#Rank Hijack

[poolseason]

more Ninjagelion AU

Setup: In the aftermath of a cataclysmic event on the Dark Island where humans accidentally awakened an entity known as the [OVERLORD] the world was plunged into eternal chaos. 20 years later, Ninjago has managed to rebuild. Now in New Ninjago City, a bustling and lively hub at the heart of Ninjago, has been under attack by monsters- onis, dragons, serpents, unexplainable beasts,- creatures made from the [OVERLORD]'s darkness. Luckily the Special Division ELEMENTS is here to protect the realm from these monstrous threats, with the NINJA mechs. This cant be possible without some valuable members of the team!

Characters, lore, and more ↓

Characters:

Pixal: In this au she's a human scientist, and probably the one person who knows the most about how the NINJA mechs are created. She's in charge of the technical division, and head of research and development. During a monster battle, her order's are second to Cole's. Her highest priority is the integrity of the mechs, to the point she might be a bit negligent of the safety of their pilots. Pixal is deeply involved in some suspicious agendas involving the secret entities hidden under the base, and while she's the most knowledgeable person in the force, she's not the most trustworthy. Pixal is Zane's personal "doctor" and knows more about his schematics than anyone else. She created the Nindroid plugs (aka the Dummy system, an autopilot of sorts) with his personality data. Pixal is also one of the few people who know what happened to the original Dr. Julien and Echo.

Jay: For a little history on him, Jay is on the younger side, have graduated from college a couple of years ago. He originally interned here as an electrical engineer in the Weapons Deparment, but Pixal saw his skill and ingenuity and gave him an unrefusable return offer in the R&D department as her right hand. Jay's parents, Ed and Edna Walker were colleagues of Cyrus Borg and were involved in the engineering and design of the Geofront and NNC's civilian safety infrastructure, so Jay's always been somewhat interested in ELEMENT's work. It was kind of a dream come true when the Pixal Borg hired him. During monster attacks, Jay's in charge of making sure the NINJA mechs operate properly, have access to their weapons and gear, and making sure the NNC fortress moves as needed. Jay's always seen with his goggles and he almost never follows uniform protocol.

Jay is also one of the few Technicians who personally work with the Pilots, he's one of the first people Lloyd warmed up to at ELEMENTS, and he becomes kind of a big brother figure to him after one particularly crazy mission when he has to personally go out onto the field with Lloyd in Unit-01. When Nya arrives the pair work together a lot outside of pilot training, but Nya definitely likes him and he... needs to figure some things out. whoops!

Skylor: Having grown up in the aftermath of the 2nd (Overlord) Impact, Skylor's seen a lot of destruction and cruelty, even first hand from her own father who lead a doomsday cult that wreaked havoc on innocent communities trying to survive in the near apocalyptic event. Vowing to protect the world from similar chaos, she joined the NINJA program's tactical division. When the monster attacks began, she's in-charge of monitoring the enemy's health, pilot life signs, and mapping.

Dareth: His last name is Presley bc of the Elvis hair and inspiration lmao. He's not really a high ranking member of the organization but Cole and the others seem to really trust him, despite his mess ups. Dareth normally handles ferrying radio messages between ground teams and mission control. Dareth is a relaxed guy who values a positive work environment, even if that kind of makes him a bad employee. He's a very good uncle figure to a lot of members of ELEMENTS

MORE Cole: Cole is the leader of the tactical division. He was drafted into the military when he was only a young teenager in the aftermath of the [OVERLORD] but he was recognized by Wu and not long after he completed college and grad school he was quickly hired by ELEMENTS to oversee the tactical division. He's vengeful towards the Overlord's darkness monsters because his mother Lily was the captain of the disastrous expedition to the Dark Island 20 years ago. The dog tags he wears are his own and his mother's.

Lloyd and Zane, on neural headsets: As pilots of a NINJA mech they have a lot of pressure on them, obviously this can cause a lot of mental turmoil and stress. In order to pilot a mech they must synchronize their own mind to their mech's soul*, so stress isn't really a good thing for a pilot to have. Zane was programmed to not experience such emotions, but over the course of the series, its proven that he grows to feel quite strongly and become more human. Despite his programming, the lack of emotion early on was actually a detriment to his ability to pilot, since the NINJA soul wouldn't be able to synchronize it's feelings with an entity that feels nothing. Sometimes its necessary for pilots to wear more complicated neural headsets and spinal connections for more controlled sync testing. During the cross-sync experiment when Zane and Lloyd traded units, they were stuck wearing extra uncomfortable test suits -- too many wires and junk! The only downside to extra connection is that the mech could overload and go berserk. (which big surprise, happened!), so usually Lloyd, the designated Unstable Pilottm, only needs the barebones neural interface in most situations.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.

He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.

Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.

In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.

Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.

There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.

Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.

On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.

It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.

He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.

The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.

Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.

On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.

The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.

Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.

“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”

Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.

There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.

“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.

“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”

Bucky’s close to you; too close.

John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.

Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.

His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.

It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.

Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.

Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.

John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.

There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.

It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.

He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.

Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.

If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.

Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.

There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away — somewhere else entirely.

For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.

You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.

Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.

Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.

“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.

He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.

Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.

Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.

John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.

As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.

Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.

To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.

“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.

“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”

With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.

“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.

Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.

“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.

He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.

Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.

“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.

Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.

Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.

John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.

Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.

It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”

The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.

“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.

“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.

As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.

“Don’t move.”

Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.

John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.

He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.

You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.

In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.

Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.

The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.

Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.

Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.

The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.

The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.

John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.

It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.

Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.

“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.

He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.

A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.

He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.

Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.

“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.

The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.

He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.

John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.

When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.

“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”

“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.

Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.

“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”

Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.

Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.

“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.

In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.

Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”

Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.

Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.

All at once, everything fades to black.

Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.

A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.

Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.

Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.

It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.

John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.

Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.

Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.

Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.

He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.

In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.

Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.

The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.

“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.

“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.

“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”

Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”

Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.

Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”

He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.

“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.

John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.

Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.

He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.

Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.

With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.

“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.

Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.

John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.

He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.

Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.

He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.

“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.

John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.

He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.

It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.

“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.

“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.

Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.

“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.

Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.

“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.

With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.

“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.

Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.

“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.

“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”

Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.

His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.

“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.

He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”

“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.

“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.

Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.

Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.

“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.

John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.

It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.

“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.

He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.

John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”

“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”

“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.

“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.

“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.

“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”

Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.

“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.

John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.

Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.

“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.

“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.

He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.

It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.

The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.

It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.

Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.

The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.

You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.

He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.

Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.

Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.

Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”

The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.

“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”

Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.

“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.

John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.

When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.

There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.

“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.

The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.

Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.

Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.

John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.

He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.

As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.

“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”

“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.

John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.

“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.

A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.

Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.

There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.

Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.

Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.

“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.

John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”

Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.

When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.

“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.

John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.

“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”

He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.

There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.

“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.

Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.

He wants to be the best that he can be for you.

Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.

“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.

John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.

Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.

“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.

“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.

A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.

A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.

Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.

Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.

Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.

Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.

John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.

Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.

With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”

“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.

You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.

“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.

John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.

With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.

It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.

Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.

Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.

Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.

John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.

“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.

John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”

Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.

“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.

The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.

Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.

Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.

“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”

A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.

“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”

John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.

“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.

“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”

He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.

“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.

The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — kissed you with a sense of finality.

A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.

“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”

John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.

Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.

“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.

Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.

“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.

The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.

Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.

“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.

Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.

A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.

John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.

“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”

“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.

Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.

Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.

“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.

A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.

John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.

His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.

The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.

As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.

“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.

There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.

“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.

John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.

Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.

Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.

As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.

“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”

Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.

John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.

Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.

“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.

Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.

The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.

Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.

Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.

It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.

Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.

John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.

“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.

“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.

With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”

Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.

When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.

You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.

Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.

He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.

“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”

“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.

A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.

“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.

“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.

You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.

[a-very-tired-jew]

I saw a post earlier that had quote from former KGB Head Yuri Andropov that was of interest.

The quote is "We had only to keep repeating our themes - that the U.S. and Israel were 'fascist, imperial-Zionist countries' bankrolled by rich Jews." Now, we know that much of the antisemitic rhetoric of the modern era has its roots in the former Soviet Union and has continued to be propagated by its successor. But this quote caught my attention and I wanted to find where it's from. Lo and behold I found that it is from an article written by Lt. General Ion Mihai Pacepa who was a former KGB intelligence officer that defected during the Cold War.

This article from 2006 by Pacepa is about how the Soviets created and instigated modern terrorism by exploiting the systemic antisemitism present in the Middle East and thereby pointing its operatives at Israel and the USA. This other article, written in 2012, builds on Pacepa's article with material stolen from archives by Pavel Stroilov as recounted by Claire Berlinski (note: Stroilov is apparently a pro-life type and a bit "out there" but that should not discredit the documents he stole and revealed to the public, nor the information they contain).

Pacepa refers to Sakharovsky as the "Father of International Terrorism",

Huh, interesting to see that Sakharovsky claims to have invented the airplane hijack as a means of terrorism.

This is the important part.

Read it again.

Then one more time. The Soviets intended to cause a Nazi-like hatred of Jews.

Pacepa then details how the "humanitarian efforts" of the USSR at the time had an alternative purpose to spread antisemitic hate and conspiracy. Doctors, engineers, professors, and other personnel that were sent to the Middle East in joint ventures were to spread the conspiracy that the USA was a "haughty Jewish fiefdom" that would "subordinate the entire Islamic world".

At no point is it not understood that Zionist equals Jew. The words are used interchangeably and are inextricably linked to one another.

Pacepa then details how by the mid 70s they had started printing and distributing Arabic versions of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and a falsified paper that alleged Israel and the USA were intending to "convert" the Islamic world into a Jewish colony.

In the Berlinski article it is stated that two documents appear for the first time in English in Stroilov's work detailing how the Soviets worked with and supported the PFLP.

Now, we all know the antisemitic Tankies are going to come across this writing and do everything they can to discredit defectors and persons who provide a counter narrative to the one they push. It's a time honored tradition at this point for them to try and defend the USSR and its actions and say anything bad that they did is actually Western propaganda and didn't actually occur, and if it did occur it's actually the victim's fault and not theirs.

Except it's a well established fact, at least amongst the Jewish community, that the "anti-Zionism, not antisemitism" deflection is of Soviet origin and was used to ethnically cleanse Jews. It's a well established fact that the Soviets used its Jewish members and had them turn on their own communities, and then imprisoned, tortured, killed or exiled those same people they used.

And here we have a former high ranking officer in the KGB who defected and details how antisemitism was weaponized and spread throughout the Middle East to foment violent terrorism. Which is why we see some of the biggest antisemitic anti-Zionist blogs on here spout rhetoric that is a mix of Islamist and Soviet talking points. Over the course of decades they have become inextricably linked.

So if you see any so called "anti-Zionist" blog on here calling Zionists "Nazis" then just know they are repeating Soviet era propaganda that was used to purposefully undermine peace processes, stoke Islamist antisemitic rhetoric, and cause violence against Jews.

[roweclementine]

dropout.tv cast members ranked by how likely I think they are to be temporary Game Changer host when they eventually make an episode where they surprise Sam by hijacking the show

8. Zac: it would be funny

7. BDG: I just want him to be on the show more ok

6. Grant: (more) payback for breaking news and like my coffee

5. Lou: Greenroom/Party Bus victim

4. Vic: I just want them to be on the show more too

3. Trapp: was a bingo victim, has game show host experience, is really good at improv

2. Siobhan: was in the hi welcome to the show surprise I’ve locked you in a room now solve my puzzles episode and the time loop episode

1. Brennan: do I even need to explain.

[solxamber]

Hi! I had some questions about your guideverse AU after reading one of your fics. I’ll admit most of it is just because I’m unfamiliar with the concept of a “guideverse” AU.

How does the guiding work? How do the bonds actually work? The idea of being able to force one ruined any understanding I could piece together. One of your fics mentioned the reader being a battle-type esper, so there must be something like support-type espers too? How is that classification determined? I assume it has to do with the type of powers manifested. Also, I noticed there’s a pattern of calling espers dramatic. Is this just a plot thing, or do the powers make them more emotionally unstable?

Sorry for the wall of questions.

omg guideverse questions yippee (don't be sorry i get really excited when i see questions about guideverse!!!)

these are not answers for every guideverse, this is just how things work in mine specifically!

How does guiding work?

When a Guide touches an Esper—always skin-to-skin—it acts as a conduit that opens a psychic link. This link allows the Guide to "hear" or "feel" the Esper’s emotional and neural frequencies.

Once contact is made, the Guide consciously pushes their own stable frequency toward the Esper’s. Think of it like tuning two instruments to the same pitch.

How do these bonds work?

So there are 2 types of bonds: Temporary and Permanent. They're both used for making the guiding process more efficient.

Temporary Bonds:

A temporary bond is a flexible, short-term connection between a Guide and an Esper. Its usually initiated when there's a large rank difference between Esper and Guide to make sure that the Esper can feel the exertion and stop when the Guide is getting dangerously drained.

Permanent Bond:

A permanent bond is a rare, lifelong psychic connection formed when a Guide and an Esper resonate at a near-perfect frequency and both willingly consent to solidify the link. The guiding is more efficient when the pair is permanently bonded.

Consequences of a permanent bond:

For the Guide:

They become unable to guide anyone else.

For the Esper:

They can no longer be effectively guided by anyone else.

Others may try, but the effects will be weakened, often feeling hollow or even physically uncomfortable.

Forced Bonding?

A forced bond occurs when an Esper deliberately overwhelms or hijacks a Guide's resonance without consent, attempting to lock a bond against the Guide’s will.

These are extremely rare and universally condemned—both ethically and legally.

Consequences:

For the Guide:

Suffers psychic trauma—the equivalent of being set on fire from the inside.

Experiences a sharp, often permanent loss in guiding efficiency.

For the Esper:

The bond does not become permanent, no matter how hard they push. It eventually collapses under its own instability.

Most Espers who attempt this do so out of desperation, not malice—but it’s still treated as a serious offense.

Types of Espers?

There are Battle Types and Support Types. They're classified according to the abilities that they get.

Battle Type Espers:

Primary Role:

Offense, combat engagement, and direct suppression of Gate-born entities.

Abilities:

High-output, volatile, or destructive in nature.

Manifest as elemental control, psychic force projection, weaponization of thought, or raw energy manipulation.

Prone to power surges and emotional bleed-through during high-stress combat, making them heavily reliant on stable guiding.

Support Type Espers: (Very rare)

Primary Role:

Defense, utility, stabilization, and team augmentation.

Abilities:

Subtle but essential—often involve shielding, spatial control, time perception slowing, healing, detection.

Designed to regulate or manipulate the Gate environment itself, rather than destroy what's inside it.

Still emotionally reactive, but generally more stable than Battle-types.

Are espers dramatic or is it a side effect?

Almost all Espers are emotionally unstable.

Emotional instability isn’t a flaw in Espers—it’s practically a feature of the job. The very nature of being an Esper means existing with your psyche wide open, constantly flooded with noise, power, and pressure. Even the strongest ones—the SSS-Ranks who clear Gates single-handedly—aren’t immune. In fact, the more powerful an Esper is, the louder the chaos gets.

1. Noise

This “psychic noise” never really turns off. Sleep doesn’t mute it. Solitude just sharpens it.

Guides help quiet it, but outside of those sessions? It’s like trying to meditate during a rock concert.

2. Guilt

Espers are the first into Gates and the last out.

They’re trained to fight, save, contain—and failures stick. Hard.

Many Espers carry survivor’s guilt or a martyr complex. They can’t save everyone, and that gnaws at them.

Hope this cleared up some things!!

[otp-after-dark]

I can't drive this point home enough: THT writers full on betrayed these characters and book canon. Here's how:

There are creative adaptations — and then there are creative decisions that blatantly ignore the spirit and structure of the source material. And what the writers of The Handmaid’s Tale did after Season 2 falls squarely in the latter category.

If you’re feeling angry, confused, or heartbroken about how Nick and June’s story ended — you’re right to be. But maybe this will offer you some hope and peace about the real ending. Because the show didn’t just deviate from Margaret Atwood’s novel. It hollowed it out — especially around the story’s most important themes: forgiveness, love, ambiguity, agency, and the power of choice.

Season 1 and 2 Were Aligned with the Book — But After That? A Total Creative Derailment.

Let’s be honest: Season 1 and much of Season 2 are some of the best television ever made. Every time I re-watch this series I still am on the edge of my seat during these episodes. Praise be, Max Minghella. I just adore his interpretation of Nick. He got it right.

They’re grounded in Atwood’s literary DNA:

June’s inner voice.

The claustrophobic terror of Gilead.

The quiet acts of resistance.

The messy, complicated, non-sanitized nature of desire and survival.

Nick as both risk and refuge — her tether to humanity and her ticket to freedom.

But after that?

The writers didn’t evolve the story. They hijacked it.

Nick Was Never Confirmed to be a Commander — and His Arc Was Meant to Remain Ambiguous.

Let’s start here, because this is one of the most egregious creative deviations. This is the confirmed THT book ending.

“More likely it was ‘Nick,’ who, by the evidence of the very existence of the tapes, must have helped ‘Offred’ to escape. The way in which he was able to do this marks him as a member of the shadowy Mayday underground, which was not identical with the Underground Femaleroad but had connections with it. The latter was purely a rescue operation, the former quasi-military. A number of Mayday operatives are known to have infiltrated the Gileadean power structure at the highest levels, and the placement of one of their members as chauffeur to Waterford would certainly have been a coup; a double coup, as ‘Nick’ must have been at the same time a member of the Eyes, as such chauffeurs and personal servants often were.” —The Handmaid’s Tale, Historical Notes

“He could, of course, have assassinated her himself, which might have been the wiser course, but the human heart remains a factor, and, as we know, both of them thought she might be pregnant by him. What male of the Gilead period could resist the possibility of fatherhood, so redolent of status, so highly prized? Instead, he called in a rescue team of Eyes, who may or may not have been authentic but in any case were under his orders. In doing so he may well have brought about his own downfall.” —The Handmaid’s Tale, Historical Notes

Nick: a low-ranking, mysterious figure. Possibly a double agent. Almost certainly part of Mayday. Not a Commander. Not climbing Gilead’s ladder. And definitely not “playing the long game” in the regime.

The idea that Nick was involved in Gilead’s inception is pure speculation — the book never confirms it, and deliberately keeps his past ambiguous.

His motives? Human. Messy. Unclear. Emotional. That’s the point.

But instead of honoring that ambiguity — the entire reason his character worked — the show made the baffling decision to:

Promote him to Commander — a rank he never holds in the book and one that directly contradicts the ambiguity Atwood preserved.

Suggest he was involved in Gilead’s inception — a narrative never confirmed and completely speculative in canon.

Embed him deeper in Gilead politics instead of writing his arc toward getting out, as the book implies.

Create a Gilead marriage plot device (i.e. Rose and the baby) to morally complicate him in ways the book never does.

And finally, turn him into a romantic cautionary tale, rather than the revolutionary force Atwood pointed to in the epilogue.

This was never Atwood’s Nick. This was TV prestige antihero Nick, stripped of subtext and rebranded as a walking guilt symbol.

And honestly? We should’ve known because Season 3 was the turning point. Unfortunately, the narrative arcs for June/Nick in Season 4 especially fooled me good.

The Luke Love Triangle Was Manufactured — and Totally Out of Step with the Book

One of the most damaging creative pivots the show made post–Season 2 was playing up the love triangle between June, Luke, and Nick.

Let’s be clear: The book never does this.

In Atwood’s novel, Luke is a memory. A hope. A voice that fades as June’s present becomes more immediate, more real. She doesn’t even know if he’s alive.

She waits for him, but she stops defining herself by him. She sleeps with Nick. She thinks she may be pregnant. She chooses connection in the present over loyalty to a ghost.

That’s the arc.

But the show — especially in Seasons 4 through 6 — deliberately rewrites this. They keep Luke alive. Make him present. Turn him into an emotional safety net.

And then they force June to constantly re-litigate her feelings for him, as if her love for Nick somehow invalidates her trauma, her choices, her survival.

They gave us a triangle where there was never meant to be one — and in doing so, they robbed June of the clarity and emotional logic that defined her character.

The Final Season Should Have Been About Nick Fulfilling His Book Canon End — Not Being Erased

The most damning thing about this ending is what we didn’t get: Nick helping June escape again and his turn into Mayday.

Because that’s literally what happens in the book.

And if you bring The Testaments into the discussion, you could absolutely make the case that Nick and June escaped together. The ending is left intentionally ambiguous — but deliberately so. Atwood leaves the door open, not closed. Especially considering that in The Handmaid’s Tale novel, June makes it painfully clear that she doesn’t want to leave without him. The show could have honored that ambiguity, leaned into it, and built a later-season arc around the two of them escaping Gilead together — which, by all accounts, would have aligned more faithfully with what the book implies.

He gets her out. Quietly. Without fanfare. Possibly risking everything — including his own life — because he loves her and sees what’s coming.

Instead, the show gave us a Nick who:

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fight.

Doesn’t even say goodbye.

He’s turned into a plot device. A cautionary tale. And in doing that, the writers erased the most faithful ending to the book they could have used.

Just imagine:

Nick coordinating her final escape, the way he did in the novel.

Both of them fully aware of what they’re risking and doing it together.

Him finally stepping out of the shadows of Gilead, and choosing her, again.

That was the ending. It was right there. And they left it on the floor.

Don’t let the show gaslight you into thinking this was the only “realistic” way forward. Don’t accept a final season that punishes its own characters for loving deeply and surviving fully.

Because the truth is:

Book Nick was never the problem.

The triangle was never the point.

June choosing love, danger, forgiveness, and herself — even when it’s messy — was always the most feminist story they could’ve told.

They just didn’t tell it.

[little-pondhead]

Rick Astley Is Haunting You

-

Someone bets Tucker he can’t hack into a hero’s patrol playlist and sneak a Rick Roll in there. He does, easily, and finds that said hero has horrible music taste.

So he sets out to hijack every hero’s music playlist he can find and rate their music tastes on a chart, sometimes adding in his own music or joke songs he thinks they’d like. It only gets back to the heroes when Tucker posts a video with his rankings. Up until then, they thought it was another hero or new villain messing with them. Not a civilian??

(Nightwing’s playlist is sixth on the list, and he’s furious about it.)

[koolades-world]

Could you do a headcannon of mc kinda being a trend setter at RAD like because of the fact that the brothers love them the lower rank demons slowly start copying their style and how they act

sure!

sorry for those of you who don’t like genshin but I can’t help but picture this mc as kinda like navia. It would be a dream come true to be her. Navia, I’m sorry I couldn’t get you haha

Trendsetter Mc

Lucifer

he never understood the whole 'trendsetter' thing

he's an old man at heart

you may have to explain it to him

after you do, he doesn't know quite how to feel but if you're happy, he's happy

Mammon

he's tripping over himself seeing all the people that want to be just like you

he would be lying if he said he wanted to keep you all to himself regardless of the reasons the other demons wanted to look like you

he doesn't need another mc when he's spending almost every night in the real deal's bedroom

but, he'd never outright say that. you'll have to infer that from his actions

Levi

he's a little afraid that you'll want to go hang out with your new followers instead of him

it takes him a bit but he realizes you'd rather be with him

after all, you like him for him and the fact that he's not trying to be you is great

no matter how many people try to emulate you, you'll always prefer him

Satan

the longer he knows you

the more you seem like a literal book character

he's honestly surprised it didn't happen sooner

he's also quite proud of you, and is happy so many people like you

Asmo

the two of you are best friends

best friends I tell you!!!

who wouldn’t want to be you? besides him of course. asmo loves asmo haha

if you want to make this a thing, he could help you since he has connections at magolish. he'd be first in line to buy of course!

Beel

he thinks it's a little uncanny

there are so many people who talk like you and dress like you

but, he kind of understands

after all, you're the sweetest human he knows <3

Belphie

since it's belphie, he going to try to mess with you and try out different things

he's always offering you different snacks just to see if your new followers start eating it too, and of course because he thought of you when he saw it

you can bet he's going to hijack your social medias from time to time and post random stuff

his favorite thing to post is either candid pictures of you or pictures of himself making stupid faces haha

[capesch-arts]

You’ve been calling it Lore Accurate King In Yellow, but after having read the og Chambers book, I gotta ask: Is that the only place you’re getting the lore? Because there are things that I’ve seen, not just in your interpretations, that I just didn’t get from the book.

i.e. the King being named Hastur– like, that’s not just a Malevolent interpretation, but it’s straight up not explicitly in the Chambers book. Like, it’s referenced as a name (of a place or person idk) in the first story, then later as a side character’s name, but as the King himself?? Where are people getting that?

Did Chambers write more beyond the book? Who else was influential in these interpretations? I’m dying to know and I’m hoping you can point me in the right direction.

For me it's more about me being upset that in the Cthulhu Mythos hierarchy system, The King isn't an outer god despite it existing before Lovecraft got his hands on it. (Not Harlan or Lovecraft's fault, another guy made the ranking system, and other people including me feel like it's kinda disrespectful to authors before Lovecraft that used The King in Yellow).

In Chamber's book at least, The King isn't depicted as a giant being that looks at humans like ants, or a monster like in how Lovecraft depicts his entities. The King is more of a concept. Seemingly not in the picture, but always in the centre of everything. And this entity, that's seemingly out of reach, a mere "name in a book" likes to mess with people. Not just "I revealed myself and now you're crazy" but like, "what if you fell in love with someone in a different time period than you? And then you jumped back to your own timeline where they're dead?".

There's more artistry in how The King in Chambers' book terrorise people, compared to Lovecraft's depiction of his own entities.

(also take my own opinion with a grain of salt, I haven't fully read every Lovecraft book because it's hard finding an English copy here lol).

Now in my AU, I just say "Lore Accurate" because it's funny saying it that way, and much simpler than just "KiY AU but I respected the original iterations of it" AU. And I do try to depict my King as somewhat of an Outer God that loves putting people into situations that are poetic in a way.

I hinted that "Hastur" in my AU isn't technically the real "King in Yellow", just some part of his consciousness hijacking Azathoth's dream just to fuck with him while he sleeps meanwhile, the real one is waiting for the guy to wake up and spook him in the realm outside of Azathoth's dream.

Overall, I do take the base of what The King is from Robert Chambers' book and iterations before it, and then I made my own interpretation of it just so it could fit into my Malevolent AU.

I hope this makes sense! Lol

[h50europe]

I feel like an oracle. I finished another write-up about Tommy's part in general without reading Tim's interview with EW. It deals with the upcoming episode feat. Tommy as the LAFD pilot he is, but also with him being the lone wolf in the 9-1-1 universe.

Let’s explore Tommy’s isolation and how it shapes his world, especially given his role as a pilot at the 217 Harbor Station with LAFD Air Operations. Then, I'll bring in that tantalizing future episode idea: danger, helicopters, the FBI, maybe even the National Guard or a terrorist attack, and how it could tie into his current state of mind and relationships.

Tommy’s isolation isn’t just a byproduct of his breakup with Buck. It’s been brewing ever since he left the 118, long before Buck even joined the team. Back in the day, Tommy was part of the crew under Captain Gerrard, but he moved on to the 217, chasing a different path as a firefighter pilot.

That shift alone put physical and emotional distance between him and his old squad. Air Ops is a specialized gig: high-stakes, high-skill, but solitary in a way ground crews aren’t. He’s up in the sky, detached from the camaraderie of the firehouse, coordinating with teams below but not sharing their day-to-day grind. It’s a different beast, and while it suits his steady, observant nature, it also sets him apart.

When Buck came into the picture, Tommy wasn’t part of the 118 anymore, so their connection was personal, not professional. But the 118’s loyalty runs deep, and once Tommy dumped Buck (the first time), that crew closed ranks. They’re a family; Buck’s their golden boy, flaws and all, and Tommy became the outsider who hurt one of their own.

Even if Chimney or Hen might’ve once had a soft spot for him from the old days, their allegiance shifted—no invites to Bobby’s cookouts, no casual beers after shifts. Tommy’s not just out of Buck’s orbit; he’s out of the 118s entirely. And at the 217? Pilots and air crews might respect him, but it’s not the same bond. They’re colleagues, not brothers-in-arms. He’s good at his job—damn good—but that doesn’t fill the void of real connection.

Now, post-reunion and that kitchen blowout with Buck, Tommy’s isolation hits a new low. He’s got no one to call. No 118 to fall back on, no partner to vent to, and whatever ties he had at Harbor Station felt transactional, work talk, not heart-to-hearts. He’s the guy who shows up, flies the chopper, saves the day, and goes home to an empty house. Maybe he’s got a dog or a punching bag to keep him company, but even that’s a guess. We don’t know much about his past beyond hints of old wounds, but it’s clear he’s carrying something heavy. The way he picked up on Buck’s Eddie obsession suggests he’s been burned before, and now he’s retreating further into himself.

He might even avoid the bars where 118 folks hang out just to dodge the awkwardness or the cold shoulders.

Enter this future episode, Tim teased—a helicopter-centric crisis with the FBI, maybe the National Guard, or even a terrorist attack. Picture it: LA’s under siege, skies buzzing with chaos. Tommy’s in his element at the controls, pulling off maneuvers that’d make lesser pilots sweat, but the stakes are astronomical. Maybe it’s a hijacked chopper he’s chasing down or a rescue mission in a no-fly zone with feds barking orders over the radio. The 118 are on the ground, neck-deep in the mess, and Tommy’s up above, their lifeline or their last hope if things go sideways. Danger’s his wheelhouse, but this time, it’s personal. He’s not just proving his chops; he’s proving he’s still got something to give, even if no one’s there to cheer him on.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Say the crisis forces Tommy and the 118 back into each other’s orbits. Buck’s down there, reckless as ever, and Tommy’s the one who has to swoop in, maybe pulling him out of a burning building or spotting him from the air when comms go dark. It’s not a reconciliation, not yet, but it’s a moment where Tommy’s isolation cracks. The 118 sees him in action, not as “Buck’s ex” but as the badass pilot who’s got their backs. Bobby might give him a nod over the radio; Hen might mutter a grudging “nice save.” It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a thaw. For Tommy, it’s a lifeline, a chance to feel useful, maybe even seen, after months of being a ghost.

But the danger ramps up. Let’s say the chopper takes a hit, mechanical failure, gunfire, whatever, and Tommy’s forced to make a call: land safely and abandon the mission, or push the bird to its limits and risk crashing. He chooses the latter because that’s who he is: steady and selfless, even when no one’s watching. He gets the job done, but it’s a rough landing, smoke, rotor blades whining. Maybe he’s banged up but alive.

The 118 rushes in, and there’s Buck, staring at the wreckage, realizing Tommy just put it all on the line. It’s not about rekindling romance; it’s about respect, maybe a flicker of guilt for how things ended.

Where does Tommy go from there? If he survives (and let’s hope he does), this could be his turning point.

Maybe he leans into Air Ops harder, finding purpose in the solitude, or maybe he starts rebuilding bridges, small steps, like a coffee with Chimney to test the waters. His isolation’s real, but this crisis could jolt him out of it, even if just a little. Or, if the writers want to twist the knife, he walks away from the wreckage alone, still the outsider, but with a quiet pride no one can take from him.

And then there's the other version of it with Buck in the game:

The crisis peaks when Buck’s in danger, classic Buck, diving into the fray, maybe trapped in a collapsing structure or cut off from comms. Tommy spots him from the air, calls it in, and makes a split-second choice: he pushes his chopper beyond its limits to get Buck out. The bird takes a hit by gunfire or debris, and Tommy’s forced to wrestle it down for a hard landing. Smoke’s billowing, rotors screeching, and he’s banged up but alive.

Buck can’t shake it. Seeing Tommy climb out of that wrecked chopper flips a switch. He tracks Tommy down later, maybe at the 217 hangar, where Tommy’s nursing a bruised shoulder and a coffee. Buck’s awkward at first, all “You didn’t have to do that,” but Tommy just shrugs, “Yeah, I did.” It’s not grand or romantic, just real.

They don’t jump back into anything right away. It starts small: Buck texts to check on him, and Tommy fires back a dry “still breathing” quip.

Then a beer after a shift, no pressure, just two guys who’ve been through hell. The incident lingers between them, a shared weight that softens the edges of their past. Buck’s not blind, he knows Tommy’s alone and sees how the 118’s cold shoulder has worn him down.

And Tommy? He’s wary but thawing, picking up on Buck’s effort to meet him where he’s at, not where Eddie used to be.

The rekindling sparks when Buck invites Tommy over to the house, fully unpacked now, with new furniture and no ghosts. It’s a quiet night, takeout and a movie, but it feels like a reset. Tommy tests the waters, asking how Buck’s holding up solo, and Buck admits it’s been weird but good, less about proving something and more about living. They kiss, tentative but deliberate, and it’s not a fix-all… it’s a start. The next morning, Tommy’s still there, in bed beside him, and Buck doesn’t drop any bombs about “first nights.” They’re just… there, figuring it out.

From then on, it’s slow but steady. Tommy’s still flying solo at the 217, but Buck’s a bridge back to the world, maybe even to the 118 eventually. The crisis didn’t erase Tommy’s isolation overnight, but it gave him a foothold, and Buck’s the one holding out a hand. They keep Eddie out of it. Buck’s unpacked that baggage, literally and figuratively, and focus on what’s in front of them.

Maybe Tommy opens up about his past one night, that old wound from being second fiddle, and Buck listens, really listens, promising with actions more than words that this time’s different.

Where do they land? Not a perfect fairy tale; Tommy’s still got walls, Buck’s still a mess of heart, but the incident forged something tougher than before.

They’re not just rebounding; they’re building. Tommy might never fully shed that lone-wolf vibe, but with Buck, he’s not flying blind anymore.

[youknowwhoiamassbutt]

Hijack Killer AU idea

This idea was inspired by the show Based on a True Story. But Just like my Guardian Angels and Demons series, the source of the inspiration has mostly nothing to do with the actual plot of the fic.

Hiccup is an amateur true crime enthusiast who is investigating a local serial killer. Eventually, the killer takes notice of him and starts communicating with him specifically, taunting him and leaving clues behind.

All signs start to point toward the cute local kids birthday performer, Jack Frost, and Hiccup begins stalking the man.

One day, as Hiccup's doing his usual casing, Jack disappears from view, only to show up a second later behind Hiccup, shoving a gag in his mouth and dragging him into a van. Hiccup wasn't stalking Jack, Jack was following Hiccup.

Hiccup is taken to an empty building, where he's tied to a chair. Jack apologizes for the physicality of the whole ordeal, but assures Hiccup it was necessary. He explains that he's not the killer, in fact, he knows who the killer is and has been trying to incriminate him for months. It was his involvement that led Hiccup to believe the killer was Jack.

Hiccup doesn't believe him of course, he's just been kidnapped, but Jack insists it was the only way. Hiccup never would have listened to him if he tried to spark a conversation out in the world, and Hiccup has no idea just how dangerous the man he's looking for is.

Hiccup decides to humour Jack, and listens to his story.

Jack had been working for a man (Pitch or Viggo. Viggo works well for the battle of the wits nemesis trope, but Pitch works well for the serial killer with connections to Jack) as a live-in nanny for his son Jamie, when Jack stumbled upon the killer's extracurricular activities. He panicked and kidnapped Jamie--Hiccup is starting to see a pattern--tricking the kid into thinking they are on vacation.

Jack realized that he couldn't go to the police at this point, after kidnapping a child--after all, who would they believe, the upstanding, high ranking business man, or the kidnapper?-- Jamie would just be sent right back into the man's care and Jack would go to jail. He had to find a way to take the killer down. That's where Hiccup had come in.

While keeping tabs on the killer, Jack had discovered Hiccup. The killer saw Hiccup as a worthy opponent, so Jack did too.

Hiccup finally believes Jack at this point, but demands to meet Jamie as proof. So Jack introduces the two, introducing Hiccup as his boyfriend (for cover, of course).

The two have to work together to care for a child, while on the run from the police, pretending to be boyfriends, and collect substantial proof of the serial killer's identity.

I will not be writing this, but I wanted to share the idea. Feel free to write this or something similar if you feel inspired. And please go check out my latest story Balance is Joy, there are only a few more chapters to go before the story is finished.

[sillygoose343]

A Makayuri Timeline

Okay, so I was really bored and I decided to go onto the COD wiki (and Villains and Heroes wiki) and from the information given and drawing up some of my own conclusions, I have created a little timeline that I did not beta whatsoever so it's probably filled with grammatical errors but actually had some fun w/ it.

Now lets get started!

October 4th 1970 - Makarov was born in Ivanovo Russia, during the Soviet era

1988 - Makarov would have presumably graduated from the Frunze Military academy as a Captain

1988-1994 - Makarov would have presumably served as a Captain in the Russian Army by serving as a paratrooper for the 98th Guards Airborne Division of the VDV

1989-1990 - Makarov was stationed in Berlin during the collapse of the Berlin wall. It was stated that Yuri had joined the Spetsnaz in the early 1990s

1990 - Presumably, Makarov would have joined the Spetsnaz at this time with the rank of Captain. It is reasonable to suggest that Makarov and Yuri would have first met in 1990 in the Spetsnaz

1991 - Both Yuri and Makarov are no longer Soviet (rip USSR) and are now Russian

1994-1996 - Makarov would have served in the First Chechen War as a Captain and partake in brutal cleansing raids. It is likely that Yuri would have been either under Makarov’s command or if not, because he was in the Spetsnaz, it is still likely he would have served in the First Chechen War in Chechnya and at least know about Makarov's cleansing raids (and he's still into Makarov).

1996 - Makarov opted for discharge out of the armed forces due to the U.N. holding an inquiry to investigate human rights violation charges where he was at the top of the list presented by the EU investigations panel.  

Around this time, he would have used his military training for terrorist enterprises, likely for the crimes, human trafficking, money laundering, drug smuggling, bombings of military/civilian targets and assassinations

Due to these crimes, around this point of time, he had been noticed by Imran Zakhaev and offered a position in his anti-Western movement, the Ultranationalist Party

Yuri would have had to follow Makarov’s lead as they are literally together in Pripyat and the Middle East later on. Thus it can be safely said that Yuri had also left the Spetsnaz during 1996, following Makarov’s discharge. He is also noticed by Imran Zakhaev, as stated by the wiki. This actually sort of indicates that he had been complacent to the crimes of Makarov that caught Zakhaev’s attentions (what a simp).

1996 - Makarov monologues to Yuri during Zakhaev’s attempted arms deal exchange in Pripyat but the attempted assassination by Lieutenant John Price happens. Yuri says that Zakhaev never forgot what he and Makarov had done for them that day and awarded them with power

2001 - Imran Zakhaev ordered Makarov to bomb a Moscow city bus and succeeded leaving 29 people killed and 19 injured

Makarov bombed of Piccadilly Circus using a modified London Underground train filled with explosives, killing and wounding 407 people

Committed a massacre at the GUM department store in Moscow, 87 wounded or dead

Considering the fact that Makarov and Yuri are fairly inseparable and they’re together during the 2011 nuclear detonation event, it can be safe to assume that Yuri would have been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2002 - Makarov hijacked a Greek oil tanker in the Mediterranean Sea Hellenic Navy with two crew members killed or wounded before the $3mill ransom was paid

Murdered three Russian infantry solders

Stole $1.5mill from ZBV bank

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2003 - Repression of North Caucasus-based and pro-Western nationalist groups

Makarov assassinated political leaders, arson and bombing of opposition parties

Murdered Moscow-based journalist Ilya Lovitch who was investigating political crimes

Bombed several government buildings in Kazakhstan, 245 dead or wounded

Hijacked two Kreigler Airliners, 378 are dead and wounded, eight were his own men

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2004 - Makarov robbed a HBS bank in Istanbul

Abducted 15 college students from Russia, 5 are killed or wounded

Bombed two embassies in Africa, 28 are dead and 48 injured

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for this (simp).

2005 - Makarov held up an armoured truck in Moscow and stole three million rubles (100K), three security guards were dead or wounded

Hijacked a cruise ship in the Baltic Sea and tortured U.S passengers until the $5mill ransom was paid

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2006 - Makarov robbed Russian State Postal and Banking Service Depot of 32 million rubles ($1.2mill)

Murdered of famous British designer, Rob Millington

Murdered three U.S airmen based in Turkmenistan

Helped coordinate attacks by Janjaweed militias and Sudanese military against rebels. Was implicated in human rights abuse

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2007 - Makarov captured and beheaded Mossad attache to Ukraine who was investigating Makarov’s links to Islamic extremists

Assassinated Pakistani politician Hasni Al’Bura

Bombed a Russia-Germany gas pipeline in Belarus because Gasneft refused to pay a fee to prevent “disruption to service.”

Robbed $15 million worth of diamonds and other gemstones from a Siberian mining company

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2008 - Makarov committed ambush of an FSB vehicle, 5 agents dead or wounded

Abducted and murdered a SibGaz owner’s wife and daughter

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2008-2009 - Makarov committed the bombing  of a Swedish furniture store in a shopping mall that was located in St. Petersburg 100 people killed or wounded

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for this (simp).

2009 - Makarov bombed Baku-located U.S oil company offices, 3 people dead or wounded

He was unsuccessful at his bomb plot against English-speaking school in Moscow

Unsuccessful in rigging explosives in a Moscow-located soccer stadium. Authorities burst a pipe to halt the match and denied publicity to Makarov

Trafficked over $2.1mill worth of weapons, drugs and people

Yuri would have likely been present at Makarov’s side for these (simp).

2011 - Makarov gave Al-Asad the order of detonating nuclear device, killing or wounding approximately 30k U.S Marines, Air Force, Navy SEALs and NEST team and unknown OpFor (Al-Asad’s men). Yuri JUST grew some balls as THIS was the moment that planted seeds of doubt in his head regarding his affiliation with the Ultranationalists. 

Soap killed Imran Zakhaev in 2011 with the help of U.S Marines (Griggs, notably), Loyalists (Kamarov, notably) and SAS Forces at the climax of the Second Russian Civil War causing the Ultranationalist Party to Splinter, Makarov’s resources and contacts due to his terrorist enterprises, allowed him to assume control of a large portion of the dissolved Ultranationalist Party known as the ‘Inner Circle.’ Yuri is still with him for all of this, albeit probably not as stoked.

2015 - Makarov became the CIA’s most wanted terrorist. Yuri is still with him but not as pussy-whipped.

August 10th 2016 - Makarov played some part in the new Ultranationalist Russia under the mainstream party’s newly elected leader and President Boris Vorshevsky after the Ultranationalist victory of the Second Russian Civil War, though he was pushed out of the Inner Circle and became unaffiliated with the Ultranationalists politically, he has taken control of some of the rogue military forces and began to extend the party’s activities more towards terrorism. Yuri is still presumably following Makarov’s orders around this time. 

August 12th 2016 - Makarov had planned for a massacre in  Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow this is to frame CIA agent Joseph Allen and instigate a war which works. Yuri had betrayed Makarov by informing the FSB of his plans (he did it!!! He reached post-nut clarity after 26 years!!!) Makarov knew of his betrayal so he shot Yuri in the Zakhaev International Airport parking lot and let him bleed out. Yuri attempted to pursue Makarov by using the elevator but he passed out from blood loss and was treated by paramedics who had arrived during the aftermath. Makarov had fully succeeded in his plans. 234 civilians with unknown security personnel and FSB members killed or wounded. 

August 15th 2016 - Makarov was present at the Airplane Graveyard and unlikely to evade Shepherd without his forces or safehouse, he was contacted by Captain Price for intel and escaped

August 17th 2016 - Yuri, now a Loyalist and somehow healed from that gunshot after just 5 days? Is sent to assist Captain Price, other Task Force members and the Loyalists in protecting Soap from the Ultranationalists in Himachal Pradesh, India (poor Soap, I really thought he was a goner when I first played MW3, which he was in the end but still). Yuri facilitated the extraction out of the country and helped Nikolai in treating Soap.

October 3rd 2016 - Makarov committed the abduction of Russian President Vorshevsky. An unknown number of FSO agents are dead or wounded. In the absence of President Vorshevsky (because he is kidnapped) Makarov became the de-facto leader of the Ultranationalists

October 5th 2016 - Yuri, who is knowledgeable on Makarov’s patterns had pointed out possible locations he would go to and the location of an arms deal in Sierra Leone as well as speculating his security detail. Yuri, Price and Soap are unable to intercept the cargo shipments and the helicopter flies off with the precious cargo

October 6th 2016 - Makarov launched the detonation of unknown chemical weapons as prelude to Russian invasion of Europe 35k deaths in Paris and an unknown number of military and civilian deaths throughout the rest of Europe

October 8th 2016 - Price gains intel on an African warlord in Somalia, Waraabe who should have intel on Makarov via Macmillan. Yuri, Price and Soap breach Waraabe’s office and releases the gas used in the Europe attacks of the 6th of October. They gain intel on Volk and his location. Nikolai’s helicopter crashes and Yuri carries him to the emergency exfil

October 10th 2016 - Volk gives up intel on Makarov, regarding him going to a meeting with his top advisors in Hotel Lustig in Prague to Sandman who relays this information to Price. Yuri, Soap and Price evade the Russians and help the Resistance and eventually make it to the Church tower to establish a sniper position.

October 11th 2016 - Yuri and Soap set up a sniper position at the top of the church tower where they plan to assassinate Makarov. Makarov, who was already prepared for this event, addresses Yuri directly and Price too I guess. He detonates the explosives within Hotel Lustig and the Church Tower, killing Kamarov. Yuri and Price manage to bring Soap into the Resistance building but he dies, his last words revealing Yuri’s relationship to Makarov. Price gets pissed. The Russians attack the building so Price punches Yuri into the basement and Yuri tells Price about his relationship to Makarov, why he defected from the Inner Circle (he was fr young and patriotic). Price is convinced about his revelations.

October 12th 2016 - Yuri informs Price about the Karlstejn Castle which Makarov uses to cache weapons. Price then asks MacMillan if the place sounds familiar and UAV surveillance was done in the area so the location had been confirmed. MacMillan states that if Makarov is at the Karlstejn Castle, he will be at the control centre. The main objective is to determine Makarov’s location. Yuri and Price infiltrate the castle, climbing up a narrow passage, they gain a visual of the control room and they witness a video call between Makarov and Alexi, President Vorshevsky is being interrogated from nuclear launch codes and it is revealed that Makarov’s men are after the President’s daughter. Yuri and Price then escape after Alexi had been notified that the castle had been breached.

October 13th 2016 - Makarov’s men abducted Alena Vorshevsky from her safehouse in Berlin, unknown number of her bodyguards are dead

October 14th 2016 - After Alena Vorshevsky was kidnapped, the helicopter had taken her to a diamond mine in Siberia. Yuri, and the team manage to find Alena Vorshevsky and she reveals that her father had been taken deeper into the mines. The team manage to rescue President Vorshevsky however the mine shakes as a result of explosions, Sandman calls for air evacuation, a Black Hawk and a Little Bird arrive but the Little Bird crashes and Yuri is hit by it but is helped by Truck who moves him into the Black Hawk. Price gets onto the helicopter. RIP Sandman, Grinch and Truck. The news reports that President Vorshevsky is returned to Russia, Moscow, “peace talks between Russia and the U.S” occur but “Ultranationalist leader, Vladimir Makarov is still at large.” Makarov had tried to nuke Europe by coercing nuclear launch codes out of President Vorshevsky but he failed hard. Sucks to suck.  

January 21st 2017 - It is the end of the war, Yuri accompanied Price to the Arabian Peninsula after successfully tracking down Makarov in the Hotel Oasis in Dubai. Yuri got impaled by a piece of debris when a helicopter destroyed a part of the hotel, yet he encourages Price to go after Makarov. Yuri manages to gather his bearings and saves Price from Makarov. Yuri shoots Makarov’s left shoulder but Makarov shoots him twice in the chest and a third time at the head. Price took advantage of Makarov pausing and killed Makarov via hanging.

I just find it so funny that if Yuri had been around until 2011, it means that he was totally okay with 29 acts of terrorism until they screwed over 30k marines because that was the specific point in time in which he really began to doubt Makarov and the Ultranationalists. I also find it funny that he definitely probably left the Spetsnaz after Makarov left, we stan a supportive husband!!! Though, Yuri isn't the only one that's pussy-whipped, Makarov had multiple chances to kill Yuri and he just didn't (until in Dust to Dust, I guess) but that's a story for another day.

[atlasthegreatest]

A Trick of the Light / Maria Hill x Constantine! Female Reader

It seems like, after years of working together, the Avengers finally find out what Maria and the strange magician woman have in common.

Word count: 3434

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

Maria Hill was a woman of precision and control. It was how she’d risen through the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. and become the trusted right hand of Nick Fury. So when she called for a briefing at exactly 0600 hours, she expected her team to be there, fully alert and ready for orders.

What she didn’t expect was for her mission to be hijacked by a rogue magician with a penchant for trouble and an infuriatingly irresistible smile.

The current situation involved a disturbance in a remote European village. Reports suggested glowing symbols in the sky, people chanting in unison, and crops growing at an unnatural speed—classic signs of magical interference. Maria had led her strike team to investigate, and prepared for hostile forces, extraterrestrials, or even rogue Asgardians. She wasn’t prepared for her.

Y/n appeared in the middle of the town square, hands in her trench coat pockets, cigarette dangling lazily between her lips. The magical sigils that had been floating ominously above the villagers vanished the moment she snapped her fingers. The chanting ceased, and the crowd dispersed as though they’d merely woken up from a nap.

Maria stepped forward, her voice sharp. “S.H.I.E.L.D. had this under control.”

Y/n turned to her with an amused grin, her sharp eyes twinkling under the brim of her hat. “Yeah? Looked to me like your team was about to break out the big guns for a bunch of enchanted cabbages.”

Maria clenched her jaw. “Who are you, what are you doing here?”

Y/n took a leisurely drag of her cigarette, clearly in no rush to answer. “The name’s Constantine. Well, Y/n Constantine. And I was just passing through when I saw your little mess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”

Y/n winked. “Believe what you want, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Oh, you prefer Commander? Boss lady? Iron Queen?” Y/n smirked at the faint twitch in her jaw, clearly enjoying pushing her buttons.

Behind her, some of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether they should intervene. Maria ignored them, stepping closer to Y/n, her presence demanding attention. “You’re interfering in a classified mission.”

“Interfering? No, no.” Y/n shook her head, waving the cigarette for emphasis. “I’m helping. Big difference.”

“That’s not how it works.”

Y/n grinned. “With me, it is.”

Before Maria could retort, one of her agents called out, “Commander, the sigils are back!”

The sky above the town square shimmered as the ominous runes began to reappear, glowing with an eerie red light. Maria barked orders for her team to get into defensive positions, but Y/n simply sighed, flicking her cigarette away and cracking her knuckles.

“Always the dramatic types,” she muttered.

Maria watched in grudging curiosity as Y/n stepped forward, muttering something under her breath. Y/n’s hands moved in intricate gestures, and a faint glow surrounded her. Within moments, the sigils dissolved into harmless sparks, and the sky cleared once more.

Y/n turned back to her with a self-satisfied smirk. “See? No big deal.”

Maria crossed her arms, her voice cold. “I don’t trust coincidences. Why are you here?”

Y/n hesitated for the briefest moment before her grin returned. “Let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for saving the world.” Then, leaning closer, she added in a lower voice, “And maybe I just like the way you scowl when you’re trying to figure me out.”

Maria’s expression remained unreadable, but Y/n noticed the slight tilt of her head, the faintest flicker of something—curiosity, maybe? Annoyance?

Or perhaps interest.

“You’re coming with us,” she said firmly, motioning for her agents to surround Y/n.

Y/n laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Sure thing, boss lady. Lead the way.”

As Maria turned to lead the group back to the quinjet, Y/n couldn’t resist one last comment.

“You know, Hill, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Her only response was a sharp glance over her shoulder, but Y/n caught the faintest curve of her lips before she turned away.

Y/n grinned to herself, already looking forward to the next time you’d cross paths with the indomitable Maria Hill. If nothing else, it was always fun to play with fire.

————————

Maria Hill wasn’t the kind of woman who lost control of a situation. Not to unruly agents, not to alien invasions, and certainly not to a roguish con artist with a knack for defying logic and authority alike.

But Y/n was quickly becoming an exception to her rule.

The quinjet ride back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost was tense. Maria sat across from Y/n, her steely gaze fixed in her direction. Y/n, on the other hand, lounged on the bench like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d even conjured a deck of cards from her pocket and were lazily shuffling them, flicking each card with a practiced ease that bordered on hypnotic.

The silence stretched until one of the agents, an eager rookie, broke it. “How did you do that back there? With the sigils, I mean?”

Y/n looked up with a playful smile. “Magic.”

The rookie blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“Enough.” Maria’s voice cut through the cabin like a blade. “No distractions.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Distracted by a few playing cards? Come on, Hill, I’m harmless.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re anything but harmless.”

Y/n laughed, slipping the cards back into her coat. “You wound me. Here I am, saving your mission, and you’re still suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious,” she said coolly. “I’m cautious.”

“Tomato, tomato,” Y/n replied with a shrug, leaning back. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be on my best behavior. For now.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly as if she were fighting off a retort. Y/n decided she liked the way she held herself—composed, commanding, but not immune to a well-placed jab.

The quinjet touched down at the outpost, and Maria wasted no time issuing orders to her team. “Secure the perimeter. Check the debrief logs from the village. And keep an eye on our guest.”

Y/n smirked, following her as she strode toward the command center. “Guest? I like the sound of that. Makes me feel special.”

“Trust me,” she replied without looking at Y/n, “you’re not.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t fool me, Hill.” Y/n sidestepped an agent attempting to cuff her, wagging a finger at him. “If I were just some random magician, you wouldn’t have brought me here. You’re curious.”

Maria stopped in her tracks, turning to face Y/n with an unreadable expression. “You’re right. I am curious. Curious how someone like you managed to bypass half a dozen wards, nullify magic that shouldn’t even be detectable by human eyes, and then walk away like it was nothing.”

Y/n tilted her head, her smile softening just a little. “Well, when you put it like that, I am impressive, aren’t I?”

She rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, alarms blared through the base.

“Commander Hill, we’ve got incoming!” an agent shouted from the control panel. “Unknown hostiles breaching the perimeter.”

Maria was instantly in action mode, barking orders and moving toward the central console. Y/n followed her, ignoring the protests of the agents who tried to keep her contained.

“What kind of hostiles?” Maria demanded.

The screen lit up with grainy footage of dark, shadowy figures moving with unnerving speed across the outpost grounds. Their forms were amorphous, shifting like smoke one moment and solidifying the next.

“Specters,” Y/n muttered, stepping closer to the screen.

Maria shot her a glare. “What do you know about this?”

“More than you’d like, less than you need,” Y/n replied cryptically, already pulling a worn lighter from her coat pocket.

“Constantine—”

“They’re after the residual magic from those sigils,” Y/n interrupted, flicking the lighter and conjuring a small, flickering flame in her palm. “Think of them like wolves who’ve just caught the scent of blood. They’re hungry.”

“And how do we stop them?”

Y/n glanced at Maria, her usual flippant demeanor fading as the seriousness of the situation set in. “You don’t. Not without me.”

Maria hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Fine. But you follow my orders.”

Y/n grinned, stepping closer to her and lowering her voice. “Anything you say, Commander.”

She ignored the way Y/n’s words sent a shiver down her spine, instead turning to her team. “Get into defensive positions. Protect the command center at all costs.”

“And me?” Y/n asked, already tracing sigils in the air with her flame.

“You?” Maria said, her tone clipped but laced with reluctant trust. “You’d better live up to that cocky attitude of yours.”

“Wouldn’t dream of letting you down,” Y/n quipped, throwing her a wink before stepping forward to face the oncoming specters.

Maria watched as Y/n moved, her hands dancing through the air like a conductor leading an invisible orchestra. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but admire Y/n’s confidence, her skill, and—much to her annoyance—the spark of excitement Y/n brought into her otherwise controlled world.

For the first time in a long time, Maria Hill found herself wondering whether chaos might not be such a bad thing after all.

—————————-

The party was in full swing at Stark Tower— now Avengers Tower. Music blared, drinks flowed freely, and the Avengers—Earth’s mightiest heroes—were letting loose for once. Tony Stark had spared no expense, which wasn’t exactly news, and the evening promised more surprises than anyone could predict.

Maria Hill was standing at the edge of the room, sipping a neat whiskey, her usual no-nonsense demeanor softened by the rare opportunity to relax. She observed the room like a chessboard, mentally cataloging every hero, agent, and operative.

“Looking for threats, Hill? It’s a party.” Natasha Romanoff appeared at her side, holding a glass of champagne.

“I don’t turn it off,” Maria replied with a small smirk.

Natasha gave her a knowing glance. “You’ve been out of the field lately. Rumor is you’ve been busy with personal matters.”

Maria’s lips twitched. “You’ve been listening to gossip?”

“Only the interesting kind,” Natasha teased.

Maria didn’t reply, but her slight shrug was enough to spark Natasha’s curiosity further. Before she could press for details, the crowd parted near the entrance, and an unmistakable voice rang out.

“Well, well, well. This is cozy, isn’t it?”

Maria’s glass froze halfway to her lips.

The speaker was none other than Y/n—dressed in her usual sharp, slightly rumpled suit, trench coat slung over one arm. Y/n sauntered into the room as she owned it, scanning the crowd with a devil-may-care grin before her eyes landed on Maria.

The way her posture shifted was so subtle most wouldn’t notice—the faintest easing of her shoulders, the tiniest quirk of her lips. But Natasha saw it.

“Who the hell is that?” Natasha murmured, her sharp eyes darting between the unknown woman and Maria.

Maria didn’t answer.

Y/n made her way through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares and murmurs until she stood in front of Maria. Without hesitation, Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, leaving a faint smudge of red lipstick behind.

“Miss me, love?”

The room went silent.

Natasha, who was rarely caught off guard, raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Love?”

Maria gave Y/n a pointed look. “Did you have to make an entrance?”

“Always,” Y/n replied, slipping an arm around Maria’s waist with the ease of long familiarity. “You wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Tony’s voice cut through the stunned silence. “This is Maria’s… partner? Wife? Soul-sucking magical mistress? Someone fill me in here.”

“Wife,” Y/n said cheerfully, holding up her left hand to flash a plain silver ring. “And I prefer ‘charming con artist.’”

Steve Rogers, who had been sipping his drink in the corner, nearly choked. “Maria’s married?”

“Years now,” Y/n confirmed, ignoring the way Maria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Didn’t think to mention me, darling?”

“Not the time,” Maria muttered.

“Hold on.” Clint Barton pointed between you and Maria. “You’re married to her? How does that even—what do you two—”

“Careful, Barton,” Maria warned, her tone deceptively calm.

“Opposites attract,” Y/n said breezily, cutting him off. “She keeps me from blowing up the world, and I make her laugh. Sometimes. It’s a perfect balance.”

“You laugh?” Natasha asked Maria, clearly trying to process the revelation.

“Occasionally,” Maria replied, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Thor, ever the optimist, stepped forward and clapped you on the shoulder with enough force to stagger anyone else. “Marvelous! A union of strength and cunning! You must regale us with tales of your adventures!”

Y/n winced but recovered quickly, grinning at the god. “Oh, there are plenty of stories, big guy. Like the time I got dragged into a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation and saved the day while Maria scowled at me for five hours straight.”

“She didn’t mention you,” Bruce said quietly, clearly puzzled.

Maria sighed, her patience wearing thin. “I didn’t mention her because it’s none of your business.”

Y/n tilted her head toward her, feigning hurt. “You didn’t tell your friends about me? I’m crushed, love.”

“I was protecting your anonymity,” Maria replied smoothly, her voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make Y/n grin.

Tony waved his drink around. “Okay, but you’re, like, a magician or something, right? How does a magician end up with her? Do you just pull flowers out of your coat and hope for the best?”

“Not quite,” Y/n replied, pulling a coin from behind his ear with a flourish before slipping it into her pocket. “But I did have to work for it. Maria’s not exactly the swooning type.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Natasha said, finally recovering enough to smirk.

“I wasn’t swooning,” Maria said flatly, but the faintest blush crept up her neck.

Y/n turned to the group, holding her arms out like a performer at the end of a show. “In any case, here I am. Maria Hill’s better half. Questions? Comments? Thunderous applause?”

“More like stunned silence,” Clint muttered.

“Close enough.”

Maria shook her head, finishing the rest of her whiskey in one gulp. “You couldn’t just stay under the radar for one night, could you?”

“And miss the chance to meet your charming coworkers?” Y/n grinned, taking her empty glass and setting it aside. “Not a chance.”

As the party slowly resumed, the Avengers exchanged glances, clearly still processing the revelation. Maria sighed, rubbing her temples, but she didn’t push Y/n away when she slipped her hand into hers.

“Admit it,” Y/n whispered, leaning close enough that only she could hear. “You love it when I stir things up.”

Maria shot her a sideways glance, her lips curving into a faint smile despite herself. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh, darling,” Y/n said with a wink, “I’m all about pushing my luck.”

Bonus Chapter:

It was late, and the Avengers party had finally started winding down. Most of the team had trickled out, leaving only a few stragglers lounging around Stark Tower’s luxurious penthouse. Thor was passed out in a chair, clutching a half-empty barrel of mead, and Tony was engrossed in a tipsy debate with Bruce over the structural integrity of a time machine he swore he’d been working on.

Maria sat on one of the plush couches, shoes off, legs crossed, her ever-present no-nonsense expression softened by the faintest trace of amusement. Y/n, of course, had taken up residence beside her, lazily flipping a coin between her fingers.

Natasha and Clint had stayed behind, the former leaning against the bar, observing the scene with sharp, curious eyes. She hadn’t stopped watching the two of them all night.

“You’re still staring, Romanoff,” Maria said without looking up.

“Just trying to figure out how this happened,” Natasha replied, gesturing between Y/n and Maria with her drink.

Y/n grinned, catching the coin mid-flip and tucking it into her coat. “It’s a tale as old as time. Stoic government agent meets dashing rogue magician, sparks fly, enemies are vanquished, and eventually, she can’t resist my charm.”

Maria shot her a pointed look. “That’s not how it went.”

“No?” Y/n turned to her with mock innocence. “How did it go, then?”

Natasha smirked. “This, I have to hear.”

Maria sighed, leaning back against the couch. “It was on a mission. S.H.I.E.L.D. got wind of some cult in London trying to summon an ancient entity. We were in over our heads, and then—”

“And then I showed up,” Y/n interrupted, leaning forward with a theatrical flourish. “Out of the shadows, cigarette in hand, saving the day with a snap of my fingers and a well-placed spell.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “You stumbled out of a pub, half-drunk, and insulted my entire team before deciding to help.”

Y/n held up a finger. “I prefer ‘strategically tipsy.’”

Natasha snorted. Clint, who’d joined her at the bar, chuckled. “This just gets better and better.”

“You were a nightmare,” Maria continued, though her lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. “But you got the job done. I figured I’d never see you again after that.”

“Ah, but fate had other plans,” Y/n said, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at Maria with exaggerated adoration.

“You started showing up on every mission that involved magic,” Maria said, ignoring Y/n’s theatrics. “And every time, you were more irritating than the last.”

“Admit it, though,” Y/n said, leaning closer, “you liked having me around.”

Maria didn’t respond immediately, but the way her expression softened spoke volumes.

“Wait,” Clint interrupted, holding up a hand. “Are you telling me you two went from mutual annoyance to married just because you kept showing up?”

“Annoyance is a strong word,” Y/n said with a shrug.

“It’s the correct word,” Maria said dryly, though the ghost of a smile remained on her face.

“I wore her down,” Y/n said, flashing a grin. “Bit by bit, mission by mission, until one day she couldn’t deny her feelings any longer.”

“She threw you into a holding cell for interfering with classified operations,” Natasha said, recalling the infamous incident.

“Semantics.”

Maria shook her head, but there was no real irritation in her expression. If anything, there was a warmth there that only someone who knew her well would recognize.

“Okay, but married?” Clint asked, still baffled. “How does Maria Hill, the most straight-laced, disciplined person I know, end up married to…” He gestured vaguely at Y/n. “This?”

Y/n raised a hand. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

Natasha smirked. “It’s like finding out Fury’s secretly a softie who knits scarves in his downtime.”

Maria drained the last of her whiskey. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, come on,” Y/n said, leaning closer to her. “Tell them about the proposal, love.”

Maria shot her a warning look, but Natasha and Clint perked up immediately.

“This I have to hear,” Natasha said.

Maria sighed, rubbing her temple. “It wasn’t anything extravagant. She—”

“I,” Y/n interrupted, raising a finger, “orchestrated a perfect evening. Candlelight, a rooftop view of the city, a spell to keep the rain away—”

“You set a dinner table on top of a condemned building and nearly got us both killed when the floor collapsed,” Maria corrected, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet you still said yes,” Y/n pointed out smugly.

“She said yes because she was too busy saving your sorry ass from falling to your death to argue,” Natasha said, smirking at Maria’s faint glare.

Maria shook her head. “Like I said. A nightmare.”

“Your nightmare,” Y/n quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smile.

The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, broken only by the occasional sound of Tony muttering calculations to himself. Maria glanced at Y/n, her expression softening for just a moment.

Natasha caught it, of course, but wisely chose not to comment.

—————————

Later, as the last of the guests departed and Maria prepared to leave with Y/n in tow, Natasha stopped her near the elevator.

“You know,” Natasha said quietly, “I don’t get it. But I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

Maria paused, her stoic mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of vulnerability. “She keeps things… interesting.”

Natasha chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”

Maria didn’t respond, but the faint smile on her face, as the elevator doors closed, said more than words ever could.

[randomidiocyncrazies]

THBX Setting note 9: Hero Ranking Tournament

17th Hero Tournament: Bowa fought her way up the ranks, facing off against Smile, the X of the last tournament. Smile failed to defend his title, making Bowa the new X. ((This actually messes up the timeline—Queen turns 18 in Year 32, the 16th Hero Tournament, which prompted Mikey's meeting with both of them. I suppose he could have that talk with them when Queen turned 20, but the convo feels really unnatural if it wasn't the year Queen turned 18 and Bowa attained title of X...)) 18th Hero Tournament: Queen eligible for the tournament as one of the Top 10, with a "darkhorse nobody" (X who is not registered on the Commission's list of heroes). Queen lost, and a mysterious X takes the title.

To prevent the Fall of Dawn Incident—the deification of a single hero—from happening again, the hero agencies unanimously agree to a tournament held every 2 years to determine Hero rankings, forming the Hero Association Commission. The first Tournament was held in Year 2.

Only the Top 10 heroes are eligible to enter the Tournament, and matches are decided according to Commission rules. The winner of each match advances until the #1 hero, aka the title of X, is determined. Depending on how they do during the matches, the public's Trust Vales of the heroes will also be updated accordingly.

Not only is the Tournament a way for the Commission to manage and balance the heroes, but it is also a commercial competition between the top hero agencies. 20 Tournaments have been held starting from Year 2, and it has become a huge event that draws all eyes, with the majority of heroes setting aiming for the title of X as their ultimate career goal.

((as always, feel free to lmk if I got something wrong! It's not necessarily a 1-to-1 translation, but I try to stick closely to the wording used in the Chinese text))

Personal commentary under the cut:

the first X, E-soul, achieved the title in Year 2 during the first Tournament. There's still a discrepancy of the length of his career (he defeated Zero before the Commission, but has a career that is 2 years shorter than the formation of the Commission [ep 5]), but maybe the 2-year gap has something to do with the Tournament system? Makes me wonder what it was like in the early days after the Commission was formed, when there wasn't an X yet.

This also lets us know the Tournament is held on even-number years since the first Tournament was in Year 2, making it likely that the end of L0's arc either happened just before Year 42 (with "15 days before the Tournament" being 15 days before Year 42), or that the ending of his arc takes place in Year 42 and we just weren't explicitly shown that it's no longer Year 41.

i also think it's really interesting that Mr. Matchstick & Ms. Blazing Fire are able to compete as 1 unit going up against mostly solo opponents; if part of the underlying goal of the Tournament is to avoid deification of a single hero, then promoting heroes in pairs or teams feels more effective? like, if all heroes are packaged as a unit of 2 or more people, then doesn't that provide a cognitive barrier against deifying a singular target? Since people would then associate heroes as a concept that belongs in teams, not as a solo agent/individual.

I've seen the theories about X being, or hijacking, the concept of "X" itself. I also think the show is hinting at X being deified (at least 1 believer thinks he's omnipotent in his character PV, there's a frame where X cuts to a figure that looks like how Zero looked in E-soul's character PV hidden in the OP etc). Since perception can actually have a material effect on the world in this setting, and with heroes mostly operating as singular entities (with some exceptions such as Matchstick and Blazing Fire), when people picture the "#1 hero (aka "X")" they think of an individual... which is prime for deification, which the Commission supposedly wants to avoid?

[reality-detective]

FISA: Unraveling the Military Coup – Trump’s Treason Call

The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) is no longer just a tool for foreign surveillance. It’s the key to exposing the darkest coup in American history. President Trump’s bold declaration: “It’s TREASON,” has sparked a firestorm, pointing to forces within the government using FISA for their agenda—against you, the American people. They never expected this to come to light, but now it’s all unraveling.

3.4 million warrantless searches. That’s what the FBI did to Americans in 2021. No oversight, no transparency—just raw power. They hijacked FISA, originally intended to spy on foreign entities, and turned it on innocent citizens. It’s a massive invasion of privacy, but it doesn’t end there. This is about control, about silencing dissent, and yes, about installing their puppets in place of real patriots. Think back—who ordered these searches? Who benefits from this totalitarian abuse?

The Flynn factor. They tried to destroy him, but why? What did General Flynn know that made him a target of FISA? Trump’s inner circle was never just about politics; it was a battle for control over America’s soul. The FISA warrants weren’t just about Flynn. They were about dismantling Trump’s influence and crushing anyone who dared to resist.

QAnon warned us. The signs were always there. Every cryptic message, every drop hinted at FISA’s role in this covert war. FISA is the hidden thread connecting corrupt global maneuvers—from the Middle East to Washington, D.C. The attempt to overthrow leaders like Bin Salman and the engineered revolutions point to FISA’s global reach. What the elite don’t want you to know is that FISA is a weapon in their game to reshape the world—and the U.S. is just one of their targets.

Military Coup in Motion? The whispers are growing louder—U.S. generals, split and at war within the ranks, may be gearing up for an internal coup. The deep state’s stranglehold on military leadership is being challenged, and the outcome could shift the balance of power forever. But don’t forget—there are white hats in the military, patriots ready to blow the whistle and reveal the plot. These patriots are gathering evidence, working behind the scenes, and preparing to expose the deep state’s crimes at the 11.3 moment.

Blinken’s tangled web. White hats have him in their sights. His ties to Obama and secret dealings with Iran paint him as a key player in the shadow government’s plans. Did you know? Blinken was at the center of the fake Osama Bin Laden operation. The revelations to come will rock the establishment, implicating him in high treason.

It all leads back to the Biden Crime Family. Hunter’s dirty deals, the Biden’s criminal empire—it's all coming out. But it’s not just about corruption; it’s about national security. Hunter’s laptop holds classified military secrets. The elites thought they could bury this, but the truth is about to explode.

Stay tuned. The storm is brewing. 🤔

[misfitwashere]

February 4, 2025

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

FEB 4

LISTEN TO POST · 18:52

With the benefit of 48 hours to organize, we are beginning to see strong signs of resistance from grass-roots groups, congressional Democrats, and a few media outlets as they challenge the unfolding coup driven by Musk for Trump. This is welcome news, indeed!

[After proofreading this newsletter, I realized that I “buried the lead.” Here it is: There is a protest in D.C. on Tuesday at 5 p.m. in front of the Treasury Building, organized by MoveOn and Indivisible. See article below or just sign up here.]

I start with a quick note about the continued reluctance to recognize what is happening as a coup. Jen Psaki on MSNBC referred to the events as a “hostile takeover of the government.” In 100% of the other instances of a “hostile takeover of a government,” Jen Psaki would call it a “coup,” but apparently, special rules apply to Trump.

Likewise, the New York Times published a well-researched, exhaustive article (accessible to all, here) that details the dozens of actions taken by Musk and Trump to overthrow the Constitution. But that 75-paragraph article does not use any of the following words: “legal, illegal, Constitution, unconstitutional, or coup.” The strongest description of Trump's actions the NYT reporters could muster is this cold sauce:

Mr. Musk’s aggressive incursions into at least half a dozen government agencies have challenged congressional authority and potentially breached civil service protections.

Although the facts constituting the coup are contained within the four corners of the NYTimes’ article, the reporters can’t rouse themselves to speak the truth about what is happening. So, the NYTimes’ reporters get an “A+” in “Homework” but a “D-“ in “Citizenship.”

Apart from independent commentators on BlueSky, Substack, and YouTube, no one in the mainstream press has called Trump's actions a “coup.” (Notably, Timothy Snyder did so in his Substack article, The Logic of Destruction.” Snyder includes the following, “All of this work was preparatory to the coup that is going on now.”)

But The Guardian broke ranks with the legacy media on Monday with an editorial entitled, “The Guardian view on Donald Trump’s power grab: a coup veiled by chaos.

The Guardian editorial board writes,

Donald Trump is provoking a US constitutional crisis, claiming sweeping powers to override or bypass Congress’s control over spending in a brazen attempt to centralize financial power in the executive branch. If he succeeds, Nobel laureate Paul Krugman warns, it would be a 21st-century coup – with power slipping from elected officials’ hands. The real story hidden behind the president’s trade war, he says, is the hijacking of government. And Mr Krugman’s right.

We need to raise the alarm if we expect our leaders to respond vigorously and urgently to the dagger aimed at the beating heart of our democracy—the Constitution. It’s a coup. Say its name. It’s not an outrage. It’s not a hostile takeover. It’s not a “challenge to congressional authority.” It is a coup that seeks to neutralize the framework of checks and balances carefully crafted by the Framers.