#how strange. attempted hijacking?

[ikilledamanforthisurl]

‼️‼️Please Don't Skip Me‼️‼️

Dear humanity,

I'm Amal, a mother of three children, living under the weight of the genocide taking place in Gaza. 🍉

The Israeli occupation forces launched drone strikes on my husband, Fayez, and my son, Mohammad.

Although my husband's condition has stabilized, my son is still suffering immensely and urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.

I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺 .

I need your help please donate and share, evry contribution, no matter how small, brings us hope in these dark times.

Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.

So I humbly ask you to donate even a little or at least reblog this appeal.

Please Donate now:👇

https://gofund.me/dd7ddc34

Ddonate Via Paypal 👇

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.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Holy WOW.

Like, you think you know how badly Kris's life sucks. Divorced parents, brother off to college, no friends, some strange higher power hijacking their body and going off on adventures without them... but hey, at least they're able to take some control back from us sometimes! At least they can go off and eat all the pie in peace! At least they can open a dark fountain in their home so they can spend more time with their cool friend Susie! Yay! I'm sure they're just leaving the door open for the cops to get in so they can save the day!

And then. AND THEN. Chapter 4... happens. And everything we thought we knew about Kris crumbles to dust before our very eyes.

Those snatched moments from the player? They weren't the triumphant grasp at freedom we thought, but another, yet more insidious layer of control that has been exerted upon them. Because for the end of Chapter 3 to have happened, a few things had to be prepared - the TV had to be plugged in, Susie had to come over, the tires had to be slashed so the police would be called, and the door had to be left open so that the Knight could gain entry - not the police, but The Roaring Knight. The Enemy.

And make no mistake - they didn't want to do ANY of it. Drinking in the Holidays' kitchen... the way their head turns whenever Susie or Noelle mentions them... Carol's ice-cold hand on their shoulder ("in the shadow of the Knight's hand")... do any of these things indicate Kris as a willing co-conspirator? Or rather, a child who has fallen into the clutches of a very manipulative - and very real - authority figure, who is being groomed and coerced into performing dangerous acts that threaten the lives of not just their friends, but their family, their town, and quite possibly the whole world?

We knew that Kris Dreemurr's life sucked before this. But we could never have anticipated just how badly it sucked, just how little control and agency they truly have, in any aspect of their life. This situation has been going on for MUCH longer than we've been around - you can tell that much from the birdcage. Their situation is so utterly, catastrophically FUCKED that death seems the most preferable outcome for them.

Remember Susie noting how Kris responds to Queen's offer to "Perish" with enthusiasm?

Remember the way they crumple onto the floor when Spamton NEO is about to kill them and take their SOUL, not even attempting to fight back?

Remember them whispering in Susie's ear in "the_newest_girl_girl"?

...yeah. It's THAT bad.

And you have to wonder... if we were never shunted into Kris's body... if we didn't literally FORCE Kris to move, to go to the dark world, to Fight and Spare enemies - to FORCE them to play at being a hero, in spite of their situation... What would have happened?

Would Kris even be alive now, if not for us?

[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.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So the recent reblog made me think, can I get a one shot where Reader is in love with Painter, and gets a chance to fix him since his document says the damage from his overclocking is repairable, but they have to wrestle with the idea of "what if the instability is what I love about painter? What if I fix him and he's so different we aren't really compatible anymore?"

I may have a fascination with "Being in love with someone but then they change for the better and are unrecognizable"

"You mean to tell me...they could have fixed me after all this time?"

"Yeah, but I doubt they would've told you that." You muttered as you tapped away on some computer, while Painter remained hooked up to some wires and cables on the nearby desk.

Running diagnostics on an 80s-styled computer who had the processors of a supercomputer was no simple task, but after checking his document and doing a great deal of research, you've finally gotten to the root of the problem and learned how fixable it was.

All you had to do was replace his hardware and personality drivers, which were fried and severely degredated due to his frequent overclocking attempts.

Ever since his owner was murdered by some stupid "AI prompters" at Urbanshade, he's been trying to basically kill himself--but they only cared because he was too valuable as a digital mining machine, giving him promises to revisit the surface every six days so he could paint as much as he wished.

Yet he had lost that passion, along with whatever "good" personality he may have had before all of this happened.

But by some miracle, you got him out of the blacksite.

During the Expendable protocol, they tasked you with destroying him due to the immense loss of life he caused thanks to Sebastian hooking him up to the NAVI system, enabling him to misguide operatives and gun down whoever he pleased with the turrets.

You had a different plan, though, and had them convinced you destroyed him--when in reality, Sebastian helped you smuggle him out and away from the blacksite in a box.

You had plans to quit Urbanshade after the lockdown, anyways, being one of the few survivors who knew fully well what Painter was capable of.

Not only that, but you were the only person who truly showed him sympathy over his loss.

You've scheduled interviews with him, which were really just excuses for you to talk with and get to know him better, wanting to understand what his owner was like and how badly he missed painting.

Most days, he was too depressed to talk, and even got angry and shut himself off when he believed you were trying to get inside his head.

Then one day, he turned over a new leaf and created another piece of art for you--something he hasn't put effort into for the longest time.

It was a beautiful valley. His ideal place to live, where he could see the clouds and the birds and the sky anytime he wanted to. Without Urbanshade telling him what to do and how long he could watch.

That image was mysteriously uploaded to your phone, but nobody in the company has questioned it, so you have it as your lockscreen.

Since then, he's warmed up to you a lot more. But he was still quite moody, his unstable drivers making it hard to predict his behavior from day to day.

That didn't deter you from wanting to spend more time with him, and as strange as it was...you felt drawn to the AI. You didn't like chatting with your coworkers as much, and even while in containment himself several months prior to the lockdown, Sebastian sarcastically asked if you were "in love" with Painter.

Your silence told him everything.

During the containment breach, you've seen Painter and overheard his voice on the intercoms he hijacked, gunning down people right before your eyes and luring Z-96 around the facility, although for some reason he never noticed you.

You feared he was too far gone in his newfound bloodlust, seeing all Urbanshade personnel as his enemies.

Still, you wanted to get him out of there and began working on a plan as soon as you were rescued.

After joining someone's expedition disguised as a prisoner, you stayed behind in the heavy containment unit where Painter's main body resided.

At first, he was annoyed and angry...until he recognized your face.

You managed to pull off the great heist when somebody finally got the crystal, taking advantage of the distractions to bring him to a remote location above the surface where Urbanshade couldn't track you.

Now you just had to fix what they've broken.

It didn't take long for Painter to figure out that you liked him, even after all the terror he's caused and he decided to accept your attempts at help.

While he couldn't exactly feel love like you could, he wanted to stay with you no matter what--and if that's what his version of saying "I love you back" was, then you were okay with that.

Now that he knew they could have reversed the damage this entire time, but simply chose not to...he believed this would be a good final "fuck you" to all of Urbanshade.

"If it's not too much to ask...I'd like a new body once all of this is said and done. With turret attachments to the arms, maybe?" Painter innocently asked. "Part of me misses commanding them and watching those poor saps scatter like rats. Hehehe.."

"Painter, you're not a war machine anymore." You turned away from your computer for a moment, frowning slightly. "I know all of that killing might've felt good. It might've felt justified, but..I thought you wanted to be passionate about art again."

".....then maybe turrets filled with paint will suffice." He grumbled, suddenly not looking all-that enthused. "I just HATE feeling so..confined. I've been relying on you too much." Then a sad face appeared on his screen. "I wanna protect you, in case those Urbanshade jerks do find us."

"We're perfectly safe here, I promise. Let's just figure out your hardware and personality stuff first. But I'll keep the robot body in mind."

Painter stayed quiet as you turned back to your task, his webcam zooming in and enhancing the screen you were on.

It was a bidding website, where he could see you looking for compatible hardware components. He had doubts you've find the same kind of technology his owner did when he was built, but...you had your ways.

You were once a huge tech wizard at Urbanshade, after all.

Once you found everything you needed, you could have easily ordered it right there and then, paying extra for the fast shipping....

Yet he saw your mouse lingering on the "order" button, and he frowned. He couldn't see your expression, so he didn't know what was going on or why you were hesitating. "What's wrong? Just order the parts."

"....Painter, something just occurred to me, and...I think we need to talk about it before moving forward with-"

"Nope. No, no, no. I don't wanna hear it right now. Can we save it until after you click that little button?" His voice grew more annoyed, and when you refused to do what he asked, he scowled. "Seriously? After everything we've done to get out of there, you're gonna pull this bull-?!"

"There's a high chance that if I replace your hardware and personality drivers, you won't be the same." You blurted out.

".....well, obviously." Painter scoffed, still not seeing the issue. "Isn't that what you wanted to do? To get rid of my homicidal tendencies? To make me forget the pain?? To revert me back to what I was meant to be?!"

"......."

It took him a few moments to analyze your saddened expression and understand why you seemed so concerned, but then he finally realized...

"Ohhh, I guess um....I haven't considered that.."

"You know what I'm talking about?"

"..you've only ever known me after Urbanshade snatched me up. That's when you first started feeling things for me." He spoke after a long pause. "You have no idea what I was like before. So you think we'll no longer be compatible if you go through with it. Is that right?"

"I know it sounds stupid and selfish. I can't revert Sebastian's mutations or undo all the suffering Eyefestation went through. But I know I can repair you. I have everything I need to do so." You sighed, wrestling with this huge moral dilemma as you glanced back at the screen. "I just....didn't think about this before. I don't know how much of you will really change, or if you'll even remember who I am."

"Jeez..that would kinda suck." He looked disappointed now, feeling guilty for snapping at you earlier. "I don't wanna forget the compassion you've shown me. And...I gotta remember at least some of Urbanshade, and what they took from me. You can't tweak my memory drives so that I can remember only certain things?"

"I wish it was that easy, but..it's not. I have to replace those components I mentioned, and I don't know how it'll affect your memory. This is pretty much an "all or nothing" procedure."

"Hm, well...I think it's worth trying. I'm trusting you with this, [y/n]. And you know I don't trust easily." He huffed, and you looked back at him, nodding your head. "Who knows? I might only forget about all those bloody murder sprees. Hehehe.."

"Maybe, but I'm sure I'll figure out something." You eventually decided, knowing that you had to repair him regardless. So you ordered the parts. "But you know...maybe we should get you some turret attachments. I snagged a blueprint of one."

"Aww, you love me enough to revisit the idea?"

"I love you enough to give you a means of self-defense, Painter."

"Urghh..alright. I promise they'll be reserved specifically for "self-defense"." He rolled his eyes, but then he smiled, glad that you were keeping your promise about fixing him.

Although considering it could completely alter his personality and even wipe his memories, he hopes that wouldn't become a serious problem.

[hauntedestheart]

Security Measures - Thievery

Entry 5 in the Security Measures series- the stories of a boy named Trevor as he attempts to protect his possession-prone boyfriend Andy from snatchers.

In case you haven't caught on, Andy being prone to having his body taken over at any given time is a massive problem, and while he tries to be brave about it, it's clear that he's never going to be able to live a normal life until we find some kind of solution. How is he going to function in the world when can be "snatched away" at any moment?

And that's presupposing that all of these snatches remain temporary. What if, someday, someone (or something) figures out how to make their stay permanent? This would effectively mean death, and what a strange and horrifying death it would be- to just disappear from your own life, no one the wiser because your stolen face keeps going without you.

Andy would be gone, and I'd be the only one who knew to mourn him.

It hasn't happened yet (it never will if I have anything to say about it) but that doesn't mean that people haven't given it their best shot. And the usage of "people" is intentional here, because the majority of attempts to outright steal Andy's body have come from humans. Most supernatural body snatchers aren't interested in settling down permanently and prefer to move on after they've had their fun; it's the people who get greedy and try to play for keeps.

Luckily, the hellscape that is the modern world makes it difficult to pull off a complete hijacking. It's not as simple as just taking the bus to a new city and going by a fake name- the last guy that tried that learned the hard way how hard it is to find a job without a valid ID. The only place that would take him was a sketchy strip club where he spent two weeks shaking his stolen ass and living in a motel before we found him... he made good tips (after all, he stole a really nice ass) but I think he was a little bit relieved when we swapped them back and he got to go home.

At the time of writing, the longest someone else has managed to stay in Andy's body was three and a half weeks, and they were the worst twenty five days of my life. I can't imagine they were much better for Andy either.

He was a wealthy guy, wealthy enough that the usual red tape that holds back other thieves wasn't much of a concern, and he was hopelessly in love with a girl who didn't want him back because she wasn't attracted to him... but she WAS attracted to Andy, and the story wrote itself from there.

Pretend you know nothing that I've told you and just look at the situation from an outside perspective: overnight, Andy just ditched school and everyone he knew to go live in some mansion as the live-in boy toy of an annoying rich girl, and suddenly started acting like a cocky narcissist. Unless you know that this is the behavior of a body snatching who's just gone from pasty white prep to buff black Adonis, you'd just think that Andy was an asshole.

We couldn't even lie about what was happening because the guy used some of his connections to land a bit of modeling work, shamelessly plastering his ill-gotten goods across magazine spreads and billboards so everyone knew about at the amazing new life "Andy" was living. But the worst part of it was having to watch him parade around with his new girlfriend... seeing swanning about kissing my boyfriend, hanging off of his arm, petting his chest… it turned my stomach.

I searched and searched for some sort of countermeasure that would free Andy, but I had no clue what the guy did and nothing I tried seemed to work. I became scared that I was really going to lose him this time, that he would never get to live his own life, and that it would be all my fault.

I did end up solving the problem, but not in the way you might think- I called the guy's mom, who was very upset to learn what her son was doing while away at college and she straightened him out real fast. We even got to keep some of the residuals from the modelling stuff, so we came out ahead.

(Sidebar: I discreetly followed the guy on social media and now that I'm thinking about it, he hasn't been active in a while. Meanwhile the girl he was seeing has a hot new boyfriend out of nowhere… maybe I need to give his mom another call.)

So I guess the lesson here for anyone else struggling with a difficult to overcome body snatching situation is to stay calm, and remain grounded. When your body is in flux, your head is your best asset- and don't forget that even supernatural problems can sometimes be solved with human solutions.

[milkteasweetheart]

『just like heaven, introduction』

this part contains the introduction.

housewardens x reader

author’s note: i depict nrc as an actual college, so first years are 18, second years 19, etc.

summary: crowley has the bright idea of a bonding experience, specifically in the form of a dream potion.

characters: riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia / platonic mentions: dire crowley (ew), grim

genre: romance, fluff, smidge of angst

warnings: female reader, reader is yuu, reader is around ace and deuce’s height, sappy, marriage, mentions of potential children, some suggestive themes

「introduction: dire crowley (derogatory)」

It’s not a very peaceful evening.

It started with Crowley’s bright idea of a bonding experience. That is, gather the students that overblotted (and the overworked, underpaid regular joe that got dragged into solving them) and spritz a potion that will make them see each others dreams. What kind of logic does this birdbrain operate on?

“It will help you understand each other, which will reduce conflict! And since I am oh so generous, I’ve already brewed the potion required for this occasion.”

(Y/N) had the strong feeling that Crowley just wanted to get rid of the problem of overblotting the easy way, instead of actually getting help for the housewardens (and Jamil).

When asked how it works, Crowley talked in circles to the point that it’ll be easier to just go with whatever bullshit he’s come up with instead of pulling teeth any further.

So, that leads to the Ramshackle’s lounge. Grim had willingly left to spend the night in Heartslabyul with (Y/N)’s best buddies, Ace and Deuce. “I don’t wanna hang out with those weirdos! I got better things to do!” She could only hope he’d behave for the sake of Trey.

The rocking chair and coffee table had been pushed away next to the walls to make room for the beds Malleus had kindly summoned. (Y/N) will definitely ask him if she could keep one. They’re very comfortable.

After making supper with the aid of Jamil (and Azul, who butted in, which caused Jamil to glare side-eye daggers at him) and Vil, who wanted to oversee the process to assure the food they made was healthy. Before embarking on this culinary mission, (Y/N) had tasked Riddle to distract Leona from picking a fight with Malleus so that Ramshackle could be spared for another day. Riddle had seemed excited for some reason, and took his mission seriously after giving a small, blushy nod. 

「Riddle: The prefect trusts me to keep peace. I won’t disappoint!」

The meal went by… strangely. Jamil and Azul kept slipping each other snide remarks, and so did Leona and Malleus. (Y/N) had long considered carrying around a spray bottle, and these people did not help the growing need for it. Idia wisely stayed out of it. His strategy to survive the night was to keep his mouth shut and avoid conversation with anyone else other than the prefect. When Riddle attempted to make conversation, Vil would change the subject. When Riddle eventually managed to hijack (Y/N)' attention, Vil looked at him with a freezing stare.

「Vil: Foolish ventriloquist doll potato. She's got better things to talk about.」

Despite the tension, Ramshackle had not fallen, and so the headmage descended upon them with a potion in a fancy perfume bottle.

“What are the ingredients in this, if I may ask?” Vil sensibly asked the incredibly suspicious headmage, who skillfully evaded the question with the command for the students to get comfortable.

Each of the overblotted students were confident that their dreams were not that bad. Sure, letting others see what they desired wasn’t ideal, but they can surely control what they’ll see, right? Right. 

[chrattenthusiast]

Hate - Matthew sturniolo pt2

Authors note: the last part was inspired by all i wanted - paramore !!!!

Warnings- choking, spitting and ofc sex😆

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The past week had been an agonizing descent into emotional chaos. Each day felt like a struggle to maintain composure as the memory of Matthew, the man you had vowed to hate, occupied every inch of my mind. Simple tasks became a challenge, as your thoughts were constantly hijacked by his presence, even in his absence. Desperate for a distraction, you convinced yourself that avoiding Matthew would be the solution, attempting to dodge him at every turn.

However, your well-intentioned strategy crumbled when Nick and Chris, refused to let you retreat into solitude. Dragged you against your will, they insisted on taking you to a random party, determined to shake you out of your self-imposed isolation. , you found yourself amidst a sea of strangers, the pounding music and swirling lights serving as a temporary escape from the last weekend how he knew every inch of your body, the way he pounded into you and how he always knew how to make you feel good.

Hey, are you listening?" The interruption jolted you back to the present, you replied with a forced, "Yeah, I am," masking the lie behind a half-hearted smile. My attention, however, was fixated on the man in front of me, who seemed oblivious to the fact that his words about his brand new car were falling on deaf ears. As he rambled on, his enthusiasm only fueled your growing irritation. The beer bottle in your hand became a tempting, makeshift weapon.

Glancing around the room, filled with sweaty bodies and the pungent scent of marijuana, you caught sight of Matthew. His gaze, like an invisible thread, connected with yours. His face contorted with a mixture of annoyance and anger as he witnessed the man boldly wrapping his arm around your waist. you couldn't help but smile, realizing that you were successfully getting under Matthew's skin. Testing your luck, you seized the opportunity to escalate the situation further, grabbing the man (whose name you had already forgotten) and planting a kiss on him. To your surprise, he didn't seem to mind; instead, his grip on your waist tightened.

Just as the tension reached its peak, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The man was forcefully shoved away from you as you turned to see Matthew, his eyes shooting daggers at the now bewildered intruder.

"Bro, what the fuck is your problem" the man exclaimed in confusion as Matt stepped forward menacingly.

"Don’t ever touch her again, unless you enjoy the comfort of a hospital bed." Matt warned with an intensity that sent a shiver down the man's spine.

Stammering, he offered a shaky apology, “I didn’t know she was spoken for”

What a fucking pussy, you thought

Interrupted mid-thought, you found yourself yanked away from the growing crowd that had formed around. Matt's grip on your arm was firm, and as he pulled you away, the chaotic scene behind faded into the background.

“Where are we going Matt” — your left unanswered as he pulls you towards the direction his car.

“Get in” he says bluntly

“No, I’m good” you say

You find yourself pushed against a car, sandwiched between the cold metal and the warmth of Matthew's body pressing against yours. His proximity was unnerving, yet strangely electrifying. "Get in the car, Y/N, or I swear to God, I will spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for days. You choose," he declared, his voice low and authoritative and of course you couldn't help but smirk at the unexpected threat.

"How chivalrous," you whispered, teasingly testing the boundaries. His response was immediate and filled with a kind of possessiveness you hadn't anticipated. "Only for you, sweetheart, although you seem to not get that. How many times do I need to fuck the shit out of you he began, his frustration evident, "before you understand that I do. not. want to see you with other men?"

“It sounds like you’re upset, aww matthew “ you say mockingly

“Did he really upset you?, Did you not like the way he was touching m-“ you’re instantly cut off when matt wraps his fingers around your neck slightly adding pressure

“Get in the backseat. Now” he whispers against your lips

Weird. Matt never acted impulsively. You instantly obey as his eyes showed a little desperation and you liked that. of course

You quickly slide into the back seat, with Matt following closely behind. Without delay, he seizes the back of your head, pulling you into a passionate kiss that feels both necessary and possessive. You have no complaints.

Tugging at your top in a demanding manner, you raise your hands, but instead, Matt forcefully tears your top in half, planting intense kisses all over your chest. Gripping your ankle, he pulls you into a reclined position.

Lifting your skirt without bothering to remove it, he slides down your panties and tucks them into his back pocket.

his fingers move through your slit back and forth inciting a moan from you, finding your clit he circles it. matt leans backward wanting a full view. wanting this moment engraved in his mind every time he thought of you. you move to palm him through his pants when he pins your hands on the seat. “ just be a good girl for me and sit back”

He inserts two fingers, his cool rings teasing your clit, creating a pleasurable friction. Your hips instinctively sync with his motions,

He tightens his grip around your neck. As he quickens the pace of his finger thrusts, you release another gasp of pleasure.

You try to hold in your sounds, trying to move away from his fingers he adds pressure to his grip around your neck. “where you tryna to go baby?, where’s that good girl that could take it all hmm”

“you were so confident a minute ago, yet you can’t handle my fingers,” he mocks

he decides to add a third finger, curling his fingers hitting that sweet spot he knew you loved.

“matt please “ you’re able to plead in the midst of your moans

“Isn't this what you wanted? I didn't give you enough attention, so you tried getting with someone who couldn’t even get you this wet” he says

you look down at how you were taking his fingers causing you to grow wetter, causing a small wet spot to the leathered seat

"Do you enjoy watching yourself?" he asks, and you respond with a soft whimper.

you’re about to hit that level of release, based on the lack of words being said by you. matt immediately pulls his fingers out earning a protest from you, which he ignores looking at you smugly he takes his fingers covered with your essence putting it to his mouth sucking off your juices he leans down connecting his lips with yours making you taste yourself.

“you taste that?, that’s all me. not him“ he reminds you

“if you wanna cum you’re gonna have to earn it, now take my pants off “ he says voice dripping with dominance

your shaky hands move to his belt unbuckling it. he takes a hold of the belt wrapping it around your wrist. you look at him confused sure it wasn’t unusual for matt to pull a stunt like this —but in public. with his brothers a street away from the both of you. gave you a rush of excitement

he takes of his boxers lining up with your entrance. he decides to tease you further. moving up your folds and without warning slams into you giving you harsh thrusts. giving you no leeway to adjust

you let out the loudest moan which he doesn’t stops. he likes this. he was always a fan of hearing how good HE made you feel

“that’s it, let it all out for me baby” he encouraged

“fuck you” you reply, Disliking how much influence he had on you, a feeling clearly rooted in the fear of experiencing heartbreak.

He clenches your jaw, making you open your mouth, then spits into it. "Swallow," he commands, and you comply, staring at him with lowered eyelashes.

“i know you can’t get enough of me, you’ll always come back to me. no matter how much you try to run away. you always come back. and i’ll make you see that “he replies to your insult.

Thrusting into your hips, he targets that familiar sweet spot, causing your eyes to roll back. His hand travels toward your throat, fully enclosing it. He maintains a firm grip, allowing just enough air for you to breathe, and you moan under the pressure. However, you find yourself struggling to breathe a little.

“ look at me” he says, and you oblige

“there is no one who could ever make you feel like this. i won’t share you with anyone else.”

"Yes, Matt," you cry out, tears welling in your eyes. He gently wipes them away as you continue to gaze at him, your hands clutching the ones he has wrapped around your neck.

“ you wanna breathe?“ he says adding more pressure but making sure he wasn’t inflicting harm onto you

“please ” you beg

“come on this dick if you wanna breathe baby” he says

His fingers rubbed against your clit, bringing you closer to your release, not slowing down his movements, the only intention in his mind was to make you cum. He lifted your legs and placed them on his shoulders, wanting to feel you deeper

Leading to a loss of focus as additional tears flowed down your face.

You're under his influence, absorbing all he provides, making sure to maintain eye contact—aware of his fondness for it, yet fearing he might stop if you looked away. Yet, you found appeal in the peculiar way he gazed at you.

Closing in on your face, he eliminates any personal space between you, driven solely by the desire to prevent your escape from him. Your eyes lock onto the silver metal wrapped around his neck, lightly brushing your face —making your walls squeeze around him tighter.

“ you got this baby, just a little longer for me yeah ”he encourages

his words giving you some sort of confidence you move your hips to meet his rythym aching for that release you were denied earlier. the car slowly moving with the bucking of your hips. and filled with the grunts matt made.

he leans down his lips meet yours, matt abandons your clit, one hand still wrapped around your neck his fingers graze your lower stomach pushing slightly feeling where he was buried deep. a silent laugh escapes his lips “ you feel that don’t you sweetheart do you see how well you’re taking every inch” he mocks clearly still mad over the recent events that took place earlier

“i just did that to make you mad, i don’t want him matt “ you choke out using your limited oxygen to pled your case

“say it then, tell me that you want me and no one else “ he replies

“ i want you and no one else matt” you pled. truth laced with every word that left your mouth

“come for me “ and you do instantly releasing all over his shaft clutching onto his tatted arm. he immediately release his hand that was wrapped around your neck and you take big breath. filling your lungs with oxygen.

he gripped onto your hips, pulling you impossibly close as he comes inside you. subconsciously mimicking your habit in seeking comfort from you as well.

“are you okay.” he asks staring at your neck that had imprints of his fingers. slight guilt washing over him fearful that he might’ve pushed you passed your boundaries.

“i’m okay matt” you scratch his scalp gently to reassure him that you were okay.

A hush envelops both of you, uncertainty filling the air. Neither of you knows what to say next. After months of mutual disdain, you both finally confessed to liking each other.

After minutes of mutual silence, with your eyes lowered and bodies still connected, Matt, buried in your embrace, finally summons the courage to speak. "Did you mean what you said?" he asks.

His words quicken your heart, and as you attempt to lift from under him, he holds you firmly in place.

"Please don't walk away from me.", he manages to say, still catching his breath,

You gaze at him, releasing your grip on his tousled hair, Unable to think coherently.

"You're joking, right? I mean, we hate each other, Matt," you say, aware that your words are a lie. Beneath all the arguing and name-calling, you love him. Yet, you're foolish enough to let fear cloud your judgment.

"please don’t lie to me “ he says

"I'll be straightforward since you're stubborn. You don't want to see me with other people, and neither do I," he says, his voice resonating with honesty.

"So, cut the bullshit and let me be the man you deserve. If you don't want that, I understand. Just please have the balls to tell me, and I'll leave you alone," he says, loosening his grip on your waist.

Testing the waters, you move, and he doesn't stop you. The unspoken tension hangs in the air, awaiting the resolution that could redefine their dynamic.

Allowing him to withdraw, you grimace slightly at the sensitivity. As Matt moves away, defeated, you stare back at him, your heart still pounding from his confession. Despite the tumultuous nature of your relationship, you halt yourself from self-destruction, reluctant to spoil another delicate aspect of your connection with Matt—though delicate might not be the perfect term to describe it.

Gently cradling Matt's face like a fragile porcelain mask, your hands trembling with fear of causing harm. In a tender moment, you press a soft kiss to his lips. That simple gesture speaks volumes, conveying your unspoken desire for him. In that shared intimacy, Matt understands, and what you wanted becomes clear – him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

@mangosrar @mattsd0ll @christinarowie332 @loveesiren @cabincorematt

[a-mage-ing]

for new years i decided to treat myself by re-reading the fullmetal alchemist manga. so far i've finished the first few volumes. lately i've been more familiar with brotherhood, so it was refreshing to visit sections of the story that i hadn't seen for a few years!

but there was something that i noticed about volumes one and two that really intruiged me about arakawa's pacing and storytelling.

in brotherhood, before we even make it to liore- the setting for page and chapter one of the manga- we are immediatly introduced to the how's and why's of ed and al. we see what they attempted, how it shaped them and propels them and hinders them.

in the manga, we know far less about the elric brothers. we know that they are a strange pair, we quickly learn that they are scientists holding strong values. we then learn alongside rose, of the consequences of meddling with death and the world's natural order. we know that ed is down two limbs, and that al has been reduced to a soul in a suit of armour.

following these revelations we get to see the skill of ed and al- how they are cunning, intelligent, and martially strong beyond their academic intelligence. we see three concecutive showcases of their skill with liore, youswell, and the hijacked train. the first volume builds up the skill and power of our protagonists with three wins in a row. and like the people of amestris, we see the elric brothers as mysterious figures of inelligence, strong principles, and power.

and then volume two takes this version of the elrics that the first volume had built up, only to knock it down immediatly. we see them fail, see the limits to their abilities. we see these two boys break. they play and bond with a young girl, only to have her disfigured and murdered beneath their noses by the alchemy that they practice and believe in. and its then that we have hawkeye point out what the audience, the military, and amestris have been ignorant to in the face of ed and al's accomplishments and talents.

they are children. children with great burdens who have hoisted the world onto their shoulders. children that are hurting and in pain.

i think that the scar encounter that follows works so well because we have seen the brothers at a high and a low. they're human now, to the audience. fallible.

an integral theme of fullmetal alchemist is the hubris of man. the consequences of thinking yourself above god. for a story about science, it seems quite biblical.

volume one of fullmetal alchemist builds these brothers up- like some sort of celestial beings- while volume two humanizes them, and sends them crashing down to earth.

[yuesya]

Suguru frowns. 

“Gakuganji-gakucho. What do you think you’re doing?” In front of him, the aged principal of the Kyoto jujutsu school tenses. And for good reason –the ire of a Special Grade sorcerer is not something to take lightly, and Suguru does not appreciate the old man attempting to kill Yaga. Who was looking rather decidedly beaten and battered at the moment; if Suguru hadn’t arrived just in the nick of time, then he’d be dead. 

Just the thought of it sends a cold chill down his spine.

“… What are you doing here, Geto?” 

Suguru pauses. His old teacher’s voice is… strange. And not strange as in ‘surprised,’ which would only be reasonable given that Suguru had pretty much suddenly appeared out of thin air here, after solving the puzzle of that complex eightfold imprisoning barrier he’d been trapped in. He hadn’t expected there to be a teleportation mechanism built into the exit, either.

No, Yaga-gakucho’s voice sounds hostile towards him, which makes absolutely no sense. Also, ‘Geto?’ Why is Yaga-gakucho calling him ‘Geto’ and not ‘Suguru’ as he usually does? Why does he look at Suguru as if he’s an enemy? He’d literally just saved his life!

“What do you mean, ‘why are you here?’” Suguru gives his old teacher an unimpressed look. “I’m one of your teachers, where else would I be? Satoru would’ve driven you up the wall a long time ago if I wasn’t here to rein him in.”

Silence. The look that Yaga-gakucho gives him –Suguru can’t quite put his finger on it, but something about it feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

“What’s your angle here?” Yaga-gakucho scowls. “Stop lying. We know what you did at Shibuya! How long are you going to play obtuse?”

Suguru rears back, startled by the vehemence in the older man’s voice. But at the same time, “What do you mean, Shibuya? I’ve been in America for the past two weeks! You were the one who handed the assignment to me!”

“What?”

“What?”

Another silence. This one is much more awkward than the previous, however, and also blatantly ringed with confusion for all parties involved. Even Gakuganji-gakucho.

... It takes awhile to sort things out. Apparently, Suguru hadn’t just teleported back to Japan when he’d solved that puzzle barrier. He’d been fucking teleported to a parallel reality, and the sheer sideways angle of everything here was absolutely mind-boggling. Firstly, he was apparently dead –but also not, because some thousand year-old curse user had hijacked his corpse? Also, the Geto Suguru of this world had gone off his rocker as a third year student and intended to massacre all non-sorcerers in the world in order to create a world without curses, which, just. What??

“Why would they ever do that?” he asks, completely flabbergasted… and just a touch morbidly curious.

Because Amanai had died. Which had then led to the Suguru of this world questioning the worth of non-sorcerers and the purpose of sorcerers –and then, madness.

… In what world was that possible? Zenin Toji had gotten past the terrifying combination of Satoru and Shiki? How?

Suguru frowns pensively. “Amanai Riko is the teacher for second year students in my world. After the mission in our second year, she rejected the merger at the end, and the Tokyo school accepted her as a new student. She traveled with Tsukumo-san for a few years after graduating, then came back to take up a teaching post.”

“I… see.” There’s a complicated note in Yaga-gakucho’s voice, accompanied by something else that’s just slightly wistful. Clearly, he had his own regrets over how that mission to protect the Star Plasma Vessel went in this world. 

Suguru rubs at his forehead. This world… things are currently an utter mess. And Satoru and Shiki were sealed? How? It boggled the mind –Satoru alone was already unstoppable, and together with his sister the two were invincible. Or at least, the closest approximation to invincible that there was. However, from another perspective, it also painted the current situation in a grim light. They were really in some dire straits.

Good thing that Suguru was here to help, and hopefully he’d also be able to find a way back to his own reality where everything made sense, at the end of this mess.

“You know the students are probably going to attack you on sight, right?”

Suguru waves his hand, “It’ll be fine, Yaga-gakucho. I’m a teacher, I can deal with a few enthusiastic students.”

[vicky82gargoylesfan]

Thunderbirds Rewatch 3rd Week

@thunderversary-rewatch-party

Fireflash

This episode pays homage to the Trapped in the Sky episode from the original series.

The Hood hijacks the plane to get the new engines.

I assuming this is supposed to be Heathrow.

I assume Kayo was in London visiting her Father.

Poor Kayo who has to sit next to Bernard Bottomsly, who's trying to flirt with her.

If you think about it, this is quite a violent episode, with Kayo throwing stuff and hitting the Hood, he's trying to hit her. At the end of the fight, Kayo does hit him and he hits her back. Yeah an Uncle who hits his Niece.

As usual the Hood leaves in a escape pod, leaving Kayo and the other people on the plane to die

.Virgil, Gordon and Alan arrive just in time, this this the first time we see Alan inside Thunderbird 2.

Alan and Gordon use the elevator cars to help land the plane. pretty cool moment by using the music from the old series.

The plan failed as Fireflash could of crushed Alan and Gordon and Kayo didn't want to risk losing there lives.

I thought this was pretty cool shot

Kayo is about to pour her heart out.

Luckily Virgil comes in with last second save.

Unplugged

Great episode, I love that Grandma Tracy is involved in this episode. I also love Virgil and Grandma are pretty close.

The Hood uses the group called the Luddites, to take out the power so they could open some big safe and take this codex device.

Grumpy Grandma.

Traffic in London doesn't change much in 35 years.

"You can't park there mate" kidding, Virgil did well getting Thunderbird 2 down and without power

Grandma giving Virgil a lot of encouragement was pretty cool.

Virgil is correct that a lot of people could be dyeing due to no power. If you seen X-Men 97, Magneto took out the power of the whole world, killing millions.

So I wonder how many people died from this.

This is a lovely moment between Virgil and Grandma, talking about Grandpa Tracy.

Parker saves the day and does the old switcheroo.

Trapped in the Sky

This had a different story to the TAG episode Fireflash. In this version, The Hood plants a bomb on Fireflash so he could take photos of Thunderbird 1. This certainly wouldn't have worked in the TAG version.

The Hood has mind control powers and tries to control Kyrano by giving secrets about International Rescue. Kyrano seems to be in a lot of pain.

A few scenes later Kyrano says he's fine and it was only a dizzy spell!! That was some dizzy spell!!!!

If anyone has listened to the latest audio stories, The Tracy's do actually find out that it was Hood doing this.

Fireflash has a strange seating layout.

Apparently you can smoke on planes again in the 2060s, LOL. I know that they try to edit out the smoking but they have still kept some in because Lady Penelope was smoking in her car later.

And apparently there are 600 people aboard this flight.

This was a strange rescue attempt (not by the Tracys)

It obviously failed as when the bloke got into the Fireflash, the door was still open and he ends up falling, he survived by using his parachute but anyway they could shut that trap door.

Thunderbird 1 arrives and demands that his craft needs to be protected as they didn't want people taking photos of it.

This certainly wouldn't have worked in TAG because we now mobile phones with camera's on them, CCTV camera's, social media ect.

Virgil arrives and bring out the elevator cars, the third one has a fault but is cleared but Virgil didn't even know what the fault was. It later fails and crashes into another plane, so Virgil gets a 4th one out. So if that happened in TAG and Virgil didn't know what the fault was, he wouldn't have risked using that elevator car and replaced it with a new one.

Wow, The M1 is very quiet.

Lady Penelope and Parker, make sure there is no 1 around (they are still on the M1 by the way) and they shoot at him and blow him up but they don't stick around to see if he survived.

Apparently we going back to using camera films in the 2060s, LOL

Oh hello, Alan and Kayo, I mean Tin Tin, getting a bit cosy there.

She got back home quick, did she hitch a ride on TB2 or something.

I love the fact Jeff doesn't change the photos while the Doctor was already here. You think he would of done it before he got to the Island.

LOL, they took a photo of Virgil with a cigarette in his hand.

I can't remember if all the Tracy's smoked but it be hilarious if they vaped instead of smoking.

Apparently the Doctor said Kyrano is fine, just a dizzy spell, so no MRI, CT scan or any other tests.

[freezerbnuuy]

Some Strangerville plant lore from a previous archived project:

The plants possess a powerful neurotoxin which is contained in its spores and fruits. It sends its victims into a paranoid and sometimes-aggressive frenzy. The infected gain a desire to protect the plants. The plants also try to grow within the body, leading often to coughing up or vomiting plant parts (not nice) and also increased water intake. The seeds disperse in different places either due to the wind carrying the spores or by infected animal faeces that carries either partially-grown plants, spores or seeds.

In humans, the neurotoxin-induced behaviours can come out in strange ways, hence their talk of the 'Mother' (in said project, the Mother plant wasn't a thing) almost as if their brains register protective instinct with something peculiar and almost familial.

Eventually, their muscles stiffen (attempts to explain the weird walk and the big grin in-game) until they eventually die from cessation of heart functions. With animals (and sometimes unfortunate humans) the decaying remains release seeds and potentially spores of the plants, or any partially-grown plants within the body may manage to take root within the ground. And the cycle begins anew. Yay!

This is partially based on a certain kind of parasitoid wasp and the way it infects a kind of caterpillar (some infect certain species and others aren't fussy, iirc); once the larvae burst from the caterpillar, it will spin a silk cocoon around them and then basically defend them until it dies. It's sometimes described as them being 'zombified'. The linked article also mentions something 'hijacking the immune system' which is another element of how these plants and spores manage to remain inside of a Sim or animal's body. I know it's not scientifically accurate and I couldn't give less of a toss, it's Sims, but it's a fun piece of lore and I find parasites and similar organisms super interesting, which is a part of why I love Strangerville so much - that and losing control of oneself due to some kind of possession of sorts is also a fun and creepy thing.

[irkendogma]

tak is the main antagonist for this crossover fic im writing and due to the lack of canon content beyond literally that one episode and some of etf, sometimes i worry im not doing her any justice or it’s too ooc. what do you think would be the best way to write tak in your opinion? (if you happen to have any advice on the matter. just wondering! byeeee💃)

i'm genuinely so relieved at the specification of "in your opinion" because i have such a strange long-lasting attachment to tak that i think i would second-guess my thoughts on her in an objective vacuum to the point of just saying "she should be purple". but as it is i now have the freedom to go stupid crazy about it

i think there's a number of crucial elements to tak, but i think the one that people miss most in writing her is that she isn't just meant to be a more competent counterpart to zim - she's a direct parallel in terms of her ego, motivation, and backstory (the latter particularly as a result of treatment by irken society)

like zim, tak has an enormous ego and an audacity that places herself above anyone else, even the empire itself (see: her custom invader insignia. that's like drawing a crucifix but substituting yourself for jesus after being refused by the church), and like zim, in spite of her disregard for the empire's rulings she's striving for recognition both by it and within it (to quote her: "the plan i have in store for this nasty rock will so impress the tallest that they'll have no choice but to make me an invader"). the same way zim "quit being banished", tak "escaped" from the janitorial squad she was placed under as a stopgap job until the next elite test in seventy years

i've seen some people write her as tall, but in my opinion her being only very, very slightly taller than zim is not just a stylistic choice but an essential part of her character that draws her backstory together: technically that janitorial job wasn't even a punishment, it was just deemed the most suitable position for her in the absence of official imperial proof that she was capable of anything "better" or "higher" that would've been afforded to a taller more easily

that she made it so far in the elite course at all in spite of her height gives context and precedent to the competence and sheer refusal to admit defeat she exhibits in her attempt to destroy earth, a planet she initially believes is already undergoing an officially-sanctioned invasion judging from how bitterly she tells zim about what should've been "rightfully hers", down to specifically mentioning the great assigning - loops back to her audacity, in that she has zimlike degrees of ego regardless of how hard the circumstances logistically are aligned to stomp her back down (see again her quote where she confidently states her plan to hijack an official invasion will impress the tallest to the point they won't mind her flagrantly flaunting the rules). she would've spent so much of her life striving to meet her own exceedingly high expectations, not the exceedingly low ones assumed of someone her height, that this likely isn't far from her standard procedure of "show them i can do it better than the rules say"

what sets her apart from zim, i think, is in how much she's allowed herself to let those miserable expectations get to her and leave her pettier, more vindictive, less grandstanding speeches like zim than showing off everything she's capable of as often as possible, no matter how necessary (ALL the stupid parkour she does for no reason) - which i think is admittedly less her fault than partially being the result of her having actually experienced her confidence failing her when the entire future she'd set up for herself was pulled out from underneath her

unlike zim, who experiences failure regularly but never has it truly sink in, tak had the entirety of her progress wiped off the board in a single moment as a result of circumstances entirely beyond her control: i think a large part of the reason she resents zim so deeply and sincerely isn't solely because of the practical consequences of her missing her test (though it is in no way insignificant to it) but because he was the one who broke her streak - he was the one who made her brutally aware that no matter how she built herself up, no matter what proof she offered, she could still fail and be crushed into exactly the nobody she was expected to be

and she just cannot abide that, no matter what, because even if the memory of helplessness and humiliation will never go away (not that she'd acknowledge it wouldn't), if she can make him hurt the same way maybe that will give back to her some of the power and control over her life and her identity that she lost in losing her potential status as a real, sanctioned invader

also, i do think she should be purple. she seems to have a great attachment to aesthetics and individual style, given her custom pseudo-elite uniform (which we see her wearing even in training, on her test day), the fact she designed and programmed her hologram specifically to have the distinguishing marking of a beauty spot in the same place she has one on her actual face, and her penchant for making nearly every damn piece of her tech purple some way (minus mimi, who while being her own bootleg SIR unit still follows the same red color scheme as a functional one) - even the cockpit of the spittle runner she pilots is initially purple before it's ejected as an escape pod, and the magma pump's interior looks like this:

girl likes giving things her own little touches whether that's in terms of her trademark color, her near-blasphemous custom imperial logo, or her doing a tactical slide between bars of a railing instead of just stepping normally onto the floor

[communist-ojou-sama]

as someone who only knows blue archive from art and toki's wiki page (after being lured in by her eyes and hair vents), i genuinely am very curious about your thoughts on himari-toki-rio!

Oh thank u thank u! As a disclaimer I don't actually olay the game :p I've just watched videos of all the main story arcs, but theres a whole lot that I like about the deeply strange relationship those three have going on.

So for a bit of story summary, in chapter 2 of the main story Rio is the main antagonist, kidnapping the girl around which the story revolves because while she doesn't know it, the girl in question is a biomechanical superweapon and the princess of the nameless priests who want to bring an end to the world as we know it, and she wants to destroy this girl before she can realize that destiny.

In order to do so she has apparently built an entirely new city under the existing city in which the story takes place, enlisting entirely robot labor without the knowledge of the General Student Council of the city, with Toki, her personal maid, as her sole confidant. But Rio's secretiveness and overconfidence backfire. When she attempts to put Aris, the princess in question in a machine she built to destroy her, the second personality within Aris is able to hack into the control system and seize control of the entire mechanical city, threatening to turn it into a staging ground for the very invasion Rio was aiming to prevent. But before that happens, Rio uses her automated security systems to slow the protagonists down, and Toki goes out all on her own to fight the entire main cast, in a bespoke mech that Rio designed and had constructed for her, and fights against the protagonists to the bitter end to buy time for Rio. (Sorry this is all necessary context)

So Himari, on the other hand, is on the protagonist side, she's the only person at Millenium academy who's acknowledged as Rio's intellectual equal, but she's got the exact opposite personality to Rio's cold, calculating, conservative approach. She's totally confident that the threat inside of Aris can be neutralized and fights to save her, and it's her hacking skills that allow the main cast to defeat the nameless priests when they hijack the city.

In the aftermath of this event, Rio disappears into hiding, not even telling Toki where she's going or taking Toki with her, and so with nowhere else to go Toki begins working under Himari instead.

Himari and Rio are long-standing rivals who disagree about everything but have grudging respect for one another's intellect and talent, which is fun on its own, but going by minor appsreances from Rio (via surveillance drone, shes still in hiding) imply that she's genuinely very sorry about what she's done, and theres a scene much later where Himari rips into Rio for abandoning Toki after all the girl has done for her.

ALL OF THAT SAID

Whats really making me ill is a prospective day when Rio finally returns, how will Toki react? And how will Himari react to that reaction? Will Toki immediately accept Rio's apology and return right away to Rio's right hand? And if she does how would Himari feel? Would she beg her not to go? Would she plead to her to remember how shed been betrayed, to no avail?

Or the contrary? What if Toki's so hurt that she's not willing to associate with Rio right away? Due to some things I don't wanna get into Himari's attitude toward Rio has softened, and I'm not unconvinced Himari doesn't have feelings for Rio herself, is that why she got so angry on Toki's behalf, because she felt abandoned too? The more I think about it the sicker I get

[dykevanny]

Do you have any hcs abt indigo and gregory post game you wanna share? I just think they're neat VHDHV

ohh big time. But before that I’ve gotta talk about how they met.

You see in a panicked state, knowing malhare would kick her to the arcade game, vanessa left a very ominous text to indigo stating that something terrible would happen and vanessa can’t stop it, bla bla bla. However it was indigo’s day off! In fact she was hanging out with louis and cat knitting strange contraptions, so indigo only saw it halfway through the night, and busted ass to get to the plex like ASAP however she was a bit late, and malhare was already in total control of Vanessa’s body. indigo spent a while looking around and eventually bumped into freddy! Great news! She goes up to greet him, asking what’s been going on and why the plex is suddenly crazy town, but then overhears… a small voice from inside his stomach hatch? so she meets gregory, who is intimidated at first because WHO is this whole other adult is she going to attempt murder on me too. Turns out no! This is freddy’s human BFF and she’s here to help! Indigo wants to keep this kid safe, but is very impressed at his apparent mastery over robotics. Gregory is still a bit wary but is willing to trust indigo.

postgame is. Well they all got out of the plex. Gregory and Ness enlisted Indigo’s help to modify a helpy doll for Freddy’s new portable body. Gregory and Indigo also work on stuff together, just making basic little robots since Greg shows a lot of interest and Indigo wants to help him learn about stuff he’s interested in :] they def got a lot closer. Doesn’t mean Greg isn’t above teasing her and ness though lol.

in fact they bully each other a lot<3 jokingly ofc but still

Indigo is also Cassie’s older cousin though. Post-elevator ending Gregory is going to have a lot of guilt over not being able to get Cassie out of there, oh god what happened the radio signal was hijacked, he doesn’t know if she’s even alive, aghhh. Indigo ofc doesn’t blame him though, she knows Gregory was Cassie’s best friend.

Also they both share a love for the color blue and i think gregory respects indigo’s dedication to the color a lot.

she def acts like a whimsical aunt to him i think. Sometimes picking him up from school if ness is busy, jokingly making fun of him a little, you know.

Also i think while indigo is fantastic with actually building machines and keeping them running coding isn’t really her strong suit, so. They can learn from each other :]

[gale-gentlepenguin]

(monologue game)

In the middle of a crisis, a strange power affects every single person in the world, heroes, villains, government's people, armies, all of them. Bombs are falling like raindrops, the world is doom and the only thing the people can do is watch. The only ones not affected by this where a villain and a heroine. The villain, who never took a civilian's live, and all his attacks were in order to make the heroine strong enough to save the world without her knowing. And the heroine, stronger than before, still not knowing why this villain, her nemesis, always stood up for her, not sure why she was always thinking of him, and couldn't get herself to hate him. Both sitting at the edge of a skyscraper, trying to make sense to anything between them and knowing that the end is coming as the sun comes down. But our villain knowing that soon, time will be returned and all this nightmare will be erased from everyone's memories, including them.

(Oooh, very specific. Let’s give it a go.)

“Is this really how it ends?” The heroine’s voice holding back the despair she felt.

The villain knew all too well. There was probably no one on earth that knew her better. He could see her sorrow, her pain. She sees the end.

“Skybright.” The villain spoke bee name calmly.

She turned to him.

“Since this is the end, do you want to ask me anything?”

Skybright looked at the villain in confusion.

“Are you serious right now?! The world is ending and the only thing the self proclaimed Genius, Darkmind can do is get narcissistic.”

Darkmind ignored her comment.

“Both you and I know that there is nothing we can do, I simply figured we could… make peace with eachother I suppose.”

Skybright was taken aback by the comment, but she could tell he was being genuine. And considering they maybe had 10 minutes at best until the world ended. Might as well.

“Okay then… why did you become a villain? You never attack civilians, and the most evil thing you do is like Rob banks or hijack robots. It always felt more like… a game rather than you being evil. Was it boredom?”

Darkmind took a second to process her comment. It seemed she was more aware than he expected.

“Do you really want to know why I became your nemesis?”

Skybright noticed that Darkmind was not even slightly boastful or arrogant. He seemed so sincere.

“Yes.”

“I was there the day you got your powers.”

Skybright didn’t say a word, only listening.

“The Miracle machine created by Professor Placebo that gave you your powers. The machine was supposed to be given to me. I had messed with the machine in an attempt to give myself powers… but you pushed me out of the way because you believed it would hurt me.”

Skybright’s eyes went wide.

“I was angry, furious that my plan to become the greatest hero was stopped by a goody two shoes cheerleader… but then I realized. You risked your life trying to save me. You, a total stranger saved me. It was then I realized that you were meant to have the powers, you were a true hero. But unlike me who had an awareness of the abilities and knew what its full capabilities would be… you needed a way to learn them.”

Darkmind looked out to the world below.

“I originally tried to talk with you, teach you the stuff from my knowledge… but I was a friendless geek and you were a busy popular overachiever. It was impossible to reach you. So… I decided to go another direction.”

Skybright couldn’t believe it.

“So you’re saying you became a villain… to help me.”

“I became the nemesis that pushed you to be the best hero you could be. And now, I’m going to help you fix this mess.”

Darkmind took her hand.

“Know that you are truly an amazing hero.”

“Darkmind… what are you…”

He touched her with a bracelet that drained her of all her energy. Causing her to lose conciousness

The bracelet began glowing.

“Now to go back and stop this from ever happening.”

He saw her resting peacefully and sighed.

“You really did become a better hero than I ever could have been. I’m glad you did show up that day. I wanted to make a great hero, and you helped me realize that dream. Skybright, always continue fighting the good fight.

He took the bracelet and put it on his own arm.

“Time to fix this.”

__________________________________

Skybright shot up awake. She was sleeping in her bed.

“Whoa… my head is killing me.”

She had the weirdest dream, that she had some sort of heart to heart with her nemesis as the world was ending. It felt so weird yet familiar. She couldn’t remember his words. But it was all just a dream and it hardly mattered.

Her phone beeped. It was a news alert.

Darkmind had hijacked the robotics institute again

“He never learns.”

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 3 replay, recruiting Javik:

-Prothean Data Discs – Apparently dark matter is meant to be the Crucible’s main power source.

Nice attempt on Bioware’s part to give dark matter some relevance, but this is not nearly important enough for all the ME2 foreshadowing.

Maybe if we’d encountered problems with using the dark matter that required efforts on Shepard’s part to solve this could have cut it.

-This playthrough I’ll be taking Liara and Javik with me as companions, so it’s off to go recruit him.

I haven’t taken Javik with me since my first playthrough, so this should be interesting.

-With that said, I dislike how Liara is forced upon you for this mission. There’s no reason you should have to take her.

Yes, yes, Prothean expert but you don’t have to take her to Noveria and that’s to deal her mother so you should not have to take her here either. This isn’t a loyalty mission.

-It’s strange that Liara speaks so nostalgically about Eden Prime being where this all began on the shuttle ride when she wasn’t there. She was picked up much later on Therum

-When you land on Eden Prime there’s a brief conversation about the geth attack and rebuilding.

There’s another rare reference to Shepard’s background here – Midnoir was rebuilt but it was never the same.

-Cerberus is stealing the colonists for processing because of course they are.

-How did Cerberus find Javik anyway and not the Alliance?

I doubt Cerberus sponsored the archaeological dig. At least not under that name.

I suppose they could have had Cerberus agents on the dig and swooped in when a prothean pod was unearthed.

-Also odd that the Reapers don’t show up. You think they’d consider this important.

If you take the angle that Cerberus is working for the Reapers because TIM is indoctrinated as hell, it makes more sense. They know Cerberus has this covered.

-Javik’s presence is very well done. It’s a natural extension of ME1’s Illos; if one Prothean facility could have stasis pods, why not another?

Although Illos’s ran out of power within a few centuries. I’m curious how Javik’s managed to last so much longer.

It’s possible there are more scattered across the stars, although if they have any survivors left at this point is debatable.

-Liara has a very rosy eyed perspective on the Prothean empire considering what we learn later.

As she says, it may be her asari bias showing.

I also wonder how much the empire changed over time. Javik is from the tail end of the empire; it’s possible that earlier on it was more akin to what Liara describes.

There may also have been different factions, with some more benevolent than others.

-Vanguard, Liara, and James are not a great choice for this mission. I can’t handle shields so turrets are deadly as hell.

-The nature of people never changes. Shout out to the locked trailer with the windows wide open.

-As others may have mentioned, why were guys gunned down watching the game wearing armor?

-Same set of tvs also have an ad for Sanctuary.

People must realize that the Reapers are also seeing these ads, right? There’s no way they don’t know about Sanctuary.

-Javik is clearly the Shepard of his cycle. One who’s lost hope and gone full renegade. Watching him comfort civilians and do his best to save his soldiers is sad.

-That’s the first time I’ve ever hijacked an atlas mech, and since it’s the last combatant I can’t even use it.

-Javik only survived because of Reaper arrogance. If they had been more thorough in making sure Eden Prime was destroyed, he’d be dead as well.

-The conversation with Hackett is a good example of my issues with ME3. I have no dialogue choices in it. Shepard feels far less like “my” Shepard and more like the character Bioware wants them to be.

-Javik’s not actually that helpful. Good squad mate and lore source, but he does not fundamentally change the plot.

Ironically, he’d be more helpful as a war asset.

-It sure is convenient that the room has already been adapted for Javik’s comfort.

This ship was to be Anderson’s mobile command center. What was the purpose of a room with a cradle of water going to be? Or did Liara request the changes be made as a shuttle was sent to collect them off of Eden Prime?

-Another example of I suspect unconscious sexism on Bioware’s part:

The fours soldier in the room with Javik when you first speak to him on the Normandy are male.

Javik himself is male. Or at least male presenting. I don’t think we ever get an overview of Prothean sex and gender.

Shepard can be male or female depending on the player’s choice.

Liara is read as female by humans, although she’s technically agender.

So this scene can play out with six men in the room and one woman.

When Bioware doesn’t think about it they default to “male”. If someone had gone through and made sure roughly half of the background NPCs were female throughout the game, these types of scenes would not feel as unbalanced.

Did anyone ever even consider making Javik female?

-Was Javik always the avatar of vengeance or did he decide upon that after waking up 50,000 years in the future?

I suspect the latter.

-Javik says his sensory ability was common among his people.

Common, not universal. I wonder how those without it were treated? The Protheans do not seem to kindest civilization.

-In Prothean history, they had a machine rebellion. They united the organics to fight it. They were winning the war when the Reapers showed up.

Hmmm. Did the Metacon War trigger the Reapers arrival? If so, why delay long enough for the Protheans to unite the other organic species against them?

And is there a Reaper out there that was made of uploaded Metacons?

-Javik says the Protheans could not win because all organics had been unified to follow Prothean doctrine, and once Reapers had adapted to it the organics were screwed.

This cycle may have an edge because of its diversity.

That will be a theme throughout the game, so good on Bioware to mention it so early.

-This is the conversation where Javik mentions that the Protheans had cities on Illos. Or rather, rumors – records mentioning Illos had already been destroyed by that point. The planet also contained ruins of a prior civilization, the Inusannon.