#so at least some sort of reference or indication as to how he seemed to be doing so much better all of a sudden

[currentlyonstandbi]

until capcom proves me otherwise, this is my interpretation of leon throughout the entire film

#dont get me wrong okay i loved the movie #and i could watch these guys get up to hijinx and shenanigans for another 10 films #BUT it being marketed as a sequel to vendetta really had me believing they would follow up on Leon's state of mind in that film #and what is clearly a massive struggle with alcoholism and depression #especially considering he seemed to be fine in this film from what we saw in trailers #so at least some sort of reference or indication as to how he seemed to be doing so much better all of a sudden #but there was none of that #other than Dylan's offhand comment in his speech about Leon being 'all burnt out' from the endless missions he's being dragged into #so i am now choosing to believe he is simply not okay #and that maybe he's managed to get a handle on the drinking but this man is still deep in the throes of major passive depression #and that's that on that ! #@ me about it capcom u cowards #resident evil #resident evil death island #re death island #re #death island spoilers #leon kennedy

[evanpetersmybf]

Be mine?

Tate Langdon x female!reader

Summary: Meeting you was his destiny. He had to make you his so he could feel alive... It was meant to be.

Genre: Smut.

Word count: 3,172

Warnings: Virgin and inexperienced reader, mentions of bullying, self-harm (just once and is nothing detailed), obsessive and stalkish behavior, swearing, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p in v and cumshot.

A/N: English isn't my first language and this is my first time writing smut, so sorry if it sucks or if I have grammatical mistakes or something TT. Btw, also sorry if Tate's out of character. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ཐི ♡ ཋྀ

Tate had another bad day. It was the usual. Bullying, failed tests, the teacher humiliating him after he couldn’t solve a simple equation on the chalkboard, his mother scolding him. Nothing seemed new, and it seemed that nothing wasn’t going to change at any point.

He needed something, a reason to live, something to make him feel alive. Because he was dead. Dead in life, which in his own opinion, was even worse than being a rotten corpse.

He headed to the music store after secretly stealing some of his mom’s money, just a few bucks; the enough amount to buy a vinyl or some CD’s. Tate was sort of a music elitist, always believing that the artists nowadays just created pure, hollow, and trashy songs. In fact, he didn’t believe those could even be considered music.

Walking around the nearly empty store, rummaging through the shelves filled with Nirvana vinyl’s, someone bumped into him.

“Oh, sorry.” You spoke, after accidentally taking too many steps back and bumping into Tate’s behinds.

He frowned, somewhat annoyed at you for disturbing his moment of peace. The blonde turned around to look at who it was, scanning your body from head to toe, taking note of your appearance. Then, his dark eyes drifted to the sign that was on top the shelf, which indicated the musical genre of the records that were on that rack. Alternative pop. His gaze went to the album you were hugging to yourself.

“Cry Baby? What type of crap is that?”

“Huh, excuse me?”

“Never mind, you won’t understand.” Tate talked in such a volatile and rude manner, already feeling superior because of his likes.

You arched an eyebrow. What was his problem? You did nothing to him and yet he was here, judging your amazing music taste.

“Well, people’s free to like whatever they want to, hmm?”

“Uh, yeah, but what’s the point of that if everything is so generic?”

“Have you ever listened to Melanie Martinez at least once?”

He shook his head no, still scowling, now fidgeting with a ring that was on one of his fingers.

“Have you listened to Nirvana?”

“Just like… Two songs?”

“Don’t tell me. Smells Like Teen Spirit?”

“Guilty.”

Tate rolled his eyes. What was going on with this generation? What happened to good music, to the greatest artists? Why was everyone just listening to trash?

After sharing your names and a few more words, debating about who was right and who wasn’t, you placed one of your hands over his right shoulder, as an attempt to stop his rant of how superior he was. And indeed, it worked. The teen stopped venting and stared at you, all confused and a bit uncomfortable. You noticed it and quickly stepped back, apologizing for touching him without permission. He told you it was okay, that you just surprised him. But deep down, that simple yet complex touch meant a lot to Tate, even if it was absolutely nothing to you.

For the first time he felt something more than sorrow.

“So… What do you think of this? I’ll make you listen to some songs by Melanie and other artists, and I’ll listen to your beloved beautiful grunge music.” You said those last words in a mocking way.

Tate huffed, clearly offended by the way you referred to his taste. Nevertheless, in the end he agreed with you.

After paying the stuff you two picked, both of you went to Tate’s place. As you walked next to him, your fingers brushed his, making his cheeks turn a light shade of red and his heart flutter. He felt dizzy, not sure about what was going on.

In his house, he took you to his room. The boy didn’t want his mother to see you, otherwise she’d be too nosy and probably scare you and push you away from him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Get comfy.” He mused, extending his hand as if inviting you to take a seat wherever you feel to.

“Thanks.” You sat on the floor, using one of the sides of the bed as a support for your back. He did the same and sat right next to you.

He was nervous. So damn nervous and excited. He brought a pretty chick to his place. The Tate Langdon, the outcast, the bullied, that Tate Langdon was in the same room with a girl? He couldn’t believe it.

“Ladies first.” Tate pointed the record-player with his thumb, and you obeyed, placing the CD in it. The music started playing.

“We could’ve used Spotify, y’know?”

“Nah, I don’t like it. I prefer the old school.”

‘Cry Baby’ was the first track that was listened to.

He squinted his eyes and rubbed his chin, analyzing the sounds, the melody, the harmony and of course the lyrics.

Although it wasn’t his style, you definitely were. The way you looked, talked, walked. How you stood up for your beliefs and didn’t allow him to step on you (even if you just discussed about music). It was new for him. He craved your independence. He craved you.

That was the very moment when he realized that you were the thing he was looking for all his life. You were the one who was meant to be his, he was meant to be yours. It was destiny. Tate truly believed it was some kind of divine prophecy, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He was so immersed in his mind that he didn’t pay attention to the song anymore. He was solely focused on you, remembering how warm and kind your touch was, how sweet your voice was. ‘Oh, she’s mine’, he thought.

“So… That was the first track. Its name’s Cry Baby. Did you like it?”

Tate snapped out of it and bit his bottom lip. He didn’t listen to your question.

“I’m sorry, what did you?—”

“Did you like the song?”

“Ah, yeah yeah. It’s quite… Innovative. I’ve never heard something like that.”

You smiled and clapped your hands. “Of course! She’s such a genius. Let’s finish the album, hm?”

He just nodded, as a little smirk appeared on his face.

The days flew by, and Tate asked you out on many friendly dates. Or at least that’s what you thought because you were so oblivious at the fact that he had a fat crush on you.

With every hang out, you noticed that Tate was lonely. Like, really lonely. Maybe that’s why he was so clingy with you.

He told you about his family, about how annoying Constance was, about his siblings and about how his father left him behind. He also mentioned the bullying he suffered and almost talked about the self-harm but stopped himself.

Both of you grew closer, as his obsession.

Since you went to a different school, he would skip class and infiltrate your campus just to see you. He couldn’t stand being away from you. And if he did, his mind was full of you, thinking of you all day, unable to focus on his homework and tests. Tate didn’t care anymore if he failed subjects, as long as you were next to him, he was happy and alive.

The void he once felt, was now fulfilled with your mere presence. You could step on him, and he would thank you. In his twisted little mind, you were free to have everything of him.

He was willing to do anything to keep you by his side. The thought of losing was so terrifying that it would make him throw up.

Tate learned every single detail about you. Your mannerisms, your likes and dislikes, your dreams, and your fears. Everything. And that includes your schedule since you wake up, and since you go to sleep.

That was his definition of love. No one ever taught him about how to express it, and he ended up being the way he was with you.

One day he invited you over to his place. The Langdon's house was empty, and he was going to take advantage of it. No doubt.

“Your mom isn’t home?” You questioned as you followed him behind, going upstairs straight to his bedroom. Little did you know this wasn’t going to be another afternoon of playing board games while listening to some music.

“Nah, dunno where she went but she won’t be back any time soon.” He shrugged and let you inside of his private space,

You went to lay down on bed, feeling relief in your aching back after a long day at school. “Damn, I need some rest!”

Tate chuckled softly and sat on the edge, looking at you as you closed your eyes and tried to relax. He was focused on your steady and calm breathing, on how your breasts went up and down with every inhalation and exhalation. His eyes stared at your lips, at how kissable they looked. He felt a sudden desire, the intense urge to make you his. Feeling conflicted, he shook his head and tried to distract himself, pretending to ignore how aroused he was getting.

He wasn’t going to say it out loud, but of course he already had some wet dreams of you. He imagined you beneath him, your precious body shivering and responding to his touch, to his kisses. Your cunt wet and ready for him, just how he wanted to.

“Y/N…” Tate cooed, unable to hold back any longer.

“Yeah?” You opened one of your eyes and spotted him, sitting on the bed with his fists clenched over his thighs, while his breathing looked kinda rapid. “You ‘kay?”

“No.”

“Uh? What’s wrong?” You reincorporated and sat straight beside his warm figure. Your right hand touched his left, rubbing it up and down with your thumb.

Tate shoved you to the bed, pinning your arms above your head and holding them tight.

His breathing pattern was no longer normal. It was a heavy one.

His dark brown eyes locked with yours. Your orbs were wide, not understanding what the hell was going on. Or maybe you did but were in denial.

“Please. I want you.” He purred, seeing you with puppy eyes, the ones he knew you couldn’t resist.

“Hahah, you funny.”

He let out a frustrated whine, almost begging on his knees for you to get the hint.

“I’m not kidding. Pretty please. I need you.”

“Do you mean…?” You raised your head a few centimeters to look at his crotch in order to confirm your suspicions. Your cheeks had a cute blush as soon as you noticed Tate’s erection restrained by his jeans. It looked painful, and it actually was.

“Yes. I want to. Please, I truly need it. Please, please, please?” His voice was shaky and low, a needy desperate whisper. “Can I?”

This wasn’t what you expected for today. You saw Tate as a best friend, but you couldn’t deny he was handsome… And that he already provoked butterflies in your stomach before.

Hesitantly, you gave a shy nod with your head, giving him consent to continue. “But Tate… I’ve never done this before, I dunno what to do, I—” You trailed off, being cut off mid-sentence when Tate placed his lips over yours. The kiss was slow and tender, not rough at all. Your bottom lip was between his, as he nibbled it with extreme care to not hurt you.

After some seconds, he pulled apart and led his hand towards the side of your face, brushing some hairs away. “Don’t ya worry, princess. Leave it all to me, hm? I’ll be gentle. Unless you don’t want me to.” With that being said, he leaned into your neck, pressing his mouth on your sensitive flesh. He left sweet kisses, making you hum as you melted under him.

His lips continued to tease your skin, leaving some little bites between every kiss, trailing down to your collarbone. Tate stopped there and helped you get rid of your blouse, tossing it aside and continued his journey, this time kissing your sternum while his right hand cupped one of your breasts, kneading it gently over the fabric of your bra. He pulled down the straps and took off the piece of lingerie, setting your tits free.

The cold air hit you and your nipples perked up, looking ravishing and making him desire you even more.

He introduced one of the hardened buds into his warm mouth, sucking it greedily and making lewd wet sounds as he did so. His left rubbed the other nipple in circles, taking it with his thumb and index, pulling it and pinching it.

“Hmph… Huh…” You let out soft whimpers, slightly arching your back meanwhile he abused your breasts.

Tate stopped after some minutes, letting go of your nipple and looking at you, grabbing your chin and tilting your head to the side. He approached your ear and whispered, “You like this?”

“Yes…” You begged. Your voice was already ragged and shaky.

Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, rubbing them as a pathetic try to feel some relief. Tate realized it and spread your legs with one of his hands. He took his digits right to your clothed pussy, eagerly rubbing the spot where your clit was.

“Someone’s already wet? Cute.” He giggled and took off his striped sweater, throwing it away. He positioned himself between your limbs and pulled down your pants, mesmerized as he saw your damp panties. Tate continued rubbing your bundle of nerves over the fabric of your underwear, still fascinated at how humid you were.

This was the moment he had been waiting for the past weeks. He wasn’t going to need to jerk off to your photos anymore, because now he would be able to jerk off to your tits in person.

Tate removed the last barrier that was stopping him from touching your womanhood directly. He pulled them down to your ankles and you helped him to get rid of it by shaking your feet.

He got closer to your cunt and placed your legs over his shoulder, spreading your folds with two of his large digits, blowing some air at the sensitive meat. Finally, he started sucking on your swollen clitoris, enjoying the feeling of your dampness against his face.

“Mmh…” He moaned, still toying with the nub. You grabbed him by the hair, not thinking about what you were doing. You just let yourself go and pulled him closer to your pussy, wanting to feel more. Your body twitched, unconsciously bucking your hips against his mouth that was currently making slurping sounds.

His attention changed and was now on your slit, teasing just the entrance with his hot tongue, while his nose rubbed against your clit. He lapped your pretty cunt, savoring your juices as if they were a delicacy.

Looking at your adorable face contorting in pleasure, he introduced his ring finger into your wet, tight hole. It was a slow and kind movement because the last thing he wanted was to hurt you. He slipped it deeper, pumping it in and out with care, increasing speed after a few seconds once he saw you comfortable. “Tell me if it hurts…”

“Mhm… It feels nice. Huh…” Your melodic whimpers and moans were just too much for him. He could listen to you for the rest of his days and never get tired of you.

Without further ado, he introduced his middle finger, now finger-fucking you with two. Tate’s thumb was also working wonders on your lil’ bundle of nerves in circular motion.

She was clenching around Tate’s large fingers, that he curled inside of her, hitting the right spot to make you squirm and feel a new and foreign sensation in your lower belly.

“Fuck it, I can’t wait anymore.”

He undid his belt, unzipped his pants and pulled down his boxers, quickly getting rid of them and letting them fall to the wooden floor.

You just stared in awe; it was the first time you saw one in real life.

Tate grabbed his hardened cock and stroked it a few times on top of you, finding amusing your silly reaction. The reddish tip was glistening with pre-cum, which he used as lube. He spat at your pussy and rubbed his slick saliva with two digits, before finally thrusting his dick.

He did it slowly, beginning with the head. Eventually, he pushed his entire length, hitting your cervix and stretching you out for the first time.

“Fuck, you’re so tight!” Even if he was taking the lead, he was a whiny mess, vocal and loud.

He continued pounding into you, his gaze never leaving your face. Tate loved how you rolled your eyes to the back of your head and how your little mouth was letting out such nasty sounds.

The room was filled with slapping and wet sounds, created by his skin slapping against yours, his balls always hitting you with every stab. Again, he placed your legs on his wide shoulders to have a better angle and pump into you deeper than before.

His big veiny hands were roaming all over your body, specifically your breasts. Within minutes, he developed an addiction to them. Probably because of his mommy issues? He grabbed them roughly, tweaking both of your nipples as he fucked you mercilessly.

Tate lolled his head as he felt your hole gripping him tight. Very tight.

He increased the pace and moaned your name, begging you to squeeze him tighter.

“Oh, please, please, please!” The blonde kept whining. He left one of his hands taking care of your nipples, while the other went back to torture your clit. He stroked it in circles, and then up and down, applying the enough amount of pressure to make you beg for more.

“Tate, I feel like I’m—”

“It’s okay, let it go, mhm?”

You couldn’t hold yourself any longer and squirted all over him, coating his lower body with your warm fluids.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, gonna cum!” Tate pulled out from your cunt and pumped his cock with his hand finishing with a loud moan. His hot sticky white cum coated your breasts and abdomen, creating an incredible sight that he always imagined.

All spent, Tate threw himself next to you on the bed, pulling a blanket to cover both of you as he filled your pretty face in candy pecks.

“Did it hurt? First time usually does.” He looked at you, concerned for your wellbeing. “I was too rough?”

You laughed and shook your head no, caressing his messy locks with your fingers, tenderly scratching his scalp. “Don’t worry, I’m fine, really.”

Tate smiled at you and kissed you on the lips, “You’re so pretty, Y/N.”

You hugged him from behind, him being the little spoon this time. Your mind was going wild; you were still processing what happened and was about to drift to sleep when he whispered.

“Y/N…?”

“Mh, what is it, Tate?”

“I love you… Please be mine?”

#tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon x you #tate x reader #tate langdon #tate langdon fanfic #tate langdon smut #evan peters x female reader #evan peters x you #evan peters x reader #evan peters x y/n #evan peters fanfic #evan peters #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson x you #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson #kit walker x reader #kit walker #kit walker x y/n #kit walker x you #ahs fandom #ahs fanfic

[cheralith]

to a heart's content — 「 single father!miguel o'hara x reader (part iii) 」

content warnings ; fem!reader, implied fem bodied!reader, use of she/her pronouns, reader wears dresses and makeup, mild violence mention

contains ; single father!miguel o'hara, boss!miguel o'hara, assistant!reader, angst, angst with some comfort, unedited/not beta read as of 2/24

word count ; 8.5k

notes ; we're so back. am i severely late to posting this? very. did i at least get it done after too many months? also yes. i also apologize in advance to those i tagged that are no longer interested in the series, as i merely tagged people that had commented regardless of time. lmk if you no longer want to be tagged in the last part, i promise i won't take offense at all!

parts ; one two three four (tba)

THREE YEARS AGO

“My name is (Y/N) (L/N), it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Hara. Please let me assist you at any need possible.”

Miguel peered at you through his reading glasses, averting his attention from his laptop to fully examine the stranger that stood in his office. Dark hazelnut eyes scan the appearance of a young woman dressed in black slacks and an ironed white blouse standing stiffly next to his superiors that eyed him with more eagerness than he liked. He could already tell that you were a shy one, a person that wasn’t too accustomed to the outside world and its people; you stood with stiff posture; it was one that exemplified nerve rather than confidence from the way that you almost seem paralyzed in your place. 

Caldworth, one of the superiors that stood by your side, placed a wrinkly and veiny hand on your shoulder and showed you off to him as if you were a painting up for bidding. “We choose a sharp one for you. (Y/N) here is rather attentive, so don’t be shy about letting her get to know you better, Miguel.”

Miguel stayed quiet, still skeptical about this sudden new arrangement for him that was brought up at the last minute. He lacked a certain sort of anticipation that would usually behold anyone else in his position—a new person entering their work life would usually be an exciting, rousing meeting seeing as how it would be a new addition to what the higher-ups would refer to as “family.” A loose term, Miguel often thought… very loose, even. To even have the courage to compare coworkers to something as intimate as family was something that didn’t sit well with Miguel. Blame it on the certain circumstances on his own familial life, but even anyone else that had their brain in the somewhat of the right spot would understand that mere coworkers were nothing compared to family.

At least in his case.

“I’ve greatly admired your work in the past,” you said almost robotically, “so I hope I can be of any help in your future accomplishments—no matter how big or small.”

Miguel cocked his head. He fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at what he began to concur was something scripted via his superiors. Something about your tone of voice seemed… flat; devoid of any actual enthusiasm. 

Caldworth and his partner began to see themselves out, leaving him to babysit you. “Well, you two have at it! Maybe go out for a cup of coffee to familiarize yourselves, get to know each other better since you both are essentially going to be around each other all the time,” Caldworth stated, making Miguel twitch from the last part. 

Just before they left, Caldworth offered the glint of his eye over his shoulder, the peek of a tight-lipped grin ever so slightly visible.

“And don’t forget, we’re all family here!” he cheered before the slam of a door shut you and Miguel in.

Immediately, Miugel noticed that your shoulders caved inward, indicating that you were finally able to breathe properly without the surveillance of people that were essentially in charge of your life. He eyed you again from the top of his glasses before he took them off and rested them in between his fingers, letting them dangle lazily. 

“Did they tell you to say that?”

You jolted in your spot. Nerves seemingly reshocked with the same anxiety from before, you turned yourself to face your new boss again with a much more paled, yet evident expression—wide-eyed, pursed-lipped, gritted jaw—and swallowed thickly. Almost in a shameful manner, you silently nodded your head. 

“W-was…” you started, “was it that obvious?”

“Somewhat,” Miguel murmured simply and closed his laptop. “Don’t listen to what they say, just make yourself as comfortable as possible. I’m sure neither of us want to be that comfortable with each other.”

Your lips pressed themselves into a tight line, hitching a sharp breath before it’s replaced with another stiff nod. There was no user’s manual of sorts that was given to you by your superiors. They merely told you to do exactly what Miguel needed, so if this is what he wanted—for you two to maintain distance—then so be it. If anything, it’s easier to breathe this way for both parties. 

And it was like that for a rather long time; the both of you never came too close to the other person. It was strictly a professional workplace relationship, one that didn’t issue any room for intimacy because it wasn’t needed. There were no lunch or dinner get-togethers outside work hours, there was barely any small talk between you both, and you and he didn’t even bother getting each others’ personal numbers despite being consistently around the other like air—both parties thought the work phones were more than enough. There was no need for you to learn about his likes, his dislikes, his favorite foods, and Miguel couldn’t certainly be bothered with your own slices of life. To each their own, if you minded your business about him, he’d do the same to you. 

It was a fair trade and a sufficient barter that satisfied you and him; there need not be any excess of the unnecessary.

That was, until a certain day that Miguel was held back during his usual hours to continue working on lab reports—work that didn’t allow him freedom from this hell of a company to see his own salvation.

“If it’s an urgent matter, Mr. O’Hara, I don’t mind taking on some of the workload,” you had said softly as you placed the last stack of packets on his desk that needed proper annotation. “I’m your assistant, after all. It’s my job to help you out.”

Miguel rubbed his forehead out of exhaustion and shook his head, “You’re my assistant from 9 to 5 only. I’m not gonna be like those shocking pricks and work you longer than needed,” he muttered and stretched out his neck, joints crackling. “Go clock out, (Y/N). I’m sure there’s someone waiting for you at home that needs attending to.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere had gone awkwardly quiet. The tension was only broken by the scritching of your shuffling feet before you coughed. 

“Um, there’s no one in particular like that for me, unfortunately,” you whispered through a forced laugh that quickly dissolved. “So again, I don’t mind staying late…”

Miguel stiffened in his seat and mumbled an apology for his blatant inconsideration. Right… you were still rather young and didn’t seem the type to have a family yet. “No boyfriend? Or girlfriend… I’m not one to judge.”

“No, Mr. O’Hara.”

“No parents?”

“I moved out, so no.”

“Not even pets?”

“None.”

“... perhaps friends of sorts?”

“...”

Another sigh heaves itself from his aching lungs. What he’d do for a cigarette right now to kill this awkward tension. You were a rather shy person that isolated herself from most people, but Miguel didn’t think you’d detach yourself this much from the crowd. 

You proposed your assistance once more, as third times always a charm. “Please let me assist you, Mr. O’Hara. I truly do not mind staying overtime if needed.”

Miguel, at first, thought you might be kissing his ass for a possible raise, but the thought quickly disappears when you genuinely appear concerned for his well-being given the fact he looked ultimately much more disgruntled than usual. Despite your timidity, you could be a stubborn one, so Miguel gave in before he tired himself even more with mild arguments that he was sure would drain whatever life he had left in him.

He inhales sharply and fiddles with his bag for a bit before he pulls out an array of keys, gently detaching a pair of them. One of them is his car key. The other—his house key. 

“Take these,” he said and gestured them to you. “I’ve trusted you enough to drive my car on multiple occasions, so now I’m entrusting you to my daughter.”

Your eyes widened briefly, brows raising to new heights. Blinking in the alikeness of an owl, you repeated, “Your… your daughter?”

Miguel supposes this is what succumbs to him after not revealing even the most personal, yet basic parts of himself to a coworker. He hasn’t even revealed his birthday to you, let alone his family, so he can’t say he’s too surprised at your reaction. 

“Yes, my daughter,” he repeats and starts scribbling on a post-it. “Her name is Gabriella, she just turned five and is in kindergarten. I’m gonna call up the daycare and tell them that you’ll be picking her up from school. After that, drop her off at the house and just… just kind of stay there until I come home. There should be leftovers in the fridge if she gets hungry. I’ll take a cab home… I dunno.”

Miguel sticks out the post-it note containing both the address of the daycare and his apartment number. With caution, you take and examine them closely with a mild surprise still on your face of the new information about your boss that you thought you should’ve learned a while ago. You begin to see yourself out of his office with an evident nervousness in your being before Miguel spontaneously gets up and grabs your wrist tightly, forcing you to look at him.

A chill goes down your spine when you see a menacing and unusual red glint in those pools of mahogany. His once-drained face is suddenly stony and rugged with his teeth bitten back to avoid any unnecessary threats. The physical contact makes your nerves go cold and paralyzes you into place to force you to stare into those eyes that you’re not sure aren’t even human, a sort of malicious crimson tint gleaming over brown hues.

“Do not… let anything happen to her,” he hisses under his breath, his tone jaggedly sharp, “Not a single scratch, yes?”

It takes a while for air to breathe itself back into your lungs, yet only a partial amount of it revives your body because all you can reply is a choked out, 

“Yes.”

Miguel lets go of your wrist like it’s a heated iron rod, the burn of it stinging his hand with the aftertaste of your skin still damped on his palm. You quickly leave after that, leaving him to sigh and stare into nothing before clutching the picture frame of his daughter that sits on his desk—praying that you’ll live up to his expectations and arrive home to an unscathed Gabriella.

And throughout the duration of the three years you and Miguel have spent side by side, with each repeated question he’d contritely ask again and again, he did each and every single time you had to take care of her. The hours became longer, more strenuous, and created a blockage between Miguel and Gabriella that only you were able to bridge between. Gabriella—whose particular shyness reminded Miguel of a certain someone—eventually warmed up to you and began to treat you much more familiarly as time passed, growing accustomed to wrapping her body around your legs when she saw you during pick up and always asking what was for dinner that evening as if you’ve been there since her birth.

Gabriella grew very fond of you, Miguel noticed. There was some sort of mimicry in her actions at times that mirrored your own habits like how she’d tilt her head and purse her lips to the left when she was confused like you did or she’d randomly walk briskly in the same fashion you marched. She’d slip in a mention of your name during small discussions here and there, a praise never failing to tail her words. 

“Miss. (Y/N) bought this headband for me! Isn’t it pretty?” 

“Oh, Miss. (Y/N) taught me how to solve that problem yesterday.”

“Can you make cookies like how Miss. (Y/N) does? Yours taste weird.”

While you weren’t always present around the O’Haras, Gabriella made sure it seemed like you were. 

There was a particular time that Miguel was helping her on some homework assigned over the weekend. The assignment had discussed different careers that children might be interested in the future and when Miguel had asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, Gabriella, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven around the time, replied all too simply, 

“I want to be like Miss. (Y/N).”

Miguel was astonished. He had expected an answer like a professional soccer player due to her love of the sport or a scientist like her father, but to aspire to be someone that seemingly was just an occasional companion? To him, it didn’t make sense.

“Like, do you wanna work for Daddy when you’re older?” Miguel asked, attempting to clarify what she meant since she knew enough to understand you were associated with her father. 

Gabriella shook her head and mindlessly continued to draw what seemed to be a portrait of you in… a pink dress? “Nuh uh. I wanna be a princess like her.”

Through furrowed brows, Miguel chuckled a little aimlessly. Of course she’d still believe fantasy and magical things—she was just seven after all. Initially, he wanted to merely correct his daughter, but was a little curious as to what sort of silly information you had been feeding her. “Miss. (Y/N) is a princess?” 

“Yep, she told me herself!” Gabriella exclaimed, her hand fisting a yellow marker that scribbled on a crown on the drawing. “She said she used to be a princess, but she ran away ‘cause a giant, fire-breathing lizard tried to kidnap her!” 

“I think it might’ve been a dragon, mijita,” Miguel corrected gently, trying to go along with the usual trope fairy tales portrayed.

“Nuh uh, it was a big and creepy lizard, she said!” she retaliated stubbornly.

“Well,” he started again, attempting to choose his words a little more carefully this time around. “How come you don’t wanna be like Ariel? Or Tiana? They’re princesses, too, right?” 

She shrugged. “I like them. But they’re not Miss. (Y/N).”

Something unnatural began to seep into Miguel’s chest. He knew that Gabriella liked you quite so, but he didn’t expect for her to almost admire you in such a fashion that inspired her to be like you. In his eyes, you were nothing but the assistant that loyally stood by his side and abided by his every word—to him, it seemed like you were more of a butler or servant than a princess. 

But in his daughter’s eyes… 

“Why? What’s so special about (Y/N)?” Miguel inquired with a growing curiosity to try and see you in the same light as Gabriella. 

She shook her head, displeased with the informality given to you by her father. “You gotta say Princess (Y/N). I don’t have to ‘cause she said it’s okay.”

He sighed, “Okay, fine. What’s so special about Princess (Y/N)?”

Gabriella set her marker down carefully and thought for a little while. Her eyes suddenly lit up with delight, an affirmative grin set on her lips. 

“Well, she’s really pretty… like reallyyy pretty. I wanna be just as beautiful as her one day,” she praised, making Miguel’s brows rise at the sudden compliment. “She’s really nice, too. She never shouts at me like the teachers or coaches do… and she always lets me have extra dessert when I do a good job on my homework.”

Miguel fell silent. Perhaps it was more than mere admiration, but idolization for Gabriella. She viewed you in a way that Miguel hadn’t even thought of because he only viewed you as his coworker. But in Gabriella’s eyes, you were more than just her babysitter—you were literal royalty to her. He shouldn’t be one to complain though—he’d take his daughter following in your footsteps over some others that might lead her astray. You were… sufficient enough, he supposes, even if Gabriella didn’t think so.

“She’s super smart too—like you, Papá! Maybe even smarter,” she retorts, making Miguel twitch. “And I like her voice a lot. I really like it when she reads me a story because her voice is pretty. Sometimes she sings this song to me to help me sleep.”

“Oh?” Miguel questioned, “¿Y, qué canción es esa?”

“I keep forgetting the name and words of it…” Gabriella pouted after a moment of attempted concentration. “But it went somethin’ like…”

She began humming an off-tune melody that struck a dissonant, yet familiar chord within Miguel, but it was impossible for him to find why it was so eerily familiar to him. Was it perhaps from an old song? Or a film he’d seen before? It was a calming song, one that was perfectly suited for a child’s lullaby, but something about it seemed almost so customary to him. 

“Ya gotta marry her,” his daughter said plainly and began to resume her artistry, ignoring the sudden startle she gave her father. “So that way, I can become a princess, too.”

Miguel helped himself to the nearby cup of water to soothe his choked throat after the scare she gave him. “Sweetheart, I’m not a prince, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” his daughter replied without missing a beat. “But you know what you are, though?” 

Dare he say that Gabriella had grown akin to you the same way she had with her father. Something about her praise and regard for you seemed to mirror the way that reflected alike to her father, yet Miguel couldn’t tell if she had managed to draw a line between the images of you and him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Gabriella could even define a difference in her adulation between you and him besides the fact one was her parent. 

But when the thought of Gabriella potentially viewing you as sharing the same title as him—a parent—something seeds inside Miguel. He doesn’t know what it is or what it will grow into, but there’s one thing he knows for sure. 

The seed of you in his life and hers is here to stay, whether he likes it or not. 

Gabriella’s smile grew wide before she happily announced,

“You’re her knight in shining armor!"

PRESENT

If he squinted properly and took a closer look, perhaps Miguel could make himself hallucinate enough to try and visualize the golden chandelier above your head as your haloing tiara. It was the main light source nearly the entirety of the venue, but something about the way the light glistened around you made you seem almost holy, like you were a divinity gracing your presence on the wretchedness they called Earth.

Blame it on the wine, but Miguel couldn’t help but notice that you looked more celestial tonight; a unique sort of ethereal that he’s only seen in the finest of paintings. The banquet hall is covered in layers of silkened gold, only emphasizing your best features in the spotlights of reflecting amber. 

You’re talking idly (per usual, unfortunately) with a coworker from Human Resources that he’s seen you often have mild conversations with on the weekly, a rare familiarity that he only knows he’s been graced with in full; so it’s truly no surprise that there’s a placid stir of envy growing within Miguel as you’ve decided to not give your semi-cold shoulder a break even tonight, even with the rarity of a compliment given by him. At least there’s been somewhat of an improvement—you’re actually holding miniscule conversations with him every now and then as you both chatter with the crowd as long as there’s a third party.

Yet he still hasn’t been granted mercy of having a proper one-on-one with you, yet.

But beggars can’t be choosers, so Miguel must make do with what he’s offered.

The coworker, finally, is called by one of his project managers and politely excuses himself, leaving you to Miguel’s devices at long last. Like a flower’s petals given little to no care, your smiling face wilts into the solemn countenance that Miguel has grown accustomed to seeing for the past week when you turn your gaze back towards the table, a sliver of Miguel caught in the corner of your eye. In time, he just barely catches a glimpse of your eyes flickering toward his figure before they return to stare at the nearly empty plate of food with a slight dismal.

A choice of what words to say jumble in his mouth. They toss and jump about while not giving him full comprehension of what they mean and Miguel grows frustrated at his lack of intelligibleness because it wasn’t every day that his resolve could be so cowardly in front of someone. Usually he was the one that made egos shrink, but upon your grace, his own could only grow so small. 

You can tell there’s an awkward silence amongst you both despite the audible chatter throughout the banquet hall and the idle conversations among your tablemates, so you break it first but stiffly shuffling out your phone and dialing Gabriella’s babysitter for tonight—a blue moon occasion since neither you nor Miguel could be present. Gabriel is out of town and because there were only so many people in the world that Miguel could trust with his beloved, the elderly next-door-neighbor was the last resort. 

“I should probably check up on how Mrs. Darcie is doing,” you splutter with a dry mouth. “I forgot to teach her how the TV remote works and I’m sure she must be bored out of her—”

Unconsciously, Miguel gently pries the phone out of your shaking hands, the connection between skin and skin electrifying his nerves more than he liked. He takes notice of the size difference between your hand and his own and eyes carefully at how easily your fingers would be able to slip into the gaps of his all too easily; like two connecting puzzle pieces. 

He places it face down on the table to avoid further distractions. “I’m sure Mrs. Darcie is alright,” he attempts to soothe as he places his hand over your own, nearly caging it between his fingers. Miguel struggles with fighting the urge to squeeze it delicately—he doesn’t know if he’s earned that privilege, or if he ever did. “Gabi is most likely preparing for bed, we shouldn’t distract her.”

Eyes flickering toward your covered hand, the warmth that envelopes it from Miguel’s makes you swallow thickly. 

“Ah,” you murmur and timidly pull back your hand to place back on your lap to Miguel’s disappointment. “Right… Never mind then.”

And suddenly, he’s back to square one. Silence plagues the air again between you and him, only this time, it’s thicker and grimier almost. Perhaps it was the oddity that was the physical contact that added to the musk of it; Miguel prays that you didn’t find it uncomfortable. 

A fork is plucked between your fingers and you go to idly poke at your food to fidget with something other than your hands. “I hope she’s okay. Gabi, I mean. I-It feels a little odd leaving her with someone other than you. 

Rays of hope and enthrallment embellish Miguel’s being from the fact that finally… finally you’re the one attempting a conversation with him after much too long. And not only that, you’re beginning with something bold, even if you don’t realize it. Despite the fact you’re rather unconscious of what you’re saying, something within Miguel perks up at the fact that you’re worried about Gabriella in the same sense… that he is.  

That a parent is.

He fights the urge to physically shake his head to brush the thought off. Miguel hums, a semi-sorry attempt at being suede and casual. “Mrs. Darcie has had eight children in her lifetime, I’m sure that she’s definitely had her experience of taking care of kids,” he says seemingly nonchalantly. “Gabi, if anything, is lightwork to her.”

A soft delight pings in his chest again when you reply almost instantaneously, “She is indeed a good girl, very well-behaved.”

“She has her moments,” Miguel snorts, fondly remembering a few of younger Gabriella’s temper tantrums and outbursts of tears.

Something golden, something bright blossoms within him when he hears you let out a soft chuckle at his reply. It’s abrupt, but it’s short and sweet enough that he feels accomplished, enough for him to savor the taste of it. “All children do from time to time. But she’s definitely one of the better apples of the bunch.”

Miguel thinks you’re right; it wasn’t often that parents, new ones especially, were granted with the privilege of having obedient children, so he’s one of the lucky ones. Perhaps Gabriella being a good kid was the universe giving him mercy as a single parent, as society often thinks it takes two to tango when it comes to childcare most of the time. 

But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Even if Miguel wasn’t aware of it, some of the responsibility was lifted off his shoulders when you entered the picture, as the duties of nurturing a young child were now in your favor the moment you had signed your work contract. For that, he harbors guilt from time to time when he thinks that you never exactly signed up to be a babysitter, let alone a parent figure to his kin that you were still unaware of. 

And then it hits him.

It comes all of a sudden—his senses downpouring from the cloud of his daydreams and thoughts.

It’s not a good realization by far. If anything, it’s the very opposite, one that’s one the other end of the spectrum. It’s a deathly epiphany and one that he doesn’t like to acknowledge but is forced to.

Miguel stares blankly at the tablecloth, eyes droning into the satin folds of it as they mimicked the waves of a crashing ocean. A sort of paleness infects his face, the color of it draining slowly and he goes still when he feels his heartbeat thundering in his ears. 

You’re quick to take notice of your boss’s current disposition, growing wary of his wide, blank eyes and gritted jaw, along with his knuckles growing white as they fist his slacks. A shallow breath is echoed from him; you furrow your brows.

“Mr. O’Hara?” you murmur, leaning toward his figure. 

Miguel’s mind stirs. If Gabriella views you as a parent-figure, what exactly would you think of it? You’re not much younger than Miguel is, only falling behind a mere four or five years, but you’re still significantly young that you’ve got your whole life ahead of you that you’d need to experience by yourself. The remnants of youth are still planted onto you despite being well-adjusted to the adult world, so to put the responsibility of a child on your shoulders? Miguel feels contrition flood into him.

What if you didn’t even want children? 

It’s a fact that you care for Gabriella, but do you harbor the same type of love for her that she has for you? Does she even understand what your role is in her life and that there’s a strict boundary between you and Miguel and Gabriella? He knows he can’t just shackle you onto a weighing responsibility, but when Gabriella is a part of this dilemma, the complication increases tenfold.

Your boss seems to be frozen in time, seeing as how not a muscle in his limbs nor his face were moving, but his eyes were wide open, almost glazed with fear. A feathery hand goes to place itself over his tightened fist before you ask again, “Mr. O’Hara, are you okay?”

It’s a fact that you care for Gabriella, but do you harbor the same type of love for her that she has for you? Does she even understand what your role is in her life and that there’s a strict boundary between you and Miguel and Gabriella? He knows he can’t just shackle you onto a weighing responsibility, but when Gabriella is a part of this dilemma, the complication increases tenfold.

The worst case scenario infects Miguel’s thoughts—you standing in the same shadow of his ex, exiting through the same door she had walked through just a few days after his daughter’s birth and breaking his entire being into little pathetic pieces.

This time, however? He wouldn’t be the only one with a shattered heart.

A thick swallow goes down your throat. You gently shake his hand with your own to attempt to break him out of his frigid state, a worry beginning to settle itself in your stomach. “Mr. O’Hara? Can you hear me?” you declare a little louder than the first two times.

Your voice makes him blink and he clears his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at the sudden loss of composure. “Yes, I-I’m fine…” he mutters as he tugs at the tight collar of his dress shirt.

You nod with visible skepticism. Miguel turns away from your gaze to avoid further questioning, since he knows you’ve been at his side long enough to know his behaviors. “Are you sure?”

He nods and stifles a sigh, nodding. The flurry of what had just occurred in his mind lingers almost painfully and it takes him a while to remember where he is and why. Right… the annual celebration gala… with you… to make up for the date that never happened.

His mind is a mess. It’s an incoherent tornado of everything and anything, with images of all kinds flashing throughout his mind—young Gabriella’s drawing of you and her as princesses that she insisted on framing, your face of disappointment that you gave him when he ditched out on the date, a flashback of his ex slamming his old apartment door on him as an infant Gabriella screamed and wailed in her crib, you hugging his daughter after her winning goal, Miguel’s frazzled self as he showed up too late to his daughter’s first Parents Day with a teary-eyed Gabriella, him finding you quietly reading a sleepy Gabi a bedtime story after a long shift at work, you making baked goods in the kitchen with her.. you tucking in her into bed… you suddenly with a suitcase in hand, a sobbing Gabriella in the back as Miguel begged you to stay before you slammed the door behind you and leaving them—

Miguel stands up abruptly, making you jump. The collar and tie around his neck suddenly seem too tight and his throat runs dry. The air grows hotter and his vision starts to blur. 

“Mr. O’Hara,” you start as you also stand up, “Is everything alr—”

“I need some air,” Miguel barely chokes out before he leaves the banquet hall without another word. He can just barely hear you ask if there’s anything you could do before he turns a sharp right and leaves the entirety of the building altogether, choosing to remain in the back garden to breathe in fresh oxygen, a relieving chill to the air.

A hand goes to loosen his collar and tie and he can feel himself gain consciousness again. The sky is draped with an ink blue all over, speckles of the night stars scattering all around. The floral smell of many garden flowers fills his senses and Miguel grounds himself properly before he settles himself on a stone bench to balance in his mind.

He attempts to reason with himself. 

Clearly, you don’t mind being with children, and obviously you don’t mind being with and taking care of Gabriella. She’s not simply a job to you that you’re forced to work with—you’ve said it yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn’t go to her games nor would you remember to bring her small gifts of her liking. You’ve done things for her out of your own initiative many times. Gabriella is your world, Miguel thinks, as much as your hers.

Now there’s the problem of you being with Miguel, if your feelings haven’t changed all too much. In all honesty, Miguel thinks if he’s with the right person, he’s sure to put in effort into stabilizing and nurturing a proper relationship. He hadn’t had the time to go around and look for love because of work and Gabriella, so serving as this sanctuary that came to him was basically a perfect fit into his life—don’t mind it took him three years to notice it. You’re worth putting that effort in.

Finally… there’s the possible chance that you reject Miguel’s proposal of being Gabriella’s secondary caretaker.

…

Miguel attempts to process it in a more… positive light. One that won’t send him spiraling. 

But it’s nearly impossible.

How is it possible to settle a middle ground of happiness, or at the very least… satisfaction, between you and him and Gabriella? How do you imagine a happy ending to a dawning of Gabriella’s happiness? How can Miguel ever face you after asking such a thing?

His vision shakes again, another hurricane of impossible questions begins whirling in mind. The bile in his stomach churns uncomfortably and his hands grow clammy again. His feet feel like they’re sinking in the dirt. Somehow, even at a staggering height compared to most of his colleagues, Miguel feels small once more. 

Would he be able to cope with such a—

A loud crash and multiple screams suddenly break Miguel out of his state and he whirls his head to see what was happening inside. The peek of something green slithers inside the massive hole in the glass ceiling indented in the building, and it doesn’t take Miguel long to know what’s happening.

He sprints back inside the building and into the banquet hall, the opposite way where everyone is headed and takes a swift peek inside to what was happening. 

A horrifically large green lizard crawls on the floor, letting out an agonizing roar of sorts with its tail swishing about and knocking everything and everyone in its path over. Dr. Curtis Connors, the one foe Miguel had fought a few months ago and had just managed to escape his grasp, had come back for revenge in a newer, more improved, more terrifying form of his initial self-experiment. News of his identity had leaked out immediately the moment that he had defeated the mad doctor, and every work that was researched by him that was deemed irrelevant by Alchemax was unpublished and/or destroyed—that included raiding everything in his personal lab—an urgent executive order made by Tyler Stone himself. 

Hungry for revenge for the destruction of his work, Miguel was certain he was back for revenge as back when he was still sane, the amount of research that Dr. Connors had put in was extensive and yielded long years in the making, spanning over nearly three decades of research that was wiped away in the matter of a single day thanks to Alchemax. 

Miguel quickly turns a corner, hidden from the public eye, and commands his suit on before quickly re-entering the banquet hall. He swings up towards the domed ceiling and carefully analyzes the area.

There’s still a few people scattering from the room, shrieks echoing from the walls. His eyes go to search for where you are in desperation, praying you’re safe somewhere outside, but a flash of light pink catches the corner of his eye. He nearly snaps his neck when he finds you running in the opposite direction of where most people are headed—towards the garden.

“(Y/N)!” Miguel yells out without thinking and slaps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, you don’t hear him due to the commotion inside the area as you swim against the current of people. You fight the urge to fall down with every person that bumps into you amidst the chaos before you thankfully make it near the exit.

He lunges down from his spot on the ceiling, lassoing a few people that nearly get crushed under Lizard’s humongous tail and bringing them to safety properly on the way, making his way towards your figure. Rubble from the many columns begin to collapse on themselves; clouds of dust and debris fog the first floor of the hall with the wreckage already trapping some people inside. 

A large chunk from the wall creaks and begins to teeter over the south exit, where you’re headed. A certain distraction diverts you from noticing the large cement framework around the exit that’s about to topple on you to Miguel’s horror. In the nick of time, he just barely manages to snatch you by the waist from a thrusted sprint just before the framework collapses with a thunderous boom. 

You and Miguel cough from the dust it created. It takes a good second for you to process what your fate might’ve become, and it takes just another second for you to regain your consciousness. A good part of the exit is now blocked, but that doesn’t stop you from taking off your heels and attempting to climb over it. 

Miguel barks out and grabs your arm that’s now scathed with slight scratches. “The hell are you doing?!” he exclaims worriedly. 

You turn back with a teary and troubled look on your face, much to his shock. Abruptly, you turn back towards the exit and attempt to tug back your arm from his firm grasp. “M-my boss… he’s inside the garden,” you croak miserably out as you try to pull yourself over the fallen column. “I need t-to know if he’s safe…”

Lizard lets out another mighty howl and patters toward the stage, his tail once again swinging haughtily and ignoring anything in its path. Miguel shouts at you to duck and pulls you down along with him. You prop back up and without his arm on yours, you use it to your advantage and grunt yourself forward onto the column. 

Miguel wraps a large hand over your ankle and weighs you down from moving any further. “Hey, you need to get out, now. You can’t be here, no one should be,” he urges.

The shake of your head concerns him—right, you’re too stubborn for your own good. “I’ll be fine. P-please, just leave me be.”

“Not when you’re about to get killed,” he declares and juts your ankle more towards him. The motion makes you fall into his chest and Miguel uses one hand to properly secure you to himself, the other launching and swinging a web to the north entrance. 

You squirm and fight against him, pleading desperately for him to drop you and leave you alone. A frame of tears threatens to fall from your eyes from frustration and despair when you get put down. Miguel has to physically stop you from running back into the banquet hall once again—you put up a fight though. You thrash against him, clawing and weakly punching at his stronger arms, imploring for him to let you back inside. 

“You don’t understand—” you gasp as the remnants of the people inside flood out. Looking over his shoulder, you gaze at the exit solemnly. “Please… I need to know if he’s alright—he h-has a young daughter back at home and if anything happens t-to him—just please let me go!” you wail.

He grabs you by the shoulders forcefully and settles you down, the stream of tears falling from your eyes running his throat dry once again. Miguel has never seen you cry, or even come close to crying. Not when Gabriella forced you to watch what she considered “one of the saddest movies in existence”, not when an entire glass beaker had toppled and its shards pierced your skin, not even when Miguel had first scolded you about your many mistakes on the very first document you turned into him. 

Glassy eyes meet concerned, masked ones. Your lip trembled violently, the words all jumbled in your mouth about to spill. “Just let me check if he’s alright,” you just barely whisper.

He bores his gaze into yours as his composure does its best to upkeep him as best as possible. Miguel, from the inside of his mask, bites his lip and sighs. “I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.”

“What if you don’t?” you accuse with furrowed brows.

“I’ll bring him home safe and sound,” he says firmly. “You said he has a daughter, right? I won’t let her become an orphan. I swear on my life I won’t.”

Your gaze doesn’t falter, even when Miguel attempts to soothe you by chafing the chilled skin of your arms up and down in a calming manner. Unbeknownst to you, you and him share an image of Gabriella in your minds; it brings a sting of ache to your chests.

“How can I trust you?” you ask dryly. 

“Because,” he goes to weave a string of webbing through the north entrance and takes you out into the safety of the outside. He settles you on the corner of two intersecting streets that sit nearby the building, with your tears still falling and hands trembling. A hand carefully holds your cheek and wipes away descending tears on your chalky face, Miguel ignoring the squeeze of his heart with each one that puddles on the sidewalk. 

“... I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

Spider-Man leaves you on the sidewalk idly with the blurry figures of your co-workers and other people in the company whizzing by you with no concern for anyone else other than themselves. It takes a moment for you to understand what just happened and with whom, suddenly hit with the pang of realization that you had just met the Spider-Man: the well-known vigilante protecting Nueva York from all corners, beloved by the public. Excitement can’t seem to conjure itself within you, however, your gaze still lingering on the building that Miguel was possibly in. 

A hesitant step takes you forward back to the building, but your phone vibrates abruptly from a notification from Mrs. Darcie. Word must’ve gotten out so quickly that it reached the O'Hara's neighborhood, as her text was asking if you and Miguel were alright. Your thumbs shake as you try and type up a response to let her know that you were at least alive, but you know that Gabriella wanted you both home. 

The least you could do is make sure half of that concern was eased. You were counting on Spider-Man to do the rest.

With an arm reaching out for a taxi, you rush into one and tell the driver to step on the gas, promising to tip extra. You’d be willing to give all the money you had with you if it meant that you could be with Gabriella for tonight.

You’ve underestimated the nightly rush hour this Friday night had brought upon, because there’s a sea of cars that are equally as stuck as you are amidst the road. Tangible fingers go to grip your hair frustratingly, and asking the driver to go any further was basically useless. Each minute you wasted on the same road you had been on for what was nearing twenty minutes made you more anxious by the minute. 

“I-isn’t there some sort of shortcut?” you ask the driver hoarsely. “I don’t care what roads you have to take, just please get off this one. I’m begging you. I have a child that’s waiting for me.”

His eyes give you a quick glance in the mirror, and empathy embeds itself in his equally tired eyes. He must be a father himself, you think, as he gives you an affirmative nod and swings off the road onto a much more bumpy and gravelly, but visibly less dense one.

It’s nearly an agonizing hour later off the road—it would’ve most likely reached around two or even three if you stayed on the main road—but you thankfully make it to the O’Hara’s residence. Your body moves on its own, flying out the elevator and speeding down the floor of the apartment. You burst open the door, visible sweat misted on your forehead and an ache to your limbs but all that is ignored when Mrs. Darcie greets you with relief, with a sleeping Gabriella settled soundly on the couch as her favorite TV show buzzes in the background.

She grasps you tightly by the arms. “My goodness, thank heavens you’re alright,” she murmurs quietly. “That must’ve been quite a scare… are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” you gasp out tiredly. “But how is she? Gabi, I mean… d-does she—”

Mrs. Darcie shakes her head. “She fell asleep a while ago, she doesn’t know. I just managed to get informed thanks to my son who works near the building. But where is Miguel?”

Dread floods your face once more, remembering why you left the banquet in the first place. Somehow, however, your phone vibrates and receives a text from the one and only. A loud sigh escapes your lips and you crumple to the floor as the feeling returns to your numb legs as Miguel’s texts ease your worries. 

Hey I’m alive and alright. I saw you leave earlier, hope you’re safe. I’m omw home. 

You fight the urge to burst into tears from the relief as Mrs. Darcie helps you back up. “I’m assuming that’s him,” she says gently as she encourages you to take off your heels. “What a waste of night and beautiful dress. Shame that blasted giant iguana or something had to ruin it.”

A broken laugh leaves you from her gentle humor. You glance down at the dress that the mysterious Lyla had given you tonight and sigh sadly at the many tears of the tulle and fabric. The dress looked expensive and you planned on wearing it again for formal events, but alas, fate has decided to toy with you.

“That’s alright,” you mutter as you help Mrs. Darcie gather her stuff back up so she can finally leave. “I have plenty of others to use in the meantime.”

The elderly woman leaves you inside their apartment after bidding you a goodnight to tend to Gabriella, who’s still sound asleep and oblivious to what was happening to the world and people around her. That’s a good thing, at least, you think to yourself as you tidy up the living room around her quietly. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes.

She’s still small enough that you’re able to carry her to her room even at her age and it reminds you a lot of when she was younger, when she’d pretend to be asleep so you could carry her yourself to go back to her room. Nowadays, she knows her bedtime and does it by herself, but assuming she had been waiting for you or Miguel to come home, sleep had snuck onto her as she waited and waited.

You put her down gently, hoping not to get any of the leftover debris on your soiled clothes onto her freshly-washed body. The action just barely stirs her awake, her eyes slitting open at the slightest bit. Your blurry figure just barely makes it to her senses and she grins sleepily.

A titter escapes her lips. “You look like a…” Gabriella starts, her words faltering due to a fading consciousness. 

“Like a…?” you whisper softly, a hand stroking her hair gently.

“Like a…” you can tell she’s trying to find the words in her very limited vocabulary currently, her brain threatening to shut off at any second now. “Like a princess, I think?”

You raise your brows at her description as Gabriella immediately falls back asleep. You suppose you do look much more dressed up from usual, but your cheeks tingle a hint of warmth at the comparison of literal royalty. You blame it on the drowsiness.

Your own tiredness begins to crawl up your spine as you stay by Gabriella’s side in her darkened bedroom, her quiet breaths soothing you like a lullaby. With heavy eyelids threatening to shut close at any minute, you fight the urge to give into the Sandman, insistent on Miguel’s return.

Miguel…

His name rings aloud in your mind for a moment.

Miguel…

Miguel…

“I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.” 

Spider-Man’s familiar voice suddenly jolts you awake. Your brows crunch together. How on earth did Spider-Man know Miguel’s name when you merely referred to him as your boss? Perhaps he saw Miguel in the garden beforehand? Maybe Miguel had an earlier oncoming with him from before and Spider-Man just knew him from that one incident? Or… he just happens to know the names of all the citizens of Nueva York because… that’s just how Spider-Man is? 

Or, was Miguel actually Spid—you shake your head in the same second you think of such a stupid reasoning. That’s impossible…

… you know in your heart that it just is.

Any reason that you attempt to give, you think of it as either obnoxious or just simply impossible. Maybe you did let it slip that your boss’s name was Miguel… that just seems like the most plausible reason. After all, your adrenaline was at an all-time high and you could barely remember what had happened before the takeover, let alone the conversations you had. 

Whatever it was, it was going to bring Miguel back home, and that’s what ultimately had mattered in the end. It probably wasn’t even your business to prod around.

At Gabriella’s visible sleeping state, you stand up and start to head towards the bathroom to fix yourself up, but the sound of the master bedroom’s window suddenly shuffling open makes your nerves electrify. Miguel’s bedroom sat just right next to Gabriella’s, and it was also the bedroom that was nearest to the complex’s fire escape, so a break-in at this time of night was highly plausible. 

Grabbing one of the displayed metal baseball bats on the wall, you turn off Gabriella’s lights and lock the door behind, ensuring her safety first before yours. You’re careful to tiptoe around the more creaky parts of the floorboards, desperate to make yourself not seen by the intruder as you step closer and closer to Miguel’s bedroom. The door is just barely ajar, and the lights are on. A distinct shuffling, bed springs, and a masculine groan echo from the crack of the doorway and when all is silent from the other side of the door, you make your move and burst in, ready to swing at whoever threatens the O’Hara residence.

The bat is suddenly grabbed from your hands from a familiar neon orange webbing and thrusted to the side of the room, where it thunks against the wall and falls limply. You gasp aloud and with nothing to defend yourself with, you look up with fear in your eyes that suddenly turn to shock from the sight in front of you.

There, standing in the same blue and red vinyl suit you had crossed paths with earlier, without its mask completing the look… and thus, exposing the face of the man you had been waiting for to come back home to you. 

a/n ; second to last part to this mini-series and once again, i apologize for this nearly six-month delay, last semester was rough for uni. almost made this into two parts, but i felt like they just belonged together and i quite like the blend of them together.

thanks for the patience for those who stuck around and have waited far too long for this, you deserve this! i'm glad to see you all again <3 thank you endlessly for reading and likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and appreciated (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

taglist ; @secretlyrexlapis @urbimom @p1nkliquor @julesclues @averagefloydlover @apurpletrashcan @raeisthebae @mvchmp @um-well @nintendh-e @eddieslooneymoonie @deputy-videogamer @xochyw @honeybeeznuts @aspens-cove @btszn @scaleniusrm @goldenpoison @the-pan-liquid (if you'd like to be either added or removed from the taglist, please lmk! i know it's been awhile, so hi again haha)

#spider man: across the spider verse #across the spider verse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #atsv miguel #across the spider verse x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #fem!reader #fem!y/n

[squgs]

I've seen people responding to it being pointed out that Daemon is so obviously a worse person than Alicent or Criston by saying that "at least he isn't a hypocrite" or "at least he doesn't pretend he's better than he is." Which is perhaps accurate, but is really just saying "at least Daemon doesn't make any attempt to be a good person or voice any desire to be better."

This leads me to something I've been noticing: none of the team black characters voice or show any regret for their misdeeds while team green characters do so constantly. Daemon never apologizes or show any regret for any of the brutally evil things he does. Alicent on the other hand is constantly looking apologetic and regretful, even when she didn't do anything like in the case of Larys killing his family.

After the eye incident Alicent is extremely regretful and apologetic for her actions while Rhaenyra isn't at all. In fact Rhaenyra's response is to seek out more power through marrying Daemon so that she can more effectively hurt anyone who states an obvious truth. Her children similarly show no regret for escalating that fight, nor seem at all apologetic for having permanently disfigured Aemond.

The comparison is most striking between Criston and Daemon who have semi similar misbehavior that only Criston acknowledges in any way as bad. First in episode 5 they both smash someone's face in. Daemon's is clearly premeditated and his entire reason for being in the vale, while Criston's was planned at most ten minutes before it was carried out and was a response to an assumed attempt to blackmail him. Daemon has absolutely no shame about the murder, even going so far as to try to claim his victim's inheritance. Criston on the other hand is so ashamed that he tries to kill himself. They both also have incidents of misogynistic language. Criston calls Rhaenyra a cunt once and promptly apologizes. Daemon refers to his first wife as a 'bronze bitch' more than he uses her name and calls Alicent a whore. He does not apologize for any of those instances or show any indication that he doesn't think those are appropriate things to call a woman. Finally in episodes 8 and 9 Criston and Daemon each attack a man from behind after he insults their wife. Neither is their best moment, but again Criston is pretty clearly regretful of it, and it seems like he didn't mean to kill Beesbury and that he just forgot how fragile old people are. Daemon on the other hand clearly intended to murder Vaemond and was happy to quip about it and then chuckle when he's mentioned again.

The one sort of exception to this is Rhaenyra's toast to Alicent in episode 8. She does apologize in that scene. However, she isn't apologizing for mistreating Alicent. All she is apologizing for is not helping to take care of Viserys and not acknowledging her care taking previously, which like it definitely means something that she said that, but implicit in what she says is the idea that it's Alicent's role and duty to be taking care of him. There's kind of an implication that Rhaenyra views Alicent as having redeemed herself through serving Viserys when in reality her care taking is just another facet of Viserys's abuse, abuse that is never acknowledged or apologized for. Still I do love that scene and the way it is beautifully, pathetically, sad that Rhaenyra can only connect and forgive Alicent when she's in her subservient role and that Alicent is so desperate for connection with Rhaenyra that she will accept that barest hint of an apology even in the face of all the evidence that it's meaningless.

Now one would think that some characters regretting their misdeeds would be viewed as a sign of them being better people, but I think it actually has the opposite effect. Because the green characters are shown being regretful, their misdeeds are focused on and emphasized. In episode 5 it's possible to forget that Daemon killed his wife at the start of the episode, because it seems like he's forgotten as well. However it's impossible to forget what Criston does because his actions for the rest of the episode are all a reaction to his shame and horror about having just murdered someone. Then in the next episode when Criston has his one instance of misogyny, the entire show pauses to take note of it and wait for him to apologize (which he does!), but on the numerous occasions when Daemon is misogynistic the show breezes right past it, treating it as just a bad boy Daemon moment. Daemon's misdeeds can be enjoyed without an imediate reminder of how evil he is, letting him be a cool fun badass, while Criston's can't. You can't look at him awkwerdly and regretfully standing over Beesbury's body and say 'oh wow, such a badass male wife he really told Beesbury to keep his Wife's name out of his fucking mouth.' Though to be clear I also very much judge anyone who says that about Daemon killing Vaemond.

This is seen again in the eye incident. For most of the audience that goes into the incident not thinking that Rhaenyra is a significantly worse person than Alicent (a reasonable assumption), Alicent being extremely regretful afterwards while Rhaenyra isn't at all, is an indication that Alicent acted far worse than Rhaenyra did. A misreading that is helped by Rhaenyra's call for violence being couched in the 'sharply questioned' euphemism while Alicent's is stated outright. That is perhaps Alicent's most badass scene where she does her best to stand up to her abuser and those who allow that abuse in defense of their children, going so far as to physically fight back (though Rhaenyra perhaps wasn't the best choice of target), but the audience doesn't have any encouragement to see her badassery, instead we're to wallow in her shame at having fought back and watch her shrink back into herself with the implication that that's what she should be doing.

This pattern shows a fascinating tension between the events portrayed in the show and their framing. The show gives us two groups of people who range from very flawed to evil, but they are framed as a group of heroes and a group of villains. The greens are villains and their actions can only confirm that, while the blacks are heroes and their actions no matter how violent can only provide more evidence of heroism. I don't know how much actual meaning can be made from that tension, I wouldn't even be surprised if it was entirely accidental, but it is at the very least interesting enough to note.

#alicent hightower #criston cole #hotd #anti daemon targaryen #team green #hotd critical

[sassypantsjaxon]

Kurogiri is not Aizawa's villain to take down

he never was, and he never will be, if for no other reason than because Horikoshi hadn't decided what to do with Kurogiri when he was first introduced.

Kurogiri and Shigaraki are the only two villains that we're introduced to at USJ who are part of the final war. because Horikoshi hasn't figured out Kurogiri yet There's nothing between Kurogiri and Aizawa. They did not recognize each other then. At all. There's nothing there. This is later confirmed at Tartarus, when Aizawa and Mic are told the truth about Shirakumo and Kurogiri.

Horikoshi likes foreshadowing. If he had intended for Kurogiri to have been Aizawa's childhood friend from the start, there would have been some sort of hint of it back then. Okay, so then when did he decide on Kurogiri's origins? Probably by the time we got the remedial training arc, because that's the first time we really get Mic as a character. Granted, we don't get a whole lot of insight into him, because he's not the focus of the plot. But we do get some glimpses of who he is. He's smart and sarcastic and weird and doesn't seem to like conflict or at least awkward conversations and most importantly Aizawa trusts him.

Mic is Aizawa's other childhood friend, of course he trusts him- No. It's not just that. Here's the thing. Mic and Aizawa and Shirakumo are so intrinsically tied together that when we first learn of Shirakumo-through their memories-they are both present in each other's memories with Shirakumo.

Mic had to be allowed to become a full character because he was going to be part of Kurogiri's story.

I would almost make an argument that Kurogiri is more Mic's villain than Aizawa's even. Okay? Remember how I said Kurogiri doesn't recognize Aizawa? He recognizes Mic. Or at least according to Garaki he does. He confirms that they were after Erasure, so if they were watching Aizawa back when he was a student, they should know that all three of them were friends, right? But he refers to Mic as Kurogiri's friend. Present tense. Kurogiri still knows who Mic is.

And this was confirmed back in Tartarus when they first confront Kurogiri too. This time Kurogiri recognizes them both (he only indicates that he knows Aizawa from USJ btw). Aizawa starts talking to Shirakumo, who tries responding, but he's not able to actually break through until Mic also calls out to him.

Aizawa's never able to reach Shirakumo alone. He confirms that he kept trying while they were both at central hospital, but was never able to get a response. If Kurogiri was solely Aizawa's villain, then he would have been able to get through to him then. Shirakumo would have been the heroes secret ace in the hole during the final war, there would be no need for Monoma to have learned to use warp gate. There would have been no reason to use Mic as an actual character. There would have been no reason for Aizawa to ask Mic to be at the hospital. Because again, Aizawa trusts Mic. He knows he's not able to reach Shirakumo alone and is hoping Mic can.

And he's not wrong. When it comes down to it, and Kurogiri wakes up, there's a part of Shirakumo fighting for control too. Because Mic called out to him.

Kurogiri is not Aizawa's villain. He is, at the very least, both Mic and Aizawa's villain (and maybe it's just me projecting as a Mic fan, but I'm almost inclined to believe Mic is going to play a bigger role than Aizawa in this plot) But the last time we saw any of the three of them, they were together, so we'll just have to wait and see how this plays out for them.

#bnha #my hero academia #eraserhead #present mic #kurogiri #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #oboro shirakumo #loud cloud #i promised i would post the evidence #so here it is #i'm half asleep so hopefully it's semi-coherent

[jo-harrington]

Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction - Chapter 3: Lore Dump

Previous Chapter: Out of Character

Summary: After your bombshell revelation, Eddie finds it difficult to wrap his head around what is now his reality to empathize with your shared predicament.

Word Count: 8k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader

Warnings/Themes: No-Upside-Down AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lore Dump (literally), Isekai, Mentions of FOI-compliant events and characters, Various References to Movies and Television, Criticism of Fanfiction, Meta Fiction

Note: Ok besties here we are and the chapter, or at least one part of it, is very much as the title says. It's a Lore Dump as we figure out how Reader and Eddie have found themselves in this predicament. Warning everyone that it might be a little mind-fucky but a lot more will be explained in detail in future chapters. We've only just scratched the surface here.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

You'd never run so much in your entire life.

Alright, that might have been a little dramatic.

But that didn't mean it wasn't true.

"Is it always like this?" you panted as you chased after the flopping brown coat of the man a few steps ahead of you. "With the running?"

"Oh yes!" he called out. He looked back at you with a charming, crooked grin and pointed ahead. "You'll get used to it. Allons-y!"

This whole nightmare started when you crashed your car into, what you thought was, an unassuming blue "police box."

And now, several days later, you were running, ducking, diving...surviving all manner of monsters that seemingly popped up out of nowhere in the middle of Texas. With a goofy man with unbrushed hair and a buzzing screwdriver called The Doctor, and his companion--whatever that meant; it sounded suspicious to you--Martha, who kept staring at you like you'd grown another head.

You supposed adventure was the idea when you left the borders of Port Geneva proper, but this kind of adventure wasn't exactly what you had in mind. Static monsters who could literally take the words out of your mouth and a hive-mind controlling overlord whose goal it was to steal knowledge.

You might have been a lover of fantastical stories, but this was something beyond your wildest fantasies, and apparently something Martha and the Doctor encountered regularly, if their cool reaction to some of the atrocities you'd seen was indicator enough.

They both seemed to have it in mind that you were joining them for this type of ordeal from now on, though.

Especially the Doctor, if that "you'll get used to it" was something to go by.

"Come on, faster, faster," Martha called out to you from the threshold of a solid metal door just up ahead. "They can't get in through the iron."

You pumped your legs faster and ignored the burn in your lungs as you passed the Doctor and joined Martha in the safety of the bunker, with the man of the hour himself following shortly after. Martha slammed the door shut and then used the sonic to ensure the lock would hold.

They let you have a moment to catch your breath as they strategized plans for the next steps, which seemed impossible now that you were stuck in a bunker filled with junk and no exit.

"Nothing's impossible," the Doctor exclaimed as though he could read your mind. Maybe he could; you wouldn't put it past him. "And we're not stuck."

He removed the brown trench coat and got to work sorting through the junk in the bunker, while Martha took a seat beside you and patted your knee.

"You should be proud of yourself," she said gently. "It's really hard, dealing with all of this. And I've been with him for almost a year now. All the running, the monsters, all of the...impossible--

"Nothing's impossible Martha," the Doctor interjected.

"--improbable things," she amended. "It doesn't get easier, but you will get used to it. Besides, you'd think you were on the track team like Sam with how fast you've been running. Maybe you should have been the star relay runner instead of her."

Martha might have laughed.

But you didn't.

You felt a cold sense of dread overtake you. You'd told them about your friends back home earlier in the day, when you'd panicked over your impending doom. You cried and told them you wished you were still back there, safe and sound; in hindsight, it was a pathetic moment.

It wasn't what you'd said that gave you pause now, though; it's what you hadn't.

"Martha," you muttered nervously. "How did you know that Sam did relay?"

Martha's eyes went wide and she looked to the doctor in a sudden panic.

"I...I never told you she was on the track team."

It was a standoff.

A staring contest.

You and Eddie watched each other, unblinking, as if to see who would break first.

Eddie knew it would probably be him because his mind was racing, but he would give you the chance to repeat yourself, or elaborate, or maybe yell "surprise" first.

None of those things happened of course, so he was left in stunned silence trying to formulate the words to respond to your groundbreaking revelation.

We are in a fanfiction.

Fanfiction.

He had heard about fanfiction before. Drove the guys out to some comic book shop in Fort Wayne to celebrate Jeff's birthday and the nerds behind the counter were talking about a Star Trek fanfiction they read in some celebratory fan magazine.

He'd honestly never thought about Kirk and Spock like that and he really didn't want to again.

Even though it kind of made sense.

He just wasn’t that big of a Trek guy either.

But damn, even though he and the guys might not have been the popular kids, they were definitely not dorky like that, were they?

Except that they were. He was.

He wrote his favorite characters into his DnD campaigns as NPCs and he fantasized about what it would be like if he was Han Solo instead of Han himself, and tucked away in a drawer at home, there was definitely that story about you...

"Shit," he finally breathed out, blinking and breaking eye contact with you. "Shit, I did this. I mean, I know I did this, but did...did I do this?"

"What?" You frowned at him. "What do you mean, did you do this? Eddie, did you hear what I said?"

"No, yeah, of course I did," he began rambling. "I just...before you showed up in Hawkins, I...I wrote about you. I wrote about you leaving Port Geneva and coming to Hawkins and meeting me and...fuck...that means you know."

You stared at him blankly.

"You know that Port Geneva is a TV show," he clarified and then ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ, how did I...how could I have done this? Shit. Shit."

You crossed the short distance and took a seat on the couch beside him, comforting hand finding his knee instantly.

"Eddie--"

"I'm sorry I did this. I'm sorry I just...you're my...my favorite character and I..."

"--you didn't do this. Someone else did."

He took a few breaths, heart pounding in his chest, and then swallowed hard.

"Who?"

"That's...a little harder to answer. But I think the thing you need to focus on right now--the thing you're missing--is that we are in a fanfiction. You and me. Together. Because I'm not the only one from a TV show. You are too."

Eddie was dumbstruck for a second.

Well, he was pretty dumbstruck about this whole thing. But he only had a second to really process it, because the next thing he knew, you were in his lap, lips pressed to his, hands fisting his jacket, and the door to the greenroom burst open as his friends walked in.

You pulled away from him as the catcalls and whistles and jokes began and glanced over your shoulder at the guys to bite your lip bashfully.

"Ah, looks like the original song worked after all," Jeff teased.

"Good, cuz then we don't have to play it anymore, bleh," Gareth stuck his tongue out. "You know, for everything you preach about metal and only metal Eddie, you sure wrote some sappy Greg Brady shit."

Eddie's ears rang as he answered. Well, as his mouth moved and voice spoke, saying something that got everyone laughing. Something that he had no control over once again. You turned back to him and he widened his eyes in some silent plea but you simply shook your head at him.

Instead you leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. Gentler. Different from the unexpected kiss just moments before, this was one of understanding and comfort.

He relaxed under your touch.

"Alright guys," you announced as you pulled away, words and tone of your voice not quite matching the softness of your gaze as you continued to watch him. "Your set's over. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Bev wants you out."

"What was all of that?" he demanded as you stepped out of your car.

After driving the guys home, he sat on your porch and waited. Chain smoking and lost in his thoughts until you got back to Forest Hills after your shift.

"Can I at least get inside first?" you asked with a nervous laugh. "Do you want to wake Granny up? Jesus."

He was on your heels as you unlocked your door and stepped inside, almost followed you to your bedroom when you said you'd wanted to change into PJs, and even declined a soda when you got settled back in the living room.

And once you couldn't stall for any more time, sitting next to each other on your couch, he stared at you and begged, "please, I need to know I'm not in a nightmare here. Or dead."

You let out a honk of laughter and then reached over to take his hand in yours, and he felt the slight edge of abject terror start to lessen.

"You're not in a nightmare," you reassured him. "Or dead."

"Then...then what is this?" he whispered desperately. "Is this a trick? A joke? Start from the beginning. Please."

You took a breath and began.

"It's fanfiction." You hummed contemplatively for a moment. "This is...I don't know when it started, actually. For me, that is. For you...well, there's no way we could say for sure; I can only talk about my own experience."

You paused and then said your name, the same way that you had introduced yourself originally. And then Eddie realized that you were introducing yourself again as you squeezed his hand in yours.

"I was born and raised in Port Geneva, and then in 1985 after graduation, I left to start my adventure. And from that moment on--for years--I got to have it. I got to have...a hundred adventures. A thousand. A million maybe? As many adventures as there have been people to imagine them. As many adventures as there have been fans to write them.

"Fans like you, Eddie," you smiled at him. "You said you wrote a story where I came to see you."

"Yeah," he nodded, cheeks hot under your gaze. "I did."

"And I'm your favorite character?"

He thought about you, thought about himself and the countless nights that he watched you on the screen.

"How could you not be my favorite?" he asked gently in return.

Your gaze turned soft and you looked down at his hand, clasped tightly within yours, and then you continued with your story.

"I got to see the world, got to meet so many people, I got to fall in love...except I never realized it. Until...until I met him."

"Him?" Eddie asked sharply, thoughts immediately spiraling.

Love.

You said love.

Who was this Him that you were in love with? Even through Eddie's confusion and panic about the predicament he was currently in, he could still feel a bitter jealousy roiling deep inside his gut.

"The Doctor," you whispered.

"Doctor Who?"

You snorted. "Exactly."

"I don't get it," he shook his head.

"Doctor Who...that's...it's the name of a television show. Been around for a long time, but I'm not sure how popular it is here. If it even exists. You have a lot of media that we didn't have in Port Geneva but there's a few things that...I dunno...that your writers haven't mentioned. Or The Writer hasn't included yet."

You explained it to him, or the gist of it at least.

An immortal time-traveling alien and his usually human companion, all of the adventures and misadventures and danger. Being able to go to different times and timelines and universes.

In any other scenario, it would have sounded cool. Maybe a little scary. But now, all Eddie could think about was this mess you were in.

"And...this Doctor...he's what brought you to Hawkins?" he questioned hesitantly, figuring that it made the most sense. "He thought he was bringing you back to Port Geneva's universe and brought you here instead?"

"Uh, no," you frowned. "That was The Writer. The Author. Whatever you want to call them."

"Because this is a fanfiction."

"Yeah. That was. And this is. I just...didn't know it yet. I didn't realize it was fanfiction until later. But, uh, whoever wrote that crossover story just brought me from my world into Doctor Who, and that was when I realized I was a fictional character from a TV Show. Because they wrote me as a character who jumped from a television show into the 'real world' of the Doctor and his friends."

Just like you were now: a fictional character in his world.

"It's hard to explain, but the Doctor made me aware of it. Made it make sense." You faltered. "Well...not really, but that's when it started. He told me that I wasn't real--"

"Wait,” he interrupted you. “But you said I was from a tv show back at the hideout. So you're telling me I'm not real?"

"Ed--"

"Because you’re from a tv show and so am I and this Doctor is too.”

“I wouldn’t try to think about it so hard.”

“Is that...the Doctor told you that you were a character in a TV show and you weren't real? And that's what you're telling me right now too?"

"It's hard to explain--"

"Because I don't know sweetheart," Eddie chuckled sardonically and shook his hands out of yours so he could run them over his face, through his hair. "I...I feel plenty real. And if there's anyone who isn't real here...well, I have a stack of video tapes back home that can provide enough evidence."

He’d thought about the barebones of it when he’d been outside waiting for you to get home, but faced with the truth of it now, the dominoes were starting to fall.

He was real, he had to be. His whole life, all of his memories, all of his friends, what about th—

"Can you let me fucking finish?" you snapped at him with a sharp clap.

His shoulders heaved and he stared at you with wild eyes.

"You're real," you explained calmly. "I'm real. We're both real. Real people. Real lives. Real memories. For the most part."

Eddie didn't like the sound of that.

"But this world...is your world and I don't belong here. Just like I didn't belong in the Doctor's world either. He explained it to me in some way I didn't quite understand; I'm just a girl from the midwest. I barely graduated high school and suddenly he was telling me there was some cosmic anomaly that pulled me out of my world, my tv show world, and that I was transported into his world. It was wild.

“The important thing though was that he didn't know how to get me home. So, until he could figure it out, I was stuck. And I traveled with him for a while. With him and his friend Martha…and then with another friend Donna. Until somewhere at the end of it all...I died."

Eddie's heart stopped in his chest; you...died?

The question was stuck on his lips, the demand to know more, but he felt himself choke up when he thought about it. Even more when he watched the tears well in your eyes as you remembered your own death.

"I died alone, bleeding out in the middle of an alien planet..." you recalled, wrenching your eyes shut. There was a beat of silence and he let you have a moment to recover. He watched your eyes dart around beneath your eyelids as you gathered your thoughts, as you recalled whatever horror you went through. When you were through, you blinked and looked up at him with the weight of a thousand truths in your gaze. "And then I wasn't dead anymore."

"What?!"

"Well obviously I'm alive,” you motioned down to yourself. “Maybe I’m a little worse for wear inside but I’m fine. Back then though...I was dead. One second I was in oblivion. And then next, I woke up in the driver's seat of my car, outside of a hotel in Odessa, Texas. With a man from the future named Hiro Nakamura, who told me I had to save the cheerleader if I wanted to save the world.

"And it all just started over again," you sighed.

You recounted this next place to him. Places, actually; plural. Names that meant nothing to him but seemed to mean something to you--Hiro, Claire, Peter, Sylar--and it all sounded fantastic. Another unbelievable adventure, but there was still something off.

"I...I tried to ask questions. About where I was, about where the Doctor was. It was always ignored. I tried to control things but it seemed like I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. Tried to do things that I instinctively knew I wanted to do, but I just couldn't. It seemed like there was something controlling me instead. Like I was a puppet on a string. And everything that happened around me...never seemed to make any sense, no matter how hard I tried to wrap my head around it.

"Sound familiar?" you asked.

Eddie scoffed, thinking about the traumatic, out of control moments he had had the past few days. That hopeless, helpless, sinking feeling he'd had.

"It fucking sucks, sweetheart. You feel like that...all the time?"

"You get used to it." You shook your head. "Get used to playing along. I learned that really quickly; I resigned myself to this life where I was just a passenger in my own body. Until I realized if I just played the part that whatever forces-that-be wanted me to play, I could have a little more control."

There was a tense pause as you let Eddie absorb the information. And absorb it he did. He didn't like it, the idea that he had to play a part; it was something he'd been fighting all his life. But maybe if you said it was something that would make him feel more in control, he could try.

He turned to the next thought ever-present in his mind.

"So," he cleared his throat to start again. "How do you know this is a fanfiction? When did you figure that out? Because...when you showed up, I thought about all the possibilities--a dream, a nightmare, hell, heaven, a portal, a wormhole like in a comic book--and that was never one of them."

"Because of the interviews."

"Interviews..."

"They're fun and silly, I guess," you shrugged apathetically. "You'll be in the middle of your life, middle of your day, middle of a fight...and then the world goes dark and you'll find yourself sitting in a room alongside the people you know...and The Writer. An Interview with the Characters.

"I was already familiar with the fact that I was from a television show and in a world I didn't belong in. But I was the only person aware of that fact; to the Doctor, I was a fictional character, but here Port Geneva the television show...didn't exist. I was just another citizen of planet earth, and my home was a real place on the map, as real as Odessa or New York.

"But suddenly my friends and I were in that room sitting in front of someone. A writer. The Writer--SylaireIsMyOTP117--and they were all aware that they were characters in a television show called Heroes, that I was a character from Port Geneva, and that we were all in some kind of...story in another universe, written by this SylaireismyOTP117. Something they never seemed aware of before.

"And SylaireismyOTP117...she acted like she was our friend too, like she had our best interest in mind and valued our opinions. Everyone laughed along with all of her jokes. Answered all of her questions. Except me, because then it all came into perspective. She was the one playing with our lives--playing with my life--and putting us in danger. She made us travel through time to dangerous places, she created more dangers, she even killed Peter's older brother--something that apparently hadn't happened in the show. Well...not yet anyway."

Your hands clenched and unclenched.

"I thought I figured it out," you said through gritted teeth. "Found the person responsible for this predicament I was in. Because she was so...sure of herself. She even had the audacity to apologize for pulling me out of my world and into Heroes. I asked her why she made me die with the Doctor just so I could be a part of this world instead... but she didn't know what I was talking about.

"Suddenly she had this pink magazine in her hand. Pulled it out of her back pocket and waved it around, saying she found it in her mom's childhood bedroom. Said I must have been thinking about one of the stories from it. The Port Geneva Teen Fanzine. SylaireismyOTP117 told me she was sad that people had written me the way they did. Out of Character. That she wanted to give me something better than than had. A better adventure. Then the interview was over. And that was the end of that. Or just the beginning actually.

"Mystery solved." You held your hands out in front of you like you were presenting the secrets of the universe. Eddie could even imagine a glowing sphere floating there if he tried hard enough.

You started naming names then, of movies and books and television shows. Heroes and Lost and Vampire Diaries and The Dark Knight.

And. And. And.

The list just kept going and going.

It made Eddie's head spin to hear all of the places you had been, all of the lives you had lived, the things that all of these Writers had put you through.

To hear how sometimes you'd wake up in a new world, sometimes you'd seemingly get your happily ever after, sometimes none of the above. Sometimes you were even back home in Port Geneva--relieved--only to get ripped away all over again.

It never seemed to end the same way, but it always started with you in the driver's seat of your car. Chugging along to the next destination. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

"And that's how you ended up here in Hawkins?" Eddie asked, then paused. "Do you know...what my show is called?"

"Uh," you winced and folded your hands together in your lap. "Yes. I do. And I know it seems like I know all of these things. I don’t. Rarely, actually. But sometimes the Writers think they're funny and they work the title into the story; that’s how I find out. Because it's out of place.

"But, uh, it’s not the first time I've been here in Hawkins, actually."

It was a record scratch moment for Eddie.

"You...you have?" He smiled and suddenly felt a sense of hope; alright, so his love for you was so undeniable that this wasn't the first time someone had brought you to him. To give him something good in his miserable shit life. "Well so, what happened last time? Why can't I remember? Is that just...well, I guess, what makes this time different? Why am I aware of it all this time?

"Wait! Wait! What's my show about? Is it...is it like...the Misadventures of a Wannabe Rockstar or something? You said that when we had breakfast at Benny's. Is that the title? It has to be."

He rambled for a second, excitedly trying to predict his future, a future where you got to see the ups and downs of his life as he and Corroded Coffin navigated their way to fame.

You let him ramble, let him live in hope for those few moments. Until he realized you weren't chattering excitedly with him.

Until he saw the pain in your eyes.

He deflated, mind suddenly turning to the worst scenarios. At least in his mind.

"We don't make it, do we?" Was the conclusion he could come to. "But it's Wannabe Rockstar, right?. Not Future Rockstar. I'm gonna end up working at Thatcher Tires instead or something. Dead end job, stuck in this town..."

"It isn't your show," you whispered. "Just like Port Geneva...wasn't really mine."

Eddie swallowed hard.

"It's called Stranger Things," you explained. "And it's...I dunno...there are monsters. The first time I was here, I wasn't transported in as someone's favorite TV character. It was 1983, Port Geneva was a real place, and I was a transfer student at Hawkins High. And awful things happened. But there was no Eddie Munson. They must've written you in later in the show."

You continued your own rambling then, as you tried to make him feel better about it all. How he must've been a beloved character for someone to write a story about him. How whatever story they were writing was a good story too, because there didn't seem to be any monsters in Hawkins, not like there were the first time you'd been there.

"And...and The Writer of this story must love you a lot," you concluded. "To bring your favorite tv character in to be your girlfriend. For us to...like each other, love each other--and I do like you Eddie, I want to make that very clear. You make me feel like I'm close to home for the first time in a long time--but it seems like they want to give you a happy ending too. One you deserve."

But your words didn't help. The sinking feeling was back, but this time The Writer didn't have anything to do with it.

It was him, all him. All this misery and he wasn't even the main character of his own show. He should've seen that coming. And yeah he could live with being someone's favorite, enough for them to write a happy ending or something but...

"'s that mean I have a sad ending in the show?" he wondered. "If there are usually monsters here but there aren't, and I get something...something good, does that mean I die or something?"

"Eddie, it's..." you trailed off, but the rest of the sentence was hanging in the air, clear to both of you.

It's better not to think about it that way.

He nodded slowly and pulled his hand away from you to run it over his face.

It was confusing, it was upsetting.

All of it.

The cherry on top of the shit sundae that was his week. His life.

Fuck, but none of it was real, right? Contrary to everything you said. So could he really be upset? Should he? At least he knew he had something good to look forward to. A happy ending.

But how could he look forward to it when he knew that...well, when he knew that he didn't deserve it in the first place. That wasn't what fate had in store for him.

Or the writers of this Stranger Things show.

His happiness was at the whim of The Writer. At the whim of some...loser nerd writing about him in another universe.

A nerd just like him.

Fuck, it was giving him a headache.

"I uh...have a lot to think about," he whispered. You nodded as he stood and crossed towards the door of your trailer so he could leave. He paused at the door, instinctively remembering that he had to kiss you goodbye. Until everything hit him all over again and he decided it was better not to. "I'll, uh, I'll call you. Ok?"

"Yeah," you nodded eagerly. "Call me whenever. Please. It's...it is a lot. And honestly, we only scratched the surface. But we can figure the rest out together. I can help you through it. I promise. I'll be here."

He left without another word.

Denial was the easiest way for Eddie to go about this whole ordeal, or so he thought. How the fuck else was someone supposed to come to terms with the fact that...

Nope he wasn't gonna go there. Not yet.

He knew that he would need to deal with it eventually--need to think it through and talk to you--but until then, he was just going to live his life like he normally would.

So he avoided those feelings, and avoided you.

And it seemed to work.

School, home, trip to Rick's to re-up his inventory on Wednesday, grocery run for Wayne on Thursday, Hellfire on Friday, no date on Saturday.

Dealing at a few parties, band practice where the music was all normal, and then finally back at the Hideout for their gig on Tuesday.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It was a normal week and aside from the still-obvious markers of this new life he was living, like the mess in the trailer and the fancy renovations at the Hideout, Eddie felt relieved and a little less like he was about to lose his mind.

It was both a blessing and a curse though, because at the end of every day he realized just how much missed you.

You'd rooted yourself solidly in his life--both on tv and now in the flesh--for years. Even when he didn't have new episodes to watch and stories to enjoy, he had his reruns. His tapes. Then you were suddenly there in person and on the phone.

So the you-shaped hole that he punched in his life, when he decided to ignore his predicament, was gaping and obvious.

Yeah, he could tell Wayne about the great battle he'd come up with for Hellfire, or complain to the guys about the bogus chemistry homework. But it wasn't the same. Not anymore.

So he resolved to talk to you on Tuesday after the set, only you weren't there.

"Shouldn't you know Junior? That's your girl," Bev dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She must have taken pity on him at the sight of his sad eyes, and she just sighed and continued. "She called in sick. Took the night off. She seemed fine yesterday; better not be cuz of you, kid."

He feared you might have left town, maybe to spare him or something--how that would work with the fanfiction Gods? Weren't you supposed to stay in Hawkins? He wasn't sure--but your car was in front of your trailer by the time he got home.

Everything was quiet, and all the lights were off, even the porch light which you usually kept on. He debated knocking on your door, waking you up, but decided against it.

If you really were trying to give him space, or simply avoid him like he had avoided you, it was best not to wake you up and piss you off.

"Tomorrow," he told himself. "I'll talk to her after school tomorrow."

Of course, that was the plan and fanfiction or not, sometimes even the best laid plans went awry.

He was still Eddie Munson, after all.

Things never went his way.

Once again, he had Chrissy Cunningham to thank for his plight.

It was on this, the day of his reconciliation with you, that she decided her hunt or conquest or humiliation of him would take place.

Maybe all of the above.

It was raining, he was running late.

He would have cut classes--should have just cut--but despite all odds being against him now more than ever, he promised himself that he was going to try when it came to school.

He had just opened the door to his locker when she appeared, the tips of her pristine white sneakers kissing the sides of his muddied converse.

"Hey Eddie!" Chrissy greeted with a too-big smile and sparkling eyes.

Eddie jumped and looked around the hallway, conveniently lacking its usual amount of students who loitered around before class. Thankfully, no other cheerleaders or jocks in sight either, though; it was either a blessing or a curse, he couldn't tell for sure.

"Hey, uh," he coughed and glanced at Chrissy for a second, before distracting himself with the contents of his locker. Fuck, it was pretty messy in there too; now was as good a time as any to clean it. "What's up?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to talk to you," she beamed.

He felt a bubbling of annoyance build within him, somewhat out of his control.

"You can't want to talk to me and also not want anything Chrissy," he scoffed pretty harshly as he grabbed a handful of papers to sort through. "So do you want to buy weed for a slumber party or something? Or have you suddenly decided to throw your Homecoming crown in the trash so you could join Hellfire ?"

She shuffled her feet and clutched her books to her chest and then took a deep breath.

"I wanted to know if you'd like to hang out some time," she announced loudly, bravely. Eddie froze in shock and then turned to her; her cheeks were red but there was a resolve in her eyes that he'd never seen in her before. "There's a new movie playing at the Hawk. Clue. I don't know if you've heard of it, it looks a little spooky..."

She rambled on and Eddie was left to stare at her, dumbfounded.

Chrissy Cunningham? Asking him out? Ok so Gareth was right?

But was Gareth right? Was she really hot for him or was she just using him for her own amusement? Or was this another little...storytelling mishap that the Writer was putting him through?

Shit, how could he tell?

This kind of shit sort of always, sort of never happened to him before.

Plenty of popular girls thought it was fun to go out with The Freak just to get off or to have a laugh, sure. But everything else in his life was turning upside down thanks to the Writer. So was this just another layer to that absolute shit show?

Gah, what the fuck could it be?

The anger bubbled inside of him again, and he had the vaguest realization that the anger didn't really belong to him. It felt too intense, almost manufactured. He was hit with the sense of deja vu that he'd felt this way before--in the cafeteria before the almost-food-fight and then at Family Video--and he decided to put a stop to it immediately.

"Listen Chrissy," he interrupted her with a cool, indifferent tone. "The movie sounds cool, but I'm really not interested in going out with you." He turned back to shut his locker and get to class when she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"If this is because of Jason," she began softly. "I'm...you don't have to worry. I'd break up with him if we went out."

"It's not about Jason," he snapped, out of control once again. Well and truly out of control. He felt himself shrug her hand away. "I have a girlfriend. A girlfriend who is actually cool and nice and interesting. Who likes the things that I like and doesn't like silly things like magazines and cheer and scrunchies." He watched in horror as he lifted his hand and flicked at her ponytail, and then felt angry at himself, at this situation, at The Writer when Chrissy flinched and dropped her books on the floor.

"It's almost funny that you'd think I'd be interested in someone like you," he spat at her venomously.

He felt the sudden urge to slam the locker, felt the urge to walk away, felt the urge to laugh in Chrissy's face.

But he resisted all of those urges with every fiber of his being.

He just stood there until the puppet strings were cut once again and he felt the rage and anger dissipate.

All the while, Chrissy went from a fearful, trembling mess in front of him, eyes welling with tears, to...nothing.

She just stood there too.

She looked down at her feet, shuffled back and forth for a moment, and then she scuffed her shoes against the floor, nudging the fallen textbooks.

She suddenly didn't look like Queen of Hawkins High Chrissy Cunningham, or someone that was afraid of the Wrath of the Freak, or some lash-batting temptress like she had been just moments ago.

She just looked like the girl who was hiding in the Auditorium at the Hawkins Middle School talent show all those years ago.

A person. Just like him.

Eddie cleared his throat and knelt down to help Chrissy pick up her books.

"Sorry," he muttered when she knelt beside him. "Sorry I--"

"No, it's ok. I guess...I don't know. I guess I just felt a little lost for a while," she explained softly. "And the only thing that seemed like it could fix it was you."

Interesting.

"But not anymore?" he wondered.

"Uh, no," she shook her head. "I don't even know...why I asked you out Eddie. No offense...but you're not really my type."

The two of them laughed for a second as they stood back up.

"You know," Eddie turned Chrissy's books over in his hand, "if you wanna break up with Carver, you can just do that. You don't need to use me as an excuse."

She froze in front of him, cheeks red again, as she hummed nervously.

"Thanks Eddie," she whispered. They both smiled softly, a silent understanding shared between them, and then Chrissy held out her books so he could stack the ones in his hand atop them.

And that's when he saw the book--magazine--at the top of her stack.

A pink-covered, handmade looking thing with a familiar name printed at the top of it.

Port Geneva Teen Fanzine.

His heart stopped.

That was the thing you said your Writer had shown you once upon a time, in your Interview.

For a second he wondered how Chrissy had it, but then he tried to figure out the logic that you were from a TV show and transported here. If he was a fan, there must be other people watching the show and fans of it too. Maybe the magazine transcended universes. Just like the show did.

It honestly made his head hurt trying to think about it.

"You...you like Port Geneva?" he asked, trying to remain as casual as possible.

"Hmm, yeah," Chrissy smiled down at the 'zine. "It's one of my favorite shows. My mom and I used to watch it together. Sam is my favorite character."

Somehow, that didn't surprise him one bit.

"Do you watch?" she questioned, brow quirked curiously. "It doesn't seem like your kind of show."

"I mean, I'm full of surprises," he teased, trying to keep his tone as lighthearted as possible. "But, uh...yeah. I used to."

"It's a bummer that it's over right?"

"Yeah...hey Chrissy, I know you don't owe me any favors or anything but, uh, can I borrow that?"

"Seriously?" she snorted. "It's just got like personality quizzes and little stories and stuff in it. Nothing special."

Little stories? Bingo.

"Yeah, just curious."

"Sure." They traded her textbooks for the magazine, and then with a shrill ring of the bell overhead, they went off to class.

He sat in his room after school, holding the Port Geneva Teen Fanzine like it was some sacred document not meant for the eyes of a mere mortal peasant like him.

The Dead Sea Scrolls or the Magna Carta or The Declaration of Independence.

It had burned a hole in his backpack the whole day, anticipation getting the better of him, but he knew that he didn't want to read the 'zine in front of his friends.

"So stupid," he scoffed at his own antics. "What was gonna happen? Davey wouldn't want to take the 'which character would make the best chemistry lab partner' quiz."

Maybe just in case there was something just inside the pink paper cover that would change his life forever.

"Like what? It's not like your yearbook picture's gonna be on the first page, idiot," he sighed and tightened his grip on the magazine. "Just gotta rip off that bandaid."

He closed his eyes tightly, took a breath, and flipped open the cover.

When he cracked one eye open to take a peek, he sighed in relief.

His face wasn't staring back up at him. No faces, actually. Just a table of contents that looked a little grainy, like it was copied on a Xerox machine and haphazardly thrown together.

There were different headlines just like there would be in a regular magazine--interviews, behind the scenes, quizzes--and then some unique ones--fan art, fan submissions, show theories. At the bottom of the Table of Contents, there was a little slip that could be cut out, filled, and mailed along with a few dollars to some address in California to get the next copy of the 'zine.

Eddie flipped through the pages curiously, and he truly enjoyed some of the pictures of fans visiting the set and getting pictures with a few cast members. Then an interview with the actress who played Sam's mom, who said what a joy it was to see her young co-stars grow up and come into their own, just like their characters.

Then about half-way through, he reached the Fan Submissions.

A section filled with fanfiction stories.

A section where your name was plastered practically everywhere.

Stories of you getting to go to big cities, ones where you finally returned home. A heartbreaking one where you returned in time for Sam and Pat's wedding and you cried because...

Because...you'd actually been in love with Patrick the whole time?

Eddie made a noise of shock as he read the detailed description of your heartbreak and the way that you recalled how sad you had been the day Pat had come to ask for your help with the proposal.

"Were we even watching the same show?" Eddie scoffed.

There were a few fanfiction submissions that characterized you that way, having this unrequited love for him.

But you never really showed any interest in him, other than friendship. Aside from Mark, you never had any romantic feelings in the show.

How had these so-called fans misread your relationship with Pat so terribly?

Or had Eddie's obsession with you clouded his ability to perceive the signs? Maybe he had been watching a different show than everyone else.

He wallowed in that feeling as he waded through the fan stories slowly--although one story about Bonnie and Bill seemed a little interesting: a Bakery/Flower Shop soulmate romance--until he got to one at the very end that caused the hair on his arms to stand on end.

A story about you...and Alex P. Keaton?

It was the only crossover in the fan submission, and it made Eddie nervous once again that he misunderstood your character.

Alex P. Keaton who read the Wall Street Journal for fun?! And you, and artist who followed your heart and went on an adventure to find yourself?! No, there was no way.

"This is a bunch of bullshit," he muttered. He shut the magazine and ran a hand over his face and into his hair.

Eddie wasn't the one who misunderstood you; it was everyone else who did. And if they had written you so wrong in this magazine, he could only dream of how wrongly they'd written you in all of those other stories you told him about. How miserable you must have felt in all of those different worlds.

Shit, and it was not only you who felt miserable, but him now too.

The wild events of the past few weeks had made him feel like he was going crazy. Yeah, at least he had an explanation for it now, but it didn't negate the fact that he suddenly felt like a stranger in his own life.

And if he felt like that, God only knows how you must've felt.

"Shit," he muttered.

He needed to talk to you.

He quickly got up from the bed and raced out of the house, panting as he jogged across the trailer park to get to your door.

He knocked frantically and impatiently waited for you to answer.

His resolve broke when you finally did.

Clothes--pajamas, actually--mussed, eyes bloodshot and puffy, you looked a lot like you had during the episode where Mark had broken your heart and you'd cried to Sam.

Had you thought that he was ending things with you because he had been avoiding you? Because of this whole situation? He ached to think that he'd hurt you like that.

"Sweetheart," Eddie whispered softly. "I should've called. Shit. I'm sorry I--"

"No," you sniffed and shook your head. You were smart enough to put two and two together and realize what he was apologizing for. "No, it's...Eddie this isn't because of you...I mean yeah, actually it is but..."

"I'm sorry," you both said simultaneously.

"I'm sorry that I just left the other night," Eddie elaborated. "I'm sorry that I avoided the whole thing, but I needed...I needed some sense of normalcy in all of this."

When he paused for breath, you immediately swooped in with your own apology and explanation.

"Well I'm sorry I seemed to have brought all of this bullshit with me to Hawkins," you stared at him pathetically. "I've never...no one has ever seemed aware of it before. I've been dealing with this alone for so long. I know I sort of dumped it on you; not only to explain, but maybe because I found some sort of relief that I wouldn't be going through it all alone anymore. I'd have you with me at least.

"And then, after you left, I really had time to think...how long it's been. My show aired in the 80's. And your show...Stranger Things? I mean...between my last time here...someone put me in a modern movie for a short time...and then I guess your season was a few years later maybe? Twenty-twenty-something?"

Eddie's throat tightened. They were still writing stories about the 80's that far in the future? Sure there were war movies and stuff. Man, people must've been really nostalgic and weird otherwise...

"It must be like...a historical documentary at that point," he laughed dryly.

"You calling me old?" you choked on a laugh, and then looked down at your hands. "I guess I am, though. I've lived through all of these different stories for...lifetimes. One story might take...I dunno, a few months for its Writer to finish, but it spans years. Years that I've lived through, one day at a time, with no break."

"Shit...that sounds..."

"Terrible?"

"Yeah."

"It is. I've been dealing with all of this...alone...for hundreds of years at this point I guess. Through stories that still write me as a teenager, or a middle-aged woman. I've lived and died over and over. I've been an artist, a writer, a dancer, a private investigator...I can't even remember the last time I got to go back to Port Geneva.

"And now that you're stuck in this hell too," your voice dropped to a whisper. "It made me sort of dread that for you too. Dread what kind of life that Writers might put you through, especially if your story in your show had a tragic ending like you said. They could give you everything you ever wanted, or they could just kill you again and again, for fun.

"And it's horrible and beautiful and great sometimes, but at the end of it all, it's tiring. Talking through it with you made me realize how much I wished I could be free, that maybe...maybe this Writer who brought me here would just be happy writing a story about the two of us for the rest of their lives or something. Spare us both anymore torture.

"Because at this point...I don't even know who I am anymore."

Your eyes welled with tears again and your shoulders heaved as you held back a sob.

And Eddie wished that he could tell you that he understood.

That his few days experience being aware that he was in a story could compare to everything that you'd seen.

He could tell you he appreciated your concern, that he felt that sense of dread that you felt for him. Assure you that he'd be fine. That it would be alright as long as you were in it together, just like you said.

But truthfully before hearing you say it right now, he hadn't come to that conclusion that he might be stuck in some endless loop of happiness and misery forever.

Because he did what he always did: he avoided the bad things. He ran away from this problem.

So what could say that could help you? That would make you feel better?

He wracked his brain for a moment, coming up with the right words.

But if there was anything Eddie did better than run away, it was say the right thing at the right time.

And he did.

"I know who you are," Eddie finally found his voice.

He took one of your hands in his and then cupped your cheek so you could look into his eyes.

"You might have forgotten who you are, but I know. I've always known. From the first time I saw you on screen, I felt such a connection to you."

He felt nervous, revealing his feelings to you. Confessing his fanatic behavior, his love for you. They were things he never said aloud to anyone and it made him nervous and vulnerable. Made him feel like he needed to run again. But your eyes glittered with unshed tears, and he knew he had to soldier on.

"Meeting you was like...the happiest day of my life. And you weren't anything that I expected, but everything I knew you were, deep down. And you...you've always seen the real me too, which is something very few people have the patience for. You're exactly who I've been waiting for.

"So maybe," he paused and cleared his throat. "Maybe we only have a few weeks together, or a few months, or maybe it'll be a few years for this Writer to give us a Happily Ever After. Maybe they'll put us through hell. But at least we're in it together. And I'll be here to remind you who you are if you ever forget, and to make sure you're not alone for as long as I can. As long as you promise that you'll do the same for me too."

In hindsight, a kiss was probably not the best end to his little declaration, but it felt right, so he did it anyway.

He leaned in and softly kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then caught the softness of your lips between his.

The sound of your sigh, and the feeling of you melting against him, were the sweetest sensations he'd ever felt. It was a relief.

For a moment, right before he pulled away, Eddie felt a smug sense of superiority over everyone. All the writers who had made you question who you were, all of the love interests that they'd written for you--Alex P. Keaton could get fucked--and he resolved to make this a story for the ages, even if it never wound up on some fanfiction writer's page.

"Thank you Eddie," you whispered against his lips when all was said and done.

"We have a deal?"

"Yeah," you bit your lip and grinned at him. "It's a deal."

You backed away and, hands still locked together Eddie looked around the trailer park and sighed.

"So..." he scratched the back of his neck. "What happens now?"

Next Chapter: Reader Suggestions Coming Soon

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#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #stranger than (fan)fiction #stff #stff updates #stranger things fic

[biceratops7]

… let’s talk about “Arrival”

So I was fully intending on making a more general but thorough peruse through the new Good Omens title sequence, because my FUCK aren’t those always a gold mine. But then I thought to myself, “hey wait a minute, I can be even more unhinged and on brand.”

Something I’ve seen nobody talk about yet is that the movie that the procession is marching into is The Arrival, which is a 90’s movie that draws a pretty straightforward parallel. But I think if it doubles as a reference to 2016’s Arrival, THAT has some much more interesting implications. Either way this reference is doing some heavy lifting.

For those who haven’t seen the movie (or that one philosophy tube video about it lol), the basic plot is that a group of aliens later named heptopods arrive on earth scattered across the world, and just kind of invite humanity to check them out. Each country hires a team of linguists who are all tasked with figuring out what the visitors are here for. But the thing is, it’s only about aliens on the surface level. This is really about communicating, cooperation, and how language holds the power to alter your very fabric of reality.

Spoilers for the movie:

Two major revelations occur towards the end of the movie. The first is that an element of fluid time is revealed. Throughout the movie, the main American linguist has been having flashbacks to a daughter that passed away of an illness. But since the heptopod language has no regard for chronological order, we learn that these are actually flash-forwards when she becomes nearly fluent. In other words, learning heptopod, having a genuine curiosity and even compassion for these vastly different beings. has given her the ability to perceive reality in ways thought previously impossible.

Even before noticing the Arrival reference, I’ve been side eyeing these “flashbacks”, but this and the image above confirmed it for me. Any instance of the word “becoming” when talking about the past indicates some sort of fluid time nonsense. The past is fixed unless something ✨happens✨. I don’t think these are simply memories, I think something rather cosmic instead is afoot.

But it’s more than just “there’s probably time travel in this” though. Simply having Aziraphale as a companion has changed Crowley. It’s given him an ability that he’s not meant to be capable of as a demon. He already had it in him to be good and have mutual relationships based in trust and kindness, I’m sure all demons can if given the right nurture… but Crowley is experiencing love. In the show, something tangible to the senses and distinctly angelic. I’m very much hoping that that whole element of things is going to somehow be a driving factor in what’s occurring over all, and possibly involved in time going screwy.

The other element of Arrival’s ending that’s of import, is the heavy emphasis on the importance of cooperation. First of all, we learn at some point that not every country has the same message to decipher, they each have one piece of a whole. Some of the countries begin using games to communicate with their heptopods, and this poses a problem because it causes messages to be more easily interpreted as hostile. For example, the phrase “we brought a tool” can be easily misconstrued as “we have a weapon.” Eventually, the world gets impatient and scared, and a war is imminent. What finally leads to everyone putting down arms and cooperating, is the American linguist sending a message to the Chinese linguist saying “in war, there are no victors, only widows.”

Something noteworthy about this particular march is that the procession never splits like it does at the end of the first season’s. Not only are both angelic and demonic figures marching into the light atop a mountain as a United front, but this actually seems to be a theme this season. Heaven and Hell aren’t working together as far as we know, but they are at least working towards the same goal, which for some reason is getting Gabriel’s ass. There is also a heavy emphasis on mending broken relationships, with Crowley and Azirphale trying to fix a (probably) lesbian couple literally being the B plot.

Now this is where we bring in what’s actually on the movie screen, which is that damn box. So at this point we know basically nothing about it accept for it probably being a Mcguffin. But we DO have the imagery of three feathers, a black one, a white one, and a bluish grey one, falling into it… and it sure as fuck looks like a moving box. So back to arrival, what actually was the message? The heptopods told the linguist that they’re here to help humanity (via giving them a tool or new tech I think?) because in 3,000 years, they will need humanity’s help. So with this and the world eventually being inspired to stand down and share their pieces of the message, it’s this over arching theme of setting aside fear of the other and cooperating indefinitely for the benefit of the whole. The black feather, the white feather… and then something that is somehow both yet entirely unique.

I think… somehow, someway, this season may culminate in Heaven and Hell reconciling. Whether it be against a common enemy, for a shared goal, or in love, there seems to be many clues both symbolic and literal that show them learning to be one again. Learning to understand eachother’s language and see new ways of being neither before could fathom.

#by the way the last image (not the meme) are Aziraphale and Crowley circling eachother in a dance like pattern… like twin stars… #so close they may from a great distance appear as one… #good omens #season 2 #speculation #meta #analysis #ineffable husbands #Aziraphale #Crowley #arrival 2016 #season 2 title sequence #biceratops

[von-rosewald]

A (not so) brief theory about Sukuna and Tengen:

HEAR ME OUT OK

TL;DR: Sukuna/Tengen's relationship parallels and exists within the same repeating cycle of Geto/Gojo and Yuji/Megumi, which seems to form the basis of the overarching JJK storyline

I don't necessarily think that their relationship was romantic in nature (although it could have been), but there are clear parallels in the relationships between Sukuna/Geto/Yuji as well as with Tengen/Gojo/Megumi.

(A few of these parallels are just seen with Sukuna/Geto and Tengen/Gojo because Yuji and Megumi are still living out their main story, but so far it adds up. I'm also going to focus less so on Yuji and Megumi in this post since that has been discussed plenty already.)

I've listed below the cut where I think these parallels are and what other clues have been hinting at this:

Direct Parallels:

“The Fallen”

Angel refers to Sukuna as "The Fallen," which not only indicates him as someone who is evil or lacking in morality, but also as someone who had previously not been that way (i.e he had to "fall" down from somewhere). Therefore, we know that Sukuna must have been someone who was well respected and probably a "good" person before he turned and became a curse user. It it thus not unlikely that Sukuna would have at least crossed paths (if not more!) with Tengen when they were both on the same side of Jujutsu society and the two strongest of their time. Sound familiar?

We know that Geto was also someone who "fell" from grace and respectability like this, after being in his close relationship with Gojo (who remained in that position after Geto's fall). This fall is something that happened following a very traumatic event that restructured how Geto looked at the world around him (and himself within it)—we also see this same thing happening to Yuji over the course of the story (especially with Megumi currently being taken from him and potentially dead—just like Gojo was during the fight with Toji). Could it be that Sukuna experienced the same thing during the Heian era to make him become "The Fallen"?

Remains of their Bodies

In chapter 220, we see Sukuna’a mummified body dressed as a monk left at the site of one of Tengen’s purification barriers, and it is noted how it is not actually needed for the basis of the barrier. Thus, it seems that Tengen had placed Sukuna's body at the centre of one of their most sacred locations, in a position and attire of significance and respectability. Why would she do this with someone who supposedly was the one of the most evil sorcerers in history if it did not matter to the creation or maintenance of the actual barrier? The only answer which makes reasonable sense it that she carried some sort of lingering emotional attachment to Sukuna in some way.

Similarly, in JJK 0, Gojo has to kill Geto, but notably does not take care of his body afterwards in the proper way. This is not exactly elaborated upon, but it is certain that Geto's body was not cremated, and given the reason for this lack of proper body disposal was his emotional attachment to him, it is probably likely that he was intent on doing something else to properly respect his life — perhaps giving the body to Geto's newfound family or interning him differently. Whatever it was, he clearly defied whatever treatment his body was going to endure at the hands of Jujutsu society who viewed him as an evil and corrupt person.

"The One who Taught him about Love."

In Sukuna's fight with Yorozu, she realizes that someone has already taught him about love in the past. During his fights in Shinjuku, this is also repeatedly brought up again, and he seems to think very bitterly about it—which indicates that whoever "taught him about love" is probably someone he cut out from his life in some way, that he may have parted ways with philosophically and that he detached himself from the idea of enduring love, pushing that aside the best that he could.

We know that Geto pushed Gojo (and his love) away when he sought to embark on his quest to rid the world of curses. We also know that he believed that after this Gojo hated him (even though he did not), potentially also looking bitterly back at the past and his naivety about love—he didn't think that love could be that enduring (even though his still endured, he did not think that it was reciprocated).

Eating Curses etc to Gain Power

Sukuna's CT is still unknown to us, however, we do know that in chapter 249, he ate something sent by Kenjaku and absorbed its power in some way. We also know that he is canonically a cannibal, and that he often will use cooking metaphors in his speech, indicating that his CT may have something to do with eating people/something else to gain power.

Geto's CT is that which involves him eating curses in order to absorb and control them, thus forming the basis of his power.

Yuji's CT is also still unknown to us for the most part, but we do know that he has an inherent ability to absorb the power of cursed objects that he eats—notably, Sukuna's fingers. It is also implied that he ate the rest of his brothers, the Cursed Womb Death Paintings, and absorbed their powers through that (such as blood manipulation, which it is heavily implied he able to use now).

"The King of Curses"

In chapter 3, Sukuna is referred to as "the king of curses." In JJK 0, Gojo calls Geto "the worst curse user" (and Geto also is someone who has the power to control curses as their master—I wonder what other word can be used to describe this relationship?). We see then that both Sukuna and Geto are seen by those around them as simultaneously superlatively strong and evil with relation to curses in their respective times.

Other Hints:

Tengen's New Form

When Kenjaku met Tengen again, he called out how Tengen’s current form seems to look a lot like Sukuna’s true form (with a knowing tone in how he pointed this out). Clearly, it is being hinted at here that there is some sort of history between Sukuna and Tengen where Tengen is still holding very closely onto his memory in some way. It is also potentially relevant to mention here how Gojo's blindfold changed in colour from white to black after Geto's death, showing a potential similarity in memorializing their fallen and lost friend—and a refusal from both of them to move on even after they were gone.

Ties of Fate

It is already established in canon that fate and repetitive cycles of fate exist within the JJK universe, where we see how Kenjaku has been tied to the owner of the six eyes for a millennia and is always somehow doomed to lose to them. If this is true, then would it not be plausible that another cycle of a tie of fate exists between these three duos?

Breaking the Ties of Fate

Sukuna remarked recently how Yuji has a spirit that is near-unbreakable (unlike himself according to this theory) and we have also seen how Yuji, despite the trauma he has gone through, has not fallen in the same way that Geto or Sukuna did. Will the crux of the story rest in Yuji's ability to break this tragic cycle of fate? Or will it fail the same way that Kenjaku's sealing of Gojo failed to break his own cycle of failure to the Six Eyes?

If you actually read all of this thank you for entertaining my rambling theory!

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk theory #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #tengen #satosugu #itafushi #geto #gojo #i think this is the longest thing i have ever posted in my life #mine #text

[sashaisready]

Chapter Eighteen - Weakness

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again

Warning: Dark - Kidnapping and false imprisonment, threats with a gun, threats of violence/sexual assault, references to murder, rough handling of reader

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 19

Series Masterlist

You briefly allow yourself to hope that this is Bucky and his men. That he's doing this as some sort of twisted punishment for what you said. Yes, that would be a super fucked up thing to hope for, but at least you'd stand a chance of getting out of this alive.

As time goes on it becomes clear that this isn't Bucky, though. You don't recognise any of their voices. You have no idea who these men are.

This is bad. Really bad.

You do your best to stay calm, knowing panicking will mean you won't have your wits about you. You need to stay focused, do everything you can to stay alive.

Finally, after a very bumpy car ride as you laid on the floor of the vehicle, you get to wherever you're going. The journey was about forty minutes you think, maybe an hour, you try and work out how far that might be out of the city, but to no avail. They park up and you hear people step out to talk. You strain to hear what they're saying through whatever fabric is over your head - there are at least two of them, maybe three. They don't use names and don't give anything away about who they might be or what they're doing with you. They just mutter about the boss, and everything being in place for something. You can't make out the rest.

Suddenly the door is wrenched open, you are tugged up to your feet and snatched roughly out of the vehicle. It hurts and you know you'll likely have bruises up your arms from where they've manhandled you. You're standing outside again when the gun impatiently taps on the back of your head and you take that as indication to walk. You can't see so you have no idea where you're going, a firm hand on your shoulder is guiding you to walk in the direction they want you in. You clomp awkwardly in your date night heels.

"Please..." you murmur quietly from under the hood. "If you want money I can get you my savings and everything from my job's safe...I don't have much but-".

The gun digs hard into your skull again and you shut up suddenly, not stupid enough to continue.

You're lead into some sort of building, trying to count the number of turns and doors you take, doing your best to form a mental picture of the layout. You can feel voices on either side of you and know multiple sets of eyes are on you as you pass by even though you can't see them. Eventually you are pushed down into a rigid chair and the hood is torn from your head.

Your eyes strain under the bright lights after being in the darkness for so long and you do your best to adjust to where you are. The lights are lurid and unflattering, adding a disorientating edge to the already stark space.

You peer across the room as you blink and get your bearings. You're in a warehouse or factory it seems, rusting machinery surrounds you and everything looks decayed and far beyond its best days. The air smells of rusty water and damp mould.

Soon your eyes find your captors, standing ten or so feet away. There's a group of them dressed in combat gear. They all have various weapons strapped to them – sat in holsters, slung over their shoulders, tucked carefully into their palms. Ammo clips are affixed to belts draped around their waists, bandoliers rest threateningly across their torsos. You shudder at the sight. There are more of them than you realised.

A muscular dark haired man stares back at you hungrily and you flinch instinctively at his gaze.

An older man in a dark suit and tie smiles kindly as he heads towards you, his professional attire a jarring contrast to the others in their almost-military like get up. He seems warmer than his 'colleagues' and you can tell he was a handsome man in his younger days.

You begin to panic, the reality of seeing your kidnappers in front of you with all of their weaponry suddenly triggering your flight or fight response. You squirm in your restraints, head jerking side to side as you hunt for anything or anyone that might help you. You feel exposed too, still wearing your tight evening dress from your date. Your body is on show more than you'd like – not that there's an optimum outfit for this type of scenario. You've also managed to lose a shoe somewhere on the walk from the car to here. You're vulnerable, weak. They all know that too.

"Please..." you plead weakly. "I don't know why I'm here".

"I know it must be scary, honey. But try not to panic. We aren't going to hurt you" says the suited man, his voice low and soothing.

"Speak for yourself" laughs the dark haired man, and the rest of the group laugh coldly with him.

The suited man shoots them a look and they all shut up instantly. He must be their leader, you understand. The 'boss' they mentioned.

"Like I said. Nobody is going to hurt you sweetie, as long as you behave yourself. Alright? Can you do that for me?" He coos at you as he comes closer.

You nod rapidly, your eyes widening. You have no interest in finding out what happens if you don't behave.

"Smart girl. But I should've guessed. Barnes isn't gonna pick himself a dummy is he?" He laughs.

Your eyes narrow at the mention of Bucky's name. "Barnes...?" you mumble as things finally start to fall into place.

"Uh huh" the man continues. "The man himself. We know you're well acquainted".

Your throat suddenly feels very dry. "I think y-you have the wrong girl" you stammer. "We aren't together, me and him."

The man smiles, his sweet tone never faltering.

"Well, are you sure about that sweetie? Maybe think about it again. We know he was outside of your apartment when we picked you up. We know he sent a huge order of balloons to your workplace. We know you spent the night with him at his house after some canoodling in a nightclub. We know he sends his men to follow you around town. And he's always in that cute little bakery of yours, isn't he? Seems like pretty damning evidence to me, sweetheart".

You internally admit that you see their logic.

You nearly vomit as you begin to understand just how long they have been following you. Bucky too. Did he know they were following him? How could his surveillance team miss them??

You choke out a sound which is a mix between a laugh and a sob.

"No no...you gotta believe me. We did spend the night together yes, but that's it. He follows me because he likes to torture me. He doesn't really want me. I'm just a... a plaything to him. He's been making my life a misery. He doesn't care, not really. Please...you've gotta believe me..." you're practically begging now.

The men all laugh like you've told a great joke and the suited one speaks again.

"Lovers' quarrel huh sweetie? We've all been there. But listen, you don't know him like we do - he's always been a hump and dump kinda guy. Been that way since he discovered his pecker. Trust me, he used to work for me back in the day and he was the same way then, too. He doesn't keep them around, but he keeps you around. That's no accident."

You almost laugh at the ridiculousness of this terrifying thug validating your relationship with Bucky. This was the last way you ever thought you'd receive reassurance about how Bucky feels about you.

"He used to work for you?" you ask quietly.

The man nods, a hint of a smile lurking on his solemn face.

"A long time ago. We taught him everything he knows. He'd be nothing if I didn't take him under my wing. Oh - where are my manners? My name is Alexander Pierce. This fine gentleman is Brock Rumlow" he gestures to the dark haired man who sneers back at you.

You instinctively know Rumlow was the one from the car with the gun pressed into your spine. You feel like a strong hatred for him like you've never felt for a stranger before. You just know in your gut that he's a bad man. A dangerous man.

That they all are.

Pierce introduces some of the other men who all share the same identical snarl on their faces. In your peripheral vision you see more figures at the side of the warehouse, weaving in and out of the doors. There are more of them here than you initially thought. The place is swarming with them.

You scan the room again and take in more of the layout. There are the big double doors you came through on one side, that's where the hub of activity seems to be with people coming and going. A lot of old machinery is dotted across the wide room, each in varying states of disrepair. There's a raised mezzanine level running across one side which seems to be accessed by ladders but it doesn't seem to go anywhere. And then finally in the far corner you spot a solitary door. Fire exit, maybe?

Pierce stands in front of you as your attention snaps back to him. He begins to talk, seemingly relishing your fear.

"You may know us as HYDRA. We knew Barnes as the Winter Soldier. He was the deadliest assassin on the east coast, maybe the country" continues Pierce. "He could put a bullet between anyone's eyes before they'd even noticed him. We recruited him when he was very young, he took to training like a duck to water. It was all very innate, you know the type. Very valuable to our little organisation, as you can imagine".

Pierce mimes a gun action with his hand, his mouth imitating blowing a gun barrel with his finger.

You swallow nervously as you listen. HYDRA rings a bell, you've heard of them – maybe seen a headline or two - knew they were bad men involved with organised crime and terrorist activity, but you couldn't recall much else. You knew Bucky was capable of awful things, and you knew deep down he would've killed somewhere along the way, but hearing it like this from Pierce chilled you to the bone. Bucky was scary. You cringed thinking about all the times you'd berated or challenged him. How lucky you'd been to not push him too far...

"But being just a hitman wasn't enough for him" Pierce continued. "So he broke away from us and started his own organisation, using everything he learned from his time here. Teamed up with some old military buddies of his and built themselves from the ground up, using all the connections and knowledge he learned from us".

Steve and Sam.

"They took out nearly 80% of our numbers after they surprised us one evening, an evening not unlike this one actually. A total massacre. Barnes was like a terminator that night, sweetie, I have never seen anything like it. He just kept coming. Kept mowing people down. The few who managed to survive still have nightmares about him. And now he's on top, and he's been hunting the rest of us ever since..." smiled Pierce forlornly.

"And now he's mostly legit, filing his taxes and all that boring civilian stuff. He's still terrorising the city, but in a different way. We've been trying to find a weakness of his for years but nothing ever came up. Until now that is..." he explained, grinning at you devilishly.

You shrink slightly in your chair. "Weakness...?" you ask in a small voice.

"That's where you come in, sweetheart. You're our bait. You're going to help lure Barnes out here and we are finally going to take care of him, once and for all - and then we can get back on top where we belong".

You begin to panic, eyes widening as you shake your head. You feel sick thinking about Bucky coming out here, as desperate as you also are for him to save you. There are just so many of them. He and his men would be wiped out.

"You don't understand...." you whimper. "It's like I said. We aren't an item. This evening I called him a sociopath and threatened to rat him out to the feds. He...he isn't coming to help me if I ask".

The group laugh, amused by your story. Pierce grins from ear to ear as he leans towards you, pulling up another chair and sitting opposite you.

"If that's true and he doesn't come - no big deal, we'll just shoot you any way sweetheart. No skin off our noses. Annoying to waste a night, but we'll just regroup and come up with something else. Get him some other time. Besides, the boys here will enjoy taking their time with you".

The room echoes with the gang's skin-crawling laughter and you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut as fear grips you and sits on your chest like a boulder.

"And...and if he does come?" you manage to croak out. "What happens to me after...well...after you've dealt with him?"

Pierce grins and the other men titter behind him.

"Well, we haven't decided yet, honey. But if you're good, maybe we'll keep you around. We could use a feminine presence around the place. And we can help you get over your boyfriend".

You don't want to think about what that might entail. It seems whatever happens tonight, this doesn't end well for you. 

You're not naïve. You know Bucky isn't going to risk his life, or the lives of his friends and men, to come save the person who screamed at him just a couple of hours before. A woman he'd fucked once when you'd drunkenly stumbled around his nightclub. There'd be no sentimentality solely because she used to package up his doughnuts.

You were on your own.

You had to save yourself.

Pierce smiles as he holds up your phone, wriggling it in his hand.

"Let's drop lover boy a line, shall we?" he tells you ominously.

#mob bucky barnes #mob bucky x reader #bucky barnes #mob bucky au #mob bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #sweet and sour fic

[loveislattes]

Newbie

Summary: The newest survivor brought in by the entity is having a rough go of it. Between learning the rules and ways of the trials and dealing with the struggles of autism, depression, and anxiety, the reader hasn't exactly made many friends in the survivor's camp; but maybe, just maybe, she'll find friends elsewhere.

Word count: 3.3K

Relationship: Ghostface/Reader (May add more as chapters go on)C

Content warnings: Reader is a plus-sized AFAB with autism, depression, and anxiety. Danny is still an asshole and very chaotic but he has a heart specifically for the reader only. Descriptions of autism and mental health issues (based on my personal experience), one instance of sensory overload, ableism from other survivors (from ignorance, not malice), oral (male receiving), dom/sub power dynamics, mild asphyxiation, and knife play.

A/N: I'm hoping to make a few more chapters to accompany this one, but we'll see how it goes lol. Also, this is my specific headcanon for how Danny acts. It may not be everyone's cup of tea but it is mine :)

Depiction of my version of Danny, for reference <3

“So, what do you guys think about the new girl?” Claudette whispered conspiratorially. 

“She’s uh- She’s different, that’s for sure.”

Dwight’s words were quiet but you could still hear them across the campfire. You purposefully made sure your eyes stayed locked onto the flames before you, not wanting to give any indication you could hear them discussing you. In all honesty, you didn’t mind hearing it because you needed realistic feedback; feedback none of them had been willing to supply so far. 

“She’s not any good in chases, too slow; hell, even she herself said that she wasn’t ‘built’ for it,” Kate scoffed quietly, “At least she’s good at pushing through gens, even under threat.” 

At that, you could feel your cheeks warm up. You weren’t expecting the praise, but also the little side comment about your weight didn’t feel great either. It was the harsh truth though. While able to run a decent sprint, you weren’t a marathon type of person. You did some cardio and weights before, but nothing near enough to prepare you for this place. 

Dwight's speaking drew your attention back to them once more. 

“Her medical knowledge is top notch though! The fact that the entity brought us a nurse was really lucky,” he added kindly, “Even Claudette’s healing pales in comparison.”

Even without shifting your gaze, you could see the pissed-off scowl the botanist threw his way. If you weren’t trying to hide your little spying session, you’d laugh in her face, but alas, you didn’t want to piss off the only people around that weren’t trying to actively kill you.

You were the newest to the survivor's camp, having only been dragged into the fog a few weeks ago at most. It was hard to tell as there was no actual passing of time, but you’d tried to keep count of your periods of sleep and it seemed somewhere around fifteen days had passed, give or take a few. Any optimistic dreams of getting out of the trials and back to your world were quickly diminishing, your hope replaced with fear, confusion, and hatred. 

It didn’t help that you had a hard time connecting with your teammates. Part of the issue lay in your lack of knowledge of the trials and the other came from your lack of social understanding. It wasn’t that you weren’t trying, but it seemed no other survivor had any sort of experience with autism or even any mental health issues. Some just right down didn’t care to and called your diagnosis an excuse- Those were the ones you made sure to avoid other than when necessary. There were some, though, who were friendly enough and tried to include you, namely Laurie, Dwight, Ace, Jeff, Steve, and Mikaela. They were the ones you had the most hope for.

Fuck, how you longed to be back home. 

“Well, looks like it’s time again.”

Laurie’s words shook you from your thoughts and you looked down just to see the fog crawling up your legs. 

“God damn it,” you bit out under your breath. 

Before you could figure out who was going into the trial with you, the world went dark and, within the next blink, you were in an all-too-familiar courtyard. Of course it was Midwich, one of the strongest realms for the killers. You only hoped you weren’t going against someone who benefitted from the particularly long empty hallways. The thought of facing the nurse down those corridors made your skin crawl. 

With a little sigh, you made your way around the hedges to the sole generator in the courtyard. You couldn’t help but let your thoughts wander as you began to connect the wires before you. What killer could it be this time? You hadn’t met them all yet, but you’d heard about them from the others. The fact you had yet to hear any sign of the killer, or feel that familiar panic of your heart racing when they were nearby, alluded to the possibility of a stealth killer. You hoped with all your might that it wasn’t Michael Myers. He was notorious for being ruthless, bringing gifts from the entity that allowed him to kill you on the spot without any prelude and the ability to track you even beyond the walls. It was terrifying. Out of the limited killers you had faced, he was the worst. 

“Well, well, I’d heard there was a new survivor but Evan and Anna failed to mention how hot you were!”

The sudden voice behind you sent you into a proper panic, your scream only drowned out by the exploding of the generator as you jerked back to face the unknown intruder. When your eyes locked onto the white screaming mask, your heartbeat raced even louder in your chest. 

Ghostface. Another killer you’d yet to meet. The others had mixed reviews about him when sharing their stories. Apparently, he was very hot and cold in his trials. Sometimes he would be merciless, hooking everyone without a second thought, and other times he would play cat-and-mouse games and allow one or two who had sufficiently entertained him to escape. 

“What, don’t tell me you’re mute, sweets,” he cajoled.

His head tilted to the side in an almost cute manner and you found yourself ruminating on the sound of his voice. It was obviously going through some kind of filter but the low timber was certainly- No, fuck, you wouldn’t let yourself even touch that thought! 

“N-No, sorry, I just- You startled me,” you explained quietly.

The fact he hadn’t thrown you over his shoulder yet was both a relief and terrifying. Was he in a good mood today? As you debated your chances of survival, he took a step forward, and you instinctively stepped back, the dance continuing until your back pressed into the cold steel of the gen. 

“What do you want, Ghostface?” you asked. 

His hands came to rest on either side of you with a deep, rumbling, chuckle and you were made painfully aware of how much taller he was when he boxed you in. As you stared up at him, you couldn’t help the way your face lit up in response to the sudden intimate position.

“Glad to see my reputation proceeds me,” he teased, “Tell you what, I’ll go easy on you this first time… if you do something for me.” 

Blinking slowly in thought, you tried to figure out what you could possibly do for someone who held all the power, but then his hand was on your jaw, squeezing your chin hard as he jerked your face up to meet his. 

“Whatdya say, sweets?” 

Swallowing hard, you murmured back, “What would I have to do?” 

You could practically hear the smirk on his face as he cackled loudly, gloved hand releasing your chin only to pat your cheek as if soothing a child. 

“Mmm, that’s what I like to hear. It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a piece of ass like yours, especially one that isn’t attached to a whiny bitch,” he practically purred, “I’ll make it easy for you, this time. Let me feel that sweet little mouth and, in return, I’ll let you and two of your teammates go free.” 

Thinking became fairly difficult as his hand slid down and encircled your throat. He didn’t cut off your airflow entirely, but the threat was there under the light pressure, and it made your heart race. 

“T-Two?” you clarified. 

“Two. Can’t let you all get out scott-free or I risk pissing off the head bitch,” he explained, thumb stroking your skin almost lovingly, “So? Wanna make a deal with death, baby?” 

Emotions created a volatile vortex of your mind, uncertainty and fear of him going back on his word making you want to say no, but the promise of freedom demanding otherwise. On one hand, what would the others say if they found out? Then again, did you really care what they thought? They already had a preconceived notion about you. And it wasn’t like the thought of pleasing a man was exactly a bad one... Fuck, you were only human, and a touch-starved one at that, considering you were kept at arms reach unless you were healing the others. 

“Fuck it,” you finally sighed, “I’ll do it.” 

Ghostface sucked in a heavy breath, as if he had been expecting you to decline his advances, but then it was like a switch was flipped. Suddenly his hands were on your shoulders and you were shoved to your knees on the ground, giving silent thanks for the fact you were on grass and not concrete. 

 The sight of the tall cloaked form pulling up his robes was almost amusing until he shoved down his black pants and you were granted a sight that made your mouth water. He wasn’t even fully hard but already you could tell he was big, thicker than you were used to. You weren’t sure if it was due to your appearance, as he had alluded, or if maybe he was just as hungry for human touch, but the fact he was already excited was enough to make your own body react. 

“You back out or don’t finish in time, the deal’s off,” he snapped suddenly. 

“Oh o- Ah, shit!” 

Ghostface silenced your words with a sharp tug on your hair, jerking you forward as he pushed his hardening cock against your face. 

“Time’s ticking, sweets,” he sang teasingly. 

You tossed him a little scowl before getting to work, one hand resting on his toned thigh as the other took hold of him. Your irritation slipped into intrigue and arousal as you slowly stroked his dick, enjoying the way he twitched and sighed way too much for what was undeniably an unconventional situation. As he hardened under your touch, you became dauntingly aware of just how thick he actually was. He had to be a little over average in length but your fingertips couldn’t even touch around it. The moment the first drip of precum rolled out over your fingers, you lost what reservations you held and quickly took him in your mouth. 

“Fu-u-u-ck! That’s what I’m talking about!” he groaned loudly, fingers knotting against your scalp in a burning hold.

Before you had the chance to react, both hands were on your head and you were forced further down his cock. You tried to brace yourself and pull back, but he was so much stronger, pushing until his head was pressing against your throat. It took all of your resolve not to retch as your body instinctively gagged around him, but it didn’t seem to bother him one bit. If anything, he moaned louder, as if turned on by the noises. 

Tears fell from your eyes as you sucked in ragged breaths through your nose every chance you got until he was back in your throat. 

“Come on, babe, I know you can take it,” he moaned, “Be a good little slut and let me fuck that throat nice and raw.” 

A choked moan escaped before you could stop it, your thighs clenching tight in search of relief. While you knew you were a bit of a freak back home, this was a whole other level, and you were disturbed by how much you liked it. Brows furrowing in concentration, you did your best to accommodate him and opened your mouth wide, relaxing your throat with a whimper.

“Shit, that’s it. Good girl.”

Annndd now you were dead. Not physically, of course, but mentally? You were beyond help. The sounds of the realm around you all faded away, even the loud chugging of the dying gen behind you muffled into silence under the sounds of the delicious moans he let out; the squelch of him pounding away at your mouth the only rivaling noise. Rivers of drool ran down your chin as he suddenly thrust forward and buried himself as far as possible, cutting off all traces of oxygen as your nose crushed into his dark pubes. 

For a moment, it all became too much; the dirt against your knees, the slick spit coating your skin, the sticky panties clinging to your wet sex, and the sting of his grip culminating into a massive sensory overload. Eyes popping open, you gawked up at those soulless black holes and tapped at his thigh frantically. To your relief and surprise, he immediately pulled back. 

“What? You good?” he asked, almost sounding concerned. 

You held up a finger and took a moment to breathe, centering yourself as you wiped your mouth clean to remove at least one of the issues. Once you didn’t feel as if you were going to pass out, you met his gaze again. 

“Sorry. Sensory issues,” you explained meekly, “I’m good to go.” 

He paused for a moment, as if debating, so you decided to take it upon yourself to take a breath and swallow him once more. 

“Damn, okay,” he laughed huskily as you dug your nails into his thighs, “Can’t say you’re not determined.” 

His taunting fell way to debauched moans as you found your rhythm once more. 

If it weren’t for the whole “stuck in an alternate reality where you’re sacrificed to a sadistic entity by brutal murderers”, this would absolutely be the hottest thing you’d ever experienced. None of your past partners had ever been as vocal as Ghostface. It was such a turn-on, a praise of the highest sort, and you were soaking it up like candy. 

You tuned out everything around you until all there was, was Ghostface; The sensation of his leather gloves cupping your face, the heady scent of sweat and sex in your nostrils, and his gravelly moans filling your head. 

“Fuck! Gonna come, sweets,” Ghostface groaned as his hips stuttered, “Gonna be good and swallow it all for me?”

Your moan of acknowledgment was met with a harsh curse and his hands once more taking over control. Keeping your teeth in mind, you hollowed your cheeks and traced your tongue along the underside of his cock as he fucked your face hard. There was no denying he was getting too rough, too caught up in his pleasure to care no doubt, but you weren’t about to stop him. The pain was worth the ecstasy thrumming through your veins. You were high on his pleasure. 

There was no further warning before he rammed down your throat with a vicious snarl, shot after shot of cum pulsing from his cock. Deragoatory praises flowed from his lips in an almost whisper as you slowly rubbed his thighs and pulled back enough to breathe and swallow, letting him ride out his orgasm with little thrusts against your tongue. You were more than happy to let him take all he wanted. 

There was a sudden shuffling of fabric and a flash of light that brought your eyes open in confusion, and you were mortified to find his camera pointed down at your face. 

“Gotta document the occasion,” Ghostface purred warmly, “Not every day I get a babe down on her knees for me around here.”

For a moment, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself, torn between staring at the literal killer who had just given you the sexiest experience of your life and getting yourself together in preparation to leave. Before you could decide, the sudden jarring chime of the clock rang through the courtyard with a thunder and you all but threw yourself into Ghostface with a shriek, instinctively hiding against the biggest threat in the realm for protection. Heat filled your face as the masked man’s laughter bubbled through the air. 

“Shit, that’s hilarious,” he sighed through laughter, then sighed, “You’re cute, you know that?” 

It took everything in you not to argue with his statement and instead untangle yourself from his legs, getting to your feet as he resituated his clothes. 

“Alright, deals a deal. Who you sacrificing?” he asked. 

“Uh, I didn’t even see who all’s here,” you admit meekly. 

Ghostface put a hand up to his chin as if in thought before saying, “Pretty sure I saw Laurie, Dwight, and Bill before I found you.” 

You nodded in understanding and let out a heavy breath. It felt heartless, but at the same time, you knew it wasn’t as hard of a choice as you were pretending. 

“Bill.” 

“Ol military boy, huh? He piss in your Cheerios or something?” Ghostface asked. 

“I don’t- eh?!”

Your world was suddenly upended and a little oomph of pain escaped your mouth as he tossed you like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. Any instinctive need to complain was overruled by the throbbing of your cunt as his hand tucked between your thighs and gripped. Fuck, it shouldn’t be, but the way he could manhandle you like you were nothing was just… hot as hell. Clenching your thighs together in hopes of not embarrassing yourself any further, you relaxed into him and let him carry you away toward the gate. 

“Sooo?” he urged. 

Oh yeah. He’d asked about Bill. It was weird, talking to him like that he wasn’t some sadistic killer that had just had his dick in your mouth, but you appreciated his weird attempt at conversation nonetheless. 

“He likes to make fun of my autism,” you explained weakly, “Says I’m making it up for attention and to get out of shit. If only he fucking knew how much I wish that were true. Dude just lived in an age where nobody talked about mental health and disabilities, and those who had the worse versions were just locked away. It’s sad really.” 

Ghostface let out a hum but didn’t bother replying further, instead setting you down on your feet at the gate. When he suddenly gripped your jaw hard and pulled your face up, you watched him with a mixture of curiosity and heat, but your arousal-induced haze evaporated the moment he brandished his knife. 

“G-Ghostface?” you asked warily. 

He chuckled lowly as you swallowed hard and you could only imagine the devilish smirk that was hidden beneath the mask. 

“Just leaving my mark, sweets, gotta let the others know you belong to someone now,” he said, gloved fingers sliding down your throat to stop at your collarbone, “Don’t move, now. Wouldn’t wanna hurt ya~.” 

Standing still as a statue, you closed your eyes and braced for the worst. The sharp sting of his blade right above your breast tore a weak cry from your lips but still, you didn’t dare pull away, obediently allowing him to cut as he pleased. 

Somewhere, in the deep down fucked up part of your brain, you knew you were in trouble when you whined about him pulling the knife away. 

Eyes fluttering open, you looked down and were greeted with the demented sight of a permanent heart with a G carved into your flesh. Before you could comment on it, he suddenly reached up and lifted his mask, giving just a peek of what could only be a beautiful face. His jawline was strong and sharp, surprisingly clean-shaven, and his full cupid’s bow lips were pulled up into a panty-wetting smirk. 

“Yeah, that’ll do nicely,” he groaned.

Oh, his voice. It was smooth, rich, and deep in a way that made your skin prickle. A pained moan fled your lips into his mouth as he kissed you hard. It was rough and messy, with too much teeth and tongue, but you felt yourself melting into him the longer it lasted. Fingers digging into the fabric of his cloak, you tugged him closer and held on for dear life until the ache in your lungs became too much to handle.  

“Can’t wait to see you again, sweets, stay out of trouble,” he teased as you pulled away with a gasp. 

And then he was gone, skulking away around the corner as you slumped back against the exit gate lever. 

Yeah, you were good and fucked.

#ghostface #danny johnson #ghostface x reader #ghostface smut #dbd smut

[thatlittleegyptologist]

I feel like it's more common for gods to be associated *with* things rather than *of* things. not that there are never gods of things it just doesn't seem like it's as common that gods were boxed up so tightly in antiquity as people seem to do with them now, and maybe that's a result of thousands of years of cultural separation, I don't know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

okay so let's deconstruct this shall we?

I never said there was a god 'of' beekeeping. Someone asked me about it, but I said that while there are gods/goddesses in Ancient Egypt who are associated with bees in some way (i.e. there's at least one mention in their mythology) they're not directly related to it.

So, lets talk about cultural separation, and the direct implication of modern bias, and re-centre it within the Egyptian cultural background. When we talk about 'associations' or 'gods of X' what we mean by that is that the Egyptians themselves very clearly reference a certain aspect or association again and again. They make it very clear in their writings that a certain plant/animal/natural phenomenon/emotion is tied intrinsically with this deity's behaviour and mythos.

Take Seth, for instance. One of his main aspects is chaos, and that's often associated with storms, thus he is often noted as a storm god. So, how do we know this? Well the Ancient Egyptians frequently talk about storms in relation to Seth. Several words for 'storm' in Middle Egyptian use the Seth-animal determinative when writing them, or they use the medjed fish determinative, and the medjed fish is also associated with Seth. In Egyptian medical papyri, certain afflictions we reverse-diagnose as a headache were referred to as “a storm in the head”. In addition, in the story of Seth, Anat, and the seed of P’Re, Seth tries to take the goddess Anat against her will, but the Seed flies against his forehead and he is taken ill, presumably with a terrible migraine. Now, the earliest example of that story we have it from the Ramesside Period, but it’s indicative of a certain connection storms and Seth himself had to headaches.

See how there's a lot of repeated symbolism, and how the Egyptians weave this into their everyday lives? That's how we can say that Seth is both associated with and the deity of Storms in Ancient Egypt.

In the case of bees/beekeeping, none of the gods mentioned in the original post have this sort of continual weaving of bees throughout their mythos that spills into the everyday consciousness. I've tried to look up the 'Ra cried Bees into existence' myth, to see what the original text it is that comes from so I could understand it in a better context. Do you know what I found? Endless references to people saying it, but no one actually mentioning where this information was from. When that happens in academia, it's what's known as a 'circular citation', where someone said it once and then everyone has repeated it but...it might actually not exist at all. If Ra was associated with bees to the point that it escaped the religious sphere (where usually only priests and the king cared and none of the regular populace would have been aware of it) and entered popular consciousness then we'd expect to see references to Ra in scenes where they make honey, or metaphorical references to it within texts that talk about bees and/or honey. But you don't. The Egyptians don't mention him, or any other god for that matter, when discussing it.

Thus, from looking at how the Egyptians themselves associated bees and their surroundings, we can determine that there wasn't (as far as I can find out) any specific deity they associated with, or thought bees to be an aspect of, bees and beekeeping. I mean, we know Min is associated with lettuce, because when lettuce is mentioned the Egyptians make reference to Min in one way or another. If the same were true for bees, we'd see that reflected in the corpus and we don't.

So, no one is boxing anything up tightly. Based on the current evidence we have, and knowledge of how the Egyptians interacted with their gods, we can pretty much say 'ehh while they may have mentioned it once, it didn't really form any aspect of their worship'.

But ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[aeternallis]

The Third Song / Why Kim chose to rewrite Chay’s first song 

So one day, I was thinking about what happened to that song Kim was working on in episode 9. 🤔 The tune Kim strums and vocalizes to is pretty catchy, and so I also wondered about how we don’t get a lot of scenes of Kim’s creative process with his music in general, yknow?

I have a fic idea about this subject in the works also, so I figured I may as well write a meta too to get my thoughts in order. Haha!

But before I go on and start ranting, for the sake of this meta I think it’s important to establish the level of fame Wik already has by the start of the show. Admittedly, it’s quite difficult to do this since Kim’s persona of Wik hardly makes an appearance, and the show didn’t necessarily focus on Kim’s life as a celebrity. But from the minimal amount of clues, I think it’s okay to make an educated guess. 

From Chay’s shrine, we know that Kim has done at least one photoshoot with GQ (if memory serves me correctly), and a number of smaller publications. So he’s gotten some exposure already; his fame isn’t limited to the internet, in other words. Due to this, it’s most likely he does have a PR team of some sort, by virtue of being a public figure and most likely because he’s an heir to the Theerapanyakuls’ (very public) business empire. There’s no way Kim can afford to remain a private citizen, not only due to the notoriety of his family, but as well as his own celebrity status. 

Incidentally however, it’s also hard to look at the crowd size in the university during Kimchay’s first meeting as an indicator of his fame, because I imagine the school would have had to make it very clear to the staff that the performance was for prospective students only and perhaps have prevented non-students from entering the grounds to see his impromptu show. Furthermore, according to the trivia session at the time, he’s also starred in a number of MVs, and we know he has a recording studio of his own. 

Yet still, Ohm is not aware of who he is, and if we give Ohm the metaphorical role of being the outsider to all this, it would seem Kim’s fame is also somewhat contained. This being the case, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that Kim is also most likely under a label as an indie artist, since I feel like he does not yet have enough clout that he can move to build his career independently. 

So if I were to take a gander at Kim's fame, I would probably say it’s at the level of Jeff Satur’s just before he made his official announcement of leaving BOC–rising fame to come close to reaching national stardom, but not just yet to say he’s a true international (or even regional) star. 

(Arguably, one can also say that a good chunk of his fame is his good looks, but that’s a different meta altogether, lol)

Having established his level of fame for this rant, now I can maybe make a gander at tackling his creative/thought process. XD 

By the time we’ve reached past the midway point of the show, the audience sees that despite the level of success he’s achieved so far in his career as a musician, Kim is currently in a bit of a creative rut / writer’s block.

We see perhaps a hint of it in episode 4 when he’s just nonchalantly strumming his guitar off camera before Big hands him Porsche’s bodyguard application, but we don’t see it explicitly until episode 9, when he’s visibly frustrated by the WIP song he’s trying to figure out:

So by this point, there’s technically two completed songs between him and Chay, as well as a WIP song that he was struggling with. For reference, I’ll refer to the songs between them as follows: 1stver.WDYS (ep 5), TSiCY (ep 8), Kim’s WIP song (ep 9), and Finalver.WDYS (ep 14). 

So knowing that Kim’s WIP song was partly inspired by Chay, knowing that Kim currently had a song in the works, why did he not choose this WIP song to sing to Chay in their final scene together? Why did he choose to rework Chay’s 1stver.WDYS to become his (Kim’s) Finalver.WDYS, when he already had a song up in his sleeve that was different from the other two? 

Why choose to re-write one of Chay’s songs, rather than use one of his own? 

Thematically and for their relationship, choosing to re-write 1stver.WDYS makes perfect sense. This is the song that holds the most weight between them, because it was the very first one they had worked on together (kinda, lol). It carries with it a powerful sense of nostalgia, of simpler times, and it’s a symbol of all that had been between them before everything fell apart.

Furthermore, Kim came into Chay’s life at a time when Chay had been vulnerable and very much alone. In a way, WDYS–both its first version and final version–is symbolic of Chay’s and Kim’s own narrative journeys, of their respective worlds expanding beyond just the simple (yet also very complicated) existence they’d been living up until that point, into allowing one another into their hearts. The yearning within Finalver!WDYS’s lyrics can apply to both Kim and Chay, which makes it all the more resonate with the audience. 

Yet still, this is only partly the point of view of the audience, not necessarily of Kim himself (although there is some overlap). 

So what would have been Kim’s thought process when he’d decided to rewrite 1stverWDYS? How would he have ultimately decided to willingly choose to steal from Chay? 

After all, Kim is a musician, an artist. One who is starting to grow exponentially in fame, but also one who does take his craft very seriously. Being as Kim is an artist, he would know more than anyone what it means to have artistic integrity in his field. Especially with how the music industry is nowadays, I would imagine that Kim is the type to do whatever he could to stand out, but not so much that he would be the sort to just copy someone else’s style. He has his pride, for one, and he wouldn’t have garnered fame the way he did had he been in the habit of copying. 

On top of that, it's not hard to see that music is very much personal to Kim; it's an alternative avenue for him to express himself and his thoughts and feelings.

In the end, the way I personally see it, Kim choosing to rewrite 1stver.WDYS was very much a calculated move, designed to break through Chay’s defenses, to illustrate his intent in getting Chay back, and what he’s willing to sacrifice and do in order to do just that. 

Nostalgia - This is the first song they ever worked on in the studio, and at least for Chay, carries significant weight emotionally. It’s a song initially about Porsche, and the impact he’s had on Chay’s life. Knowing that this song means so much to Chay, I don’t think Kim is above using that emotional significance and turning it on its head to change the meaning of the song: from Porsche’s influence in Chay’s life to Chay’s influence in Kim’s life, in order to bring Chay’s guard down.  (Sidenote: In a way, WDYS carries more weight than TSiCY ever did, even if that's the song that was meant to express Chay's feelings for Kim. TSiCY was straightforward, and accomplished what Chay set out to do: complete the homework Kim gave him, and express his feelings to his idol while he was at it.) During their final scene in episode 14, there’s hints that it's the first time Kim reaches out to Chay in a month, if not the first time Kim has reached out to him in this specific manner. If Kim has any hope of capturing Chay’s attention as soon as he catches him off guard and he clicks on that video link, Kim has to be able to not only grab Chay’s attention right off the bat, but also keep it. What better way to hold Chay’s attention than to serenade back to him the first song he ever wrote? When Kim chose to rewrite 1stver.WDYS, it wasn’t necessarily to impress Chay, but to grab hold of his attention with the least possible chance of Chay closing out the video and turning his attention elsewhere. 

Intent to show Chay that he wants him romantically - This is pretty straightforward, looking at the Thai version of the song, and its translation (Ex: Just you, just having you, no matter what. A world without stars but the two of us will move forward). It’s a song about yearning, of wanting Chay back in his life, of how much Kim has missed him.  Per Jeffy himself, WDYS is a love song. (credit to IYSmomo on Twitter for that translation!)

Sure, his delivery of the song in the video makes it sound like an apology, perhaps, but ultimately, WDYS is a love song–a most selfish one at that, and within the context of that final scene between them, also highlights Kim’s nature as a Theerapanyakul. This boy easily throws away integrity over his shoulder to tell Chay he’s in love with him. Lol If that isn’t in keeping with family tradition, I don’t know what does~  Could Finalver!WDYS act as an apology? Does Kim regret his treatment of Chay? Meh, debatable imo, considering his deception was meant to safeguard his family and figure out the mysterious circumstances surrounding Porsche’s swift employment. Sure, there’s definitely guilt, but regret? That’s up for interpretation. 

Intent to show Chay what he’s willing to give up - Oddly enough, Kim is completely honest with Chay only twice in the show: the first time they meet, as well as their final scene together. By the time Kim sends him the video link, the mask Kim wears as Wik has been completely discarded. It’s a bold and risky choice to get rid of this mask, even temporarily, because this is the armor Kim has in his sleeve that separates his life away from the mafia. And he does get rid of it, not only because he singles out Chay in that video, but by appropriating Chay’s song in the first place, had Chay been a lot more vindictive than what his disposition allows, this is incriminating evidence of his theft. Lol  But getting back on point: Wik is Kim’s livelihood outside of the mafia. Without this mask, is it even still possible for him to operate outside the mafia? It’s a dramatic question, but I think a legitimate one, considering he’s put quite a bit of stock and time in perfecting it, to the point he’s close to reaching national stardom.  Yet still, he gets rid of that mask when he sings to Chay of his feelings. At the very least, for Chay, he’s willing to drop that armor altogether to tell him he’s in love with him. It’s a powerful statement, and imo, shows the depth of his feelings for Chay, in that he’s willing to sacrifice it entirely, if it would mean being with him.

Writer’s Block / Chay is Kim’s muse – Of course, I don’t think we can dismiss the fact that Kim was going through a bit of a creative block during the time we see him in the show. Perhaps we can say that part of the reason Kim chose to rewrite 1stver.WDYS is because he couldn’t think of anything else. Lol Thinking of Chay was able to get him out of the block in episode nine, and he was able to figure out the chords for the WIP song. Chay is definitely a muse and a source of inspiration for Kim. Yet still, I don’t want to be too hasty in making the leap in logic that he couldn’t think of anything else, since we don’t see him past the point after he sings Finalver.!WDYS to Chay. We don’t know whether he continues to struggle with his creative block, or if he manages to get past it (especially for when he and Chay get back together--//hits).

Ultimately, Kim’s gamble to repurpose Chay’s song about Porsche–although he doesn’t know it just yet–works greatly in his favor, judging by Chay’s reaction in the end: Chay not only watches the video all the way through, he’s unable to click “Delete” right away, unlike the other times, when he’d blocked Kim without hesitation. 

The fact that Kim can make that decision to take Chay’s song to use it for his own purposes, the fact that Chay can listen to his own song that’s been stolen and repurposed, only goes to show that at the end of it all, they’re still very much wrapped around each other’s fingers.

#kimchay #kinnporsche #kinnporsche the series #meta #meta post #meta rant

[earthstellar]

just wanna say I really love these concept/alt covers for the Transformers Prime comic series 

because Bulkhead and Ratchet are both depicted so perfectly here, uh oh I feel a long post coming on, here we go 

Bulkhead: war sucks but wrestling is cool, aka striking a pose as a coping method

Bulkhead seems to be pulling a pose that either evokes a winning pose from one of the wrestling matches he’s watched with Miko (I distinctly recall a Hulk Hogan pose in which he took a helmet thing off a fellow wrestler and put it between his fists like this lmao, and we know from dialogue in the series that he’s watched at least some wrestling and demolition derby shows with Miko) 

OR alternatively it could be a reference to a gladiatorial victory pose; I can see gladiatorial battles being a recreational thing for industrial/construction working class bots like Bulkhead, especially as we know from the TFP novels that at least big name gladiator battles were broadcast fairly widely and primarily amongst working class/caste oriented city-states on Cybertron

he seems to enjoy watching sports with Miko, so it could very well be something he did back on Cybertron back in the day as well 

Ratchet: this isn’t my planet, but it is my lawn, so get off it (he’s old)

Ratchet is depicted sitting down in these two versions of the cover, which is entirely appropriate as he’s an older bot and while he does see combat fairly regularly, he is still far less active in the field than any of the other bots-- he even jokes in an early episode about his “rusty servos” (I feel you, Ratchet)

and synthetic energon aside lol, we know that he seems to keep himself regularly below what appear to be some kind of recommended fuel reserve averages (check his wrist vitals monitor in Stronger, Faster), which naturally would lead to tiring out more quickly than someone else who may be more adequately fuelled prior to entering a fight

so it makes sense that after a heavier battle than usual, with just him and Bulkhead against what seems to be a good number of enemies, he’s gonna want to (or need to) sit down for a minute after all that shit is sorted out 

characterisation in one image: goal achieved 

the second cover in colour especially does a great job of lending a sense of real physical presence to both of them; Ratchet looks weary and it feels like his armour weighs particularly heavy on him, Bulkhead looks robust and confident in his ability to Hulk Smash, standing firm and powerful

but, also! 

their poses are indicative of their relationship as teammates

Ratchet needs a break, so Bulkhead remains on standby, literally standing behind Ratchet to provide cover and maintain watch of the immediate area; His pose might also represent a lingering threat to any remaining enemies-- Notice how Bulkhead’s pose isn’t too goofy at all, his head isn’t tilted to the side or anything; He’s not being too cocky here, he WILL destroy whoever he needs to if it comes down to it.

We know Bulkhead doesn’t like taking people out, but he does admit that he’s good at it, and he does his best to stay light-hearted under far from ideal circumstances. The pose might be serving a genuine psychological purpose for him, to some degree; Striking a pose helps him stay amped, helps him blow off a little of the “I just beat 50 bots to death with my in-built tools which are made for construction work” vibe, which understandably would still be upsetting for a fairly chill bot like Bulkhead.

He enjoys a good fight in good fun, and rough-housing is all good, but he doesn’t like taking people out permanently. It takes a lot for him to really get pissed off, and we only really see Bulkhead get mad to the point of actual personal violent intent when he goes after Starscream in the infamous “holy shit Bulkhead just beat Starscream to death” scene. 

He also demands Miko look away when he has to destroy a bot in front of her in another episode; He’s mindful of genuine violence, and really goes for it only under the most extreme situations in which it is necessary. Playing it down as much as possible (while avoiding being outright dismissive of the seriousness of it) might just be his way of doing what he can to make it less of an awful experience for himself-- And to try to lessen the impact of witnessing violence on Miko, whenever she’s around. 

Meanwhile, contrast that with Ratchet’s posture; His head is tilted downward. He’s not confident, he’s worn down.

Aside from still being old, he’s also still a medic. He doesn’t want to kill other bots any more than Bulkhead does.

His posture is indicative of exhaustion, he’s more tired out by all this shit than the younger bots, sure, but his pensive look is likely a combination of both physical and mental fatigue. Every fatal blow on a no-name enemy is a (sadly necessary) moral injury to Ratchet; These people could have been fellow civilians at one point. 

This war didn’t need to escalate this badly. He could be running a clinic somewhere in Iacon right now; He could have a whole staff of medics working under him in a central hospital, or doing any number of things to save lives, not take them-- In an ideal world. But this is the world there is.

And in this world, he’s using in-built blades intended for surgical procedures on larger frame types, intended to save lives, to instead run out of his makeshift med bay and into battle, cutting bots apart rather than welding them back together.  

It feels fucking bad; Ratchet is not having a good time. But it’s necessary, and he wants to ensure Bulkhead isn’t at increased risk from even worse odds against him in the battle, so Ratchet goes out there and fights because of course he does. He’ll keep doing it until he can’t anymore, because at least for every enemy he cuts apart, that’s one less wound on a fellow Autobot. 

In the sketch cover, he’s sitting facing away from the pile of bodies around them, as much as possible-- Although the helm between Bulkhead’s fists is roughly eye level with Ratchet, so he’s confronted with the carnage either way. It’s impossible to ignore war on the battlefield. It looks as though his optics are shuttered/closed in the sketch, although it’s a little hard for me to tell. 

In the second cover, he’s facing the ground--But a severed helm rests under his foot, and it seems he might be staring at it a bit, leaned forward with the weight of a long life and a long war resting on his shoulders. 

In one image, we get the victorious confidence of Bulkhead, who has strength and energy and a greater inclination to try to make the best of a terrible situation, contrasted with Ratchet, who is sat with his helm down and shoulders heavy, unwilling or unable at this point to muster anything other than “job done, I’ll catch my breath and we can get the hell out of here”. 

it’s really good characterisation, all in one go. 

tl;dr these covers are so fucking good

I know these covers are old as hell by now lmao, but I just really love them, because you can get so much out of a single image here.

if you read all this, thank you! <3

#tfp #transformers analysis #transformers prime #bulkhead #tfp bulkhead #tfp ratchet #ratchet #tf ratchet #maccadams #maccadam #analysis post #long post

[valeriefauxnom]

I think there's an interesting slight shift in Leonidas' attitude between chapters 8 and 12, and one that kinda makes a bit more complete narrative between the more obvious 12-16 jump.

First, in a niche Dragalia trivia, Leonidas (and Chelle) in his technical ch.7 debut says this:

"And so Aurelius's brilliant star falls as a new and dark star rises—as well as another dim light at the periphery. But the flames of battle will not reach Valkaheim. Should any fool approach, it is they who will be reduced to ash."

While there's a lot to say with later context in these lines despite their initial ambiguity of his character, note here of the 'dim light' refers to Euden. He's starting to cause a fuss in the world after ch.6's shakeup in the official rebellion and new kingdom-starting he's engaging in, but to Leo, this is all mostly meaningless compared to the true power players.

Ch.8 Leo, though, comes out swinging with his general attitude regarding the world and his family:

There's something funny that he's aware enough of Euden starting his own kingdom, but still seeing him and going 'nope, I care not a whit about you, grain of dust' is amusing. Maybe after Valyx, Leonidas just got tired of having baby siblings?

Regardless, Leonidas mostly spends this chapter leaving them to presumably die bad deaths, having deemed them too weak and unimportant to even bother attending to personally.

But even within chapter 8, as Euden and co refuse to die and keep up their dogged pursuit, Leonidas starts to acknowledge Euden as a brother. Not enough to stop him from trying to leave him to get torn apart by beasts, of course, but, y'know, baby steps for someone who was denying kinship not a day ago.

He also continues his star metaphor.

For Leonidas, who viewed himself as the absolute pinnacle of the family, it was surprising anyone could survive him, however narrowly. He's being forced to consider that perhaps those beneath him in the family aren't quite as useless as perceived. Heck, Euden's 'reputation' overall in the family before canon seemed to be largely one of weakness, -even Valyx outright claims he thought him feeble, and Emile's earlier fondness of him stemmed from being 'better' than Euden. That's how Euden framed himself, to appear non-threatening to attempt to maintain harmonious relations so his elders didn't see an upstart threatening their power, as I've went over a long long time ago.

Now he's being forced to consider and wonder how high, how powerful Euden's dim star can rise before it will be crushed by someone or something greater in his 'one star' viewpoint.

Enter chapter 12. One of the things that makes Leonidas so dangerous, I've also said, is his adaptability. He learns and changes behavior.

And in this chapter, he takes a much more personally involved attack, sending in his 'big guns' (before he acquired a real one) in much quicker. He now views Euden as a threat enough to warrant the measures, even if he doesn't believe in his capacity to win.

Moreover, he's starting to oddly (at least, to me?) stress a quick death for Euden and his group, whereas before, it was of absolutely no concern to him whether they died slowly and agonizingly from Mars' burns to getting torn apart by fiends. It comes across to me as a sort of recognition of Euden's ability and/or bravery, a sort of respect for him as a warrior enough to not prolong his death or otherwise make it painful.

He's also starting to actually communicate on some level what his true goals are and why, whereas ch.8 Leo largely seems to think even that level of communication would be wasted on such 'insects'. And while he doesn't entertain Euden's counterarguments for long, it might indicate a sort of acknowledgement of Euden as a opponent to lock ideals with instead of a simple obstacle to hurdle mindlessly?

All in all, it reads to me as if he's made the shift of viewing Euden as an insect to an opponent, a weaker opponent, of course, but one nonetheless. Able enough to be acknowledged as being kin, even as he's seems like he's trying to distance himself when preparing to kill him.

This trend continues immediately after the tables are turned. Leonidas acknowledges Euden as brother and king, and is more upset at the notion that Euden doesn't want to kill him since he likely thinks that now Euden sees him as the 'able to be safely ignored weakling' as well as wanting to die of shame.

Continuing into ch.13, Leonidas immediately then protects Euden from Phares, even incorporating a new word into his vocabulary in the process!

Then, of course, is his and Chelle's conversation to further bridge the gap, in which he starts establishing Euden has earned a more complete respect as kin now despite not actually sharing a true lineage, and respect enough to ask another sibling to protect him.

So yeah. Even if ideally I do think some more dialogue would help to bridge the gap between before-16-Leonidas and after-16-Leonidas, I do think that they overall tried to make a cohesive progression even in the 8-12 shift from 'insect' to 'opponent I can somewhat respect' to 14-16's more complete respect. Alas, since the writing team only had so many story sections they could have and a lot of characters and plotlines to juggle, they could only spend a bit of time re. Leonidas, but for what it's worth they did a decent job with what they had.

Extra aside: I find it funny Leonidas was the first to 'exit' the main campaign. He features in 8, 12, and 16, with smaller appearances in 7, 10, etc, but after 16 he's effectively poofed even if he's still influential in the plot. Even Valyx lasted longer for on screen chapters since he was tagging along with Nedrick and Zethia, before he and most all siblings exited at ch.23 to then die in ch.25 (this is why leaving the protagonist's party isn't a good idea Chelle-)

#dragalia lost #dragalia #character analysis #dragalia analysis #If you had told a person fresh from ch.8 in the past Leonidas would fall off a cliff for Emile 99.9% would not believe you. #Honestly Leonidas would not believe it either since he doesn't have a sterling opinion of him either! #But it was funny watching him increasingly cultivate a Big Brother Instinct to his family #...As seen in things like that as well as Phares' story and the Blood That Binds. #It's also funny he never clarifies how he survived the cliff making it a 'somehow Leonidas returned' but because it's Leo it's just funny #“Man too angry at dragons and the World Order to die. More at 11.”

[moonchild-in-blue]

Some thoughts on Fields of Elation:

The daylight recedes in unison, this room Buries the hours like death, in motion Nobody else can pull me out The fields of elation, quiet and loamy

Okay so, the first verse is saying that as the night falls, time becomes less linear and more fleeting, like death approaching. Given the rest of the lyrics (and their whole discography), it's because Sleep is approaching Vessel. We know Sleep only comes at night, and how symbolic the dusk/twilight process (Sundowning) is to both Vessel and Sleep, and their relationship.

But the second verse has been ruminating in my head for a while, and I think I've finally reached some sort of conclusion (or at least a Thought I'm happy with).

I always assumed the "fields of elation" were meant to simbolize the state he was in whenever he and Sleep were together. Which makes sense given:

1 - the previous song of the ep, Thread the Needle ("we can spend the night in fascination")

2 - the next verse of this song ("caught in the careless arms of lust again")

3 - the music video (where we first see his mask being formed)

But then, in my umpteenth listen, THIS caught my attention:

[note: I like to read the lyrics as prose sentences, rather than lyrical. Because the physical placement of words necessary for the metric to make sense (when sung), isn't necessarily "correct" in terms of reading. What I mean is that a lot of sentences get interrupted or jumbled together, and when you read it as a running sentence instead, you find these little things you'd usually skim over. Sometimes the meaning even gets changed.]

"Nobody else can pull me out the fields of elation, quiet and loamy."

Vessel sings this right after the daylight receding verse (aka Sleep's impending arrival). So what if, bear with me, he is being pulled OUT of the "fields of elation" - a metaphorical place where life is thriving, where things are good and quiet and peaceful, (OMG IS THIS EDEN?? THIRD EYE MOMENT WAIT A SECOND), as he gets more and more entangled with Sleep?

Because RIGHT AFTER (I'm sorry for screaming, but I'm going full conspiracy mode over here) he says:

Your name is a sin I breathe, like oxygen Caught in the careless arms of lust, again

He claims that Sleep - being with Them, Their very nature, Their name - is a sin. He gives in to the lust, to the sin, again and again, in the night time, in the dream world. Where time is inconsequential. Where it feels like death. Where Sleep has full control.

So is this him, as a mortal, as a human, refusing, or rather giving up, his human life to worship this god who is all lust and danger and sin? Sleep becomes the very oxygen he breathes - so this is him offering himself fully to Them; his life is no longer his own, it's Theirs.

What's interesting is that he calls his "previous life" - the human, normal life, as "quiet". He uses the world elation in reference to his humanity, not to Sleep. Maybe this is him saying that he'd rather live in peril, in sin, in the brink of death for Sleep, than to lead a normal, peaceful, conventionally fulfilling life on his own. (this is very hot because I too crave danger)

The song ends with an admittance:

"I'm losing my faith in our lives apart."

To me, this is an indicative of the final commitment he's about to make. He and Sleep seem to be acquainted with each other for a while now (the word "again" is used a few lines before), but at this point he hasn't been given his new title as Vessel. He's still just a man, who has tasted sin, and is willing to be cast away from the light to live in the night with Them.

In a previous analysis (from one of @fields-of-elation 's post about The Offering), I had proposed the possibility of Vessel being the forbidden fruit that slowly corrupted Sleep, rather than the other way around ["you are a garden" (...) "take a bite" etc]. And while in this song Sleep is the one who is the obvious temptator, I don't think it's that out of pocket to continue with this narration.

Because Vessel says "in our lives apart", rather than "in my life". Maybe, just maybe, he knows how much Sleep needs him as well (his worship, his flesh, his love, whatever it is), and that's why he's so willing to become Their property. Something something mutual corruption, you know what I mean.

The video shows his mask being made - I think this song is that final moment of reflection and clarity before giving in. The song, sound-wise, has a very particular fluttery feeling to it - almost as if you're in a dream state. Everything about it feels incredible liminal and etheral.

If you look at the progression in language, he starts as a narrator, describing the events and surroundings as they happen. The hours are blurry, the night approaches - he's falling asleep ( and being pulled out of the fields of elation into Sleep's room/realm). And then it changes to a dialogue - Vessel adresses Sleep directly, confesses the power Their presence has on him, and reiterates that only Them can make them give up his life. And how much he needs to be together with Them.

Vessel hardly ever says exactly what he wants. He dances around the subject, almost as if afraid to make demands (for fear of rejection? for fear of vulnerability? a power imbalance?). So when he says:

Nobody else can pull me out (...)

I'm losing my faith in our lives apart

- what he really means is: I can't live without you any longer, so please make me permanently yours.

The mask is made, and thus Vessel is born.

#no joking i've had this on my drafts for two weeks now #but something about it never clicked #~until now~ #i hope this made some sense! do elaborate more if you wish. this song is such a mystery to me #sleep token #sleep token lore #darya is unhinged

[jokeringcutio]

Arthur Harrow x Assassin Reader Drabble

Prompt Fill: You are an assassin hired to end Arthur Harrow's life. But his lentil soup changes things. (Dark but decent version) Fandom: Moon Knight TV Pairing: Arthur Harrow x (AFAB) reader Rating: Teen Warnings: Assassin AU, poison, reference to non-con drug use. For @nicktremblaywayfu

Drabble: Assassin and Arthur Harrow

The bottle up your sleeve felt hot and cold at the same time. A mixture of feelings, as if it were burning through your clothes. As if everyone could see that you had it hidden there, cap ready to be popped.

But not yet. You waited patiently for your target to arrive. Around you, others said at the table, making pleasant conversation. You were blending in perfectly, dressed in plain clothes. An ordinary disguise for a not so ordinary assassin.

You could have chosen many way to terminate the life if this particular man. Swifter ways, perhaps even less painful ways. A gun to the head or a knife to the heart. Instead, you had chosen to stay under the radar and use a poison that would be hard to trace. All you needed to do was slip it into his drink. Or his soup, you mused.

You knew the leader of this particular cult usually sat to eat with his peers as a sort of bonding process. He was usually quite reserved and would sit in his private chambers for hours, hardly letting anyone near except a chosen few whom he trusted. Poisoning him seemed to be the least hard of all the options you had at hand, and the least messy as well.

Nervously, you waited for his arrival. The girl to your right kept chatting to you about all the things she wanted to see changed in this world. And wasn’t that ironic? You smiled politely at her, did your best to appear at your most charming. You knew no one noticed the tenseness of your muscles or the way you expertly schooled your expressions. You’d never been caught before and today wouldn’t be any different.

Finally, the man you had been tasked to assassinate appeared. He was followed by a handful of men and women, all eager to brush their hands past his shoulders and chest like he was some kind of messiah. You looked at them with contempt and bit your cheek. Why were you feeling all hot and bothered inside at seeing how others touched him? It must be because you could tell he took delight in it, right? That he was used to being revered as some sort of God. You wondered if he thought of himself as so, or if he truly believed he was just the messenger, tasked to speak for his Goddess?

It didn’t matter. After tonight, he would be gone.

Arthur Harrow did not have his own spot at a table. Rather, he liked to sit somewhere different each night, following a pattern around the room. And if you had not been mistaken, he would be seated at your table tonight. He did not disappoint, for he came over to where you were, footsteps slowly crunching.

You had prepared a plan to distract him. And you would use the girls by your side to enact it – they were unknowing of how you would lure them into doing the thing you needed them to do, of course. It would make tracing you down as the culprit that much harder – if the cult ever decided to treat Arthur’s demise as suspicious instead of natural.

You had to suppress a smirk at the thought of how you were going to get away with it. But it was in that exact moment that Arthur’s eyes met yours, and you felt as if he could look into your soul. Your smirk had gone, like snow in the burning hot sun. Was he onto you?

“I think, I’ll sit next to you,” was all he said, then waited for the girl next to you to scoot aside. It was clear which spot he indicated. It was on the same bench you were seated on, exactly next to you.

Shit, this ruined your plans. You had not expected for him to sit next to you. Somehow, that scenario had been off the table, because why would he pick a seat next to you when they had already been taken? You had to recalculate. The upside of it all was that it would be easier to slip the potion into his food like this. He was seated at the right side, at the right sleeve. And the potion would not take effect till at least a few hours later. You could get away with it. By the time suspicions were roused, you’d be long gone, back on the plane home.

The girl next to you scooted aside to make room for her leader. She looked up at him with lovey-dovey eyes, like most of the younger women here, you thought. And even some of the men.

Arthur had his charm, certainly. Yet you were determined not to let him work his magic on you. You flexed your fingers and waited with baited breath for the man to take his seat by your side. You instantly felt the warmth radiating from his body, and picked up his earthy scent of herbs and spices that enveloped you along with his presence. Everything about him was enchanting. You would almost believe that a Goddess truly existed and had claimed the man as her own. He was like magic himself.

“So,” he said, and turned at you smiling. “Have you tasted the soup?”

He gestured with his hand at the plate in front of you. The watery substance didn’t look very alluring, but it was highly recommended to you by the chefs. Of course, you had taken it, not to break character. You forced a smile and looked up at him until the two of you locked eyes.

He knew.

You didn’t know how you could tell, but there was a certain glint to his eyes that told you he was aware of what you came here to do. That you had come here solely with the purpose to annihilate him. And that you would do it by poisoning his food. Soup was the perfect medium for it. A liquid that he would devour enough from. He always finished his plate.

“I,” you hesitated, not able to conceal you had not taken a single taste of it. Then you shook your head.

“Pity,” he murmured, voice low while he bend his head closer to yours. “I’ll tell you a little secret,” and then he whispered, for the others not to hear, “I made it myself.”

You felt the stir around you, noticed how the other young men and women at the table grew restless at seeing their leader confide in you in hushed tones. There was a certain jealousy radiating off them. Especially the girl to Arthur’s right, the one who had to scoot aside and had been happy to be seated next to him, at first. She seemed angry now that his attention was on you fully. So his charm worked, you thought amused. He has them all in his palm, but could lose them just as easily by making the wrong move.

“Try it,” he urged you. And unable to break your disguise, to give away anything that might prove his suspicions to be true, you slowly picked up your spoon and sipped from the soup.

It tasted… nice.

Good even. Heavenly. You had not thought that such a plain looking soup could contain so much flavor. And you eagerly started to lap it all up.

“What kind of soup is it?” you asked after a few more hasty sips. Your eyes found his again and you could not but notice the small smile that played on his lips as he slowly started to eat from his.

“Lentil soup,” he answered, truthfully. “I am a vegan, but that doesn’t mean I have no taste.”

And indeed, the soup was heavenly. You sat there, hip against hip, while the two of you sipped from your soup in silence. Arthur radiated a warmth that made his presence undeniable. Suddenly, a weight plummeted in your stomach. It was the realization that you had been paid to come here and to murder this man. This hidden five-starred homemade chef.

“They say that the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach,” you murmured, catching Arthur’s attention fully. He tilted his head and looked at you from the corners of his eyes.

“Is that so?” he murmured.

You smiled. “It appears that you will have no trouble in finding yourself a bedmate, Mister Harrow.” Something in his eyes glinted, as if you had unearthed some kind of hidden secret there.

Your retort had given you away though. The expressions of the others at the table should have been a clue as they looked at you in shock. No one called Arthur by his surname except for his enemies. And what you had just done, was betray your identity without you even knowing it. Perhaps you could blame the soup. It was making you drowsy.

“It seems you’re tired,” Arthur whispered near your ear, then turned to the men and women by his side. “Bring her up to my room. I think she could use a laydown.”

Then he was above you again as he made you lie against his chest, vision spinning, head dozy. "Lay her upon my bed," you wondered if you truly heard him say that. Everything had started to spin and sounds became dull. It all was happening so fast. You could just make out his eyes, burning as they looked down upon you, and feel how his fingers slipped inside of your sleeve, taking the vial out between the tips of his fingers. For a moment you feared it had gone, that he had somehow used your own potion on you. But you knew it shouldn’t have worked that fast.

It was a relief to see all the contents were still inside, and to see how Arthur tucked it inside of his own pocket with a slight hum. Then his hair fell around his face again, the imitation of a halo of an angel.

“I had not heard that expression before,” he murmured only for you to hear, his hands gently on the sides of your face. “The way to a woman’s heart seems to be through her stomach indeed. And I promise you, I will cook my homemade soup for you every day after this, if you promise to stay with me.”

Your vision blurred, and with that promise, your consciousness was gone.

AN: Sorry, it became dark again. Ugh. I can’t help it… I have been feeling under the weather even more lately. Can’t wait for tomorrow, new hospital visit, hopefully they’ll find something.

Anyhow. I suppose Arthur became aware of the reader’s intentions and drugged her before she had the chance to poison him. I imagine she wakes up on his bed afterwards and gets a good thorough fucking to be put in her place. I’ll probably try my hand at a fill for this prompt again as it is too good and has so many possibilities <3

#Arthur Harrow x Reader #Assassin Reader #Arthur Harrow x you #arthur harrow drabble #prompt fill #moon knight prompt fill #moon knight #villain x reader #older man x reader #implied x reader #dark romance #dark version