.
Who knows with the second Miller maybe?
What are you talking about, you don't have to understand anything at all! Tommy Miller is just your music teacher and this one in front of you is just his brother, a strange, somewhat know-it-all, cocky and unfortunately charming brother.
You don't know him.
You have only seen him for two minutes, but you already have mixed feelings.
On the one hand you want to run away, on the other you absolutely cannot avoid his gaze.
"So what have you figured out about me in less than a minute?" he challenges you with an amused air.
"You're older than Tommy, you're very confident, you're convinced you can do and say anything you want. No one will ever punish you, will they?"
You're not usually like this, you're definitely more resigned, reserved, but not with Joel Miller.
He smiles as he lowers his head and shakes it slowly, then looks back up at you.
"I like you, little girl. Tommy told me about you, but I thought you were a pretty little thing who just stood there and listened and obeyed."
Is that Tommy's idea of you?
Wait a minute, is that everyone's idea of you?
You are too focused on those words and pay no attention to the fact that he just called you, or perhaps his brother, pretty.
"Who is he now judging without even knowing me?" you chuckle at him with your chin out and crossing your arms.
He laughs, it's a warm laugh that sweeps over you, sweeps over you like a wave, like a warm gust of wind, like a ray of sunshine after weeks of rain.
Your heart loses a beat.
"I'd better go now," you say, hoping to get out of the situation that is taking on less and less clear tones.
"In a hurry to get back to your bubble?" he asks causing your heart to lose another beat.
"What bubble? What are you talking about?"
You know what he means, but what could he possibly know? You have never told Tommy anything about yourself.
Your music lessons were conducted in a specific order: you would come in, he would offer you a cup of coffee, which you promptly refused-your mother instilled too many negative thoughts in you-then Tommy would invite you to take the sheet music and finally he would take the guitar and make you strum a few chords, nothing complicated.
There was no room for any confidence either from you or from him. In fact, you had no idea whatsoever that he had a brother.
"You looked pretty sad to me when you got out of your mother's car," he replies for the first time without a trace of mockery or irony in his voice.
Your heart is pounding in your chest.
But how...?
You lower your gaze, losing that unfamiliar resourcefulness that had accompanied you until moments before.
"It's the same sadness I see in your eyes right now," he says again in a soft, calm tone.
"Let it go." you say in a whisper, lowering your gaze.
You don't want to talk about it, not with a man you barely know, you've never talked about it all the way with your friends, why should you talk about it with him? With a man much older than you who until that moment before has teased you by making you feel like a child?
He doesn't insist, thankfully, but the silence becomes harder and harder to break, and you have even more difficulty backtracking and going back to where you came from.
To that life that-even though you stubbornly deny it-becomes more limiting and narrower with each passing day.
"Do you want to come in?" he asks you in the same tone as before.
You look up and feel for the first time naked before that man; no one has ever really made you feel so helpless.
You have to run away.
"No." you reply, looking up and noticing in your tone of voice almost a trace of fright.
Before he can add anything else, you turn your back and leave. You run for the stairs, your heart in your throat.
You almost can't think.
When you are outside the building, you realize you have been holding your breath. You linger with your eyes on what to do for the remaining hour you were supposed to spend playing.
You cross the street, risking slipping on the thin layer of ice, and then head into the small bar across the street. It is a bar and you sit down in front of the counter.
"What can I get you, honey?" asks the young man. He is good-looking, with green eyes and dark hair, quite muscular.
He smiles at you.
"Um, a coffee." you reply, drumming your fingers on the counter and looking toward the doorway of the building you just came out of.
"Right away." he says, "This is not the first time I've seen you around here."
You look at him and notice that he is watching you intensely.
You remain with your mouth open.
You don't know what to say or whether to actually say anything.
You just nod.
"I don't want to look like a maniac," he clarifies, smiling at you. He has a bright smile.
"You don't look like one." you say smiling at him a little more relaxed, but not too much.
"Jack." he says holding out his hand to you. This is the second time someone has introduced himself today.
This time, unlike before, you shake the young man's hand by introducing yourself. He smiles, repeating your name.
You are not sure why you introduced yourself with him and not Joel. Not certainly because Joel is a man and Jack a young man. Age has nothing to do with it. Maybe it has to do with the fact that you are in a public place now, whereas before you were not.
You start talking about a lot of things, you find out that he is a sophomore in college, studying psychology, working there, and in his spare time volunteering. He seems to be a very interesting person.
You tell him about yourself, part of your life, the things you find most interesting about yourself, your love of writing, your passion for classical music, books, movies.
You talk about so many aspects of your life, you talk almost freewheeling. You should go back in, but maybe it is precisely because your mother is not home tonight because she is in the hospital that you don't mind being a little later and especially being with someone you think is nice and interesting.
It is almost eleven o'clock at night and Jack closes the shutter. You are both outside the club. It's cold. It looks like it's going to snow.
You shiver, clutching your shoulders, and he, with a smile, pulls off his jacket and hands you his.
"Is that better?" he asks you thoughtfully, you nod.
"Can I walk you home?" he asks you again.
Perhaps you might dare, but part of you decides it's better not to.
Jack seems to understand your intention from your gaze, he nods, gently caressing your left cheek.
"Forgive me, maybe I'm getting ahead of myself," he says, squeezing into your shoulders.
"No, no. Um, forgive me, just maybe another time."
His eyes light up "So would you like to meet again in the next few days? Maybe after you finish your music lessons?" he proposes, and you find yourself nodding with a small smile.
Jack seems like a very sweet guy, you like the way he thinks, the way he talks, you decide to give him a chance.
"See you next time, then," he says, giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek.
He is leaving, but you call him over and return his jacket, which Jack takes back with a smile, then leaves.
You have a smile on your face, see him leave, and then slowly walk home.
It's really cold.
There is a very strong wind, you huddle in your shoulders.
At some point you hear a honk not too far from you, you turn around, and at that moment the window of a dark SUV rolls down.
"Juliet, are you left alone?"
It's Joel Miller.
"Romeo's gone?"
"What do you want from me?" you ask him, crossing your arms and approaching his car.
"Nothing. I just asked you a question," he replies with a shrug.
You roll your eyes and resume walking, hearing the car walk slowly beside you.
"Was it a pleasant afternoon?" he asks you.
"Definitely better than how the evening is ending," you reply annoyed.
"Are you going to walk in the snow?"
"It's not snowing, it's just windy," you reply in an obvious tone.
"It's going to snow soon."
"Now you're in charge of the weather too? You know how to do everything!" you exclaim "Your wife will be satisfied!" you add, visibly shivering.
"Get in before you freeze to death!" he blurts out seeing you clutching yourself in your coat, you stop and look toward him "Come, I promise not to bite." he adds.
You look at the road, at the sky and then at Joel, who looks at you indecipherably, then you make up your mind: you open the door and get in.
"Here." he says slipping off his windbreaker and laying it on your shoulders in a sweet gesture of great care for you.
"Thank you." you say slipping on his jacket that is definitely big for you, then you see him turn on the hot air.
"I'll drive you home. Tell me what your address is."
You tell him your home address and he nods and puts the car in gear and drives off.
He looks at you briefly.
He does this a lot.
You don't know what to say.
"We're here." he informs you.
You make to get down immediately and launch into the house, but then you reconsider and make to return his jacket.
He shakes his head.
"Keep it. You give it back to me next time in class," he says.
"In class?" you ask still trembling.
"Don't tell me you've already forgotten your guitar lessons!" he exclaims "You really have a short memory!" he adds in what should be a serious tone, but the upturned corners of his mouth betray what was perhaps meant to be a reproach or who knows what else.
"Witty." you say "All right, then I'll see you in two days." you add in an exasperated tone as you get out of his SUV.
You are about to close the door, but then you reconsider "Thank you, you didn't have to."
"You're right, maybe I could have done like your Romeo and left you out in the cold, but I didn't have the courage."
"Whatever the reason was," you say, "thank you, obnoxious." you add, closing the door, as you close the door to your building an asshole escapes your lips.
It will be hard to have a teacher like him.
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Text
Shaw and Seven
So, we're back to Shaw disrespecting Seven and calling her Hansen, and everyone losing their shit over it. But I just rewatched both Dominion and Surrender and I have some thoughts about this.
First, let's just deal with the elephant in the room, that most people seem to be ignoring. When he was in the turbolift with Vadic and her hench-goons, Shaw gave Seven a direct order to blow the turbolift. He knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it, he had far more information about the situation than she did, and he, correctly, deduced what would happen if the turbolift reached the bridge and Vadic gained control of the ship.
Seven promptly ignored his order - she had plenty of time to carry it out - she just chose not to obey it. It doesn't matter why she chose not to obey the order, it only matters that in a situation where a superior officer with more information than she had about a situation gave a direct order specifically to protect the crew, she chose to disobey.
When Shaw is lying on the deck at the end of Dominion, the despair is just radiating off him, there are tears running down his face (Todd Stashwick just killed it in that scene); he knows exactly what is going to happen next - people, his people, are going to die - all because Seven chose to spare him. It's the Constance all over again, but worse, because he's the captain and his job is to protect these people, and he tried, but he was thwarted by an XO that defied him.
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(Better picture now I can screenshot)
Which brings us to the bridge scene in Surrender. Shaw is pissed at Seven, Shaw is rightfully pissed at Seven. No one on the bridge has died yet, but Vadic has control of the ship and his crew are dying, he can hear them dying and, as we later see thanks to Jack, some of them are dying horribly. None of that would have happened if Seven had blown the turbolift when she was ordered to. He's absolutely right when he says that being a Starfleet officer means not just obeying the orders that feel good.
She tries to defend herself by saying she "doesn't trade lives". But he isn't buying it, nor should he, because she has traded lives, she's traded Shaw's life for the lives of his crew, possibly dozens of his crew.
Then it gets worse when Vadic executes T'Veen in front of them.
So, if calling her "Commander Seven" is a mark of respect (as she states previously) then he's demonstrating in that moment of contained rage and despair, that he doesn't respect her. And I'm not really sure he should, her action (or lack of action) has caused the deaths of his crew.
By the end of the episode it appears that all is forgiven, when he grants Seven the honor of destroying the Shrike, but that feels cheap; as did her "Captain Shaw, may I present your ship back". That implies that she had something to do with retaking the ship, and she didn't, she made a grand gesture which might actually have screwed up Jack's plan, and really didn't contribute anything to getting Vadic off the ship - that was all Jack, Data and Picard.
Don't get me wrong, I love Seven, but Shaw is absolutely in the right in this entire exchange and the idea that much of the audience thinks that his disrespecting her by calling her "Hansen" is a far more heinous crime than her disrespecting him by disobeying his orders and getting people killed, is bizarre to me.
ETA: If you show up in the comments or reblog to hate on Shaw, I will block you, just a warning. Reasonable debate and discussion is welcome, shit-talking is not.
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Ok John Doe propaganda! Where do I even begin.
An evil all powerful elder god tried to go through a portal but it shut on top of him, chomping him in half. The chunk that wound up trapped on Earth is John. He got locked in a book/death dimension for <literally uncountable amount of time> and lost his memory.
He got released and tried to possess Arthur, only he kept control just long enough to murder a man on instinct before promptly losing control again and getting stuck possessing only Arthur's eyes. Every time Arthur loses his mind a little bit more, John gains control of new bits. Neither of them like this situation so they set out on a quest to figure out what the hell happened, get separate bodies, and maybe fall a little bit in (queerplatonic) love with each other.
And since John stole Arthur's sight, he has to describe everything to him in great detail, forming the entire base format of the podcast!
One time Arthur wound up in a coma for a month but John doesn't sleep so he was just STUCK THERE, UNABLE TO DO ANYTHING, FOR A FUCKING MONTH. But it was also sitting there, listening to the noise of the hospital that he discovered meaning in a meaningless universe and fell in love with what it means to be human. That's also where he literally named himself 'John Doe,' the default nothing placeholder name, which is very funny but also super symbolic because he just wants to be an everyday ordinary human! He doesn't want to be a god anymore!
Because, yeah, they figured out who John was and John was like, "Hey, I was super evil! I don't wanna be evil anymore!" so now they're on the run from the super powerful elder god who wants John back.
John's still very much figuring out who he is as an individual person, but he's extremely verbose, makes stupid jokes, is extremely jealous and codependent when it comes to Arthur, has picked up Arthur's tenancy to recite long poetry at the slightest opportunity, is learning how to be a detective, and misses Arthur's piano playing. He also WANTS TO GO TO THE MOVIES ARTHUR LET HIM SEE A MOVIE.
His favorite sentences are "YES ARTHUR!" and "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ARTHUR!"
There's also an evil (sort of) alternate timeline (sort of) version of him called Yellow, who has exactly the same voice as him but their personalities and ways of speaking are different enough that you can tell them apart, which is an incredible flex from the writer and I think should earn some points in a disembodies voices competition.
(John Doe from Malevolent)
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oogaboogaspookyman · 4 months
Text
Lmfao N says fuck fic how original
[SNAP]
"So, N..." Uzi sits down on her Spinny Chair Of Genius™, as she likes to call it, as N sits on a beanbag. "Since i am your new apparent admin, this means i have some form of control over you and V, yeah?"
"I guess?" N shrugs "I mean- i don't know, i'm not the human that made me, i don't know my inner workings..."
He suddenly has a small thought start to grow in his head, and immediately lets it slip out of curiosity. "Wh- what are you trying to do?? Are you gonna look through my settings..?" He scratches his head in a bashful manner, blushy as it's literally some very delicate and probably private stuff.
Uzi grins like the absolute gremlin she is, sharp teeth shining like the blade of a knife, as she fidgets with her fingers at the most chaotic thought she's had so far. Key word being: so far.
"I'm just gonna make a test, nothing harmful~" She giggles. N looks at Uzi with a metaphorical drop of sweat running down his visor as he thinks of the times Cyn giggled back in the mansion. She definetly made giggles way less scary than Uzi's.
Next day...
It started with Uzi's alarm going off. She slaps her own visor, turning it off, and promptly gets up. N seems to be deep in his sleep... Wonder what he's dreaming about? She kinda hopes it's her, but it's not something she'll reveal to any one schmuck at ALL, so thank me later.
i don't want to kill you. i don't want to kill anymore. i need you. don't go. don't leave me. please. i don't want to kill you. the universe is at risk. i can't lose more people in my life. i have to protect the universe. but you are my universe. please. no. don't go. please. i love you. i'm sorry.
XDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDDISASSEMBLYREQUIREDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXD
M1S5 M3? :)
"N!!" He wakes up screaming, startling Uzi who's sitting conviniently really close and in front of him. On top of his lap. Like in those bits in movies where the love interest is uncomfortably close to the main character. Like that. Yeah.
"Hi Uziii...??" N whispers in bashful surprise as she processes the situation. Okay so i'm sitting here right in front of him and he just woke up and sat up really close to my face it's looking like something else is gonna happen and oh my robo-god i am going to fuckin' pass out hhhhh-
"aaaaaooOKAYWEGOTTAGOORELSEWERELATETOTHEFUCKINGSCHOOLSHITAAAA" N yelps Uzi pushes him away by the face in a rush. N gets back up to yell (but like- not angry or anything, more like yelling so she hears him clearly) "Language! Your dad's around, you know?? It's why i say"biscuits" instead, i don't wanna be rude!". It's a long pause of silence as he thinks, realizing... "How can you even swear at all by the way???"
It started with a horrible, terrifying, traumatic, very lore heavy nightmare along with a scare and rush to school. This day is certainly not gonna go all too well and i am here for it he's boutta SNAP lol.
Next it was Lizzy doing her usual popular girl spoiled brat bullshit, and N cannot kill her because murder as a whole is wrong and it's no solution to anything at all. Uzi knows this and it bothers her so much more than i can describe.
Next was the teacher being this smug idiot doing whatever, giving the class a dumb thing to do without caring about anything, only looking through his phone either busy with other work or straight up messing around. Uzi and N are very much bothered by this and Uzi wants to speak up... Which she does. To no avail, as the teacher ran out of fucks to give. N just tolerates and tries to lighten up the mood by being his friendly self (got a dude and a chick head over heels for him and he doesn't realize, thinks they're just extra friendly), but it's mostly very little effect. All because he doesn't wanna be rude. It's gonna get real soon enough though.
Next was the discrimation towards N, as he is a Disassembly Drone and they're pretty scared of him... Well at least it's not ALL of them, some are very much enjoying his presence. Why that is i'll tell you in the dms because i don't think i can say it here lmfao.
Next was the teasing. Yes some drones in the school figured out the whole Nuzi shebang and are now teasing them about it. "Hey purple girl, how's the biting like?", "How does your murder buddy kiss? I'm just curious~", "How's it like living with a small girl like her? Bet she likes it when you pick her up~", "N you are so much better than her, there's that other murderous girl out there that killed Doll's parents, she seems right up your ally!", and it just doesn't stop. Ever. N is genuinely bothered by this, he's very uncomfortable.
Inconvience after inconvience, minor and major, impactful and not, it just doesn't friggin' STOP.
Luckily that's all there is, they're going home! Albeit not very happy but they're going to their comfortable space of a home nonetheless!
But i did say he's gonna snap at some point.
"Uzi, have you seen my glasses? I gotta read something important" Says Khan, not actually needing glasses as he's a robot, he can see just fine, but everyone in Copper 9 is all mimicking humans so Khan doesn't realize that and needs glasses anyway.
"I'm getting them, Mr. Uzi!" N chirps, happy to help like all the time, as he jumps up from his seat and walks around, looking for Khan's glasses. "Thanks, Uzi's very lucky to have you as this potential boyfriend!" Uzi lets out a very UNHOLY screech of embarrassment as she yells "HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND". N does sigh at this, but he's too busy looking for Khan's glasses to care.
"Ooh! There you are!" N whips out a pair of glasses from inside... Uzi's wardrobe?? Does she prank him often??? Anywho, he found the glasses!
"I got 'em Mr. Uzi!! I found them in Uzi's wardrobe which is very weird and raises a few questions but i found them nonetheless!!" Khan processes the statement and wheezes as a response.
"What? What's funny??" N is very confused. Khan chuckles as he pats N in the back, "What just happened while i was sleeping was that Uzi just hid them away as a prank of sorts, she's very mischievous!" He's giggling as he explains, and so does N because come on it's funny how could he not?
Oh and N drops the glasses in his giggle fit. Resulting in them breaking upon landing. They stop laughing as they notice this.
N's eye twitches as his hands vibrate.
"N it's okay, i'll just get new ones-" says Khan, immediately interrupted by the next paragraph under this one
"MOTHERFUCKER!!!"
Khan is startled and frozen up in shock. Uzi heard that from the other room and is also shocked. If there were birds in Copper 9 they would fly away in flocks.
"Are you- are you okay-" Khan's interrupted again. "NO I'M NOT OKAY SHIT JUST KEPT HAPPENING AND I'M FUCKING PISSED ABOUT THAT AND BECAUSE I COULDN'T FUCKING DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. SON OF A BITCH THEY KEPT ON TEASING ME AND BEING WEIRD AROUND ME AND OH MY FUCKING GOD WHY CAN'T I JUST BE TREATED LIKE A NORMAL FUCKING DRONE?!?!?!"
Khan is frozen in shock as Uzi silently giggles to herself from the other room. "It worked! I turned off his filter holy shit it worked eheheheheee!"
"I'M... I'm going outside for a breather, be right fuckin' back" N storms out through the front entrance, as Khan holds a hand out trying to stop him, "it's sunny outside, careful-" but it was too late.
"FUUCK!!" And so N storms right back in, with burns on his casing, "I'm going to Uzi's room then"
"I DID IT!!" Uzi whisper-yells to herself. Somehow.
Twas a very loud and messy day, hope you enjoyed this lmao
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aita-blorbos · 6 months
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AITA for refusing to fall into madness?
I (1,147M) have been in possession of a cursed magical artifact for about 1,100 years, which keeping around me has slowly driven me into madness. I struggled with this for a long, long time, causing me to lose my wife, the love of my life, survive a horrible worldwide atomic incident, and completely drive away my surrogate daughter, (7NB) who was abandoned by her only living parent, and who hated when I used to artifact to protect us.
The more I used it, the less I became like myself, and it was utterly terrifying, both to me and to those i loved. I used this until I was almost entirely corrupted for a long, long time, and was revolting to every person that came around me, and my surrogate daughter (1,007NB) wanted nothing to do with me, and couldn't stand to see me at all anymore. I became obsessed with a woman (827F) who subconciously reminded me of my deceased ex wife, and I acted horrible to her as well, kidnapping her many times and attempting to force her to be my bride.
I felt so subconciously guilty over the way I behaved that, eventually, I did something that no one in history nor in any parallel universe where the artifact exists managed to do; the artifact is incredibly difficult to part with, as the powers it grants you are so overwhelming and tempting it is difficult to see your own corruption, and even harder to resist it. But I have managed to mentally brute force my way out of it! I've succeeded in both keeping my fantastical powers and my sense of self, both entirely within my control.
A few of my friends I've met recently (1,047M, alternate version of moi), (29F), (CatF), have told me they disapprove of my methods of this action, referring to them as "immoral" and "donked up".
You see in order to do this, I had to redirect the madness the artifact forced upon me onto someone else. This did in fact take a degree of concious effort every moment I was doing so, and I did know what I was doing. I redirected my madness onto the previously mentioned women (now 927F), as she seemed discontented and bored and stressed with her own life, and I didn't believe she would mind a bit of a change.
Doing this drove her mad, causing her to fall in love with me. Over the past 100 years of this she's kidnapped me on a regular basis to show me her newest songs and art projects about how she is in love with me, which has become incredibly tedious, but not unlivable, as my loyal guards I created always swiftly come to my rescue.
The most recent time this happened she kidnapped both myself and an alternate version of myself, one who has lost both his artifact and his powers in exchange for himself. The woman found herself madly in love with both of us, as we're somewhat the same man, and the situation quickly escalated into the woman putting us into much more immediate physical danger than I am used to, as she was about to murder us. The alternate version of myself has been insisting that this isn't the true version of her and that she can be 'fixed', which made me very hesitant to actually inform him of how she got this way.
Our other friends as well as my guards managed to save us in time and incapacitate the madwoman, but when I gave one of them a kiss as thanks for saving me, my artifact didn't exactly seem to like that she was from another dimension, and promptly, immediately, failed on me. As this artifact was 1. generating the madness 2. keeping me alive and 3. pushing energy into the kingdom I built, not only did my beloved guards and kingdom all immediately disintegrate, but I also rapidly aged all these unnatural years and died, as well as the woman lost her (technically my) madness and went back to her normal state as both leader of a kingdom and a scientist.
All three of my friends as well as the woman are all in agreement that what I did in those 100 years was messed up, even moreso than the way I behaved for the 1,000 years before, kidnapping people willy nilly and unable to take others feelings into account. They all hate me very heavily despite my hospitality to my new friends (giving them a place to stay, offering to give my alternate self his powers back, training one of them in the art of swordplay). The four of them are the only people currently able to hold an (extremely biased) opinion of this, as all my other subjects died with my powers, and my daughter having been dead for a long time (100yrs) now.
I simply wanted to both stay myself as a person and harness my abilities to their full, positive extent, even if that came at a price. AITA?
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thesheelfsworld · 2 years
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Trust me or f*ck off
Warning: mild swearing
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x reader; Thorin's Company x reader
Summary: Being an outsider, it was expected that the dwarves were doubtful of you, but they should at least let you do your job!
Author's Note: As always, English is not my first language, so please be nice and enjoy!✨
Here are part 2, part 3.
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I was starting to lose my patience. 
I was offered this job because I am a seasoned warrior. Gandalf knew it, I knew it. Hell, half of Middle Earth knew it, but Thorin Oakenshield apparently did not. And he also didn’t seem interested in finding out. 
He had been doubtful of me since the beginning, which I thought was okay because I was a stranger and why should he trust me? He has lost more than enough and he felt I was jeopardizing his quest. I knew and understood all of it, I did! But he was barmy if he thought I would just sit there and be thrown inside a circle of dwarfs with Bilbo every time trouble ensued. 
I had been hired to protect Bilbo, so being next to him was natural and necessary to fulfil my duty, but seriously, if I get pushed around one more time while I’m trying to kill some orcs I am going to fucking lose it! 
We were intercepted by a relatively small group of orc scouts, everyone fighting off those foul beasts. I had been guarding Bilbo when a warg attacked us from the front, but it was not my first time facing such an enemy. My movements were sure and deadly as I fought back. The situation was under control, the warg was already severely injured and starting to lose assertiveness due to blood loss, only one final blow to end the fight, but before I could do so, blasted Thorin Oakenshield pushes me off with his big ass audacity and kills it! The fuck was his problem! 
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” you screamed as you pushed yourself off the ground, Bilbo offering you a hand which you promptly refused, too pissed off to accept any kind of help.
“What am I doing? Keeping this company safe is what I am doing,” he scoffed as if it was the dumbest thing I could have ever asked him.
Oh, fuck no.  Anger radiating off of me, I came face to face with that short little king.
“I did not need you barging in. I had it under control. I am not a damsel in distress, I am a warrior like any of you, or even more so because I have actually been fighting for a living for most of my life,” I gritted, lips tight with refrained anger and embarrassment by being treated like this. 
Thorin held my gaze, he was not going to cower from my glare, but I already knew that and I was willing to take this pissing contest as far as he wanted to take it because I was done. 
“You do not talk to me like that and you most certainly do not tell me what I can and cannot do. I am your King! I will do as I see fit,” and as soon as he said that, he turned on his heel and left me with the words in my mouth. I moved to go after him, give him a piece of my mind when someone grabs onto me. 
“Lass, that’s enough. Yer only going to make it worse,” Bofur stood there, with my arm in his hand and a sorry look on his face.
I looked around the company, they had all seen our little stand-off, and could not help feeling even more embarrassed, and in turn, angrier.
“I am not the one in the wrong! I have been pushed aside, manhandled, literally kicked out of the way, and belittled throughout this entire journey. I am a warrior, a great one at that! but you refuse to see anything past my gender. You think I am weak and in need of someone to protect me, like a damn child. I am no respected member of this company. He has shown me that is what he thinks of me and you have all stood with him on it. I’m done.” The finality of the sentence made the comments of calming down to a prompt stop. “And he is not my king.” With that, you turned around and left in the opposite direction where Thorin had stormed off.
--
Thorin had been standing not too far from the group when you had your little outburst. 
In all honesty, he was not sure how everything went downhill so fast. One moment, he was fighting off orcs when he saw the warg approach you. He could not immediately go to you because he had his own fight and he and Dwalin were having each other’s backs. However, he still kept an eye on you. He saw how well you were handling the situation, and truthfully, you did not need his help, but logic and rational thinking were not always Thorin’s best qualities. He was anxious (and maybe even worried, if he was being honest), and as soon as he was done with his own fight, he went to you. To help you, that is. 
Only, apparently, you did not want his help? How was killing something that was attacking you a bad thing? And then you started yelling at him, and why were you even angry? Thorin had half a mind to walk off that fight before something else was said and he got furious, which for him, was not all that hard; and he got the last word, so that was a win. He was proud of his decision.  
But hearing how they-he had made you feel …. That was not what he thought of you. Your quick thinking and knowledge of the lands they travelled through saved them many times and the dwarves truly valued your input. But fair is fair, and Thorin knew that you were right.
None of them had let you fight if they could help it. And that might have been a bit his fault. He had been talking to Dwalin and Balin about the group’s safety, especially Bilbo’s and he might have, very casually, said something along the lines of protecting you inside the circle of dwarfs because … well, he did not want anyone getting hurt. Simple as that. Dwalin heard that as orders and then everyone took it in stride, they thought it was only natural to take care of the only woman in the group as well. Didn’t really put much thought into it. But they had made a mistake. 
After you left, Thorin rejoined the company. Not one of them said anything, guilt making its way up their chests and settling there. Until Bilbo spoke:
“She is right, you do realize? And I am not blaming you, I also drag her with me into the circle when danger finds us, despite having seen her kill more orcs than I can count and barely break a sweat,” his voice a bit saddened.  
Thorin knew he had to take responsibility for this. Even if he had not said anything, and they still took care of her, he should have said something.
She was employed for this quest because she had more experience in fighting than many of them, she knew the lands because she had travelled most of Middle Earth several times, she was a ranger. She knew what she was doing. He realized that now. He had to make it right.
---------------------
Part 2
Feel free to give me some feedback in the comments!
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heliads · 1 year
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Bubbly attitude!male reader with reality warping powers x tasm Peter, and one night Peter and reader go out to fight someone ( I’ll leave this up to you) and the villain starts saying stuff and gets into peters head basically telling him that he knows reader is a powerful reality warper and basically telling him the relationship is not real , they eventually beat the villain but later when they get home Peter asks reader did he reality warp their relationship and the reader gets startled and confused on where it came from which starts a argument where the reader starts losing control kinda just changing things around them unintentionally, to which reader calms down and tells him the relationship is real 💖 just some little angsty fluff
hell yeah wandavision his ass
masterlist
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Peter Parker has only been awake for about an hour and a half before the city wrecks itself again. It’s a Saturday, too, which makes this latest crime against the public and his patience that much more heinous. He only gets two days off from work and whatnot, can whatever garden variety criminals currently lurking somewhere down there in the streets of New York please keep their illicit affairs to a work week basis? Or at least give him a little longer to lounge around and pretend like he doesn’t have a thousand things to do?
Peter covers his face with his hands, fights the urge to scream, and promptly loses that battle. His neighbors should be used to random shouts of anguish; he’s been living here for a couple of years now, this is nothing new. 
Peter forces himself up and into his suit, keeping the police broadcast on while he does so. As he pulls his mask, a new detail pops up on the ongoing situation, one that makes Peter’s attitude change from irritated to actually concerned. 
It’s not a group of  random crooks or thugs that’s terrorizing a crowd of people several blocks away, it’s one guy. One guy, who can throw cars with a wave of his hand. One guy, who’s tearing down buildings like tissue paper. There’s only one explanation for it, which is that Peter’s latest target isn’t human. 
This is really not good. Peter can and will run headlong into any fight that comes his way, but the inhumans are a little more difficult. Usually, taking them down means Peter’s going to get his ass kicked within an inch of his life and the property damage will be awful accordingly. This isn’t going to be a one and done, half hour max encounter with some guy who’s just down on his luck, this is going to be a full scale war. 
Not great, to say the least. Well, whenever Peter’s facing less than stellar odds, which ends up being more often than he’d really like, he knows what to do, what he does every single time. It’s time to phone a friend. 
More importantly, it’s time to phone his boyfriend. Y/N L/N is also an inhuman with some seriously wicked powers, which definitely give Peter a leg up in whatever fight he finds himself in. However, his work may be cut out for him. Peter has hardly reached for his phone to text Y/N for help before he hears a knock on the door.
Heading over, Peter can’t keep a smile from his face when he undoes the latch and sees Y/N waiting for him on the other side.
“How’d you know I was going to ask?” He questions, stepping aside to let Y/N into his apartment.
Y/N chuckles dramatically. “You couldn’t live with your own failure. Where did that bring you? Back to me.”
Peter frowns. “Is that a reference I should know?”
Y/N sighs, shaking his head solemnly. “Sorry, wrong reality. It would be really funny if you were there, though.”
Peter can’t hide a small smile of his own at that. “I’ll do my best to fix that next time.”
This isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. See, Y/N’s powers aren’t something mundane like pyrokinesis or telepathy, he can change the very fabric of reality itself. Peter can’t fathom what it would have been like to grow up as a child with the ability to reshape reality, but the learning curve must have been seriously steep.
Regardless, Y/N managed to get a hang of things, and now he’s a great help on patrols and whatnot. They’ve been dating for a few months now, so Peter has come to appreciate Y/N’s gifts more than ever. They work well together, both as normal people and as well-intentioned vigilantes. To Peter, that means more than he could ever put into words.
Y/N jerks his head towards Peter’s police scanner, which is still faintly spitting out the latest reports on the ongoing inhuman situation. “What’s got you so worried now? I could practically sense your unease from a mile away.”
Peter grimaces. “I’m not sure yet. Sounds like some guy with crazy powers, at least super strength if not telekinesis or something along those lines.”
Y/N makes a face. “Sounds like a wonderful morning. Are you ready to finish this?”
“Always,” Peter grins, and, crossing the room to the window he always leaves open, hurls himself out into the open air of the city.
The fall only lasts a couple of seconds before Peter snaps out a hand on reflex, sending a spiral of spiderweb towards the nearest building. At times like this, he can’t possibly imagine how webswinging had ever been difficult to learn. It’s a part of him now, a practice just as unconscious as running or jumping. All he knows is the crisp wind blowing against him, the lurch as each web connects just for him to throw himself forward again.
Y/N’s not far behind him, creating a constant platform under his feet so he can run. Peter watches out of the corner of his eye. He’s always found Y/N’s powers cooler than cool, even a display so simple as turning shifting air into a solid form. The platform disappears a few feet behind Y/N, a continuous cycle of creation and destruction, purpose and nothingness.
Peter’s attention is yanked away from Y/N when he first hears the shouting. It creeps up on him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He turns towards it instinctively, before he even has eyes on the situation at hand. His knee-jerk response isn’t wrong, either; it rarely is in cases like this. Three blocks left, two straight, there’s an intersection currently being blown to bits as some guy in a dark hoodie picks up a car just to slam it into a power line a few yards away. It looks like he’s targeting the electricity going into a bank.
Not the worst strategy, but certainly not one that Peter can legally condone. By now, Y/N’s seen the disaster too, and the two of them arc down towards the scene so they can put a stop to all of this.
The guy is waiting for them, or so it seems; they hardly touch down upon the surface of the cracked asphalt before a Honda Civic is hurled their way as a rather violent hello. Peter sidesteps the vehicle in the nick of time, close enough to see his reflection in the chipping paint. Y/N opts for a more dramatic approach, shifting reality such that the car turns into a swarm of cerulean butterflies. They part around him, one mass of shifting sapphire, then reform into the car a few yards behind him.
The villain of the day doesn’t seem that startled by Y/N’s display of power. Instead, he just chuckles, as if hoping for something like this. “See,” he calls out to them grandly, “this is why you come to New York! Street magic like nothing else.”
Y/N’s gaze flattens. “I’m better than street magic, you idiot. You can’t even throw cars right.”
Peter bites back a laugh. “He’s got you there. Your aim was atrocious.”
To counter this claim, or perhaps simply to shut them up, the inhuman launches another frenzy of attacks their way, this time involving a telephone pole and two sedans. Peter and Y/N fall into their usual routine of dodging and moving steadily forward, and soon they’re close enough that Peter can web up the guy before he can charge them any longer.
The inhuman isn’t going to let them have the last word, though. He spits on the ground, narrowly avoiding Y/N’s shoes. “You should be fighting with me, not against me. This world will never accept us.”
“Well,” Peter says, scratching the back of his neck absentmindedly, “that’s going to happen regardless. I don’t think the bank robberies are really helping with that part of our image.”
The inhuman scoffs. “And what, you’re so much better than me? Running around with him, you don’t ever think twice about what you’re doing?”
Y/N’s face darkens in an instant. “What do you mean, with him?”
The inhuman just shrugs, or does his best impression of a shrug given the copious amounts of spiderweb currently keeping him in place. “You know what I mean. Spider-Man may not, but that all depends on how much you’re messing with his head.”
Peter shakes his head. “Nice try, buddy, but it won’t work. I know he isn’t using his powers on me. That’s not what he does.”
“Isn’t it?” The inhuman asks, cocking his head to the side, “how do you know for sure? Has he ever shown up places without you asking? Answered your questions before you asked them? Always been the only thing you need to be happy? Maybe not all of that is you thinking. Maybe some of that is him changing your reality, too. How do you know where he’s drawing the line?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Peter claims. He tries to say it authoritatively, but his voice wavers on the last syllables, making him sound less sure of himself than he really is. Or maybe Peter isn’t sure of himself at all, maybe what the inhuman is saying makes more and more sense the longer Peter stands there. Come to think of it, how had Y/N known to show up at his apartment that morning? He could have heard the police scanners, but that doesn’t mean he would have instantly been ready at that very moment.
There are a lot of coincidences like that, actually. Times when Peter couldn’t be more grateful to have Y/N around, when the surplus of positive emotion flowing from him seemed too good to be true. Maybe it was too good to be true. Maybe none of this is true at all.
Y/N is looking at him now, beseeching him to understand. “You can’t possibly believe him on this. You trust me.”
“Yeah,” Peter says, “of course I do.” Do I?
He shoots a web at the inhuman’s mouth before he can question himself any longer, leaving the guy for the police to nab. Peter stays quiet the whole way back to his apartment, wondering why it feels like he’s just pulled a blindfold away from his eyes only to stare, dazzled, into an endless torrent of light. Nothing makes sense, but it feels like he’s learned something very important indeed.
Only once they’re back in his place does Y/N finally let his irritation flood the room. “Peter. Peter. Don’t tell me you’re actually buying into what that guy was saying. You know he was doing anything he could to convince you to let him go, right?”
“So he picked the most obvious distraction. Right. Why is it that someone who’s never even met us before would so easily come up with that sort of truth?”
“Because it’s not the truth, Peter!” Y/N seems on the verge of a breakdown, but how does he know if that’s just what Y/N wants him to think?
Peter shakes his head slowly. “And how do I know that?”
Y/N opens his mouth, closes it, then takes a deep breath. “Same way I know you don’t have any powers you’re keeping from me. Same way I know you won’t tell anyone else I have these abilities. I know you, and I know you enough to trust you, even if you don’t trust me.”
Y/N swallows thickly, almost on the verge of tears,  and Peter at last realizes that he’s being a complete and utter idiot. Of course Y/N isn’t messing around in his head. They’ve been through enough trouble for him to say with certainty that if Y/N was messing with their reality on a daily basis, he’d change a hell of a lot more than just Peter’s feelings from time to time. 
“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
Y/N looks at him hesitantly. “Does that mean you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you,” Peter says in a rush, “I love you, remember? That means your word means more to me than some bank robber we met twenty minutes ago.”
Y/N smiles slowly. “I’m glad to hear it. You had me worried for a second there.”
Peter waves a hand dismissively. “I’m just sorry I thought about it in the first place.”
He starts to leave the room, ready to change out of his Spider-Man suit and into some more comfortable clothes. Maybe he can even manage to rest today after all. As he goes, Peter catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye, a brief flash of light emanating from the area around Y/N’s fingers, which are extended discreetly by his side. 
A mere sign of agitation, the aftereffects of such strong emotions during the fight. Or maybe more.
marvel tag list: @namoreno, @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv, @callsign-scully, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @amortensie, @23victoria, @watchreadfangirlrepeat, @gods-fools-heroes, @w1shes43, @deafsuperhero, @fadedver
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altschmerzes · 1 year
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Hi I would like to know about the 1969 Czechoslovak hockey riots please
CRACKS KNUCKLES HERE WE GO
so this is in re: some tags on an a softer world graphic i made and reblogged from my ted lasso a softer world edit blog (@asofterafcrichmond) that featured sam's kit with the dubai air logo taped over "#the way this thing mirrored my favourite historical event is like, #when i say i lost my fucking MIND, #ASK ME ABOUT THE 1969 CZECHOSLOVAK HOCKEY RIOTS AND WHY THIS GOT ME"
disclaimer i might get a few details wrong and i'm sure this has happened in other situations - sporting competition has historically been a major platform for political protest and this has manifested in many ways! i'm not remotely claiming this is the only time it's happened just that this is the one that sticks with me because it's the one i wrote a paper about in university.
so here we go!!! the 1969 czechoslovak hockey riots and why 'do the right-est thing' made me lose my fucking mind not just bc of what was actually happening but bc of my knowledge of this particular historical event.
content warnings for the general Stuff around like. the ussr invasion and occupation of satellite states in the back half of the 1900s and associated nastiness and the fates that can sometimes befall political prisoners.
so for some background: what is now known as the countries of czechia and slovakia were previously one country called czechoslovkia, and went almost directly from german annexation and occupation through 1945 to occupation by the ussr in 1948.
in the midst of all this you have the czechoslovak national hockey team. international hockey competition is a Big Thing for the ussr, once they started allowing players to compete at all in the olympics and such. they're a juggernaut, they absolutely dominate the world stage for ice hockey, and the national team is one of the only outward facing like...... international relations contact points they have for a long time. i could get farther into this and the insane impacts it had on the soviet hockey players themselves but i digress. this time we speak mainly of the czechoslovak team, who had a run of really bad experiences there.
the 1950 world championships in london were an unmitigated nightmare. the czechoslovak national team that year got all the way to the airport before they were denied the ability to board their flight and were promptly all arrested, charged, and convicted of treason. they were sent to prison labor camps mining uranium where they stayed for five years. several of them, as a result, died.
this happened because there was talk of defection and they - the ussr controlled puppet government - were basically worried that if they let the team leave, they would touch ground in london and never look back. there's also some debate as to whether it happened because the team was Fucking Incredible and they wanted to make way for the soviet team to rise in prominence. without that kind of competition.
fast forward a bit.
the prague spring took place in 1968, it was a civilian revolt against the takeover and occupation. massive reforms took place and it led to the invasion of the country by the ussr and other members of the warsaw pact (alliance of countries around the ussr) because they were Not happy about this.
and then we get to the 1969 international ice hockey federation championships. the first day of competition was supposed to be held in prague. but they obviously couldn't do that, given one of their competing countries was at the time militarily invaded and occupied by one of their other competing countries so that was uhhhh not gonna happen. competition was moved to stockholm, sweden instead and immediately it's very clear that this is going to be a high, high stakes event for the czechoslovak team. obviously there's a lot going on and one of the things prominent in everyone's minds is 1950. these players knew those players. less than 20 years had passed and it's a small circle.
so. 1969 iihf championships. and the entire country essentially pitches everything they have into pulling for this team. the coach spoke later about how they all knew what was riding on them there, that it wasn't remotely about a sport, it was about waaaaay more than that. thousands of telegrams came in from citizens across the country and they basically all had the same message - we don't care if you lose every other match in the competition, you cannot lose to russia. someone, i can't remember who exactly - either the coach or the captain - described the team's mentality as basically "we will beat russia or we will die trying."
"all that is well and good gav but where's the connection to 2x03 of ted lasso?" well.
during the game several of the players used the opportunity to stage political protest.
my favorite is jaroslav holík, who amongst a few other things would turn his stick around, set it on his shoulder, and 'fire' it into the stands like a rifle. he also poked the ussr goaltender in the mask with his stick a lot, just kinda goading the dude.
and he additionally like - when you compete internationally, there's a country crest on your jersey. on the czechoslovak jerseys there was a star at the top of the crest right under the collar representing the warsaw pact and their country's involvement in it - i.e. the force that invaded and occupied them - and holík and several teammates (including his brother) covered the warsaw pact stars on their jerseys with black hockey tape.
and that competition, the 1969 iihf championships, was the year that the czechoslovak national team became the first team in international hockey competition to beat russia twice in the same tournament. and back in prague, the citizens saw this and rioted.
carried signs reading "dubček 4 - brezhnev 3" which was the score of the second game attributed to the leaders of, respectively, czechoslovakia and the ussr. "you send us tanks we send you goals" was another sign. the protests were short-lived and quickly extinguished but like, it turned international hockey competition into like. a quiet symbol of protest and hope in czechoslovakia and i've read some historians talking about it as being a motivating point in later independence acts because it was like... straight up the first time a lot of people saw the ussr lose at something.
the czechoslovak team in the rest of the competition ultimately placed bronze, but they did not REMOTELY give a fuck because that was not at all what counted, they did not lose to russia and that's all that mattered.
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light as a feather
light as a feather (unedited)
Summary: At some point, Merlin should learn to stop taking the brunt of spells meant for Arthur.
tags
It started off the same way it always does.
There was yet another magical attack on Arthur’s life that Merlin yet again intercepted.
Except it wasn’t that simple.
It could never be.
They had been on a hunting trip with the knights, when the weather had taken an unexpected turn and rain poured down on them in a heavy torrent.
It was clear that this wasn’t a natural occurrence.
Merlin could practically smell the magic laced in the water.
The group stumbled their way through the forest, barely finding shelter before they were ambushed by bandits.
It would have been an easy match, but the bandits had a wizard at their side, one with a profound hatred for the king before them.
With the law still intact, it would be a very one-sided firefight.
The elderly man started to chant words for a spell that Merlin had never heard before, but being magic incarnate, could vaguely understand its intention.
Before the wizard had completed the spell, Gwaine had decided that it was a good idea to tackle the man, and as he fell, stumbled his words and said something entirely different, losing control of the ball of magic in his hand, which promptly headed toward Arthur, before Merlin decided it was a good idea to jump in front of the king.
The rain cleared up and the bandits took their cue to flee, disappearing into the thick of the trees as Arthur crouched to help his manservant.
Merlin groaned as his knees wobbled, barely able to hold himself up from the blast.
The opposing magic settled in his chest as his own tried to heal the damage.
Even with the spell now running through him, it was hard to tell what it was going to do.
The magic settled into the bones of his back, and he heard the breaking before he felt the pain.
And what pain it was.
White hot fire licked through his shoulders, and he face plants into the mud, his fingers digging into the ground as he tried to ride through it, grimacing as blood trickled down from wear he felt his flesh tearing open.
It seemed like an eternity passed before it ended, and an odd weight settled behind him.
The knights gasped, and Merlin tentatively looked up at them, the horror visibly etched on Arthur’s face making him panic.
It’s Percival, sweet Percival, that helps Merlin to his feet.
Instantly, he can feel that his balance is off, the pressure at his shoulders even heavier.
He only figures what’s wrong when Gwaine decides to poke the area behind Merlin, and he feels it, a spark crawling through an appendage he does not have and into his spine.
Craning his neck, he can only see a small mass of black fluff.
He reached behind to touch and immediately regretted it as it produces more sparks, and it’s Athur’s arms at his waist that keep him steady when his knees wobble.
He’s keenly aware of how close they are.
“Wings.” the king breathes out, “Merlin, you have wings.”
The trip back to the castle takes far too long.
His wings kept getting caught in branches, and the resulting sensitivity was bordering on painful.
It’s a quarter way into the journey when Arthur shucked off his cloak and wrapped it around Merlin.
(“It’s thicker than the others.” he mumbles before marching forward).
Surprisingly, the additional pressure brought relief, and it did well to keep anything else from brushing against them.
They barely spent a second at the gates before heading straight toward Gaius’s chambers.
Arthur tries to get the knights to leave, but the men linger outside the door, even when Arthur shuts it, worried for their friend.
The old healer goes right into assessing the situation, watching as the cloak is removed to reveal the evening’s aftermath.
The wings are rather small in size, and despite the rich black color, when Merlin strained to look in the mirror, he could pick out each individual feather. There’s holes in his tunic from where they protrude from, and the blood has dried into the fabric, possibly staining it.
If he were in a mood to joke, he’d make a comment about getting his falcon wings.
Although, he wouldn’t relate them to belonging to a bird.
Something about them was ethereal, and if getting or having them hadn’t hurt so badly, he wouldn’t mind the new addition.
But right now all Merlin wanted was them gone.
He grit his teeth as Gaius gently poked and prodded at the organ, feeling it and the area it was connected to grow increasingly tender, until the first set of tears fell from his eyes and all he could do was move away.
“Enough.” he said, his voice thick with physical and emotional pain.
The two men in the room startled at the outburst, and took a step back.
“I did not mean to hurt you, Merlin.” Gaius said kindly.
Merlin groaned, “I know, but even merely breathing makes them hurt.”
“I see. Do you remember the spell that had been casted?”
It’s Arthur that speaks up instead, “It seemed the wizard had meant to cast something else, and to me, before he stumbled on his words and said something else entirely.”
Gaius hums in consideration, before picking up a small blade, and Merlin panics for a moment before feeling silly when the man just raises an eyebrow, “Well the tunic is a lost cause, and perhaps adding to the irritation you feel, so I shall have to cut it off.”
Merlin briefly despairs at losing a piece of clothing, but figures the relief would be worth it.
His mentor is careful and precise, only tearing through what is necessary. When he finishes, he places the scraps on the desk and rummages through a drawer, pulling out a small container of what Merlin knew to be a healing balm mixed with mint leaves to cool the skin it was applied to, and handing it to Athur.
“If you do not mind, Sire, could you apply this on Merlin’s back, around the area that the wings spawn from, while I prepare a healing tonic.” Gaius asked, nudging his head toward Merlin’s room.
For once, Arthur did as he was asked without question, placing his hand gently on Merlin’s lower back to guide him.
Merlin sat down, facing the wall and grabbing his pillow in comfort, hissing when Arthur’s fingers made contact with the sore flesh.
The king was uncharacteristically quiet, and while the manservant would usually take joy in that notion, it was off.
“Are you alright?” Merlin asked.
Arthur let out a small snort, “I should be asking you that.”
“What ails you, my lord?”
Arthur did not respond for a moment, focusing on applying the salve, “Just… it seems to always escape me how often you risk your life for me.”
“You are my king.” Merlin retorts. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say, as Arthur draws back a bit, being distant with his touches. He contemplates for a second before adding, “and my friend.”
Merlin’s eyes wander to his mirror, catching a small smile gracing his lips.
Arthur’s hand spreading out the cooling mixture brings the comfort he was promised and soon Merlin feels his eyes start to droop.
When he opens his eyes again, Arthur is gone, and Gaius is handing him the finished tonic, and Merlin tries to not feel disappointment.
He wakes up to the soft sound of Gwen placing a breakfast tray on his table.
She looks at him with guilt as he stretches carefully, and as she opens to say sorry, he pins her with a glare.
“Gaius had to step out to deal with a patient, but asked me to give you something to eat and another dose of the tonic. Oh, and His Highness said to tell you that you have today off, and tomorrow as well, if your, er, dilemma, persists.”
He gives her a small smile, “Thank you.”
“How are you feeling, Merlin?”
And how is he feeling?
The sensitivity that plagued him yesterday seems to have receded enough that when his muscles shift underneath his skin, he doesn’t have to fight the urge to claw at his back.
He grabs the vial of tonic Gwen had placed for him, and downs it in one go before tearing off a piece of bread.
It’s surprisingly fresh, not like the stale loaves that he’s usually given, but closer to what he gives Arthur in the morning.
As Gwen stares at him with a kind smile, he’s reminded of his state of undress, bringing his sheets closer to his chest.
The better thing to do would be to put on a tunic, but that is not an option he has.
After he had his meal, Gwen moved the dishes around before grabbing the salve that was there from the night before, and started to gently apply it.
Despite the light touch, his wings kept twitching, nearly hitting his friend in the face, and Merlin apologized profusely but Gwen only laughed.
“They did not do this when Athur was applying last night.” he murmured.
Gwen hummed in amusement, and Merlin rolled his eyes at her unspoken words.
She left shortly after finishing, promising to return with his lunch, and Merlin laid back into his sheets, feeling a strange exhaustion take over him.
His impromptu nap was rudely interrupted by the sound of his chamber doors slamming open, Gwaine smiling widely.
Lance and Gwen trailed closely behind, the former shooting his fellow knight a nasty glare at being so disruptful.
Merlin, his mind still foggy with sleep, rolled his eyes at their antics and buried his head back into his pillow.
He has his eyes closed for five seconds before a pain shoots through his wings and into his back and arms and he lets out a hiss, opening his eyes to see Gwaine with his finger extended an inch away from his feathery appendage.
Thankfully, Lance smacked the man upside the head, and Merlin is grateful since he couldn’t do it himself.
“Sorry sorry.” Gwaine mutters, dropping his arm to his side.
“How badly does it hurt, Merlin?” Lance asks, already reaching for the salve.
Merlin shakes his head, “Like sparks of fire crawling down my skin whenever someone touches them.. well except when Ar—” he cut himself off but the others caught on to what he was going to say.
“Except for what, Merlin dearest?” Gwaine asks, a leer etched onto his face that Merlin’s own heating up. It doesn’t help that Lance and Gwen also wore knowing smirks.
“Perhaps,” Lance says, and Merlin is hopeful that he’ll shift the conversation. “His Majesty should be here instead of us.”
Scratch that.
Merlin needs new friends.
He closes his eyes again, willing his guests to leave, and feeling relief when they do.
He expects the next person he sees will be Gaius returning from whatever errands the elder man to run.
Merlin does not expect Arthur, dressed not in full king regalia, but a simple tunic and trousers, the sole of his boots cakes with dried mud.
The causality of it all had Merlin's heart flutter and wings twitch, although he quickly smothers any wandering thoughts when he takes in the grim expression his visitor wears, his jaw clenched.
He tries to get up as fast as he can with sore muscles and an added weight he’s not used to, and scoots over just enough for Arthur to be able to sit.
The man does not move, and when he looks Merlin in the eye, the sorcerer can detect anger and frustration.
“What is wrong?” he asks, patting the seat next to him
Arhtur sighs and sits down, “I took a few knights to go and find the wizard that had cursed you, but we failed.”
Oh.
Merlin clears his throat awkwardly, “Well, it is no matter. I am sure that this spell will wear off soon enough.”
“You are in pain, Merlin. You should not have to wait it out if we can help it.”
“I am perfectly capable of bearing the pain I am in, sire. I may not be a knight, but I am not weak.” His words are perhaps bitter, but there is little that he currently has patience for.
“Mer–”
“You find the wizard, a wizard, and then what? Execute them? Do the exact thing that they harm you for?”
Arthur grabs his shoulders, his fingers brushing the tips of the wings, and the sparks that follow are not painful like usual, but instead ignite a heat somewhere else that Merlin can only ignore.
“If they heal you, and promise to never attack us again, I would let them go. I thought you of all people knew that I am not a replica of my father.”
Before he can think of doing otherwise, Merlin places his own hands on Arthur’s wrists and leans in for their foreheads to touch, “I know you are not.”
“Then?”
“But the people do not, and it is when things like this happen, and how you react to it, that will let them know. You cannot let the anger you have over magic dictate how you treat those you those that wield it, Arthur. It is a weapon the same way a sword is, and a knight can choose to swing or to block.”
The silence in the room was thick, and Merlin feared he crossed a line when Arthur pulled back slightly, and his heart catches in his chest when there’s a gentle touch of the king's lips on Merlin’s forehead, and his magic hums in his veins.
A beat passes, and he cries out, gripping tightly at Arthur’s wrists, when the bones in his back are shifting again, and a pop sounds in the room, and the added weight he bore disappeared.
He spares a glance in the mirror and the wings are gone.
Merlin rotates his shoulders, feeling relief when there are no sparks.
Arthur looks just as relieved, his hands leaving Merlin’s shoulders and instead wrapping around his waist, hefting him into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck.
Merlin’s melts into the embrace.
They have much to discuss, but that will be for a later time.
Right now, he feels as light as a feather.
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yuusaris · 1 year
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Doc Dump - Almost And Enough (Shadowpeach, Lego Monkie Kid)
I have SO MANY irons in the fire right now, and this is something that has to get cut and will not be used in this particular fic. Woe, shadowpeach be upon ye
[So, I'm working on apiece taking place with Wukong in the broken scroll having to re-play his memories up to present day, but every deviation gets him sent back to Start, the curse not truly able to manifest in it's usual way. The ones with Macaque are the most difficult for him because of how differently he sees and feels about Macaque now.
Our Wukong is depicted by (Wukong) and any Wukong acting within the proper narrative is simply Wukong. The way that Tang and Pigsy and Sandy were stuck in their past lives - because Wukong has that self-knowledge to him, he's kind of able to weave between letting it happen while maintaining his awareness of himself, and being able to step in if he feels he needs to, or wants to re-establish control for himself.
This cut follows after a scene with a Drunk/Potentially-Not-Actually-Drunk Macaque at a Brotherhood banquet trying to elicit a kiss from a decidedly less drunk in-timeline Wukong, who is getting very uneasy vibes about it, despite the fondness for Mac's attention.
So, why are we cutting this?
A) I dislike how I wrote Wukong here - even for a younger self, I found this a little too hesitant and nervous. Even at his most uneasy, Wukong isn't one to stutter or lose his words, I was gunna imply maybe he was starting to feel the alcohol himself,but that just didn't pan out well.
B) I feel Macaque's a little too devious here, too unapologetic about manipulating Wukong at a point in his life where he is very much at beck-and-call. He's showing his hand a bit too fully as well, and I found it made for a distasteful character in a way I feel is out of character for /that period/ of Macaque and Wukong's relationship.
C) it didn't move. The end result we have here comes to a decided dead end and any attempts to move it passed this felt forced or unnatural and that is because this movement isn't the strongest I can make it. I have a better idea in mind to replace this sequence with, I'm not pressed.
Things I like, though?
I like the banter I got down for that intimate bit. I like how I wrote Azure, I think I nailed conveying disapproval without giving an implication that he feels anything for them - that being interpreted is different from my intention, after all - which does lend for this rather irksome Protector Syndrome that throws a wrench in things for these two, you get the idea that the mood is dead because Azure is this insistant and the inexperienced/manipulated Wukong is not weighing his situation well.
That being said - I do hope you enjoy]
--------------------------------------
Macaque blinks, his sadness turning sour. His tail drops off Wukong’s waist, not in an ordinary disappointment, but one Wukong can still rectify. He grabs Macaque's arm before he can stand to storm off (“I’ts only--”), which he promptly shakes off. 
Wukong can’t just watch him stumble off. He slips away from the feast and catches up to Macaque. “It’s only cuz you’re drunk.” He shakes the word in a show of seriousness, a show of care. 
Macaque’s eyes roll then screw shut to avoid Wukong’s gaze. “What a hero.” 
He jogs further in order to be in front, to speak to his face. “I just meant--”
“I know what you meant.” Macaque sounds almost entertained by how badly the night turned out, as if this should’ve been predictable. 
(Wukong knows now it was.)
“-- that was intense,” Wukong presses. “I mean, specifically asking me to--”
“I knooww,” Macaque’s tilting tone is that of an overlectured student.
“Just cuz you don’t think you’re that drunk, doesn’t mean you’re not that drunk.” Wukong slows his erratic pace when Macaque does. He looks at Wukong with surprise (the same surprise Wukong’s feeling for himself) “Don’t gimme that look - a sober Macaque wouldn’t have tried that even if we were alone.”
(I really caught that?)
“--Doesn’t mean we should… overdo anything we--” Wukong stutters, “--that we, uh.. Would.. Think is smart to do. Y’know, sober or not.”
Of all the times Wukong’s tongue goes lax - this would be the one.
“Y’know because - I mean, it’s not like I’m not gunna want to…” The words stick to his throat. “Not that I'm saying you’re not attractive or - or weak…  I like you -- beeeiiing forward. In general, I mean. Taking initiative, And the. ..banter was… it was, it was--”
He’s grabbed by his tunic knot. Macaque pulls Wukong close as he falls back against the solid stone of the mountain. To keep from toppling, Wukong brackets him with his arms. 
“...Oh,” Wukong is breathless, feverish at Macaque’s grip on his clothes, keeping him this close. “This is… this’s.. Ah…”
Really happening, His mind races. Finally happening.
Wukong looks at Macaque, his shadow, bathed in the light of a night sky too bright to compare him to, a failure in its own right. Stars that only shine worthily when glinting off his teeth, and if a hero and a warrior are the sun and the moon, then where is the second hero to account for Macaque’s second eye?
Sounds fall out of him - “Okay.” 
Wukong gets that prey feeling again when Macaque chuckles darkly. The corner of his mouth presses into a smile. “Just okay?” 
For a moment, Wukong’s nerves even out, the excitement can rush through without spinning him. 
 “...Better than okay.” Wukong leans in, something wry on his face as he gets close to Macaque, close enough to smell plum wine and a musk only furr can cultivate. Macaque pushes up.  “Much better than okay.”
He grips Macaque’s arm, between the elbow and shoulder, and gives a squeeze that’s permission and plea. Macaque’s move to his neck, gripping the hair and fur close enough to his fingers. 
Macaque leans.
Wukong pulls.
Someone coughs.
Both their heads whip soundward, and Azure Lion stands with a fist to his mouth.
“I - apologize for interrupting,” he says. “But Macaque seemed upset when you two left.” His brow raises. “Is everything okay?”
“...Yeah?” Wukong’s eyes shift to Macaque, “Yeah, we’re, ah--”, then back to Azure, “--we’re figuring it out.”
“I can see that,” Azure says. “But, it does look concerning.”
“You did say to take it inside,” Macaque helps (and it’s so blatantly smug, Wukong could choke on it).
“This isn’t inside,” Azure says (with a tone so stony, Wukong feels crushed for another five hundred years.)
(Talk about a rock and a hard place, and Wukong’s idiot baby-self caught between them doesn’t realize he can’t move).
“We’re not fighting,” Wukong interrupts. Azure’s posture doesn’t change. Through grit teeth, his friendly tone weakens, “we’re not. Fighting.”
Curb your Big Brother Complex, his friends lack of belief is like an arm's worth of pinched nerves. And take the hint. (You take the hint! Wukong wants to shake himself.)
Still, Azure looks the two of them over. Slowly, he smiles the tiniest fraction, relaxing. “Well, as long as that’s so. But we do need you both back at the table.”
“Do you?” He asks with a tinny strain. 
“It’s important.”
“Is it so crucial a strategy that you can’t come back later?!” (Wukong) blurts. Azure sputters, and Macaque’s grip is tighter and moves. “Just - for five minutes, I’m not asking for - I am so close to--” 
Wait. 
Nothing went sideways.
This was what happened.
(He didn’t kiss Macaque)
(He doesn’t need to kiss Macaque)
“--Damnit,” (Wukong) seethes, touching his head to the stone wall in frustration. “Damnit, damnit, just--”
-----------------------------------------------
“---yeah,” He groans, falling onto the pieces of stone shell. “Yeah, that’s-  Yeah. Sure. Fuck. Damnit.”
-----------------------------------------------
“--we do need you both back at the table.”
“Do you?” He asks with a tinny strain. 
“It’s important.”
“Is it?” Wukong’s voice stretches thinner -  he yelps when the hand in his hair fists, tightly.
“We need to know when to strike,” Azure, ever diligent, pushes this point.
[That is in fact it, I cut this early.]
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dannysstormbornn · 1 year
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I’ve been cryptic and vague lately, and I’m sorry, I know it’s a pain, but maybe it’s time I talk about this out loud. This will be a long one, so feel free to skip, but if you’re like me and love reading your mutals dramas, then strap in. This is a totally emotional overshare.
Partly I’ve not said much because saying things out loud makes them real and I don’t know if I’ve been ready to face this yet but mostly I’ve hesitated because I just don’t want him to read something before I’ve had a chance to say it, but I’m pretty sure he’s unaware of my tumblr, hopefully.
But my relationship with Lyle is really struggling at the moment. Or more so, I’m struggling with my relationship with him I suppose. I’ve been…conflicted… for a while, but we’ve recently been going though a really rough patch, and the past couple days we’ve had some really bad fights.
Honestly, our relationship right now is pretty toxic. I can see it when I step back and look in, but in the moment, it just doesn’t feel like that. Plus, I’m sure (or I’m making excuses, idk) that if the situation were different, then it wouldn’t be so toxic. I don’t know. I think I’m far too close to the tree to see the woods, so I don’t know if I’m skewing my view, either positively or negatively.
So, I liked a guys picture on Instagram. He’s a guy I know form the local area, he a regular customer at work and we’re friendly but no more so than I think is normal. It was a shirtless picture of him though, but mind you the picture was posted in 2021 and I liked it probably over 9 months ago. Fast forward to yesterday and Lyle says he received a random message from a random account telling him to check out that guys profile and see that I’ve liked his picture. So he lost his shit at me saying some really shitty toxic things, and I told him that I didn’t know if I could do this anymore. To which he broke down in tears at and though we still ended it not feeling great, we did have somewhat of a good conversation.
For the record, he said he didn’t take a screen shot of the message and that the account was deleted straight away so the message was too. I kind of think he just went through the list of people I follow (it’s less than 150) and checked to see if I’d interacted with any of the men. Because, that one picture also happens to be the only picture of that ilk I’ve liked.
Then today he messaged me saying he’s seen I’ve turned off my location sharing with him, and to be honest was quite shitty with me about it. I was confused because I didn’t know I was sharing my location with him and said I hadn’t turned anything off. He called me a liar and was determined I’d turned it off. After a while though we both realised that I’d genuinely hadn’t known I was sharing my location with him and I’d turned it off yesterday while setting up and apple account for my daughter and connecting it to mine so I could set parental controls. I had turned off sharing my location, but I did not know at the time that I had been sharing it with him.
Turns out I’ve been sharing it with him for the past 4+ years. We (him, my sister, my parents and I) all turned our locations on at one point when we needed to make sure we didn’t lose anyone, but I’d promptly forgotten about it completely. Apparently he hadn’t. He also hadn’t thought to mention it to me. He initially said he just uses it every now and then to make sure I’ve got some where safe if I’m traveling, but eventually admitted to checking it all the time to make sure I am where I say I am.
At first he tried to make me feel like Shit for not wanting to turn it back on, but then apologised and said he realised it was a bit much. Of course, he said it’s only because we’re so far apart and he can’t be here to protect Addy and I and make sure we’re safe.
So I told him I just needed a night to not think about all this Shit. My mum is watching Addy for the night, I’ve turned my phone on to do not disturb, I’ve got a glass of wine and of course all I’m doing is thinking about all this Shit!
I know I’m going to have to talk to him in the morning and I’m actually just dreading it. I don’t know where my thoughts or emotions stand and I don’t even know where to start.
I’m unhappy in our relationship, but am I really unhappy with us, or just the situation we’re in? We’ve basically been in a long distance relationship for 5 years. We haven’t really been together for over 3.5 years. And, at the moment, changing that is almost insurmountable. Unless I move to South Africa, which I don’t want to do, and has been the major cause of most of our arguments recently.
It’s tough because I know our situation is about as far from typical as possible so I just don’t have any frame of reference. Am I using this distance, both physically and in time, from each other as an excuse to forgive behaviour I normally wouldn’t or am I using it as an excuse to find fault with behaviour I normally wouldn’t?
I’m just so fucking conflicted.
One moment I’m like fuck this, I can’t do it any more, I want to live my life and he’s suffocating me slowly.
The next I’m like, no I must fight for this as hard as I can, we’re stronger than this, we can survive.
We’ve been together since I was 19, almost half my life.
I find myself thinking of a life with out him, I mean it’s not that hard, I am alone right now in reality. But then the other night he accused me of exactly that and I felt so fucking guilty that I immediate denied it.
I know I’m probably toxic too. I find I tend to just people please him a lot. I don’t want to fight so I just say what I know he wants to hear, which is unfair on him because how’s he supposed to know what’s wrong if I just keep shutting down defaulting to I’m fine.
If we some how manage to get together the £8,000+ needed for the application and they deny him the visa meaning he can’t come to England and probably will never be able to, I don’t think I can move to South Africa to be with him.
A huge part of that is Addy. I can’t take her from a 1st world country, with free school, free health care, a future and the rest of her family, to a 3rd world country where Lyle hasn’t been able to get a job for 5 years and has no prospects for the future, and is straight up dangerous. But it’s not just that, I don’t want to leave England, it’s my home. I don’t want to live in South Africa. I want stay close to my family. I want Addy to grow up with her cousins. I don’t want to be in a different country to my sister and mum.
But what does that mean?
I told this to lyle and his arguments were that England might provide a better life for Addy, but how full will her life be with out her dad in it. When I asked about how we’d provide for Addy with no jobs or prospects, he said it doesn’t matter, so long as we have each other we’d find a way, love conquers all. And I said love does not buy food though. His response? No, but love is fuel!! He said that he doesn’t care about anything but us being together as a family, and that me not feeling the same breaks his heart.
But I don’t feel the same. I don’t think we can live on love alone.
He said, “if you’re willing to just accept, that if the application fails, then our relationship, our marriage, has failed too, then what does that mean about us?”
And I said I don’t know. Because I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
I thought writing this all out might bring some clarity but I still feel as confused as I was when I started. But if you’re still reading this, at least I’ve given you like probably 10 minutes of entertainment.
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Other thoughts on the episode, now that I've got the Morph/Wolverine stuff out of my system. (Well, it's not actually out of my system, and never will be, I'm just able to shut up about it for a moment.)
I can't believe X-Men 97 managed to speed run Madelyne Pryor, Inferno, baby Nathan and his trip into the future all in basically one single episode.
And it mostly works, I think.
Madelyne doesn't come in as her own person with her own life and then be revealed as a Jean clone, she starts out as a Jean clone, with all of Jean's memories and powers, who truly believes that she is Jean. She embraces the Madelyne Pryor identity at the end - and the end of the episode manages to be a more positive and satisfying "ending" for Maddie than the actual comics story. Maddie is a Sinister clone who temporarily loses her shit when her origins are revealed, but fights Sinister's control and helps Scott save baby Nathan. After Nathan gets sent to the future with Bishop, she leaves the mansion to live her own life, and has a goodbye with Jean where they part on good terms, to potentially return as an ally later. Much better than "now she's an evil demonic witch and that's all she'll ever be and also she's dead."
Inferno is confined to one short hallucinatory session at the mansion, but boy do they make the most of it. The imagery is terrifying, especially an actress crawling out of the TV and transforming into Roberto's mother, and Nathan's teddy bear transforming into a nightmare Xavier to scold Scott. They really went all out. Some of it felt a bit inspired by Akira.
No Illyana, sadly, although Morph does transform into her to try to fight Madelyne (and then promptly turns into Darkchylde when Maddie corrupts them with demonic energy). So teenage Illyana and her Soulsword exist in X-Men 97, and she has already met the X-Men, presumably?
There's also a callback to Morph's experience with Sinister, and Morph even briefly shapeshifts into their Dark Morph form while recounting how Sinister is basically the Worst Guy Ever. Morph also leads the team to Sinister's hideout, remembering the location from their terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time in Season 2.
Pregnant Jean/Nathan's mother is the one who turns out to be Madelyne, so they are sticking with the comics story there. Interestingly, at the end, real Jean and Maddie both discuss how they will never know when Sinister switched them, or even which one of them was Phoenix. It would make sense if the switch happened at the end of season 2, when Sinister took Jean back to his hideout in the Savage Land, Jean was away from Scott and unconscious. BUT that would completely negate all the development Jean got in later seasons - including Phoenix. (Although the idea of Madelyne getting to be Phoenix is kind of awesome). I'd rather assume that the switch happened either at the end of the fourth season, OR sometime between the end of the show and the start of the new one.
But then again, maybe I'm missing the whole point. They both have Jean's memories, it shouldn't matter which one was the clone during the OG series. They were both Jean.
However, it DOES matter very much when it comes to Cyclops, who basically did get raped by deception (not by Maddie, who didn't know, but definitely by Sinister). In one episode, Scott found out his wife had been replaced by a clone at some unspecified time, then had to send his beloved son into the future, possibly forever. Oh, and Jean just escaped from being held hostage and replaced by a clone, and has no idea how long she was there, and how much of her life she's actually gotten to live over the past few years. What an absolutely fucked up situation for them both to deal with, I hope it'll continue to be addressed in later episodes.
The show only has 10 episodes this season, but damn they are making the most of it.
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