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metalmonki · 2 months ago

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After The Fire

Evan 'Buck' Buckley X Reader

4.1k word count

Summary You and Buck are both complete done with your respective partners. Eddie is the middle man.

Authors Note: Sorry for disappearing. 2025 has been the worst year for me. I worked my own break up into this story. I wish I had a Buck to help me. Oh well enjoy!

After a long day on tour, all you wanted was to come home and lay in the bath so long you turn into the world’s largest prune. You’d been daydreaming about lavender bubbles and scalding water since lunch. You smelt strongly of smoke and sweat, and your spine had officially decided to disown you.

But the second you opened the door to your apartment, reality slapped you in the face.

The first thing that hit you was the smell—Goose’s litter box, untouched. Again. Then came the sight: dirty dishes piled so high in the sink it was a game of Jenga waiting to collapse. Laundry—your laundry—scattered across the floor like it had exploded out of the hamper. And in the middle of it all, your boyfriend, Kyle, slumped on the couch in the same hoodie he’d been wearing three days ago.

Goose waddled toward you with an indignant meow, brushing his hefty body against your legs. The poor thing looked like he’d spent the entire day plotting your murder. You gave him a quick scratch behind the ears, noting how empty his food bowl was. Again.

Before you could even say hello, Kyle piped up without taking his eyes off his phone.

“Finally. I’m starving. What took you so long? Can you make that lasagna you did last week?”

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed, as if you were the inconvenience here. “I’ve been waiting for you. There's nothing to eat. You said you’d grab groceries yesterday.”

“I said I’d be working until tonight,” you said flatly, slipping off your jacket and dropping your keys into the dish by the door. “You’ve been here all day.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I didn’t know what to get. Besides, you always cook it better.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked around at the disaster zone of your home—the dishes, the laundry, the cat fur rolling across the floor like tumbleweeds. Goose let out another mournful cry, and you knelt to fill his bowl while Kyle continued scrolling on his phone like he hadn't just dropped a match into a puddle of gasoline.

That bath you’d been dreaming of? Gone. Replaced by the sharp heat of frustration rising in your chest.

“I’ve been working nonstop for two weeks, Kyle,” you said slowly, carefully, like your words were made of glass. “And I come home to this. Again.”

He looked up, clearly annoyed now. “You don’t have to make it a big deal. I’ve been relaxing. You always freak out over little stuff.”

You stared at him, and something inside you snapped—quietly, neatly, with the same finality as a door clicking shut.

“You need to leave.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, standing up and grabbing your bag. “I’m done. You want someone to clean up after you, feed you, do your laundry—get a maid. Or better yet, grow the hell up. I’m not your mother. And I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

“You’re overreacting,” he said, rising from the couch, arms spread wide. “You’re seriously breaking up with me over dinner?”

“No,” you said. “I’m breaking up with you because I’m tired. Tired of being the only one trying. Tired of coming home to a boyfriend who thinks my time and energy are his to drain. Pack your stuff. Be gone before I get back.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave Goose another quick pat, and walked out the door—no bath, no prune time, just clean air and the kind of peace that comes from finally choosing yourself.

…

Bucks P.O.V

Buck’s shoulders sagged as he stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway, the weight of another brutal shift hanging heavy in every bone. Smoke, sweat, and exhaustion clung to him like second skin. All he wanted was a hot shower, a cold drink, and maybe five hours of uninterrupted sleep if the universe felt like cutting him a break tonight.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside.

The lights were on.

That was his first red flag.

The second came when he spotted her—Maya—sitting at the kitchen table with her arms crossed, a full plate of food in front of her, untouched and long since gone cold.

Crap.

“Hey,” he said cautiously, shutting the door behind him. “Didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

“Obviously,” she snapped, icy gaze locked on him. “You’re late. Again.”

He dropped his gear bag by the door, instinctively checking to make sure he hadn’t tracked ash or soot onto the floor. “We had a three-alarm warehouse fire. I texted you.”

“Oh, right,” she said, her tone thick with sarcasm. “The firefighter excuse. Again. You always have a reason, Buck. You’re always late, always too tired, always somewhere else. You never think about me. Or us. Or our future.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Maya, we’ve talked about this. You knew what I did when we started dating. You said you respected it. You said you understood.”

“Well maybe I thought I could handle it,” she snapped, standing now. “But I’m sick of being second place to your job. What kind of future are we supposed to have if I’m always sitting here waiting for you to show up?”

He ran a hand over his face, grit scratching under his fingers. “It’s not like I’m out at bars or cheating on you. I’m saving lives. That’s my job. It’s always been my job. And yeah, sometimes that means being late. I can’t just walk out of a burning building because you made chicken parm.”

“You always do this,” she spat, voice rising now. “Turn it around on me like I’m being unreasonable.”

“Because you are,” he said, his own frustration bubbling up now. “You’re throwing a tantrum because dinner got cold. Meanwhile, I’m out there dragging people out of collapsed buildings, Maya. I don’t get to clock out when it’s convenient.”

She stepped closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Then quit. Quit the job. If you cared about me, you would.”

And that was it.

Something snapped.

He took a step back, staring at her like he didn’t even recognize the woman in front of him.

“You want me to what?” he said, low and sharp. “You want me to give up the thing I’ve dedicated my whole damn life to—because your dinner got cold?”

“No,” she said, but he didn’t stop.

“I pay the rent on this apartment. I pay your bills. Your phone, your car insurance, the shopping sprees, your nails, your hair—everything. I bust my ass every day so you can live like you do, and the second I’m late, you’re ready to throw a fit like a spoiled kid who didn’t get dessert?”

“Buck—”

“No. I’m done. If this is how you act when you don’t get your way, then I don’t want to be the guy you rely on anymore. Get your stuff, Maya. I want you out.”

She stood there in stunned silence, mouth parted like she had something to say but no words to fill the space. He didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked back out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew anywhere was better than here.

…

Eddies P.O.V

Eddie fumbled with his keys, eyelids heavy and muscles aching as he finally made it to his apartment door. The shift had been brutal—hot, chaotic, and long—and for once, he didn’t have to go home and slip right into Dad mode. Chris was spending the night at his abuela’s, and that meant one very rare, very sacred thing: peace.

He stepped inside, locked the door, and headed straight to the shower. Ten minutes under scalding water worked miracles. He emerged in clean sweats, reheated some leftover enchiladas, grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, and collapsed onto the couch like a man finally free.

He picked up his fork, raised it toward his mouth—and that’s when the knock came.

He froze. Chewed air.

With a heavy sigh, he set down the fork, got up, and opened the door.

There she was—one of his best friends, still in her jacket, eyes sharp and stormy. Before he could say anything, she brushed past him and made a direct line for his fridge.

“Uh… sure, come in,” Eddie muttered, mostly to himself, as she popped open a beer like she owned the place.

He barely had time to process her arrival before another knock came. He turned, still halfway to asking her what the hell was going on and opened the door again.

Buck.

Eddie stared.

“Hey,” Buck said, looking sheepish and slightly windblown. “Mind if I—?”

Eddie stepped aside with a sigh, waving him in.

“Thanks, man.” Buck clapped his shoulder in passing, heading straight for the kitchen like this was all part of the plan.

Eddie shut the door, turned slowly, and finally followed them into the kitchen, where the two stood—backs against the counter, bags dropped nearby, bottles in hand—like they'd claimed the place as neutral territory in some unseen war.

He stared at them for a beat. “Okay. Why are you both standing in my kitchen, drinking my beer?”

They exchanged a look and, like it was rehearsed, both said at the same time:

“I broke up with my boyfriend.” “I broke up with my girlfriend.”

Eddie blinked. “Seriously?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “One at a time. You first.” He nodded at her.

She sighed, the fight draining out of her a little now that she wasn’t alone. “I walked in the door and all I wanted was a bath and five minutes to myself. Instead, he starts whining about how he’s starving and wants a big dinner. Meanwhile, the place is trashed, Goose hadn’t been fed, the litter box was disgusting—and he just sat there all day doing nothing. Again. Like I’m supposed to come home from work and play housekeeper-slash-chef for a grown man.”

Buck let out a low whistle.

She took a long swig of her beer. “I told him to pack his stuff and get out.”

Eddie nodded slowly, impressed. “Good for you. You?” He turned to look at Buck.

“She could’ve done better from the start,” Buck muttered. “That guy was a walking red flag with a superiority complex. I never liked him.”

Eddie turned to him. “That’s not what I meant, Buck.”

Buck blinked. “What?”

“I meant your breakup. Not hers. Why did you break up with your girlfriend?”

Buck shifted his weight. “Right, yeah—okay. So, I get home, she’s sitting there with this whole meal set up, cold as hell, waiting to ambush me. Starts going off about how I’m late all the time, how I don’t care about her or our future. I try to explain—again—that I can’t control fires, or emergencies, or the clock.”

He took a swig. “She starts screaming, like actual screaming, demanding I quit being a firefighter if I care about her. Like, she really said that. ‘Quit your job.’”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. So I lost it. Told her I’m not her sugar daddy or her emotional support firefighter. I pay her bills, her shopping, her nails—everything—and I’m done. Told her to get out.”

Silence settled for a second.

Then Eddie sighed and walked past them both, grabbing a third beer from the fridge. “I was this close to a quiet night,” he muttered, holding his fingers an inch apart.

She gave him a sheepish look. “Sorry, Eddie.”

Buck raised his beer. “We brought drama, but at least we didn’t come empty-handed.”

Eddie just rolled his eyes, dropped into a chair, and motioned between them. “You two are lucky I like you. But if either of you tries to use my shower, I’m tossing you out the window.”

…

Your P.O.V

Eddie had grumbled the whole night, but he never kicked them out.

After a shared late dinner of lukewarm enchiladas and three more beers each, the three of them ended up sprawled across his living room—Buck face-first on the carpet, you curled up on one end of the couch, and Eddie passed out in the recliner with the remote still in his hand. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t quiet. But it was safe. And after the emotional dumpster fire that was the night before, that was more than enough.

The next morning, after caffeine and mutual groans of “never again,” you and Buck left together, splitting off to check your own places. Both were blessedly empty. No texts. No calls. Just space.

You should’ve felt lonely.

But you didn’t. Because over the next few days… then the next week… then the one after that—Buck kept showing up.

Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with Goose’s favorite treats. A few times with nothing but a tired face and a, “Hey, is it okay if I hang here for a bit?”

He started crashing on the couch. Then staying for dinner. Then leaving a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. Then a few shirts in your drawer. Then Goose started sleeping on his chest instead of yours.

You didn’t question it at first. You were just glad to have someone who saw you at the end of a shift, someone who talked to Goose like he was royalty and didn’t expect you to cook unless you felt like it. Buck washed dishes without being asked. He vacuumed. He once left and came back with a new litter box because, quote, “Goose deserves a throne.”

Eventually, though, you noticed the way he lingered.

He never seemed in a rush to go back to his apartment. Never mentioned it, really. He'd get quiet if you asked what he’d been up to there. And one night, when you found him still sitting in your kitchen at 1 a.m. nursing a beer, eyes glassy with the kind of tired he rarely showed, you finally pressed him.

“Buck?” you asked softly, standing in the doorway. “You good?”

He blinked, pulled back from wherever his mind had wandered. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

You stepped into the kitchen, opened the fridge more for something to do than anything else. “You’ve been here a lot.”

“I can go,” he said quickly, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, grabbing your own drink. “That’s not what I meant. I like having you here.”

He smiled at that—small, unsure.

“But,” you added gently, leaning on the counter across from him, “you’ve basically been living here. What’s going on, Buck?”

He hesitated. Twisted the bottle cap between his fingers. “I’m not… used to being alone. I thought I’d be fine after Maya left, you know? Like, good riddance and all that. But that apartment feels... empty. Cold. Like I walk in and the walls echo, and suddenly everything��s quiet in a way that makes my skin crawl.”

You watched him for a second, your heart softening.

Then you said, “Well… you don’t have to be alone. Not if being here helps. You can move in.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours. “Wait—are you serious?”

You smiled. “I’ve already lost half my fridge space to your energy drinks and Goose likes you more than me. Might as well make it official.”

He laughed, that big, boyish sound that made something warm bloom in your chest.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean, we already know you’re good at cleaning and Goose has claimed your lap as property. Consider this your unofficial roommate interview. You passed.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him something he didn’t know he needed. And maybe, in a way, you had.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”

You clinked your drink to his. “Welcome home, Buck.”

…

The first few days felt like a weird kind of vacation.

Buck brought over the rest of his stuff in a series of chaotic trips, including (but not limited to): two duffel bags, an entire crate of protein powder, at least six fire department t-shirts you were pretty sure he stole from other people, and a worn-out hoodie you immediately claimed as yours.

Goose sat in the middle of the living room and watched the entire process like he was supervising the transition. He didn’t complain, and that was saying something—Goose hated everyone.

By the end of the week, your apartment felt... different. Lived in, but not in a messy, suffocating way like before. It was the kind of lived in where the coffee was already brewed when you woke up, and someone left a note by the door that said "Kick ass today." Buck had that rare kind of presence that made everything feel just a little lighter.

You’d always gotten along well—working together created a kind of shorthand between you—but something about having him in your space all the time cracked things open a little wider.

Like how you noticed the way he always turned toward you when you laughed. Or how he paused a movie to ask what you thought would happen next because he “likes hearing your theories.” Or how he always cooked enough for two now, even if you said you weren’t hungry.

But it wasn’t all easy.

There were the little things, too. Like the way he left his wet towel on the floor even though the hamper was right there. Or how he used all the hot water on long showers because “thinking is a full-body experience.” One night, he accidentally used your fancy shampoo and tried to play it off like he didn’t, even though he smelled like vanilla and chamomile for two days.

You bickered sometimes—snapped over dishes or laundry or who forgot to buy more coffee filters. But somehow, it always ended in laughter. Or one of you giving the other a peace offering in the form of snacks.

The shift was slow, creeping in like sunlight through curtains you forgot to close.

It was the comfort of hearing him hum off-key while making pancakes. The way he knew exactly how you liked your tea, or that you needed silence for the first thirty minutes after a shift. It was the way he looked at you sometimes—soft, unguarded, like you were a home he hadn’t known he was missing.

One night, after a long shift that had left you both emotionally wrecked, you came home and didn’t say a word. Just sank into the couch, kicked off your boots, and stared at the wall.

Buck wordlessly brought you a blanket. Sat beside you without crowding. Waited.

After a while, you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“You ever feel like the job just... hollows you out some days?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet. “But being here? With you? It fills the rest of me back up.”

You didn’t respond. Just sat there, heart stuttering like maybe it had finally caught on to something the rest of you hadn’t.

You weren’t sure what this was—roommates, best friends, something else—but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you weren’t just surviving. You were healing.

Together.

…

The heater had gone out.

Of course it had—on the first truly cold night of the season. You were both bundled on the couch, buried under every blanket the apartment owned. Buck had even added one of his flannel shirts to Goose’s bed, who seemed personally offended by the drop in temperature and took it out on the both of you by yelling dramatically from his spot atop the radiator.

Buck was scrolling on his phone, one arm lazily draped around your shoulder. You’d spent the past hour wedged against him, and by now it felt so natural you almost forgot you weren’t alone on the couch.

Almost.

“You know,” he murmured suddenly, voice low and a little hoarse, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you teased, nudging him gently with your elbow.

He didn’t laugh. Just turned his head slightly, watching you. “About us.”

That made your stomach tighten—just a bit. Not in panic. Not quite. But in anticipation.

You glanced up. “What about us?”

Buck’s eyes searched your face, like he was checking if he was about to say too much.

“I didn’t plan this,” he admitted. “Didn’t plan to move in. Didn’t plan to get... attached.”

The word landed heavy between you, but not unpleasantly. It didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like an opening.

You exhaled slowly, your hand resting where his hoodie bunched near your ribs. “But you are?”

He gave a small smile—just one side of his mouth. “Yeah. I think I was before I ever moved in.”

Your heart thumped once, hard. Then again.

The blankets shifted as you turned more toward him, the soft brush of knees and hands and something else hanging in the air like static.

“I care about you,” he said, quiet but sure. “Not just in the roommate, crash-on-your-couch, eat-your-snacks kind of way. I think you know that.”

You did. You’d felt it in every small thing—every look, every laugh, every night he found his way back to you. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it.

Until now.

“I think I’ve known it since you walked into Eddie’s kitchen with a beer like you lived there,” you murmured. “And honestly? I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

Buck’s hand found yours beneath the blankets, fingers curling gently.

“We can take it slow,” he said, as if reading your mind. “I just… needed you to know. I’m here. I’m all in.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward and kissed him—soft, tentative, but no less certain than anything he’d just said. His lips were warm against yours, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it.

When you finally pulled away, you didn’t move far. Just rested your forehead against his, smiling when Goose meowed loudly from across the room.

“We’ll take it slow,” you whispered. “But you’re not getting out of paying half the rent.”

Buck grinned, pulling you closer. “Deal.”

…

They didn’t mean for Eddie to find out.

Not like this, anyway.

It started innocently enough—just the three of you catching up after a hellish double shift. The station had been chaos, the call-outs nonstop, and by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, you were all running on fumes and pure stubbornness.

So naturally, someone suggested beer and burgers. You didn’t say no. Buck didn’t either.

Now, you were all gathered around Eddie’s kitchen island, fries in one hand, beer in the other, talking over one another like usual. Goose had even come along for the ride and was currently sleeping under Eddie’s table like it was his second home.

Which, to be fair… it kind of was.

Everything was normal—until Buck did it.

You didn’t notice at first. You were mid-bite, something snarky on your tongue, when he casually reached over and brushed his fingers along your wrist. Just a light touch. A reflex.

But Eddie noticed.

Because of course he did.

He went completely still. Not a blink. Not a sound. Just slowly turned his head and looked at you both, brows raised in that signature really? expression that spoke volumes without him having to say a damn thing.

Buck froze, halfway through a sip of beer. “What?” he asked innocently, though he was definitely already blushing.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “No. Don’t ‘what’ me.”

You swallowed your bite with a bit more force than necessary. “Okay, so—maybe something’s… happening.”

Eddie didn’t break eye contact. “Happening.”

Buck shifted in his seat. “It’s new.”

“Clearly not that new if he’s doing the wrist thing,” Eddie replied, pointing at Buck with a fry.

You looked at Buck. Buck looked at you. Then back at Eddie.

“So you’re not… mad?” you asked, cautious.

Eddie leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “Why would I be mad?”

Buck blinked. “I don’t know. Because we didn’t tell you?”

Eddie snorted. “I’m not your dad, Buck.”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Buck muttered.

Eddie just rolled his eyes and took a drink, then looked between the two of you again—this time, a little softer.

“I figured it was coming eventually,” he said. “You’ve been orbiting each other for months. Was just waiting to see who’d trip first.”

You gave Buck a sideways glance. “It was him.”

“Hey!”

Eddie laughed, for real this time. “As long as you’re good to each other, I don’t care. Just—” He paused, raising a hand. “No PDA in front of me. I already have a teenager. I don’t need you two acting like hormonal high schoolers in my living room.”

Buck held up both hands. “Noted.”

You grinned. “I make no promises.”

Eddie groaned. “God help me.”

#evan buck buckely #evan buckley x reader #911 x reader #911 abc

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botanicalsword · 3 months ago

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Restorative power for Saturn ✧ Roasting 12 Signs

☁ Please skip this if you're sensitive. ☁

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Saturn is the strict teacher of life, handing out lessons in discipline, responsibility, and growth. Are you paying attention, or are you too busy daydreaming about that escape plan?This can help navigating the challenges associated with Saturn in their signs while enhancing their strengths

Restorative & Refreshment through 12 signs :

Saturn in Aries - impulsive decisions Don't try to sprint a marathon, train. Great ideas but patience is always the key. Think before you leap, or you might just leap right into a pile of regret

Saturn in Taurus

"When Saturn is in Taurus, it’s like your financial advisor suddenly becomes your strict gym coach. No more late-night infomercial temptations for get-rich-quick schemes! Instead, it’s all about the slow and steady grind—because who knew that building wealth was more about sweat than shortcuts?"

Saturn in Gemini - communication or misunderstanding Especially if you don’t want your friends thinking you’re planning a surprise party when you’re really just trying to order pizza. Mastering the art of clear expression is essential, or you might end up with anchovies when you really wanted extra cheese

Saturn in Cancer - emotional maturity 'How to Not Cry at Work' - Learning to manage your feelings is crucial, especially when your boss asks for that report you forgot about—again

Saturn in Leo - earning respect Don't demand it like a toddler, no more flashy displays of confidence - roll up your sleeves and show what you’re made of. Authenticity is the name of the game, because no one respects a lion that roars but never hunts.

Saturn in Virgo - every detail matters perfectionism is your middle name being the editor of your own life’s novel, but even the best writers have to hit delete sometimes, be precise but be decisive

Saturn in Libra - finesse and balance your relationship remember the game of Jenga? one wrong move and everything could come crashing down. Don’t be the one who pulls the wrong block and ends up with a dramatic scene.

Saturn in Scorpio - inner strength and resilience hire a personal trainer for your fears, time to confront those insecurities You’ve got to face the villain within before you can wear that cape of empowerment

Saturn in Sagittarius - discipline it’s great to dream big, but don’t forget to pack a lunch for the trip! while philosophical pursuits are fun, discipline is the real MVP! balance your lofty ideals with some good practicality

Saturn in Capricorn - ultimate workaholic’s dream work hard, then work even harder No complaining. It’s all about that no-nonsense attitude. Just remember, even the most dedicated goats need a break, don’t forget to schedule some ‘me time’ between those ambitious goals

Saturn in Aquarius - thinking ahead think like having a blueprint on your hand - This placement encourages you to build for the future, not just chase after shiny, immediate gains. So, put on those innovative thinking caps and start planning for a sustainable tomorrow—because the future won’t build itself!"

Saturn in Pisces - spiritual discipline time to confront reality instead of escaping into daydreams -this warns against the allure of escapism, urging you to develop a strong spiritual foundation. Grab your inner compass and navigate those life challenges - because daydreaming won’t pay the bills. (now Saturn transits to Pisces! Hold on tight everyone!)

>> 41 posts for Love/ relationship insights >> Back to Masterlist ✧ Explicit Content

Exclusive access : Patreon

#astrology placement #astro #astrology #astro observations #overlays #synastry observations #astro posts #astro community #loa #synastry #saturn #pisces #aries #aquarius #taurus #zodiac #capricorn

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kiyomitakada · 8 months ago

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"This isn't what I meant by 'bonding activities,'" Misa says.

L has his entire arm, up to the elbow, stuffed into the Jenga tower box. Light silently prays for his hand to get stuck. "Did you not say you wanted company, Amane-san?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean with you," Misa retorts. "I said I was lonely without Light around!"

"Yes, and Light-kun is attached to me," L explains patiently. He successfully withdraws from the box; the missing Jenga piece dangles between his thumb and index finger. Damn it. "Many couples play tabletop games together."

"I don't want to be in a couple with this creep," Misa says. "You don't either, right, Light?"

Light sighs. "Misa, you're a suspect in a murder investigation. It doesn't really matter if you want to or not."

"What?! What about consent?"

Since when have you cared about consent? Light does not say aloud. Instead he says, "Whatever," because he's a nice person. "Let's just get this over with."

"Beh," Misa mumbles, but she settles down on the sofa to peer at the Jenga tower pieces L has dumped onto the table. Light and L sit opposite her; L, with uncharacteristic grace, places the last wood block on top of the pile.

"You know," Light remarks, "I'm pretty sure the pieces are already arranged as a tower when you first buy them. You didn't have to scatter them all out."

"Oops," L says without a hint of remorse.

No one moves. Eventually Light, with another sigh, leans over and starts stacking the tower up himself.

Light has played Jenga before, obviously. With friends during recess when it was raining outside, yeah, but more often with Sayu and Mom over the holidays. Mom is brilliant at it; Sayu's alright, but takes too many risks. Light's no strategic master, but he's also never lost, as far as he can remember — he just plays it safe and goes for the loose blocks in the middle.

Suffice it to say that this round is going to kill him.

"This should not be standing," he says in a desperate plea to the rules of physics.

Misa grins. She's only been taking blocks from the left side of the tower (and putting them on the right side, to be fair, but that should not nearly be enough to balance this structure). Even one piece in the base level is gone. "But it is!"

"Ryuzaki," Light says, gesturing at their inadvertent creation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa's inferior cousin, "how is — how?"

"Amane-san is quite a good opponent," L muses, neatly dodging his question. He leans forward with a smile, pressing his thumb into his lip. "I am honored to be playing against her."

Misa brightens. "Hey, Ryuzaki, you're not so bad!"

"I'm here too," Light mutters.

"Hmm." L tilts his head, thumb digging deeper. Light watches the way the strands of his hair fall out of and into place. "Let's see…"

Five seconds pass. Then ten.

Light, all of a sudden, realizes he's been staring at the way L's hair curls just slightly when it brushes against the nape of his neck for far too long. He drops his gaze immediately; it lands on the chain between them instead.

The chain. The chain connected to L's hand. He could end this hell with just one tug —

No, too suspicious. If he cheats at Jenga, L will surely jail him (again) for mass murder.

"Can you hurry up?" Misa crosses her arms, leaning forward. "It's only supposed to take a minute, you know."

"Not all of us have your reality-manipulating powers, Amane-san," L murmurs. His thumb has not left his lip.

"Or maybe I'm just better than you."

L's gaze flickers upward. "Did you often play Jenga in the past?"

"Not really." Misa shrugs. "My friends weren't all that into it."

"Then I find that rather unlikely." L glances back down to the pieces he's considering; Light lets himself exhale.

"No, it just means I'm a natural talent!"

Instead of responding, L reaches and plucks a piece away. It happens so fast Light has no time to blink, exactly the same way L eats sweets.

The tower wobbles and —

No. Still standing.

"Jeez," Light mutters.

"Unhappy I'm winning, Light-kun?" L puts his piece down on the top level. He puts it down vertically. (He's already placed five other pieces this way, packed together in a geometry that is apparently conducive to structural support. Light wishes he could strangle him.)

"Who says you're winning?" Light and Misa say simultaneously.

They blink at each other. Then Misa beams, putting her hand up for a high-five. Light meets it hesitantly.

"I do," L says, unconcerned. He tugs the chain. "It's your turn, Light-kun."

"I know that." Light leans forward, narrowing his eyes. Despite everything, this shouldn't be difficult. All he has to do is find a loose block, and then this tortuous game will continue on as usual.

He briefly considers collapsing the tower on purpose.

No. Light Yagami does not lose. He taps at one of the pieces; nope, load-bearing. Another one. Nope. Another —

Suddenly he's falling — wind whistles in his ears — and then he hits something bony and angular with a thump.

Light stares. He'll deny this later but he stares and stares and stares, until he finally registers that he is lying in the lap of quite possibly the second worst man alive and jolts back upright, pushing him away. "What the fuck, Ryuzaki!"

L's laugh is low and slow and amused. "I only moved my hand a little," he says. "I didn't know Light-kun could tip over so easily."

"You are cheating," Light accuses. "You wanted me to lose!"

"The tower is perfectly intact," L says. "No evidence, no crime."

Light tears his glare away from L to check. Yes, the accursed tower is still standing. Damn it all.

"That's the whole problem, isn't it," L continues. "No evidence…"

Misa slams her hands down on the table, making the tower judder. Light startles; he'd almost forgotten she was there. "You locked us up for two months and didn't even have evidence?!"

"There is plenty of evidence in your case, Amane-san." L turns to look at her. The loss of his gaze feels a bit like a punch, but a mild one that Light is not affected by whatsoever. "And besides, I was referring to Jenga."

"Well, what about my boyfriend? He never—"

"Just drop it, Misa," Light says. "He's not changing his mind."

For a split second, Misa glares at him. Light almost flinches — and then it's gone again, replaced with a pout. "But he's insufferable!"

"You'll only have to suffer me until we catch Kira," L says dryly. "So I suppose we'd best do that as soon as possible."

(Aizawa, muttering from the control room: "Oh, really.")

"Yeah, well, we will," Misa says. "And I bet Light's going to beat you to it, 'cause he's so much smarter than you. Right, Light?"

"It's still my turn," Light says. "If you pull me again, I'll break your nose."

"Hmm. Ten percent."

Light steadies both feet on the ground, clenches his chained hand into a fist, and reaches for the tower again.

He taps. And keeps tapping. With growing horror, he realizes that there are no loose pieces. Every level is made of just the middle block and the right block now, and none of them are pullable. They’re just not enough on their own.

…Wait.

Light takes a long inhale and holds it, just in case a breath would disturb the structure. He squeezes his eyes shut, then open. He reaches for the level 75% of the way up.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Light uses his thumb and index finger to maneuver the middle piece into a diagonal —

There! The right piece slips out easier than butter.

Light does not indulge his first instinct, which is to yell FUCK YES!!!!!. Instead he leans back, exhales, inhales, and then puts the piece back on the top layer.

The tower does not fall.

"Your turn, Misa," Light says, attempting to school his smile from "deranged" to "enthusiastic."

Misa claps in delight. "That was amazing!"

"Interesting," L muses. "Interesting."

"What?"

"I was under the impression that moving a piece other than the one played was a rules violation," L says.

"Wh—" Light nobly does not punch him. He weighs the possibility of claiming he had never done that, but the middle block is indeed at a distinctly unnatural slant now. "That's not true. You made that up."

L leans over the side of the sofa and plucks the manual out, flipping through it carefully. "'Any blocks moved but not played should be replaced'—"

"—'unless doing so would make the tower fall,'" Light reads over his shoulder. "And it would!" The middle piece is clearly the only one holding up the entire layer. "Take that, Ryuzaki!"

L frowns. "You, Light Yagami, are a sore loser."

"I think you're the sore loser here, to be honest," Light says, faintly giddy. He could kiss someone right now.

"Your turn!" Misa says triumphantly.

They both turn to look at her. Misa has removed the other side of the base layer. The tower is now standing entirely on one block, wavering uncertainly in the faint air-con breeze.

"What the fuck," Light manages.

Misa grins. "Good luck, Ryuzaki!"

[ @deathnotetober day 21: games ]

#death note #light yagami #misa amane #l lawliet #lawlightmane #lawlight #-ish. for both. but i think its enjoyable with or without the ship reading #deathnotetober #did i write this fic entirely to achieve catharsis through light? i plead the fifth #i legit thought that move was illegal because *i* did that #and my friend said it was #but it WASNT. MY PERFECT VICTORY #(the game continued regardless and someone else lost but i feel even more vindicated now.)#edit: which of you fucks was going to tell me he canonically calls her misa-san to her face and amane otherwise #aughhh. whatever amane-san is close enough

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pasaatimonarkin · 9 months ago

Text

So Wrong

Professor!Han Jisung x student!reader

Warnings: Smut (protected sex, fingering, orgasm etc.), age gap. Do not read if you're a minor or don't find reading smut comfortable!

Word count: 3,6k

You stirred your eyes open, head pounding like crazy from all the booze you downed in the bar last night. The room was bright, the curtains drawn loosely on the windows. The smell of mint and the faint scent of a cigarette lingered in the air. You tried to sit up but the world spun around you like a tornado and you fell right back down.

Suddenly you realized that it wasn't your own bed where you were laying on. Panic flooded through your veins like a river breaking a dam as you took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was a mess, with clothes scattered everywhere and books piled up in a corner, threatening to topple over like a Jenga tower with a vendetta. You were in Professor Jisung's apartment, and the reality of the situation hit you like a sledgehammer to the gut.

You turn to see Jisung sleeping next to you, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was both calming and unsettling. The lines of his face were softer in sleep, almost boyish, which was a stark contrast to the stern and stoic demeanor he usually wore in class. Your mind raced with thoughts of what had happened the night before, trying to piece together the puzzle of your evening. The last thing you remembered was laughing too hard at a terrible joke he had told, the warm buzz of the alcohol in your system making everything feel just right. But now, in the cold light of day, it all felt wrong.

Your hand wanders down to your side and you realize you are naked. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and regret. You try to sit up again, this time with more control, and your eyes widen as you take in the sight of your clothes scattered across the floor. You recognize your shirt, tangled with his tie, and your skirt thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. The cold air of the room caressed your bare skin, making you shiver. You feel a twinge of something that isn't quite pain, but definitely isn't comfort, as the weight of what you've done presses down on your chest like a heavy stone.

As if sensing your distress, Jisung's eyes flutter open, revealing those piercing orbs that could command a room full of students into silence. He blinks a few times, the sleep slowly retreating from his features, and then looks over at you with a lazy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah, you're up," he murmurs, his voice a soft velvet.

You can't help but feel vulnerable, your body exposed and your thoughts a tangled mess. "What happened?" you ask, your voice cracking like a teenager's at their first attempt to sound authoritative.

Jisung props himself up on one elbow, his gaze sweeping over your form before meeting your eyes. "You don't remember?" There's a hint of amusement in his tone, but it's quickly replaced by something more serious. "We had a bit too much to drink, and one thing led to another." His eyes roam over the room, avoiding the scattered evidence of your shared passion.

You swallow hard, the taste of bile rising in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in. "I can't believe I did this," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. The reality of the situation is like a fog lifting, revealing the gravity of your actions. "I'm your student."a

He nods, his expression unreadable. "And I'm your professor. It's not ideal, I know. But sometimes, we make choices in the heat of the moment that we might not fully understand later." His hand reaches out to you, his touch surprisingly gentle. "It's okay," he whispers, stroking your arm in a soothing gesture.

"This is exactly what we swore to not let happen" you murmur, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air. You pull the sheet up to cover yourself, feeling a sudden need for modesty. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions, regret, fear, and a strange sense of longing all fighting for dominance. Jisung's gaze follows your movements, his expression a complex tapestry of concern and desire.

"I know," he says softly, his voice filled with an understanding that feels almost tender. "But we're both adults, and we both know what this means." He sits up, the bed creaking under his weight. You watch as he stretches, his muscles rippling beneath his skin. His nakedness is somehow less shocking now that you've seen it in the starkness of the early morning light. "We can't change what happened, but we can decide how to move forward."

You chew on your bottom lip, feeling the dryness from the alcohol. Your heart is racing, the beat echoing in your ears like a drumline. You want to scream, to cry, to crawl out of this bed and run back to your own life where everything made sense. But you don't. Instead, you force yourself to sit fully with your legs on the floor, the sheet pooling around your waist.

Jisung's eyes follow the movement, his gaze lingering on the curves of your body. It sends a shiver down your spine, and not entirely in a bad way. He's always had that effect on you, a silent command that made you want to lean in closer even when you knew you should run.

"I'm sorry. I should have stop this from happening because I wasn't that drunk and I should be the bigger person in this" Jisung sighed.

"No, don't blame yourself. It doesn't matter how drunk I was, I should have been more reasonable" you quickly spoke, not daring to look him in the eyes.

The moments of your shared passion from last night started to come into your mind piece by piece. You had to admit that it had felt amazing. The way that heated tension had been building up between you two and you finally got to feel him. You bit your lips at the thought.

"Look, let's not dwell on it." You say as you stand up, feeling wobbly from the hangover. You start collecting your clothes from the floor, trying to avoid looking at him directly. Each article of clothing you pick up feels like a piece of your dignity that you're putting back on. You feel his eyes on you, but you don't acknowledge it.

"I liked it, you know," Jisung says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. You freeze, your hand hovering over your bra. The words hang in the air.

You turn to look at him, trying to gauge his expression. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there's a softness to his features that wasn't there before. "What?" you ask, your voice a squeak.

"I liked it," he repeats, more firmly this time. "Last night. I liked it, a lot." He pauses, watching as you continue to dress, his gaze never leaving you. "And I think you did too."

You blush deeply, his words resonating within you despite the hangover and the regret. It's true; you had enjoyed it. The way his hands had felt on your body, the way he had made you feel desired and wanted. But that was last night. This morning, reality crashes down on you like a ton of bricks. "It's complicated," you mumble, trying to find the right words.

Jisung nods solemnly, watching you get dressed with a thoughtful expression. He seems to understand the turmoil you're in. "I know it is," he says, his voice low and gentle. "But I don't regret it." He pauses, letting his words hang in the air. "Do you?"

You bite your lip, contemplating his question. It's a simple one, yet it feels like the weight of the world is balancing on your response. You finally shake your head, slipping on your socks. "I don't regret it, no. I just- I don't know what to feel"

Jisung nods and you turn away and walk to his kitchen table, gathering all your stuff into your small bag. The silence between you is thick, filled with the unspoken words of a thousand 'what ifs'. You can feel his gaze on your back, but you don't dare to look at him, fearing what you might see.

You finally manage to turn to face him. He's standing there, in nothing but his boxers, watching you with a mix of desire and something else you can't quite put your finger on. It's like he's seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"I would like you to stay. Don't leave yet" Jisung says softly, his voice a caress that sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes are filled with a hunger that you've never seen before, and it's both thrilling and overwhelming.

You hesitate, torn between the desire to flee and the need to stay. "I can't," you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. "I know that we have wanted to do this for a while but not like this. Not drunk and not yet. What if the school finds out?"

Jisung's expression darkens slightly, the softness in his eyes replaced by something more determined. "No one needs to know," he says, taking a step towards you. "We're both adults, we can handle this."

"I know, it's just-" you pause, not really knowing what to argue with. You two liked each other, it was a fact. And you wanted to feel him again, sober. But something made you feel like you shouldn't. Maybe you were too scared about what people would think, Jisung would be fired if anyone knew.

Jisung gently grabs your chin, "I know the stakes in this like you do. Obviously I don't want to force you into anything. So if you want you can leave, we can pretend that nothing happened"

You hesitate, looking him in the eyes. You didn't want to leave, not actually. You wanted to be with him, like you had wanted for a long time.

"But can we really pretend?" you ask, your voice small and unsure. "Can we just go back to the way things were?"

Jisung sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. "I don't know," he admits. "But we can try. If that's what you want."

Jisung's fingers are still on your chin and your eyes have never left his. It's like an unspoken tension was between you two - mixed with uncertainty and desire.

Without any warning, he leans in and kisses you, his lips gentle and searching. The kiss is unlike any other you've shared before, filled with a tenderness that seems almost foreign in the stark light of day. Your heart stutters in your chest, unsure of how to respond to the sudden intimacy. For a moment, you stand there, frozen in place, letting him kiss you, his hand sliding around your neck to hold you closer.

"This is so wrong," you murmur between kisses, your voice barely a whisper. But even as you say the words, your body betrays you, leaning into him, your arms wrapping around his waist. The heat from his skin seeps into you, warming you from the inside out and making you feel alive in a way you haven't felt in a long time.

Jisung pulls back, his eyes searching yours. "Is it?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. "Or is it just complicated?"

You bite your lip, considering his words. He's right, it's not just wrong, it's a tangled web of emotions and consequences. But as his arms wrap around you, pulling you back into the warmth of his embrace, all you can think about is how right it feels in this moment. The taste of mint lingers on his breath, a reminder of the line you've crossed.

Jisung kisses you again, this time with more urgency, his tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours. Your hands roam over his bare chest, the feel of his heart beating against your palm sending a rush of heat through your body. The kiss deepens, growing more intense as your fears and regrets slowly melt away, consumed by the fire of your desire.

As your kisses become more fervent, Jisung picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you back to the bed. The sheets are still warm from your bodies, the scent of your lovemaking still lingering in the air. He lays you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours as he strips away your skirt and panties, also lifting up your shirt and bra. The way he looks at you is like he's worshipping a deity, his gaze filled with a mix of awe and hunger that sends your pulse racing.

"You're beautiful" Jisung whispers, his voice a heated promise that sends a thrill through your body. You look into his eyes, searching for answers, for some kind of reassurance that you're not making a mistake. But what you find there is something much more primal - raw, unbridled need. And as his hand trails down your side, you know that you want this, you want him, and all the consequences be damned.

He lowers his body onto yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. Your breath hitches in your throat, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through you. You arch into him, your breasts brushing against his chest, your hips tilting up to meet his. His hand slides between your thighs, his touch setting off a symphony of sensations that make your body sing.

You moan softly, the sound lost in the cacophony of his own needy growls. His finger circles your clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you as his fingers slide into your wetness. You're not thinking about the consequences, about the fact that you're his student, about the fact that this could ruin everything. You're just thinking about how good it feels to be with him, how much you've wanted this for so long.

Jisung's mouth moves to your breasts, his tongue flicking over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks. You gasp, your body responding instinctively to his touch. His movements are sure, confident, as if he's been dreaming of this moment as much as you have. The feeling is almost too much to handle, the intensity of your emotions colliding with the physical sensations, creating a storm that threatens to consume you.

He pulls away briefly, standing at the edge of the bed. You watch as he slides his boxers off, revealing his erection, standing proud and demanding. He opens the nightstand drawer, and you catch a glimpse of a condom. The sight sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and fear. This isn't just a drunken mistake anymore; this is a deliberate choice. He turns to face you, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolls the condom on, the latex snapping into place like a final seal on the deal you're both making.

Jisung climbs back onto the bed, his movements predatory yet tender. "Are you sure?" he asks again, his voice a gruff whisper that makes your stomach flutter. You nod, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions inside you. He leans down to kiss you again, his hand guiding his length to your entrance.

You gasp as he slides in, the feeling so different from last night. The alcohol had numbed you then, but now you're acutely aware of every sensation, every inch of him filling you. It's a strange mix of pain and pleasure, the stretch and burn of his intrusion making you moan into his mouth. He's gentle at first, his thrusts shallow and slow, as if he's afraid to hurt you.

Your body starts to adjust, the discomfort fading away to be replaced by a deep, gnawing need. You rock your hips up to meet him, silently urging him deeper. Jisung groans, his eyes fluttering shut as he begins to move more deliberately, his strokes longer and harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts of pleasure. The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust.

You moan as Jisung's finger finds your clit again, circling it with the perfect amount of pressure. The sensation sends bolts of pleasure shooting through your body, making your muscles tighten around him. You can feel yourself getting wetter, the slickness of your arousal making it easier for him to slide in and out. He notices your reaction and smiles, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Do you like that?" he asks, his voice low and teasing.

"Yes," you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as his finger continues to work its magic. The sensation is so intense it's almost painful, but in the best way possible. His other hand is braced beside your head, his arm muscles flexing with every movement. You reach up, your hands finding their way into his hair, gripping it tightly as you try to hold on to something, anything, as the waves of pleasure threaten to overwhelm you.

Jisung's rhythm increases, his strokes growing more urgent as he feels you getting closer. You can feel his own need, his hips driving into yours. You're lost in the moment, the world outside this room forgotten as you give yourself over to the feeling of his body moving inside yours.

His finger presses harder against your clit, and you can't help but let out a loud moan. It's a sound you've never made before, one that's filled with a mix of pleasure and desperation. You feel yourself teetering on the edge of something, a precipice that you're eager to fall over. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, your body begging for more.

Jisung's eyes widen at your response, his own pleasure mirrored in the tension of his features. He shifts his weight, his hips moving in a way that hits just the right spot, sending you spiraling. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body tightening around him. "I'm gonna cum," you whisper, the words barely audible.

He nods, his eyes dark with desire. "Come for me," he murmurs, his voice thick and urgent. And with that, you do. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you and leaving you gasping for air. You cling to him as the world around you fades away, your nails digging into his back as you ride out the storm.

As the waves of pleasure begin to recede, Jisung's movements grow more frantic. You can feel the tension in his body, his muscles coiled tight as he chases his own release. His eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you see the raw vulnerability beneath the mask of control he usually wears. It's a side of him you've never seen before, and it makes your heart ache in a way you didn't know was possible.

He groans, his hips stuttering as he reaches his climax, his warmth spilling into the condom. The intimacy of the moment is almost too much to handle, and you hold onto him tightly, your nails digging into his back. It's like you're trying to anchor yourself to the earth, to something solid and real amidst the whirlwind of emotions and sensations.

As he collapses onto you, you feel the weight of his body, the rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath. For a few seconds, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing, the thundering of your hearts, and the sticky mess of your mingled sweat. The room feels like it's spinning around you, but in a good way this time, like you're both floating on a cloud of pure pleasure.

Jisung gets up, taking off the condom and throwing it into the trash before laying back in the bed next to you. You lay there, the sheets sticking to your sweaty skin, your heart racing as you try to process everything that has just happened. The room feels too small, the air too thick with the weight of your shared secret.

He pulls you into his arms, your head fitting perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. The warmth of his embrace is surprisingly comforting, and you find yourself nestling closer to him, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne that still lingers on his skin. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath your cheek, a rhythm that slowly starts to soothe your racing thoughts. He pulls the covers over you two and you just lay there.

"This is so wrong" you whisper, your cheek pressed tightly against his chest.

"You surely keep repeating that," Jisung says, his voice a low rumble of amusement. You can feel his chest vibrate with his words, and you look up at him, your eyes searching his.

"But it's true," you insist, your voice a bit stronger now. "I'm your student. This isn't supposed to happen."

Jisung sighs, his hand stroking your hair in a gentle, soothing motion. "I know," he says. "But sometimes, the heart wants what it wants, regardless of the consequences."

You lay there in his arms, his words echoing in your mind. The situation is a minefield of potential disaster, but the way he's holding you feels so right, so safe. You don't want to ruin this moment with fear and doubt. So you push the thoughts aside and focus on the here and now, the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady beat of his heart.

"I did like it" you admit. "It felt amazing"

Jisung's grip on you tightens, his chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh. "Good. That's all I wanted to hear." He kisses the top of your head, his breath warm against your skin. "We'll figure out the rest later."

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ashenties · 3 months ago

Text

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑘𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑜 ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ♡

pairing: kuroo tetsurō x gn!reader♡

genre: domestic fluff / headcanons♡

notes: because even grocery shopping with kuroo somehow turns into chaos and cuteness.

● Engaged!Kuroo who nods with all seriousness when you tell him that you are only buying essentials but as always, 15 minutes later, he is dramatically comparing four different flavours of spicy Ramen and you both have forgotten what you came for.

● Engaged!Kuroo who insists on pushing the cart. Not because he's helpful. Because he loves to lean over the handlebar and do "Tokyo drift: Family Mart Edition" around the corner. You once had to physically stop him from trying to use it as a skateboard

● Engaged!Kuroo who is the absolute worst with the lists. You will give him one, and he would read the first two contents before shoving it in his pocket like a "we'll wing it" maniac.

"Babe, we need tofu, not 3 cans of corn."

"Tofu, corn—it's all plants"

● Engaged!Kuroo who you always manage to lose to the snack aisle every single time. One second you would be picking out crackers, the next he's popped out behind you like

"LOOK, NEW LIMITED EDITION SPICY SHRIMP-CHIPS"

"Tetsu—we live in a one-bedroom apartment, where would we even store it."

"You don't need to store it, this bag will be empty before we even leave"

● Engaged!Kuroo who is an impulse king.

"we don't need that"

"But look how small and round this cheese wheel is. It looks so fulfilling"

He bought it, and it stayed in the fridge untouched until it grew mould.

● Engaged!Kuroo who would absolutely randomly flirt with you. He would pick up a peach and square it right in your face, telling you it looks exactly plum and juicy like your ass, making the elderly couple beside you scrunch their noses and leave the scene

● Engaged!Kuroo who helps a random old lady reach a product from the top shelf and then looks back at you, like he wants a gold star. You give him one (a banana sticker from the produce scale)

● Engaged!kuroo who always insists on bagging the grocery himself. Calling it structural integrity when he tucks the bread into a bag like he's engineering a jenga tower. You just let him cook.

● Engaged!Kuroo who just watches you eat the snack he got for himself, when in reality he only bought those stuff because he knew you would would never ever buy it for yourself.

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phylliecheesesteak · 2 months ago

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My Kwazii Headcanons

-26 (that one's canon)

-English, specifically from London (His dad and granddad's side) and Japanese-Malaysian (his mom's side).

-transmasc

-Also gay (NOT FOR BARNACLES)

-Kwazii's father, Calico Jack's son, is named Whiskers Jack. So, following Malaysian tradition (middle name is father's given name), That makes Kwazii's full name Kwazii Whiskers Jack. He got the name Kwazii from his mom, who named him from the word Kawaii, which of course means cute. Can you tell he's a beloved only child yet?

-We know why he wears the eyepatch, but I headcanon that the eyepatch was a 5th birthday gift from Calico Jack before he left for the Amazon.

-He's 5 '7", and very ashamed of that fact, because his dad is 5 '11" and his Granddad is 6 '1".

-Kwazii is the best driver on the Octopod, but that was the only reason he was named Co-captain. in reality, Tweak would take over Barnacles' duties, because she is far more responsible, and Barnacles trusts her more. If Barnacles were to ever be incapacitated, Kwazii would only be responsible for the driving part.

-Kwazii met Barnacles when he was 16, after helping Barnacles stop a group of poachers without question. They've known each other for a decade, one of the longest relationships on the ship, but Kwazii still manages to be the third youngest Octonaut.

-Barnacles is like a "grown-older-brother-middle school-younger-brother" type relationship with Kwazii.

-Kwazii wears a hand-made Samping with his uniform. His mom gifted him the Samping when he joined the Octonauts as an 'i'm proud of you' gift. He will turn the gup around if he forgets to put it on, because he has a weirdly accurate superstition that he'll get hurt without it on.

-Kwazii has ADHD, and as such Kwazii is banned from coffee. Barnacles and Inkling are always the first there, and Kwazii hasn't gotten past them for the past decade on the Octopod.

-Kwazii has a major sweet tooth. He eats way more sugar than he should, but he has a fast metabolism, so it just makes him faster when he needs to run. He also has cavities, and doesn't listen to Peso's many warnings to stop eating so much sugar. He just cant resist.

-Kwazii has abandonment issues (thanks alot Calico Jack), and because of them he makes stupid decisions and goes first in everything, just so if he's alone, he knows it was his fault. It doesn't make the guilt feel much better when he's alone, but it helps lessen the feeling of abandonment. He's also just not good at listening, or sitting still.

-He doesn't like fish biscuits alone-it's just not stimulating enough. He usually eats them with tuna, but he'll eat it with avocado if Dashi's around.

-The chip taken out of his ear came from the poachers attack 10 years ago. it's just a small chip now, and the scar tissue is almost entirely gone.

-Kwazii has the best vision on the ship, and is also the fastest in running speed. When Barnacles, Tweak, and Kwazii team up, they're practically unstoppable.

-Kwazii is like an older brother figure to Peso, and takes great pride in that role. They spend their free time together playing Jenga, and somehow Peso always wins. And Kwazii will always claim he bumped the table.

-Kwazii regularly sharpens his claws, and sometimes Dashi and Tominnow will kidnap him and make him paint his claws. On one occasion, Koshi joined in, and he was forced to go in a full face of makeup for the entire next mission because Koshi did it, because Dashi would crucify him if he wiped it off with Koshi there. He will end you if you pull up the photos.

-On that note, Dashi and Kwazii have an older-sister-younger-brother dynamic. Kwazii always has her backup pair of glasses in the Gup-B just in case she loses her contacts.

-He ABSOLUTELY sleepwalks and sleep talks. He's said and done some wild shit while asleep.

-Tweak now makes him wear a wristband with an alarm when he sleeps so someone can find him if he leaves the Octopod in his sleep. Weirdly, he's most commonly caught by Inkling or the Vegimals, specifically Grouber, while he's getting a midnight snack.

-He and Tweak are best friends. They cause HAVOC when left alone.

-Kwazii is dyslexic. He was..quite the trouble-maker when he was in school (pray for his teachers chat)

-He often steals from his fellow crew mates simply because he just...forgets he can ask and get a yes most of the time. Peso has to routinely remind him he's allowed to ask for stuff.

-Kwazii and Paani are chaotic, unstoppable lovers.

-Kwazii is absolutely BANNED from the kitchen.

-Kwazii's favorite stim is pressing buttons, which makes him more eager to sound the octo-alert and LITERALLY GOD at rhythm games, specifically Geometry Dash and Rhythm Heaven.

-he has plenty of scars, but they're mainly from stupid stuff like running into a glass coffee table to see if it would break

#octoposting #octonauts #octonauts kwazii #kwazii x paani #so silly #genuinely tweaking

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Uplinkchump Linkdump

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

It's Linkdump Saturday! This is the day on which I clear the giant backlog of links from the previous week that I haven't managed to post in my newsletter's "Hey look at this" sections. This is my 19th linkdump; here's the previous 18 dumps:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

Let's start with some fun and games. Liam is a high-schooler who created "Bad Plumbing," a Jenga-style boardgame using a variety of 3D printed shapes; the game was a smash hit at his local game-jam, so now he's kickstarting it:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/liamclift/bad-plumbing

The shapes are delightful and Seussian, and there's a very ingenious game dynamic that's not just "make the pile bigger." You can pre-order for $30, and for $100, you'll get a version with a custom-designed shape of your specification. I backed!

It's lovely to see something that's both excellent and delightful, but to be honest, the majority of this week's links are excellent and enraging. Most of these links from The American Prospect, which has, under David Dayen's executive leadership, gone from "a magazine I really like" to "the first thing I read every day."

This week saw a the Prospect publish a stunning series of articles on prices, a sacred object for neoliberal economists, who see them as the carriers of the information that allows society to order itself for maximum efficiency and broadest benefit. Unfortunately for these economists, the love-affair with prices is one-sided: they may love prices, but prices hate neoliberalism.

The dogma that says that any government interference in pricing will destroy the economy by "distorting" prices does not survive contact with reality. The instant the government steps away from regulating monopoly, and its handmaiden, fraud, prices go batshit crazy.

This week's Pluralistic newsletters were dominated by this brilliant series in the Prospect. On Wednesday, I wrote about the Prospect's investigations into algorithmic and surveillance pricing:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

And yesterday, it was the epidemic of junk fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/07/drip-drip-drip/#drip-off

There's more than I could fit into the newsletter, though, like Friday's excellent piece on the scourge of surge pricing by Sarah Jaffe:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-07-urge-to-surge/

Jaffe's piece was especially interesting given economist Ramsi Woodcock's compelling case that surge pricing is a per se violation of antitrust law:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/26/aggregate-demand/#pure-transfer

The Prospect series was so timely. After decades of pricing orthodoxy, economists like Isabella Weber are making huge waves (and attracting a tsunami of abuse). Weber's interview with Vass Bednar on the Globe and Mail's Lately podcast this week is a must-listen:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-the-millennial-economist-who-took-on-the-world/

(Though if you get your econ ideas from the New York Times, you'd miss this whole revolution, as the Grey Lady's views on prices remain mired in the Reagan era:)

https://twitter.com/HalSinger/status/1798849195664916648

Few prices are more important than the price of the roof over your head – after all, "shelter" is only second to "food" in the hierarchy of needs. Dayen's Friday story for the Prospect in NIMBYism gets to the crux of the cost-of-living crisis: people who own houses want houses to be expensive, and will go to enormous lengths to make sure that shelter costs as much as possible:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-06-07-homeowners-want-housing-prices-to-go-up/

Dayen attributes this to "the wealth effect" – that is, most people would like to be richer, and the minority of Americans who have a positive net worth owe that status to rising house prices, and the plurality of Americans who have a negative net worth thanks to a mortgage are counting on rising house prices to flip them into the black.

When America threw off the Gilded Age, we charted two courses to prosperity for working people: labor unions and home ownership. The ruling class cannily convinced us to rely solely on the latter. The housing emergency raging across the country is the inevitable result of that decision:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

The Prospect's consistent brilliance isn't merely an editorial matter, of course. The magazine features a recurring cast of some of the best muckraking writers in the field, and the absolute peak of that impressive pile is Maureen Tkacik. Tkacik's work on Boeing is stunning:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/01/boeing-boeing/#mrsa

Her labor coverage is second to none:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

And no one writes better than her about private equity:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

I am in pure awe of Tkacik's prolific and expert work. So when I read her piece on Long Covid in the Prospect this week, I was stunned to learn that she has been severely disabled by this heavily downplayed – but rampant – chronic illness:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-06-06-nih-perpetuating-long-covid-denial/

The fact that Tkacik is doing this career-defining, high-frequency work while being randomly smashed by a series of acute Long Covid incidents makes her achievements nothing sort of heroic. But Tkacik's Long Covid coverage isn't a lament for her personal situation – it's a characteristically brilliant investigative story about the systematic cover-up of Long Covid by the NIH, which has a long history of dismissing inconvenient illnesses as psychosomatic, from black lung to chronic fatigue.

Tkacik's Long Covid coverage adds yet another subject where I'm learning more from the Prospect than from other sources – part of a host of issues where the magazine leads the pack. An issue far more squarely in its wheelhouse is antitrust, especially the intersection of antitrust and labor rights.

This week, I eagerly devoured Luke Goldstein's story about the latest in a series of lies that Amazon executives were caught making to the US government:

https://prospect.org/labor/2024-06-06-senators-allege-amazon-lied-delivery-drivers/

You may recall when Jeff Bezos lied to Congress, claiming that the company didn't spy on its sellers and clone their best products:

https://www.bbc.com/news/business-58961836

Or when Amazon posted a lying rebuttal to a Congressman who objected to its drivers being forced to pee in bottles in order to meet its punishing schedules:

https://www.aboutamazon.com/news/policy-news-views/our-recent-response-to-representative-pocan

The latest lie: Jeff Bezos and CEO Andy Jassy lied to the Senate about the company's relationship to its drivers, whom it insists are "independent contractors" because they are hired through cutouts called "Delivery Service Providers":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

These drivers work for Amazon. It dictates their working conditions. It installs cameras that watch their eyeballs while they drive. It enforces an illegal "no poach" system that fixes their wages. And it lies about all this. To the Senate.

You know what they say, it's not the crime, it's the cover-up. Tech barons go through life in a warm bath of their own bullshit, surrounded by lackeys who are contractually prohibited from calling them on it. They forget that there are people out there in the world who won't offer them this deference – including lawmakers and regulators.

That's why Facebook lied to the FCC when they bought Instagram, withholding key information in order to secure regulatory permission for the merger:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/ftc-claims-facebook-withheld-information-152834983.html

After decades of inattention, the world's governments have discovered a newfound energy for busting trusts and smashing corporate power. Five years ago, it looked like maybe this was a fixup by Big Cable or Big Content to take Big Tech off the board so they could claim more dominion over our lives:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/06/04/why-is-there-so-much-antitrust-energy-for-big-tech-but-not-for-big-telco/

Today, every sector is coming in for antitrust scrutiny, and the tempo is only increasing. Just this week, the FTC and DOJ opened investigations into Microsoft, Openai, and Nvidia:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/6/6/24172868/ftc-doj-antitrust-openai-microsoft-nvidia-investigations

Yeah, there's still a lot of policy focus on tech, but that's because tech has extended its tendrils into every area of policy. That's the end-point of a decades-long process of tech going from sitting alongside important policy questions to being inseparable from them. I've had a front-row seat for that transformation, through my work with EFF, whose brief just keeps expanding as tech infuses every aspect of our lives and rights.

The latest example; EFF's "Surveillance Defense for Campus Protests" by Rory Mir, Thorin Klosowski and Christian Romero:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/06/surveillance-defense-campus-protests

The military has gone all-in on electronic surveillance, and campuses have gone all-in on militarized policing, so campuses are now sites of electronic warfare, and protesters are vastly overmatched. This is an excellent and timely guide.

Well, this is where this week's linkdump comes to an end. It only falls to me to send you off with one last week: Libro.fm's buy-one/get-one sale on DRM-free audiobooks, with a share of each sale going to an indie bookstore of your choosing! This is a heckin deal, and a great way to start weaning yourself off of the Audible monopoly (also, my latest novel The Bezzle, is in the sale):

https://libro.fm/bogo

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/08/medley/#the-prospect

Image: Cjp24 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Automobiles_in_a_french_junkyard.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 2 months ago

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Chapter 8: She Would Have Been Such A Lovely Bride What A Shame She's Fucked In The Head.

Summary: For five grueling years, Taskforce X was both your lifeline and your torment. Mission after mission, you faced impossible odds with the dangling promise of a reduced sentence. Now, at last, you’re free—no more Belle Reve, no more danger. You’ve put that chapter behind you, determined to leave it locked away in the recesses of your mind.

But Amanda Waller has other plans. When she appears back in your life, she brings a new mission—and a new team. This time, you’re working alongside Rick Flag Sr., the father of your former team leader, and the members of Taskforce M. As the stakes rise, so do unexpected emotions. Tensions give way to an undeniable connection between you and Rick, a bond that deepens with every mission and threatens to pull you back into a world you thought you’d left behind forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, Age Gap, Violence, Swearing, Smut. Pairings: Rick Flag Sr/Reader Masterlist

Rick Flag Senior realized, not for the first time, that he would never understand the appeal of Metropolis.

It wasn’t just the gleaming skyline or the obnoxious, ever-present glint of polished steel and glass that irritated him—it was the image the city sold. The fantasy. The lie. Once, it had been just another urban sprawl with its share of back-alley stabbings, crooked officials, and tenements stacked like Jenga blocks. Now? It was a glorified postcard. A walking ad campaign. A red-and-blue wrapped hallucination the world had agreed to call ‘hope.’

Bullshit.

The place had become a theme park for the naïve. The streets were clogged with overpriced souvenir shops and street vendors hawking neon-colored capes for kids and bootleg Justice League bobbleheads with warped smiles. Every other storefront had a window full of Superman mugs, Superman socks, Superman everything. Hope Lives Here, scrawled in gold foil on $25 tote bags made of fabric thinner than his patience.

He passed a diner that used to be honest—greasy counter, cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox that only played Springsteen and silence. Now it had a ‘retro’ sign in fake chrome and a line out the door. Tourists waiting to eat bland, sanitized “comfort food” served by actors in 1950s aprons who smiled like they were programmed. People took selfies while pretending their $19 meatloaf had any soul left in it.

Manufactured charm, layered over the same grime every other city had. Except here, people acted like the grime didn’t exist. Like being under Superman’s watch meant the laws of reality didn’t apply.

He hated it.

His ex-wife had wanted to come here once. Back when they still talked like partners, back when her laugh didn’t feel like a cut. She’d planned it out: a weekend trip, two nights in a high-rise, tickets to the Metropolis Museum of Tomorrow. She’d called it “an adventure.” Said it would be good for them. Something light. Something fun.

Rick remembered exactly where he was when he killed the idea—packing up gear after a mission in South Sudan, dried blood on his sleeves, static in his ears. He told her no. Told her civilians screamed when the sky cracked open and gods rained down. Told her he dealt with that every day and didn’t want to play make-believe on his time off. Told her he was sick of walking through a world where buildings got turned to rubble like it was routine and people still called it heroism.

He wanted quiet. He wanted real. Not this glorified circus.

What the hell was the point of a vacation if all it did was remind you that the world could end over lunch?

And now here he was—Metropolis. Again. In the one city he’d sworn out loud and more than once he’d never step foot in unless it was absolutely necessary.

And of course, this time it was.

Work. Always work.

A metahuman fight club. Underground. Off-grid. The kind of place where bored billionaires paid to watch people with powers tear each other apart like Roman gladiators. What started as thrill-seeking always spiraled into something darker—until you had bodies showing up with bones caved in and organs liquefied. Some of the victims were dumped in alleys, others in service tunnels beneath the city’s spotless façade. One body had its hands burnt down to the wrist—no fingerprints. Another had its jaw shattered and every tooth removed. Flags. Messages. Or worse—practice.

Waller had called it “a situation developing in Metropolis.” Like she was reading a weather report. He’d nearly groaned during the briefing but stopped himself—bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Jenkins, the young lieutenant who still thought war was a proving ground, had thrown him a side-glance. Half amusement, half curiosity. Like he was waiting to see the old man crack.

Rick didn’t give him the satisfaction. He kept his jaw locked, kept his eyes on the files. But everyone in the room already knew.

He hated this place.

Because Metropolis wasn’t a city. It was a showroom. A branded myth. A bright, airbrushed monument to selective memory and cultural amnesia. Underneath the chrome, the LED billboards, and the corporate-backed justice, it was still a city like any other. Still had shadows. Still bled when you cut it.

And now it had a bloodsport ring running beneath its perfect streets—and people were dying.

Rick knew what came next. The usual layers of bureaucratic theater. Local law enforcement wrapped in red tape and civic pride, too stubborn or too scared to admit they were out of their depth. Reporters already polishing their “isolated incident” headlines. And worst of all, that smug, suicidal faith Metropolis had in its airborne savior—like no real danger could exist here, not really, not with the cape on patrol.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the skyline came into view—spires of glass cutting through the haze, all shining with that sickly promise of progress. Giant screens flashed images of heroes flying, smiling, shaking hands. Background noise hummed from electric billboards and transit lines. Even the damn air felt like it was trying to sell him something.

Rick didn’t buy it.

He hated this city. Hated the lie it told. Hated how eager people were to believe it.

And if the intel turned out to be a bust? If this warehouse he was driving toward was just another distraction wrapped in theatrics and corporate smoke?

Then Waller was getting a call. And it wouldn’t be quiet. Because he didn’t play tourist. He didn’t chase myths. And he sure as hell didn’t waste time in cities that thought they were too good to bleed.

The convoy pulled in like a steel wave—three matte-black armored SUVs with reinforced windows, engines growling low like restrained animals. Flanking them were two unmarked tactical vans, no sirens, no lights—just intent. The ARGUS insignia was ghosted into the metal, matte gray on black. Barely visible unless you knew where to look. Subtle, but deliberate. A quiet warning.

The street outside the warehouse looked like it had been forgotten by the city. Narrow. Half-paved. Slick with oil, rain, and whatever else had leaked from the rusted gutters overhead. Potholes broke up the asphalt like old wounds, and the only illumination came from a flickering streetlamp that buzzed like it was shorting out.

Rick stepped out first. Combat boots hit the ground with a dull thunk. Solid. Measured. Final.

His gaze swept the warehouse: tall, broad, and nondescript. The kind of place that didn’t want to be remembered. Corrugated steel siding faded to a dull gray, sun-bleached and peeling. Windows, high and dust-choked, stared out like dead eyes. Faded graffiti curled along the walls—half tags, half warnings. A dented loading bay hung half-open on the far side, like a mouth waiting to swallow.

It was perfect. Not too clean. Not too derelict. Just enough decay to sell the lie.

“Fan out,” Rick said into his comm, his voice cutting through the static. “We block off every exit. North and east teams cover the back. West unit, alley and loading dock. No one leaves unless I say.”

No hesitation and at this point, he appreciated it. There was no one to criticise his leadership, no one to point out where there may or may not be flaws. There was no you. he agents moved like parts of a well-oiled machine. Tactical gear strapped tight. Helmets on. Visors down. Some carried ARs outfitted with dampeners and smart scopes. Others held gear built for metahuman suppression—EMP launchers, sonic disruptors, tranq rounds loaded into modified shotguns. These weren’t patrol cops. This was a scalpel, not a hammer.

Rick led the south team toward the front entrance.

The rolling steel door was shut, chained and padlocked—but the side access door? Unlocked. Of course it was. That’s how these operations always played it. Easy enough to invite curiosity, but not suspicious enough to raise alarm. Just open enough to bait trouble. Too clean.

“On my go,” Rick ordered, stepping to the side. Two agents moved forward, breaching tools in hand. A quick nod. The team swept through in seconds—silent, coordinated, guns high, eyes sweeping corners, boots thudding against concrete. But the main floor was dead. Rows of crates coated in thick dust. Shelving units rusted through. Stacks of collapsed cardboard leaned in against themselves like tired bones.

“Clear. Nothing here,” someone muttered.

Rick didn’t answer right away. His eyes moved across the room like a radar, scanning for the rhythm that didn’t fit. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t where it ended—it hadn’t even begun, “No. Keep looking,” he said. “They’re not that clean. There’s something here. They always leave a seam.”

And then—movement. Subtle. A beam of flashlight skimming across the north wall. A younger agent, maybe mid-twenties, moved aside a broken vending machine wedged against the concrete; “Sir,” she called out, stepping back. Her voice was tight with tension as she pointed towards a far wall with a narrow metal door. Old. No markings. Slightly ajar.

“Stack up,” he ordered, stepping forward. “We’re going down. Quiet until I say.”

They descended in tight formation, single file. The stairwell was narrow, the walls sweating with moisture. Flickering bulbs buzzed overhead. Half of them were burnt out. The deeper they went, the louder it got—bass pounding against the concrete like a war drum. Shouts rising. Chants. The unmistakable crack of fists on flesh.

The stairs bottomed out at a steel door. Rick had done this a thousand times before, but nothing quelled the feeling of adrenaline, the feeling of the unknown. One swift movement from the man in front of him and the room exploded into view—a massive sub-basement, gutted and converted into an illegal fight pit. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the tang of blood. Spotlights ringed the space in a harsh halo of white light, illuminating a crude circle painted onto the cement floor.

No ropes. No rules.

The crowd was packed tight. Men and women in designer suits and trench coats shouted, drinks sloshing from crystal glasses. One corner held a DJ rig blaring a warped trap beat. Another had a betting table lined with tablets and digital monitors, odds flickering live.

And in the pit—chaos. Two metahumans mid-brawl. One with skin like black stone and eyes glowing molten red. The other moved like smoke—phasing in and out of visibility with each strike. A punch landed and the floor cracked under the impact, concrete splintering outward. Blood flew in an arc, splashing the first two rows.

No one flinched.

They were here for this, for the spectacle. For the blood and the fighting, and the cheers after each hit. Then Rick’s voice shattered it.

“ARGUS! DOWN ON THE GROUND—NOW!”

Chaos detonated within a second. Screams. Bodies scrambled. Drinks hit the ground. Glass shattered against concrete. The crowd surged in every direction at once—but the exits were already locked down. Agents poured in from three directions, coordinated and merciless.

“Get down! Hands up!”

“Move and you’re down!”

People hit the floor. Some too slow. Some too stupid. Rick didn’t wait.

A meta lunged—some kind of low-level telekinetic, trying to lift a betting table into a shield. Rick sidestepped and cracked him in the ribs with the butt of his rifle, then stunned him with a baton to the neck. Another brute charged—bare hands glowing with energy—and Rick dropped him with a precision tranq to the thigh. The man fell like a felled tree. The agents swept the room, pinning civilians, cuffing metas with dampeners. Smoke grenades hissed where needed. Panic did the rest.

It was fast.

Efficient.

Violent.

Exactly how Rick liked it. Because this wasn’t a bar fight. This was trafficking, exploitation, blood-for-profit with powered bodies as currency. He stood over the pit, eyes scanning the wreckage. Blood pooled in a shallow groove. One of the metahumans groaned, still conscious but out cold, face split and swelling.

His eyes scanned the room, watching as agents ziptied and handcuffed hands behind backs; the crowd were either too stupid or too drunk to really fight back, and the ones who decided to take that chance found themselves face down on the ground.

The myth of Metropolis—shining, invincible—bled out across the concrete, pooled under broken glass and dropped credit cards. Designer shoes scuffed and smeared in the fight pit's blood. Fear in every wide, stunned eye.

And then Rick saw you. Just… sitting there at the bar, a grin on your face as you watched the scene unfold with amusement. Casual, composed. A glass in one hand, condensation trailing down your fingers. Elbow propped on the counter like you were listening to jazz, not watching a federal raid unfold. Mid-conversation with a man who now looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floor. The overhead lighting—cheap, flickering, too bright in all the wrong places—hit your face at just the right angle. Made the edges of your features glow faintly, like someone had lit you from inside. For a split second, Rick wondered if he was seeing things. A trick of adrenaline. A ghost in the crowd caused by long days working with Taskforce M and nights spent wondering how his son had got you so wrong.

But no. It was you. Alive, real, sitting there like you were having the time of your life; your eyes met his and he felt his pulse stutter ever so slightly as you raised your glass to him with a laugh and took a sip, now facing the crowd with your elbows on the bar, leaning back like this was all one big show. God he wanted to slap you in that moment.

His eyes narrowed. His jaw locked hard enough to make the muscles in his temple jump. Just took another slow sip of your drink and turned your head to look at him across the chaos—expression unreadable, but your raised eyebrow said it all: You’re seriously bringing this bullshit here?

Like he was the inconvenience. Like you hadn’t just made a scene by existing. Rick felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck—not embarrassment. Not surprise. Disdain. A slow-burn fury that ignited in his spine and worked its way into his chest.

Because Of fucking course you were here. Of course you were perched at the edge of a goddamn metahuman fight ring like it was a rooftop bar on a Friday night. Like you weren’t smack in the middle of another Waller-class disaster waiting to unfold. You always landed in the worst places. Always grinning through the wreckage like it was all just part of the plan.

He remembered the last time he saw you like a deep punch to the gut. Three weeks ago. Back when everything was still smoldering from what happened-what he had learnt happened when his back was turned- in San Sabor. He’d spent that night sitting in a dark room, files spread across a coffee table, a half-drained bottle of something sharp at his elbow. Handwritten. Margins full of your name. Full of arguments, half-formed hopes. Small miniscule things like they were reminders.

Rick had tried to see it. Tried to find what his son had seen. That spark of potential buried under all the reckless choices and bad jokes. He’d told himself maybe you were the kind of person who just needed a win. Someone who’d been surrounded by monsters too long and had forgotten what a clear line looked like.

But that was before the president. Before the betrayal. Before you blew up every ounce of trust Rick had been desperately trying to build, or even find, between you. And now here you were again. Fucking here. Right back in the middle of another mess, cool as ever, like consequences didn’t apply to people like you.

Rick moved toward you like a storm front—quiet, controlled, deadly. No yelling, no posturing. Just momentum. Each footstep was surgical, the kind of movement that made the air get tight like stillness right before a lightning strike.

The man next to you caught it first. He followed Rick’s line of sight and realized he was in the crosshairs by proximity. His eyes went wide—suddenly too awake—and he scrambled off the barstool, nearly knocking it over in his panic. He mumbled something, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know”, as he tried to backpedal into the crowd, hands raised like maybe that would save him.

It didn’t.

Two ARGUS agents intercepted him before he got five steps.

The first slammed him face-first into the wall with a grunt and a thud that echoed over the chaos. The second shoved a knee into the guy’s back while patting him down with the speed of someone used to catching knives and needles mid-search.

Rick didn’t even blink because his eyes stayed locked on you. Suddenly it was like of the world had been drained of sound. Like you were the only problem in the room that had his full attention.

You didn’t flinch when the guy got slammed. Didn’t react when the agents barked commands beside you. Instead you looked down almost bored as the agents pulled the man up and lead him outside; “Well that’s a shame,” You muttered as you took a sip of your drink. He stopped just in front of you, boots planted like anchors in the stained concrete floor. His stance was all tension—shoulders squared, hands resting on his belt in a way that wasn’t quite relaxed. His fingers twitched near his sidearm, like muscle memory couldn’t decide if this was an arrest or something more personal. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You could see the muscle jumping just beneath his cheekbone, pulsing with unspoken words and tightly leashed fury, “Up,” he said. Low. Sharp. Steel-cut syllables.

You didn’t move. Not right away. Instead, you brought the glass to your lips and took another sip, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving his, “This was like ten bucks,” you said flatly. “I’m not wasting it.”

The sound of chaos still buzzed behind you—people shouting, cuffs locking, agents dragging screaming patrons out by the collar—but between the two of you, it might as well have been dead silent. Rick stared at you like you were the center of gravity, he realised he hated the way he couldn’t look away from you, the way he couldn’t force himself to let someone else take over.

You drained the glass in one go and set it neatly on the counter, lining it up with military precision. Only then did you rise—slowly, with a bored grace. You brushed your hands down the front of your pants in a theatrical gesture of nonchalance. A casual little show, like you were just stretching after a long sit.

Rick didn’t blink, “Arms up.” He watched as you sighed and lifted them, exaggerated and slow, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “You really know how to kill the mood, Flag.”

He didn’t answer. Not even a grunt, not even acknowledgement of the usual bullshit you pulled. He moved in close—closer than protocol, closer than comfort—and spun you around to face the bar again. He noticed that you let it happen, made no effort to resist. If anything, you leaned into it, just to see if it’d make him flinch.

It didn’t; because he wasn’t playing your fucking games. Not today, not during this. He stepped in behind you, close enough that his chest brushed your back. Even through his Kevlar, he could feel your body heat.

Then came the pat-down; no hesitation. No apology.

He kicked at your feet, spreading them wider, and started from the top—hands sweeping down your arms with methodical precision. His palms pressed firm against your ribs, your sides, the small of your back. When he reached your waist, he didn’t even want to acknowledge the grin widening on your face as you threw him a look over your shoulder.

No care for personal space. No interest in boundaries. Just business. Just making sure you weren’t carrying anything that could take out him or his team. He knew you, he knew your files and what you were capable of. This was just business; or so he told himself.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed against your ear, the words clipped and furious, riding the edge of restraint.

You glanced over your shoulder with a smirk that practically begged to be slapped off. Your voice dropped, teasing and low; “I think I had a dream like this once involving you,” you murmured. “Fewer people. A lot less clothing.”

Rick didn’t respond, he couldn’t respond. But his jaw flexed again. Hard.

He reached behind your waistband and pulled your sidearm with one smooth motion, checking the safety with a practiced flick before tucking it into his belt. Then he kept going—his hands dipping into your jacket, brushing past the curve of your hips, sliding down your thighs. He crouched briefly and retrieved the slim blade from your boot, flipping it once in his hand before adding it to the growing pile.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” he said, voice low enough to vibrate through your spine.

You gave a slow shrug, arms still up, “Just catching up,” you said lazily. “You know how it is. Heard something interesting floating through the grapevine. Figured I'd see what all the fuss was about. Curiosity got the better of me.”

He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. From what he knew about you, you didn’t do curiosity, you did calculated; But he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into your inner jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of folded cash—clean bills, rolled tight with a band. He held it up in front of your face like it was a confession.

You raised an eyebrow. “What? You want a tip? I mean if that’s where’re at you’re gonna have to move a bit closer for that Flag,” You smirked.

Rick’s eyes narrowed, the glare sharp enough to cut bone. Don’t retaliate, it was a mantra at this point, you thrived on throwing him off, catching him off guard, burying yourself deep under his skin. You looked back forward, “I don’t know what you expect from me at this point, boss. You keep having this assumption that I’m a morally good person,” You shrugged a shoulder “It was a good win, all things considered,” you said, grinning. “I picked the guy with the glass skin. They thought he’d break easy, so the odds were way against him. Turns out he hits like a truck. Who knew?”

Rick leaned in close, his breath hot at your jaw. You could practically feel the heat rolling off him—equal parts rage and control, “I expect the truth,” he growled. “And you’ve got about two seconds to give me something real before I drag your ass out of here in cuffs.”

Your smirk didn’t falter, “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to scare me,” you said, tone full of mock surprise. “Like I don’t keep a pair next to my bed anyway.”

Rick went still. Completely still, Just you and Rick, locked in a stillness that felt dangerous. The eye of the storm and he saw that look on your face, you were enjoying it. His jaw flexed again, that same angry pulse at his temple tapping out the rhythm of his restraint, “I swear to fucking God—” he muttered, barely louder than a breath. The words came hot against your skin, like the threat might burn itself into your neck.

His hands hadn’t stopped moving. Still sweeping down your jacket, over your waist, into every fold of fabric like he was searching. But it was a lie. He wasn’t looking for weapons anymore. He was buying time.

Time to think. Time to feel out what game you were playing. Time to keep his rage just low enough that he wouldn’t drag you out by the throat in front of his team and spark a mess he couldn’t contain.

More importantly, Time to figure out how to deal with you before Waller caught wind and turned this into something colder.

You looked down, watching his hands ghost over your jacket again with that same slow smirk that never failed to piss him off; “I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this, Flag,” you said, your voice slick, syrupy, infuriatingly amused. “If you needed an excuse to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked. I absolutely would not have said no.”

He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious. Rigid. Unyielding.

You leaned just a hair closer, voice dropping into a husky whisper, “I don’t mind, really. I still remember what Waller told me about you, y’know—about how you fuc—”

“What do you know?” he snapped. The words cracked across the air like a whip, cutting off yours mid-taunt. His patience snapped. Not with a bang, but with a bite. He grabbed you hard by the shoulder and spun you around to face him, the move fast and unrelenting. No room for subtlety now. His face was close, eyes burning like he could burn a hole through your smirk if he just stared hard enough. “About what’s going on down here? About the fights, the metas. What do you know?”

You stared at him, unblinking, like he hadn’t just manhandled you in front of a dozen agents. You gave a slow, almost theatrical shrug. “I genuinely have no idea,” you said, tone flat. Unfazed he realised; “I'm here doing my own thing.”

He stared hard at you. He had faced gods, monsters, and things that blurred the line between the two. But you? You were something else entirely. The way you lied, if it was a lie, was infuriatingly smooth. Clean. Measured. With just enough edge to keep him guessing.

You were always good at that, he remembered, smile sweet, lie smoother; leave wreckage and bodies in your wake.

“Doing what?” he said, his voice almost a growl now.

You tilted your head, mouth twitching into something slow and sharp, “Careful, Flag. You’re starting to sound like you actually give a shit about what I do when I’m not under your command.”

There was a flicker in his expression then. Something too fast to catch, but not fast enough to hide. A twist of frustration—maybe disgust. Maybe something else. Something heavier. Older. Sharper.

It would’ve been easier if you had given him a reason to slam you into that bar, to put you in cuffs and drag you back to Waller and hopefully Belle Reve. A knife. A name. A datapad with your fingerprints on it. Anything clean. Anything actionable, But all you had was that look—that maddening calm—and it made everything worse. You leaned back slightly, shoulders loose, smirk reloading, “Relax,” you said, that fake sweetness back in full force. “I’m not part of whatever this is. No deals. No inside gig. Just curiosity. This place made noise, and I followed it. That’s all.”

Rick didn’t believe you, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give you an inch of anything, not after last time; “Right,” he said flatly, reaching back to unclip the cuffs from his belt. He snapped one open and grabbed your wrist, cold steel grazing your skin. “You’re under arrest.”

Your smirk vanished, but only for a second; and he would be lying if he said he didn’t take pleasure in that look that flashed across your face.

“Let’s see how long it takes before you’re back under Waller’s thumb,” he added, voice low and venom-laced. “I’m sure she’s already warming your cell.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” you laughed, raising your free hand as your body relaxed. “Truce, alright?”

Rick hesitated, then let go of your wrist with a sharp motion, the cuffs dangling uselessly in his grip.

You rubbed your wrist dramatically. “You really need to work on your bedside manner,” you muttered before straightening up, tone sobering. “Look, I’m here because I’m looking for someone. That guy you scared off? Yeah, that was my lead. He was singing like a damn canary until you rolled in with your cavalry.”

Rick narrowed his eyes, that unreadable look tightening like a noose across his face. His silence wasn’t passive—it never was. With him, silence meant calculation. It meant every breath you took, every twitch of your mouth or flick of your wrist was being filed away, dissected behind that stoic glare. He didn’t interrupt. He was waiting. Weighing. Like a soldier reading terrain for signs of a hidden mine. You’d seen that look before—usually right before someone ended up face-down in the dirt or in cuffs.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Me and Waller have a deal,” you said, your voice cool, deliberate. “That assassination in San Sabor?” A brow arched, almost like you were daring him to call your bluff. “The deal was simple: she feeds me information, and I do a couple ops for her. Temporary. But of course, my first job sends me crashing straight into you and a sheet of paper so redacted it’s more black than white. So let’s just say—” your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, “—not exactly a dream partnership. I’ve been dodging her calls for like two days now.”

He should’ve snapped at that. Should’ve barked something sharp and commanding. But instead, Rick’s voice dropped quieter when he finally spoke, “Who are you looking for?” He hated how it came out. Too gentle. Too human. His gut twisted at the sound of his own voice. Like something soft had bled through his armor. Like he cared.

But maybe he did.

Because the truth was, ever since you showed up in that ops room, you’d been like a goddamn ghost threading through the halls of his brain. Familiar and unknowable all at once. That mission in San Sabor?. He hadn’t expected the smile you gave a dictator, the words you spoke to the other man, or the ease with which you stepped into the mission and took those men down. You were a contradiction. Beautiful. Dangerous. Calculated chaos.

And still… you hadn’t broken eye contact with him.

“Not your problem,” you said, and just like that, the flicker behind your eyes—something raw, haunted—was gone. Shuttered.

Old business.

Rick didn’t like that answer. His jaw flexed once, twice. He didn’t like that he wanted to know more. That something in his chest ached to dig deeper. But he didn’t have time to play savior—not anymore. Not since he started burying men for a living.

Then you waved a hand at the aftermath of the fight ring—broken chairs, spattered blood, agents securing the last of the detainees. “This fight club mess? That’s not on me. I don’t have a stake in it. Didn’t even know what it really was until I walked in,” You shrugged. “The drinks are shit, just an FYI. Not worth the money.”

Rick exhaled slowly through his nose. His eyes dragged over you, reading posture, tone, rhythm. You weren’t lying. Not entirely. But you weren’t telling the truth either. He remembered the San Sabor president’s lips on your cheek. He remembered the way you faced down Dr. Phosphorus, your spine straight, eyes dead calm. Like it didn’t bother you to see the other man call you out, to ask you why you saved his life; to try to defend the man you did kill. He didn’t know if he wanted to push harder—or arrest you just to see what would make you crack. But you didn’t give him the chance.

“So this has been a fucking riot, but if you don’t mind—are we done? Because I have places to be.” You cocked a brow, casual like this wasn’t your third close brush with death in two days. “And now you’ve arrested my favorite snitch, I’m gonna have to try and find a new lead. Appreciated, boss.” You winked and leaned back on the bar like the chaos wasn’t still burning around you.

He clenched his jaw, biting down on the words he could’ve said. Should’ve said. Instead, he reached for the pile of confiscated gear. Your weapons. One by one, he handed them back to you. Slow. Reluctant. Like maybe if he moved slow enough, you wouldn’t leave. He watched your fingers, precise as they slid each knife, each sidearm, back into place. Like muscle memory. Like ritual. Then came the roll of cash, dropped into the palm of your hand as you held it up to him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay tax on it if it makes you feel better,” you said, grinning, pocketing the wad with a wink. “God forbid a girl has hobbies, right?”

He didn’t smile. But something in his chest cracked at your flippancy. A bitter amusement, a flare of frustration—he wasn’t sure when it came to you anymore. You had a way of grinning in the face of danger like it was an old friend, laughing off blood and betrayal like they were just part of the job description. And maybe they were, for you.

Rick had met a lot of operators over the years. Some broke under pressure. Some snapped so clean you could hear it. But you—you danced on the edge. Pushed buttons just to see what would happen. You weren’t afraid of the consequences. You were the consequence.

Trouble. That’s what you were. He decided that from day one. The kind that slipped under skin and stayed there. Not loud, not chaotic—not like Dr. Phosphorus or Frankenstein in a fight. You were quiet, subversive. You got inside a person’s head and turned the screws until they weren’t sure if they wanted to wring your neck or trust you with their life.

“Catch you on the flip side, boss. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” you said, with that crooked grin that always made him feel like he was one wrong look away from either laughing or cursing you out. You pushed off the bar like the place wasn’t still soaked in sweat and blood, and made your way through the chaos, boots crunching over shattered glass as you ascended the stairs two at a time.

Rick watched. Of course he watched.

Something in him always watched you even when he didn’t mean too. Like he was waiting for you to disappear. Like if he blinked, you’d be gone. Like if he didn’t burn the image of your back into memory, he wouldn’t be able to prove you were ever there at all.

You didn’t look back. He didn’t expect you to. You never gave him the satisfaction of second chances. You moved like someone who couldn’t afford to—like the second you stopped walking, the past might catch up and gut you.

Rick’s fists tightened at his sides. This didn’t matter, you didn’t matter. You and him were oil and water, two people on different sides of the same war. He told himself he wasn’t thinking about the look in your eyes when you said “Not your problem.” But that look had sunk its teeth into him. It wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t anger. It was pain. Sharp and fast and buried deep.

His jaw ticked, muscle twitching as he forced himself not to follow. Your shoulders hadn’t dipped once. You carried yourself like someone always on alert, always half-ready to fight or vanish. Like you were used to being chased. Rick wasn’t used to not chasing.

But for some reason, tonight, he stayed rooted. His boots felt like they were sunk into concrete, even as every part of him bristled with the urge to go after you. Drag you back. Demand the truth you were so damn good at dodging. His hand hovered near his belt, fingers brushing the comms clipped to his vest like muscle memory. All it would take was one order. One word. His team was still on the perimeter—Jenkins had eyes, even if he was hopped up on two coffees and enough adrenaline to bench press a car. You wouldn’t make it far.

But he didn’t give the order. Instead, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. Like he could breathe out the part of him that wanted to know more. The part that gave a damn. The part that whispered maybe you were his problem. The steel of discipline wrapped back around his spine as he let out another slow breath.

Rick turned, forcing his boots to pivot toward the ring, toward the busted chairs and broken ribs and bruised suspects. A dozen agents still milled about, securing the last of the cuffs, hauling unconscious fighters toward the vans. He locked his gaze on the mission like it was a lifeline.

He found one agent barking at a medic about cracked knuckles. Another was crouched over a laptop, the portable rig still collecting surveillance data from hidden drones overhead.

Work. Focus. Facts.

Not some ghost of a woman walking out with a smirk and a story she wouldn’t tell.

“Flag,” A woman called from the other side of the ring, her voice cutting through the haze like a bullet. “We’ve got a partial ID on one of the buyers. Black market weapons trader tied to Kaznia. Looks like they were scoping out the metas in the crowd.”

He nodded once, letting the intel anchor him. “Send it to Waller. See if she wants a flag on the border.”

“Copy,” She replied, already moving.

Rick didn’t look toward the door again, he couldn’t afford to. Not with his head this messy. And not with a job this ugly.

Around him, the controlled chaos of the takedown was winding down. Blood dried thick on the ring mat, agents moved like shadows cleaning up the last threads of violence, and May was already barking low orders into her comm to coordinate the next sweep. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and adrenaline—but Rick couldn’t shake the static clinging to his skin, the kind that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with you.

He forced himself to focus. To take inventory. To breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth like they trained you in combat when the field got loud and your hands got shaky.

It didn’t help. He still felt it—that pull.

That tension in his chest like a tripwire, stretched taut and humming, just waiting for someone to step wrong and send the whole damn thing detonating. It was the same feeling he’d get before a mission went sideways, that gut-deep certainty that something was about to slip through his fingers and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Only this time, it wasn’t the op that had him twisted up—it was you. And that was worse.

Because he didn’t do this. Not with assets. Not with civilians. Not with Waller’s ghosts wrapped in skin and smirks and mystery.

But something about you had coiled itself around his ribs, slow and tight, like a noose made of questions he couldn’t ask and truths you wouldn’t give. He felt it every time you walked into a room like you already owned it. Every time you looked at him like you were two steps ahead and half-daring him to catch up. Every time you smiled like there was nothing left in this world that could really hurt you—but Rick knew better. Knew that kind of armor didn’t come without a price. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the weight of it. Trying to shake you. But the case wasn’t over. The players weren’t all on the board yet. And Waller—Waller was always watching. He had orders to carry out. Chains of command. And you? You were a complication wrapped in good intentions and bad blood.

So he turned toward the center of the room, toward the tangled aftermath of whatever this hellhole had been. He barked orders. Checked weapons. Tracked leads. Made the right calls.

But part of him still lingered at the top of those stairs, listening for footsteps that he knew would never come back.

#rick flag sr x reader #richard flag x reader #rick flag sr fanfiction #rick flag x reader #creature commandos #creature commandos fanfiction #general rick flag #richard flag #general flag #general flag x reader #Amanda Waller #dr phosphorus #Bride #Weasel #GI Robot #Reader Insert

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chicago-geniza · 3 months ago

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My brain responds to time-anchored goals that expressly are NOT deadlines and do NOT come bearing a bushel of Tasks and Responsibilities. Plus I need "something to look forward to" that ALSO cannot be built up Jenga-style into a fantastic future ideal which will collapse when reality falls short of its structurally unsound heights. Ergo: I will attempt to grow my hair back until my birthday (in May) because I haven't had hair for 6 years and want to know what it looks like now. Moreover I'm vain and gay and the algorithm keeps showing me pictures of LBF. Moreover I want to test my trichotillomania restraint lol

#I have tried to grow my hair back like three times but this time I'm gonna do it for REAL #NO MORE WILL I SELECT 'I'M BALD' ON TUMBLR POLLS #this year is the winter of our Having Opinions. and also hair

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hello-universe-lovers · 6 months ago

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SHENANIGANS: Where Mai gives headcanons to the Voices in your Head ™️ based purely off vibes.

(Fun fact: I typed this so many times autocorrect fills in the sentence now)

This episode: The Voices in game night!!

(Note: sad to say as it is, I am NOT a gamer, so I won't go into what video games they'd like. It's exclusively tabletop games. Someone who actually plays games regularly can do that one)

Voice of the HERO: expert at board games, decent poker face, and a lil competitive, Hero is the picturesque partner to play with. She won't be too difficult to play against...HOWEVER, she fumbles hard at games where it's about wordplay, for lack of better words (Scrabbles is an example). She takes way too long to think!!

Voice of the SMITTEN: He'd rather play something more classical like chess, but km group game night, he'd go with whatever they decide. Games where it's about skill are what he loves!! Jenga? That Tower will not fall! Scrabble? Sorry Hero :). Charade? Hohoho, you're making this too easy!! He lowkey likes to flex, but that's for another time.

Voice of the SKEPTIC: DO NOT PLAY MAFIA WITH SKEPTIC!! MOTHERFUCKER SCARES THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE! (OPPORTUNIST included) seriously, it's like once the threat of reality breaking is lifted and the games are tied to logic, it's like he's a noir detective reading every player and predicting what they do. Deduction games are obviously his favorite, with chess and other such board games a close second.

Voice of the PARANOID: the funny thing about her is that they are anxious like...ALL THE TIME. and he knows how to use it to her advantage. No one knows if she is suspicious or innocent. Skeptic and Paranoid are always tied when playing chess, because both are always watching and adapting. The fact that these are social games not tied to life or death also helps.

Voice of the COLD: he's not playing the same game twice. Unless you get him REALLY high, he won't sit at a game with the same rules. However, he LOVES giving commentary, nudging specific players, not picking favorites and intentionally resulting in either clutch plays or very "WTF?!" Moments

Voice of the CHEATED: She'd flip the board, but never the table. Mainly because her back would protest if she tried. The frequent loser of the group. Sure, there's a win now and then, but unless the game is about making a combination of words sound ridiculous (Cards against humanity, Joking Hazard, etc...), she loses 99% of the time. Luckily, Broken is thereto comfort her. But still, cold comfort for her.

Voice of the BROKEN: She tries to put in effort to play, and while surprisingly good, she doesn't join often due to low energy. She'd sit in her wheelchair, sipping a drink and making commentary like a sports commentator (not as loud, though). She and Cold have a weird sorta respect going on so he plays along. Always the one to stop Cheated from sulking.

Voice of the STUBBORN: He's not good at a lot of traditional board games like Monopoly, Snakes and Ladders, and etc...but he LOVES card games. Mainly bc Oppy teaches him how to play those, he's a riot at those. He won't flip the table if he loses...oh, who am I kidding, of course he does!! But more often than not, he wins the night, and everyone is still surprised!!

Voice of the OPPORTUNIST: after one too many accusations of cheating (Cheated...), he'd make himself as small a role as possible. His room is where they play the games, and he watches over them to make sure no foul play is happening. Card games are his speciality, obviously, and his poker face is as immaculate as his acting. Though good luck getting him to play, since he'd rather enjoy his little "referee" role. When he does, though, it always comes down to Stubborn, himself and Skeptic. You might as well go to bed, because they won't be finish until morning.

Voice of the HUNTED: like Cold, he just doesn't like games. He'd sit through and play games in you need a specific number of players, but he'd decline. And he won't pay attention unless shit gets loud. He's the designated "jailer" for any temperamental players, and his corner is the time-out corner.

Voice of the CONTRARIAN: I know I said the "no video game" rule, but look at Connie. Do you think this woman would settle for basic ahh games? She is busting out the Wii or a DDR mat and everyone is dancing or doing doing silly poses Or if she's banned from that, she'd join Cold in disrupting the game or suggest "interesting" new rules. She's frequently in the time-out corner after the "Uno" incident.

BONUS: the Princesses.

As Belle, Spectre and Thorn are frequent visitors to the Voice house, they often bring back games to play. If you'd think they have quiet and peaceful game nights...have you met them?!

They'd always bring back the game, the next morning, probably with a bruise or 2 (expect for Spectre).

#slay the princess #stp voices #mai rambles #mai headcanon time #mai talks #stp princesses #((i am serious about not knowing a lot of games))#((if you want to make hcs for em be my guest))#((i would loce to hear about how the voices be as gamers))

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darcytaylor · 9 months ago

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Idk if anyone else is having the same experience as me, but as a fandom neutral who doesn't ship anyone, I don't feel any sort of way about the recent info we've been getting? I don't feel like we're learning anything new, this is pretty much what's been going on, it's status quo.

What's been interesting for me to observe in this situation is the fandom meltdown surrounding it in response to what is essentially no news? It's like a giant Jenga tower of conjecture, wishful thinking and rumors was stacked up to high heaven and now a bottom piece has been pulled out, but the blocks where never from the same set to begin with, so they never even fit together properly? Some of the fans built narratives on top of other narratives and they've basically hurt themselves by ignoring crucial information but at the same time leaning into what they've interpreted as hints of things that they want to happen or be true.

Nic and Luke haven't addressed anything one way or the other and the fandom has sort of diverged into its own thing, almost separate from the people it's supposedly built around, and any info that challenges the favorite narratives is pushed against vehemently, which only perpetuates the cycle of hurt when more of it emerges.

Nothing has actually happened here. Nic is traveling with friends and attending events related to her field of work. Luke is potentially on vacation with his partner, perhaps visiting her family. These are things we've seen them do in the past multiple times, both with the same and different people. Maybe the response is so outsized because they did an unexpected thing in that they posted hints about what they were doing? But at the same time, the fandom whipped itself into a frenzy of anticipation over stories that were very innocuous at heart?

Anyway, I think we've reached a point of disconnect between fandom and celeb that can't be reconciled atp. It feels like a disembodied cluster for the sake of community and having something - anything - to connect over. It hasn't been about the actual people at the core of it for a long time.

This is such a well-articulated take! I agree with your observations, especially the idea of the fandom almost evolving away from the actual people at the core. It feels like the narratives some fans have built for themselves have created a feedback loop, where every new piece of "information" is filtered through an already established lens, even if that information doesn’t actually say anything new.

The Jenga metaphor you used is really good! People have built these intricate structures on top of speculation, and when even the smallest piece doesn’t fit or gets pulled out, the whole thing topples into chaos. I think you’re right that the disconnect between fandom and the actual people has been growing for a while now. And it’s probably made worse by the fact that neither Nicola and Luke aren't addressing anything directly, which leaves a vacuum that fans keep trying to fill with their own ideas.

I also love how you pointed out that Nicola and Luke are just doing things we've seen before - traveling, spending time with friends and/or partners - yet the response to these normal activities is wild. It's like the fandom may be searching for something that isn't there. Maybe that’s why things feel so dramatic when, in reality, it’s business as usual for them.

Thanks for sending this in! I think your perspective is a breath of fresh air in all the noise surrounding this situation. It really does feel like a reminder to take a step back and let things unfold naturally rather than force narratives that may lead to frustration!

I also want to add that it's okay to ship whoever you want together. Everyone is entitled to their own preferences and interpretations. And I think it can be fun. However, when that leads to leaving awful comments - towards others, myself included in that - because I don’t take it at face value, it becomes toxic. That might be a sign that it’s time to take a step back and let things just unfold naturally.

#bridgerton #nicola coughlan #luke newton

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linkspooky · 1 year ago

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ON MADELYNE PRYOR

Shout out to all the comic book stans who follow my blog.

So X-Men 97 inspired me to do a re-read of X-Men from the beginning. My previous read of X-Men jumped all over the place, it was basically X-Men up to Dark Phoenix and then I jumped all the way to the 2000s to 2010s. In my current read I just got to Inferno and holy fuck mom, I never thought I'd like an X-Men arc more than Dark Phoenix but here we are.

This is an entirely personal opinion which I'm not as good at expressing because I prefer over-intellectualizing my feelings, but Inferno is the only other comic book arc to make me feel the way that Judas Cotract did in how tightly and perfectly written as a tragedy it is especially for the female at its center.

Are there any women in all of fiction more doomed by the narrative than Terra Markov and Madelyne Pryor?

I mean I've written about Judas Contract before but what makes that arc so special to me is how it's about a character, a victim, a girl named Terra who by all rights should have been saved by the heroes, but not only fails every step of the way but at every point in her life really. Terra is someone how manifests her victimhood in completely unsympathetic ways but the fact that she basically had no chance in life makes her sympathetic nonetheless.

This comes from the decision that Perez and Wolfram made right from the start to kill her off and never offer her any redemption, which while incredibly callous on the author's part just makes the tragedy even stronger. That's what tragedy is, it's meat to reflect the cruelty and unfairness of life, it's kind of like reality bleeding into fiction.

George’s strength was he also understood the characters 100 percent as I did so there was never any question. He knew. We had talked enough about the characters to know we were exactly on the same page with them. So I said, “Everyone keeps complaining that we’re like the X-Men” and the X-Men had just gotten Kitty Pryde. I said, “Why don’t we really screw around with them completely?” — this is the fans — “…and make them think we’re stealing Kitty Pryde only she’s gonna be bad from Day One.” You always had characters pop up, certainly at Marvel, who were bad that get redeemed. But this character would never get redeemed. She was insane. In fact, she was the catalyst for everything. She wasn’t working for Deathstroke. He was working for her in many ways and she was leading him because she’s crazy. She’s a total psychopath… and she’d be 15.

Terra's a total psychopath and she's fifteen and that's the tragedy. Was there really any other way that Terra could have turned out? A girl who has been abandoned, who was given incredible powers but no love, support, or nurturing and clearly doesn't have a home or any stability in her life if she's working as a mercenary at that young. A girl who thinks herself a villain and a player in the game but is clearly being manipulated by a fifty plus year old man who is smarter, more mature, and a serial user and abuser of people.

Terra's not just the villain, she's the protagonist of the tragedy walking through the play unknowing that her every single decision will lead to her inevitable end.

Judas Cotract and Inferno are two arcs that most evoke the feel of the Tower in Tarot to me. The Tower is just, ruin and destruction, a complete loss of control, the realization that everything you thought was wrong and in fact the world doesn't care much about what you think. It's a reminder that life isn't even cruel, it's nothing, it's random.

However, first you have to build up the tower before you start pulling the jenga blocks out one by one. Terra spends several arcs with the Teen Titans showing disturbing unchildlike behavior, but one of the so-called Heroes even notice that there's something wrong. When she does get close to blowing her cover, a violent incident where she nearly badly hurts Beast Boy after he comes onto her way too hard which is an understandable reaction as a victim of SA that gets brushed under the rug too.

It makes the heroes look worse as well. If they were heroes dedicated to saving people at all costs shouldn't they have noticed the trouble of someone right next to them? Yet, they all kind of collectively remain oblivious the same way that most victims in real life especially of Terra's kind of trauma are left to suffer in silence. Not to say the Teen Titans are bad, they are kids, and therefore it makes sense they don't have the emotional maturity to notice - it just makes them look more human.

So to summarize my point above what makes Judas Contract is a good tragedy and why Inferno makes me feel the same way narrows down to two reasons.

Madelyne and Terra are both doomed by the narrative, there was no saving them right from the beginning.

However, the fact that the heroes failed to save them reflects poorly on them.

Finally, Madelyne Pryor.

Oh Madelyne the world did you so dirty. I'm partially to blame because I skipped right to the 2000s in my first read, but before this point I'd known nothing about Madelyne other than that she was a clone of Jean Grey who died.

My first impressions of her when she was introduced shortly after Dark Phoenix weren't all that great either. Chris Claremont writes good female characters, that's not really a hot take. I'm sure you've heard of Storm, Rogue, Mystique, Kitty Pryde, Emma Frost etc.

However, I've noticed there are like two tiers of female characters he tends to write. There are the first stringers which are your storms, your rogues, these are characters who are meant to be independent and have arcs. Then there are the second stringers who are just meat to serve a role in the story. This isn't a criticism on the way Claremont writes women, I mean all stories have major and minor characters.

Madelyne Pryor was never meant to be a main character. There wasn't anything about her character that I disliked per se, she is independent, she seemed to have a life outside of Cyclops, she tries really hard to separate herself from the image of Jean Grey. However, she was clearly written to give Cyclops a wife and child in the aftermath of Jean's death and a reason to retire.

While the editorial mandate that made Claremont pull Cyclops out of his happy ending so he could rejoin a team with the original five x-men for the sake of nostalgia sucks, it is also the best thing to happen to Madelyne's character.

Madelyne before that point was a perfectly functional character for her role but she wasn't all that dynamic, she liked planes, she didn't like Jean's ghost hanging over her, she's pretty spunky and headstrong but she was at most a good supporting character but that's all she was. Claremont just decided to double down on that, Scott actually treats his wife like she exists to do nothing but support him and his emotional issues. Madelyne gives all the support that she can give and then Scott just up and leaves anyway. The woman who only existed to be a love interest to give Scott a happy ending, now has no other reason to exist without the man she's supposed to love and her happy ending turns to ash in her mouth.

This is the same feeling I was talking about with Terra, this is a person who was basically failed at every step of the way. A person who has no family. no support, it's almost worse in this case because Madelyne thought she did only for that person to toss her aside.

There's no saving Madelyne, and the fact that Scott didn't save her, that he didn't both trying until he was too late makes him the villain.

If anything Inferno is better than Judas Contract at dragging the heroes down to their lowest points, because The Teen Titans failing to save Terra is understandable because of how young they are but there's no excusing Scott's actions. Madelyne may run around in a skimpy outfit calling herself the goblin queen but the villain of this story is named Scott Summers. He had a responsibility and obligation towards Madelyne to save her and he failed, and it makes him a bad hero and an even worse person.

One of the key components of a tragedy is also agency. Agency is basically the freedom a character has to choose and how much their choices matter in the grand scheme of things and impact their narratives.

Tragedies are often defined by how little agency the characters are shown to have, and how limited their range of choices are. One of the biggest themes of tragedy is fate and inevitability at all. For example one of my favorite tragedies antigone is about a girl with very little power in the ancient greek city of Thebes who still makes a choice to give her brother a proper burial even though she knows she'll be executed for it.

Dark Phoenix is all about agency. Jean Grey is dealing with three different forces trying to take her mind, her agency. There's the corrupting influence of Phoenix, there's the Hellfire Club who wants to make her into a puppet, and then there's Charles Xavier who wants to put a lid on her tremendous powers. Everyone trying to take agency away from Jean eventually leads her to snap and try to take all of that agency back by embracing godhood because who has more agency, more control than a god? Even Jean's act of killing herself at the end was reclaiming her agency, it's her choice to die as a human rather than be executed, or to lose herself to the phoenix.

What breaks Madelyne is not Scott leaving her. Which made me like her character a lot, like the moment Scott left Madelyne was shown just how stubborn and determined she was. Madelyne stood out as the only normal human amongst the x-men who still held her own like Moira did (i guess Moira is a mutant now but I'm still in the 80s so w/e).

What breaks her is the revelation that she never had any agency in her life to begin with. Scott was always meant to fall in love with her, he was always meant to leave her, because she was nothing more than a womb for Sinister's breeding project. Once again it's masterful how Scott looks equally as villainous as Sinister in this scenario in how neither of them regards Madelyne as a person, just an object to project their desires upon.

(Honestly Jean Grey doesn't come out looking all that great either considering how little sympathy she has for Madelyne because she just sees her as an obstacle to getting back together with Scott. If anyone Jean should sympathize with Madelyne the most because they've both been toyed with cosmic forces out of their control, but I guess it goes to show how selfish and destructive Jean and Scott's love for each can be).

Is there any sequence more tragic in all of comics than this series of panels?

The symbolism in these panels too and how it relates to the themes of agency with Madelyne's character. Madelyne was a free and self-driven woman (or at least she thought she was) living out her dream of being a pilot which to her the ability to fly her wings represents her freedom and indepedence. The only thing she thought that could make her happier was Scott, but in the end not only did Scott take her wings away, he took away her everything and gave it to someone else.

"Time to lose those wings, Maddie. You can't really fly, anyway. You're not special like us."

If there's any words to express the inherent tragedy of Maddie's character is this, she's a person who thought she was free to fly, that she was real, that her life mattered only to have all that taken away from her. Maddie like Terra thinks she has agency that she's making decisions but she had no real choices from the beginning.

That's also a good way to express what makes tragedies hit as hard as they do. Tragedies slap you with the realization that you're not special. The hero is not a hero, they don't have plot armor, they're not immune to consequences, they're human and just like all humans they fail.

Even the act that Madelyne thinks is reclaiming her agency by gaining power as the Goblin Queen is in fact, not her choice. She doesn't choose to sell her soul, she's tricked into doing it by a rebellious demon that wants to kick Illyana out and reclaim limbo for himself. In Madelyne's one act of trying to steal back her power and freedom she is still just a pawn in another person's scheme.

There's also Madelyne going through literal hell itself to reclaim her son, only to make the decision to sacrifice him along with several other infants which seems to make her usympathetic but ironically makes her more sympathetic to me.

There's the obvious reference to Medea there. If all the parallels aren't obvious enough already, Jason and the Argonauts gets namedropped during the arc.

One of my favorite things about Medea the tragedy by Euripedes is that Medea is not just a girlboss who gets revenge on Jason and then walks away. Straightforward revenge narratives are bad because revenge is... bad actually. The decision to inflict more pain and suffering in the world doesn't break the chain of suffering.

Medea kills her children to show that Jason is not entirely in the wrong, and Medea is not entirely in the right. They are two human beings who's relationship is blowing up in the worst way possible. I mean Jason himself does have some points in the play, he's making a political marriage to save both of them, the only reason he's exiling Medea is because Medea made loud death threats at Jason's new bride. It's not just the heartbreak of being abandoned that drives Medea, it's her pride, the whole play started because Medea didn't want to settle for being a side chick.

Medea wants revenge against Jason but she doesn't take her revenge on Jason, she takes revenge on everyone around him for the purpose of making him feel as alone and lost as he did her. She'll kill her own children, even if it kills her to do so, just to spite him a little more.

Which leads to one of my favorite scenes in all of fiction, Medea holding the knife over her own child's throat, bargaining with herself trying to convince herself to do something she objectively knows is wrong.

MEDEA I’ve made up my mind, my friends. I’ll do it—kill my children now, without delay, and flee this land. I must not hesitate. That would hand them over to someone else to be slaughtered by a hand less loving. No matter what, the children have to die. Since that’s the case, then I, who gave them life, will kill them. Arm yourself for this, my heart. Why do I put off doing this dreadful act, since it must be done? Come, pick up the sword, wretched hand of mine. Pick up the sword, move to where your life of misery begins. Don’t play the coward. Don’t remember now how much you love them, how you gave them life. For this short day forget they are your children and mourn them later. Although you kill them, still you loved them. As a woman, I’m so sad.

Why would Madelyne after going through all that trouble to find her son, instead choose to give him to the fire? It's because for a person who was given so little choice over her own life, the choice to self-destruct is still a choice. The choice to destroy something with your own hands rather than let it be destroyed for someone else is still a choice.

That would hand them over to someone else to be slaughtered by a hand less loving. No matter what, the children have to die. Since that’s the case, then I, who gave them life, will kill them.

I think I may like Madelyne more than Jean at this point?

The same way I like Terra more than Raven. They're very similiar characters, but it takes possession by Trigon to get Raven to attack the titans. Terra just tries to kill them by her own free will. She's willing to bury herself if it gives her one last chance at burying the titans to too. Madelyne on the other hand is willing to walk barefoot into hell, if it means she can drag Scott and the X-Men with her. Jean does things under the influence of the Phoenix, but she chose to die as a human being at the end of Dark Phoenix. Madelyne however made the opposite choice, throwing all her humanity away she gave herself wholly and unreservedly to the fire.

Also damn, x-men 97 did this arc so dirty by speedrunning through it in one episode. This is also one of the most well set-up arcs in the X-Men comics with so many threads like X-Factor, X-Men and New Mutants all coming together. It really deserved its own season not like 2 episodes, and then Madelyne dying halfway through this season.

#madelyne pryor #the goblin queen #scott summers #x men #spooky speaks #x men 97

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