#I failed normalcy challenge

[arandomeroacher]

Thorne the Merchant from The One Within the Villainess hits different I love him so much he is brilliant please he is perfect and HIS HANDS HIS PERFECT PRETTY HANDS how is a fictional character so perfect

[venus-haze]

Playing Pretend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander’s secret identity is an ill-fated experiment in normalcy for a man who had grown up with anything but. He manages to keep his story straight until he runs into you in the hallway of your building one night, assuming the blood on his face and clothes are his and not the low-level criminals he’d just taken care of. While you’re playing nurse, Homelander’s playing John, but he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the facade around you.

Note: Gender-neutral reader, and no descriptors are used. So Casual!Lander got me thinking about secret identity!Homelander again. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort. Some emotional manipulation, but this is on the fluffier side of things I've written.

Homelander hadn’t expected the blood on his civilian clothes to be much of a problem. It was late, he reported the incident to Vought and would be up a few points when the story hit the news in the morning. Typically, he returned to the Tower when something like this happened, but instead, he was drawn to the apartment he’d been set up with as part of his undercover identity.

A secret identity was exciting at first, a brand new challenge for him. Except he didn’t entirely get it. Wasn’t the point of everything he’d been through so that he could be Homelander? The best of the best, America’s savior? Not some guy named John living in a crappy apartment downtown. But Edgar wanted it, and so it was done.

The apartment itself didn’t feel like home. The pictures on the wall, knick-knacks on the bookshelves, they weren’t his. But the man he was pretending to be had a dizzying backstory that he found difficult to keep track of at first, and then irrationally jealous of once he got the hang of spitting out anecdotes about family barbecues and youth basketball leagues. Stuff everyone else got except for him, apparently, because they were always met with mind-numbingly boring stories of other people’s mirrored experiences that he had to “Oh?” and “Wow!” through like he actually cared.

“John!” You called out from down the hall as he approached, laundry basket in your arms.

He smiled. A real one. At least in all of this, he met you.

“Hey neighbor!” he greeted cheerfully, as if it were bright and early and not nearly midnight.

“What are you—” Your face twisted as he approached. Your heart thumped almost deafeningly. “Oh my god, what happened?”

“What?”

“John, you’re bleeding. Let me take you to the emergency room.”

“That’s not necessary. I–I don’t like doctors,” he said, the statement not feeling as much like a lie as he thought. “Most of it isn’t even mine.”

“I have a first aid kit in my bathroom. At least let me clean you up a little?”

“Alright,” he reluctantly agreed.

You practically kicked open the door to your place, throwing your laundry basket aside and making a beeline for the bathroom like his life depended on it. If he were anyone else, it probably would have. He caught his warped reflection in your stainless steel refrigerator and cringed a bit. It did look pretty bad.

He inexplicably tensed upon seeing you return with the first aid kit, your brows knit together in worry. 

“Sit, please,” you urged as you laid out the contents of the kit on your kitchen table. “Oh John, what happened?”

“You know me, I always gotta get the story,” he said, his cover as a crime reporter not having failed him yet.

Your eyes watered as you looked at him. “One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“What I’m doing helps people. It saves lives. That’s worth it to me.”

You picked up a cotton ball soaked in peroxide. “Let me know if it hurts, okay?”

He hesitated. That kind of thing had never been up to him. It either hurt or it didn’t, and if it didn’t hurt, they’d find out how to make it so it did. 

“Okay,” he said, tense as your hand approached his face.

Even thinking about the doctors he grew up with made an ugly pit settle heavy in his stomach. But you weren’t a doctor. You were you, and it was cute how you played nurse. Tended to his wounds like they were real, like the blood was his. Did you notice how quickly they disappeared beneath your cotton-padded touch, leaving no trace of cut or bruise behind?

“It looks a lot worse than it is, don’t worry,” you assured him.

“That’s good.”

He had plenty of practice sitting patiently while being poked and prodded, but never with the unnecessary care you used. 

He wanted to tell you. But then it’d defeat the purpose of a secret identity. Besides, just outright telling you wouldn’t be the grand, romantic gesture he pictured. 

Late at night. You. Alone in the city for god knows what reason even though you know better. He’s told you enough that you should know better. It wouldn’t matter. Because he’d be there. The Homelander swooping in to save you from some thug on the street. It’d be then that you’d see him for who he really was, who he was made to be instead of the pitiful facade you were presently tending to. So taken by the act, by him, your hero, you’d melt in his arms and let him take you away from the hovel of an apartment building you two shared and into bliss.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” you cooed, dabbing just above his eyebrow with a cotton ball. “I’m almost done.”

Sorry? Oh. You thought you hurt him. “I told you, I can take it.”

“I still feel bad,” you said. “Did you go to the police?”

“No, you know I usually don’t bother with that. Interferes with my own investigations,” he said.

You pursed your lips. You didn’t quite believe him, or were at least frustrated with his lack of personal safety. Worrying you wasn’t something he wanted to be in the habit of, but you poured out attention and care for him in such a way he could feel himself itching for more. It’d been like that since he first met you, the only kind and welcoming person in the damn building. Perhaps that was why he kept up with his secret identity for so much longer than he wanted to, his attachment to you, to this fake life he led with you in it.

But he could just as easily make a new one, a better one for the both of you once you knew the truth. 

“You made out alright, John,” you said, glancing over his face. “Really well, actually. It doesn’t even look like anything happened.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” he joked, hoping to dissipate some of your suspicion.

He heard you swallow roughly.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

You reached out, caressing his cheek. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I can’t help it.”

Silence fell between the two of you for a few moments, and you began to pull your hand away from his face until he caught your wrist and spoke your name softly.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” you asked.

He hesitated a moment. I’m The Homelander. Instead, he pulled you closer, his gaze falling to your lips before kissing you.

You kissed him back softly, with an otherwise foreign tenderness that made him especially conscious of how he held you. His physical control was better, almost perfect. No more accidental bone breaking or spine snapping. He wouldn’t be The Homelander if he couldn’t control himself. 

But it was hard, with how deeply he felt for you, how much his emotions threatened to overtake years of practice and conditioning to manage his sheer strength. The Homelander didn’t have any weaknesses—save for seeing through zinc—but he was certain none of the scientists who poked and prodded him for years on end would have ever bet on you.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

ICARUS (XI)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XII

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Angst, threats, exploitation, described stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, explosions, blood, implied harm/injury, death, plot progression, dirty talk, smut/NSFW, dry humping, semi-public intimacy, light dom/sub dynamics, Nikto likes to be given pet-names because I said so, implied previous breath play/cunnilingus/ p-in-v sex/rough sex/finishing inside, clothed stimulation, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“I’m not going to let you do all of it,” you grumble, rubbing at your thigh with your right hand. 

“Walk to me,” Nikto’s dark brow raises from below his mask, pale eyes darting you up and down. “Without your knees shaking.”

Your face flares up, and you bite back a sarcastic comment as the driver of the car walks past, sending a glance to where the Russian packs the back of the vehicle with your bags. Nikto huffs a chuckle as another settles into the trunk, flattening it with his gloved hands.

“Rude,” you mutter, glaring lightly. “You’re getting bold with your words, Nikto.”

“Surely we have failed somewhere,” your guard grunts, trying to scrutinize his talent of fucking you senseless last night. “You are still upright instead of collapsed to the floor. Did I not find that spot inside of your drooling cunt that made you say you would not be able to walk—”

“Okay!” You loudly, raising your hands, breathless in reaction. Your entire body is seemingly being rolled on a spit as waves of fire lick at your neck, and you have to force words out from the dryness of your throat. “I’m going to sit in the car—you have fun packing with your dirty mouth, you brute.”

Nikto hums arrogantly, and the smirk is plainly heard by your ears as they ring in embarrassment. “You did not complain about this mouth hours prior. Nor the tongue, Птичка.”

“Holy hell,” you push a hand into your face, grimacing. Brief shadowed flashes of a half-masked face sitting in the clutch of your legs leave you stuttering wildly. “Nikto!” 

Taking a large breath before opening the dark door, you hear that loud hyena bark of a laugh in return, before you slip inside and firmly slam the barrier closed. 

“Oh my God,” your response bounces off the windows, but the infectious smile grows steadily over your flesh until it needs to be hidden by your hand, tiny chuckles making your eyes crinkle. 

Shaking your head, you settle back and grasp the seat belt, clicking the metal together as the straps pull across your chest securely. 

You were going back to Yekaterinburg, but the realization was…less than concerning. There was a sort of liberation in your blood now—something to be proud of even if it was such a small thing. 

Your eyes glance behind to the rear window, seeing the great form of Nikto continuing to pack the trunk in your absence, back in his regular gear with the suit in the hands of the stylists. You can’t say you didn’t miss it, but having him return to some semblance of normalcy was calming to you. Home was the destination, first and foremost: back to your trinkets and your treasures, fabric, and soft rugs. 

You’d stood up to AMA and the jobs they’d assigned to you. No more parties, you’d told Iakov, who you still hadn’t seen a glimpse of since last night. No calls either. He’d never gotten back to you, but you were sure a hellstorm was brewing above your head.

Lips pull slightly, but the thought is pushed to the back of your mind as just a result of hurt pride. He’d survive. 

But you weren’t too sure if you would.

“Home,” you sigh, bringing back your smile forcefully. Even with all the added challenges being back in Yekaterinburg would cause, you can’t help the thrill of your heart at the thought of familiar streets and faces. Your mom wanted to talk, and AMA was getting on you about showing up to the building for a meeting, both to-dos were competing like fighting cats. 

You still couldn’t tell which was worse. 

The trunk behind you is audibly closed with a heavy hand, the metal of the vehicle moving up and down as Nikto stands back to the sidewalk and rolls his wrist—walking to the door before slipping inside next to you. Cushions dipping, you glance over and tilt your head as Nikto’s knee hits yours, the Russian readjusting his thighs before he grumbles under his breath and glances to the window. 

“All set?” You ask, putting your hands into your lap as your foot hits the small crossbody bag on the floor. It holds a few simple items to help pass the travel time—your book, laptop, phone, and a few scrap papers for random notes or doodles.

Nikto nods, glancing over to you. “Make sure you do not forget anything.”

You huff. “I’m good. Trust me, it helps to pack light.”

You’re given a slow blink, the man’s eyelids narrowing. He hums. 

“You have brought six bags,” Nikto utters gruffly, hearing his frown on the air. 

“And you were very gentlemanly loading all of them,” you grin, sending over your amusement-tight skin as the blank mask offers only numb attention. “Very sweet on me, Big Guy.” 

Nikto makes an annoyed sound under his breath, rolling his eyes partially. “You would not survive a deployment. Too attached to your items.”

You laugh. “Sue me for buying things I’d like to keep. C’mon,” your attention moves as Nikto gives a sharp order to the driver to leave, which he does with a glance backward and a sneer at your guard. “You’re meaning to tell me you don’t have anything you want to have near you a lot—something important?”

The bear-like man pauses as he settles back into his seat, the vehicle starting up. He takes a breath, and you see the Kevlar of his chest piece rise and fall. Nikto grunts, seeming to realize he’s staring at you as he pulls his eyes to the glass of the window quickly. 

“A handful.” 

You sigh before it ends in a soft huff. “Any specifics?” Your interest is obvious.

“None we wish to tell about.” He glances, and seeing your teasing stare, he shifts, scoffs under his breath with no real anger, and shrugs his large shoulders before coming up with a simple answer. “My notebook, then.” Nikto’s eyelids lower, thinking back to the item in the back of his consciousness and the importance it holds. You’d only seen it once, he knows—back when he had written you a grocery list for your penthouse. Hell, if only you could take a glance at the contents now. 

Nikto clears his throat, continuing in a deeper tone. “Rag to clean my weapons.”

It’s a small chuckle he gets from you. “Makes sense. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them dirty before.”

A steady silence falls before the Russian feels the need to speak again, and in his mind, he replays every word that you’d said to him throughout these fast-paced and eye-opening days. Being near you now was slightly different in a way he couldn’t have anticipated. 

Taking in the hues and colors of the city as it goes by swiftly, he frowns and spares you a side-eye as you dig around your bag—seeing your fingers slip out a book and lay it next to you before you flatten out the fabric of your pants. Nikto’s eyes softened gradually, but no one would ever notice unless they knew how to read him as perfectly as a midnight storm: trying to pinpoint where the thunder came from. He clears his throat and blinks, raising a hand to itch at his neck, pushing and pulling at the cover of canvas until his senses level out once more.

He enjoyed last night. Immensely. 

In his head, it’s all he can say about it without deeming himself a malleable fool. Some kind-coated idiot who hadn’t seen the betrayal that such a care can bring. Allowing himself to get emotionally involved is a death sentence, and Nikto was always pushing himself to be the perfect image of order. But with you, it was different, or, at least, that was what he told himself. The reminder of your sweat-heavy scent was firm in the back of his nose. 

The Russian’s body angles itself, and in a sure movement of his hand, his arm slips across your abdomen and steals the book at your side. 

Your attention darts up, your nice shirt pressed right up to your flesh as Nikto’s sturdy arm slides along it like a snake. You mutely watch him, your ribs being rubbed as all at once the man’s roaming grip leaves. Blinking, your heart beats a bit quicker as Nikto brings your book in front of him, tilting his head down to it as you watch. 

It was imperative that you remind yourself that having sex with the man didn’t make him yours. 

As you watch Nikto’s hidden fingers lightly brush the cover, your eyes follow the way he maneuvers the front to take a glance at the spine, seeing as the dust jacket is gone. 

“Crime and Punishment?” The Russian blinks as the car takes a right, slipping along the streets as the houses and buildings start to get more of a distance between them. Nikto looks over at you. “Fyodor Dostoevsky.” He pauses, keeping the book to himself as if trying to understand. 

“Aly recommended it,” your face goes heated at the newfound attention on you. “She read it in University.”

“It is good book,” Nikto hums. “Though, I found Notes From Underground more of an interest to me.”

“I’ll have to add it to the list,” you smile softly. “I’ve seen you read a lot when there’s time—do you like it as much as cooking, Nikto?” 

That seems to make him think, watching the Russian’s eyebrows pull in minute wonder. You wished you could understand what blue looked like…you were sure his eyes were beautiful. Especially when he was actively attempting to keep the conversation going. 

“We have not thought about it much,” he grumbles, flipping your book open to where you had placed a small strip of fabric as a bookmark—Nikto picks the thing up as he speaks. “Both are calming. Good distractions.” He looks at you. “I would not give rank, though there is a time and place for them.”

“Fair,” you breathe, shrugging. You lightly lean into his shoulder, and you hear Nikto grunt as his attention stays like a cat. “But I do have to say I think your cooking might be higher on my personal scale.”

A soft puff of air sneaks out of the mask and Nikto shifts his head down as you elbow the rough material of his gear playfully.

“Добро.” His tone is low, grating as every little ache from last night seems to flare in your muscles. “I…enjoy cooking for you.”

You stare at one another for a moment, getting lost in the intimacy of an open gaze, before you blink quickly and move back, chuckling as your body burns. Like a bird, if you had feathers, they would be puffed up by now. 

Nikto watches your fingers fidget in your lap as he twitches his digits against the cover of your book, setting it on his thigh as he spares a look at the driver. The man’s eyes are visible in the mirror, and when they lock, those dark brown orbs dart away as if on fire; blond hair cut close to his scalp. 

The ex-soldier watches the back of his head for a few moments, thinking. 

Hell, he would be lying by saying that he wasn’t on edge ten times more than he was before. Anyone glancing at you could be the person he’s after—it was maddening to the point of making him obsess over your safety to the tiniest degree. 

And yet, there had been no further texted images: no messages or dead birds. No bombs. 

Just that one.

‘I know what you did.’

Yes, Nikto thinks, sighing under his breath, you do know. But do you know what we did in that bedroom last night? Why don’t you come and punish me for it? Hm? 

“Pathetic,” the Russian whispers to himself, fingering the paper below him until he can peek at the next page to see where you were in the story. 

You turn your head from the window, watching gray trees finally begin making a permanent appearance. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Nikto mutters, attention-catching on that point he’d made to himself. Last night. He backtracks, lowering his voice until it’s only you who can hear—side glaring at the driver like a skittish mutt. “You are...” Pale eyes dig, pulling into a narrowed form as if your mind was the same as the book he holds open. Something to be read. “Adequate?”

Your brows pull in. “Why are we whispering?” You ask, keeping the same tone regardless as you lean closer again; both nearly nose to nose.

Nikto glares, but you can’t see his face beginning to slowly change shade. 

“We are asking if you are fit for the long ride.”

He sees your eyes blink slowly. “I’m fine…Why wouldn’t I be?” 

The Russian stays silent, openly staring without any discernible emotion in his eyes. You hear him take a breath, glancing once more at the driver, before leaning in further. He huffs sharply. 

“Are you alright after what we did—” A kiss is placed on Nikto’s hidden cheek as your laughs echo in his ear. 

You lean backward a bit, amusement leaking from you. Sparking eyes meet the ex-soldiers, frozen and taken aback with unmoving eyes. 

“I’m just joking, I know what you’re asking me,” you tilt your head, smiling as Nikto’s orbs dip to stare as a swirl of emotions moves in his gut. He swallows, unable to look away. “I’m fine,” you mutter, feelings softening to a bashfulness. “Nothing to worry about…I don’t break easily.” 

“Hm,” Nikto’s form returns to where it was previously, and you can tell he’s blushing, even if you can’t see his face or name the shade he would be. Yet, he’s still as blunt as ever as the smirk comes back into his voice. “...Are we sure, Птичка?”

“Bastard,” you huff, motioning with a hand as the Russian almost purrs at the dirty banter. Your finger points to him as you unclick your seatbelt, shifting so you can put your head into his lap similar to how you had on the drive here. Looking up, smug eyes stare down—your finger in his face making him want to grab at it as a dog does fresh meat. He still remembers how your skin tastes; he’s not too far gone to admit he doesn't like how he’s addicted to it. 

“You’re getting confident now.”

“We were always confident,” he grates through his accent. “You’ve given us something to battle your need to annoy me with.” 

“I like to call it teasing,” you smirk and Nikto’s leather gloves grasp at your neck carefully, making you pause as your eyes widen. Instinctually, you open the skin more to him, head tilting back and legs shifting over the seats to break open before you stop yourself with a small gasp.  

Those sand-paper laughs make your thighs close in on themselves as you glare weakly, face lighting up with pure embarrassment as Nikto’s fingers squeeze. You’re ashamed at the pulse of your core. A dog in heat.

There’s a face in your ear.

“One good fuck has you trained, hm?” 

“I’ve had better,” you try to hiss, one eye going to the oblivious driver. A second hand moves your book to the floor before it grabs at your thigh, going to pry it open with fat fingers. You strangle a gasp, biting at your lips as you squeak at the sensitivity. “Nikto,” you breathe in warning.

A palm cups your core, and you strangle the limb as the heel is rubbed against your clothed clit. He finds it with no trouble at all: already having you memorized.

You hear Niktto’s heavy breaths—his pulsing grip at your neck as you fight a whimper and your eyes flutter. Your pelvis starts grinding downward in broken stutters, and the Russian leaves his hand there, body completely hanging over you as he stares at the back of the driver's head, wanting to lick the flesh beside your ear, and for the first time, damning his mask. 

“Have you, yes?” Nikto wonders, words so steady no one would imagine what was taking place. “Hm. Maybe we will have to leave you alone next time, Little Bird. Get you to find someone else who gets you to scream like I have. Do you remember it?” 

Your panties are soaked, and the fluids leak out onto your pants as you continue to rut into Nikto’s gloved palm, back arching over the bulk of his thigh to push your body over his lap, getting a better angle as your guard follows. You listen, and Nikto’s getting harder by how your spine runs its vertebrae over his clothed dick. He jerks once or twice up into it, not above fucking you in front of someone else if this escalates any further. As long as you keep your eyes on him when you cum. 

He likes hearing the small noise you make as your orgasm hits.

Nikto breathes, finishing his sentence as you get yourself off to his palm like a good little charge, “How you pleaded for my cum inside of you, Seraph?”

Your cunt flutters, wildly sensitive from last night enough to a point where every grind of your hips felt like Nikto’s cock was still bullying its way in and out of you. 

“You cried, yes? As we were bouncing you up and down? How many rounds did that pretty cunt take as you took me so well? Four? Пять? Шесть? Oh, Птичка.” Nikto glances down at your work, smirking as his scars pull tight at the image of the slick over his glove. You were drenched—he almost felt bad. Almost. 

“No, we know better than to play with my meal.” He burrows his face into your neck, beginning to let his hand move up and down as your thighs shake, he knows that feeling—that little tell of yours. “No one makes that pussy as wet as I do.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes rolling back and your throat tight with the fight between rabid moans and curses. Have to be quiet.

Your flinching eyes worriedly darted to the driver, who still hasn’t looked back at the two of you at all. If anything, the idea of getting caught…well, your hand sneaks down to Nikto’s wrist, pushing him even closer as his smooth chuckles mar your eardrums. 

You whine under your breath as you force his palm into you, angling it just right against your clit before your eyes start to roll back in broken increments—lighting making your back arch and toes curl. There are tiny squeaks from the leather seats, but nothing else. 

“Good,” Nikto pants, rubbing his erection into your back. “Tell us we are right.”

“You’re right,” you hurriedly whisper to him. “So wet for you, Baby.”

His eyes spark, and he ruts a bit harder, making you stifle a squeak. “Say it again,” he orders, eyes glinting inside of his sockets.

“Baby,” you wince, legs trying to suck in his fingers as your thighs close and rub into them harder. “Nikto, Baby,” your teeth mark your lips heavily.

His shaky breath in your ear accompanies you as your eyes roll back and your spine arches, and, part of a sharp noise exits your mouth as your orgasm hits you, before the hand at your neck sloppily places itself over your drooling lips. 

Layers of electricity playing through your weeping cunt, you fight for breath out of your nose as your eyes glaze over, head partially hanging off of Nikto to the seat below as your legs slowly stop their thrusts. 

A minute or two passes before your guard leans back, taking his hands off of you and grunting in masochistic pleasure as the ache of his untreated erection still grinds itself into your back slowly—almost torture in the way it keeps him aroused and unable to soften. 

Nikto’s grip finds your stomach after he can feel his dick leaking out into his underwear, making a cold mess against his flesh. In a hidden idea, he pushes his hand down into you so he has a better angle to thrust against a firm surface, letting his head connect with the back of the seat as he fucks up into you with his flexing thighs and clenched jaw. 

Your eyes pull open to watch him, your mouth half open as your study of his panting chest falls to how you can nearly feel the way his cock drags. He doesn't care at all about anything else about how it feels to get off against you—it’s not as good as finishing inside of your cunt, but he can imagine the warm walls well enough as he begins to make cut-of groans in his chest. Using you like a doll, your wide gaze stays stuck on the sight like glue. 

“I am going to fuck you in your bed,” Nikto sighs, only telling himself as he’s still violently aware of the audience he keeps. “Use that penthouse as an excuse to lay you out on every surface. Yes, fuck you good. Keep you and your soft body pleased with every drag of my cock.” 

Yet, he’s less concerned with the driver’s eyes now that you’ve cum in his hand—his sex appetite is strong, just as his regular one is; embarrassment is a myth to him regarding it. How many times had he resorted to locking himself in a bathroom when he was in the military, just to jerk off while watching in the mirror as thick ropes of cum splattered his chest? How many sneaked sessions in his barracks until his eyes would roll back, and he had to grind into a pillow with the cold stains of previous loads making him moan?

As long as he could see your eyes looking into him, he could bust just by a touch at his crotch.

Nikto strangles a low groan, shudders violently, and then his thighs stop—sag, and he pants, going limp against the seat. The spurts of his orgasm leaves wet patches in his pants, and he can imagine it pooling, instead, out of your pussy as it should be.

The both of you lay in the sopping remnants of your insatiable lust, leaking out to one another, and only think about what you both can have once you’re back in Yekaterinburg and alone.

Maybe there won’t be a meeting with AMA or my mom, you think as Nikto rubs a thumb down your cheek—letting your eyes slip shut softly as your nostrils flare with every breath. He hums in satisfaction, petting your thigh as he massages your inner leg.

Maybe we’ll fuck so much we’ll end up forgetting our names instead. 

Hell, it didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.

—

Halfway through Nikto’s audible reading of Crime and Punishment—in which he sometimes lapsed into Russian rambles in the middle of a sentence—you shift against the seat and mutter out a question. 

“So, he’s going to try to get away with murder?”

Nikto pauses in his speaking, looking over from the page as his mask shines into the light. It’s a little past noon if you had to guess. “Да.” Nikto’s brows furrow. “We are four chapters in—have you just noticed?”

“You’ve been speaking in Russian for the last fifteen minutes.”

Nikto curses under his breath, glaring at you incredulously after he closes the book with a single hand. “Why did you not say?”

You smile slowly. “It sounded nice?” 

The man sighs out loud, bringing up a hand to push into the plate at his nose in a funny display of exasperation. A laugh makes its way out of your mouth, and you shake your head. 

“It’s alright—I don’t mind. I just like listening to your voice.” 

“Hm,” Nikto looks at you, huffing, but you can tell he takes it to heart by the way his shoulders sag a small bit. “You are strange, Woman.” 

“As I’ve been told,” you breathe, chuckling. “You’ll re-read it to me later?”

The Russian’s head tilts to the side. “In русский or English?” 

Your eyes glint, your smirk rising, and you let the question sit in the air until Nikto’s eyes pull in understanding the longer you stare at him. 

He hums deep in his breast, gaze molten heat.

“Русский, then. Да, I will not complain if you enjoy it, Птичка.”

You call out breathily as you stare into his eyes, “Thank you, Baby.”

Nikto’s spine goes rigid, and before you can snort you slap a hand to your mouth and level your head to the window, body shaking with muffled laughter.

“Нелепый,” the man growls out, pushing at the fabric of his crotch and shifting his abdomen as your loud snort slips out. “You are much too confident in your abilities now—”

The car begins to shake and the driver curses out loud.

Immediately, all teasing is cut like a blade as Nikto’s eyes slash forward: slitted. 

Both of your attention is locked onto the driver as he snaps in Russian, banging a hand to the wheel as your body pauses. 

“Nikto?” You ask the question under your breath.

Your guard slips forward in his seat, grasping the back of the driver’s seat and growling out a low question in his native tongue. He only looks over his shoulder to you after a long and heated discussion. 

“He says the vehicle is not acting correctly.”

“Not acting correctly?” Your face pulls, form getting more rigid as the car veers off the main road to the side, grumbling like an animal as the hood shakes. “Why? How? It was working just fine yesterday.”

“I do not know,” Nikto utters, eyes narrowing. He glances at you, tension growing in his spine. “Keep near us. Do not leave my sight.”

“Right,” you nod, ears twitching as the driver parks the car and gets out in a huff, barking expletives and waving his hands. A sliver of nervousness slips into your blood.

Nikto has a bad feeling. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he pops the door open, hearing his boots hit the asphalt as he breathes out. Standing to his full height, he keeps the fuming driver in the corner of his pale vision, holding the barrier open for you and keeping you from the mostly vacant road as a car passes quickly. 

“Slowly,” Nikto mutters, grabbing at your arm to make sure your lack of coordination didn’t send you to an early death. 

You give him a small smile, and he stares for longer than he should before the Russian blinks, holding you away from open traffic—his body keeps itself nearest to the road as you both move to the hood. 

“That can’t be good,” you murmur with a raised brow as the driver smacks the vehicle, waving his hand in front of his face as a thin tendril of dark smoke mists through the air like a grim cloud. 

“No,” Nikto stares, his fingers sliding along the fabric of your shirt—curling just at the small of your back. “It can not.” His unimpressed voice carries over the area as another car passes.

You stare lightly after, knowing it’s the second vehicle that belongs to AMA just by the make and model; especially by the license plate. It carries a number of personnel—most likely Iakov, your stylists, and a photographer or two. The car sees that you’re stopped, slows, and also pulls off the road a large distance ahead. 

“At least we’ll have another ride if this can’t be fixed,” you comment as you and your guard join the driver, Nikto grunting in Russian with an order to stop denting the car’s frame. A sigh slips your lips and you stretch carefully—raising your arms above your head and hearing your bones cracking. “Won’t be stranded,” you end in a strained voice before you sigh in relief and relax.

As Nikto and the driver descend into clipped words, your phone rings from inside the vehicle. Blinking, your body is quick to shuffle the way back and snatch the thing out, retreating to the grass to the right of the scene and a small way away—it’s still easy to see how Nikto keeps an eye on you, however. 

With his comment yesterday about a new picture from the stalker, you weren’t keen on being away from him either. The thought makes your skin crawl, but you know you’re better off never seeing whatever the contents had been…you’d already seen enough of that freak’s ‘pictures’ to last a lifetime. 

Answering the call, you push the phone to your ear. “Seraph,” you say, half-facing the road and half to the tree line. Your drive back home had barely started—already you’d run into trouble? These last few months were continually stacking on top of one another for the top ten worst moments in your life. 

Galina’s voice pushes through. 

“Where are you currently?”

Your face loosens, brows twisting. “Driving back to Yekaterinburg now, we just ran into some car trouble,” you pause, seeing Nikto going to open the hood but being stopped by the driver, who seems to think he can do it himself without any help at all. “...Is there something going on?”

Nikto only breaks away in attention to look over to you every so often, his fingers twitching and shoulders wound up under all that gear. 

Why is he so tense? You have to ask yourself in curiosity before your guard’s head snaps to where others from the second car spill out, beginning walking to you three—coming to help like little trees down the line of asphalt.

Running your free hand over the back of your skull, as always, Nikto’s nervousness makes you tense; especially when he shifts his hand to brush his beretta like that. That dark void of a mask is permanently stuck giving you half of a glare, and you can perfectly imagine his jaw clenching.

But everybody here was trustworthy, weren’t they? 

Iavov’s shorter stature makes its way forward quicker than the others, calling out words that you can’t hear. He holds something in his hands, and it glints in the light.

Galina spares no chance to breathe between rapid clipped sentences. 

“Sergi has had to be released from custody—Yaromir and I have little concern he was involved in anything that resulted in harm to another. We can not keep him.” You had expected that; it wasn’t surprising. “But he mentioned something that I believe you should know before you return.”

“What is it?” Your voice is low, concerned as Iakov and the rest raise their words. Nikto barks at them in Russian to stay where they are as his eyes glint dangerously for no discernible reason. The driver shifts his fingers away from the hood as you begin shuffling closer as well, spine straight with tension. 

The air was alive with a cord ready to snap.

“He mentioned something about knowing a man who works at Allurement in an off comment when he didn’t realize he was being recorded.”

Your feet speed up to the car almost instinctively. 

“Who?”

“We were unable to push for a name. Sergi got far too nervous and shut down on us; there was little left to do. But there’s another thing.”

Heart pattering, you call to Nikto stiffly, seeing him only hold a hand out to tell you to not come any closer. You frown, disregarding the concern, and are now about five feet away from the car and eager to figure out what’s wrong with it so you can leave—you feel eyes on you, and in a paranoid moment, your vision darts to the approaching group of six. Closer now.

“Seraph,” Nikto grinds out. “Stay there. There is something that we do not like about—”

Galina’s continued explanation interrupts your Russian just as the driver gets the hood finally open with a loud call of victory. You blink, your fingers over the phone gripping the device like a woman strangling a knife while facing a home intruder. 

“Sergi was spotted disposing of multiple cameras by way of selling them off to anyone who would take them all over the city. We’re trying to track down the buyers, but we don’t believe the cameras were his to begin with. He’s hiding evidence for someone.”

There’s a bright spark that makes your eyes flinch shut like you’d been staring into the sun. Head snapping to the side, you cover your face with a heavy hiss as you halt in your tracks, stepping back as Nikto’s loud voice carries. 

“Seraph!” You startle, legs dragging across the ground. “Get down! Немедленно!”

“—There is reason to believe that Sergi has a close connection and a willingness to protect whoever is behind these events. Perhaps even the evidence from the explosion at the bakery was tampered with—”

The car bursts into an inferno just as Nikto’s body connects with yours.

Meeting the ground hard, the man rolls along with you as the air is snatched from your lungs and skin whipped by fire—the sound of screeching metal so loud that the resounding ringing in your ears is immediate as debris whizzes past your head.

In the exit of all air from your lungs, your phone is lost as you gasp sharply.

There’s a sting of pain across your face—in your arm as well as Nikto drapes himself over you with a firm bark of a gut-twisting curse, gripping and dragging you until you’re stapled to his chest.

Far above, the screaming and the sizzle of flesh all melt together into the image of a gray sun. Smoke wafts away on a slow breeze, and the body of a panting man above you is voided until null even as hands pull you from him to stare down at you—at the crimson blood that he can see in such vivid detail.

There’s only the sensation of him calling your name frantically before it all gets sucked into oblivion around pale, horribly panicked eyes.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[callsign-rogueone]

deja vu - b.d.

Bodhi Durran x reader part of Bodhi and Darling's story 💗 words: 2.9k 🏷: set in the year before Fourth Wing (Bodhi’s first year). one tiny book spoiler but it’s not stated explicitly, hurt/comfort, anxiety, imagined character death (in a nightmare). mild dissociation, anxiety, nausea, fighting (challenge match), one very small injury, canon-typical peril and danger.

“I love you,” Bodhi rasps, closing his eyes. “I’m so… sorry…”

“No, no, hey, look at me,” you beg, hot tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re getting you help, but you have to keep looking at me, okay?”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move or make any indication that he can hear you. He’s silent, perfectly still — he isn’t breathing. 

“Bodhi,” you cry, “Bodhi, please don’t leave me. Wake up, please.”

His heart has stopped beating. The love of your life, the man who had sworn to protect you, who you had sworn to love in sickness and in health and through the test of time, until the end of your days, is dead.

You feel like the air has been squeezed from your lungs, your breaths coming in choked sobs. 

“Wake, child,” someone interrupts — Sìoda. “It’s just a dream. It’s not real.”

You shake yourself awake, panting like you’d been running for miles. You look down at your palms, illuminated by the gentle moonlight filtering into the room -- they’re clean; not streaked with Bodhi’s blood. It was just a dream. Just a terrible dream, likely a product of the overactive imagination you’ve had your whole life, and your anxiety about the dragonkind exam you have tomorrow that you’re convinced you’re going to fail, despite spending all evening studying. 

“Your mate, and all of your brothers and sisters are safe in their beds,” she soothes, “as are mine.”

Oh. You still aren’t any good at shielding, so she’s been getting all of your emotions through the bond — you’d likely woken her up with your distress.

“I’m sorry,” you say in a guilt-ridden whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Don’t apologize, my child. Just breathe.”

You mop up your tears with the sleeve of your pajama shirt, and focus on deepening your breaths, trying to relax your racing heart.

“There are still a few hours until formation,” she says gently. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You lay back down, gazing at the wall of gray stone beside you, counting the bricks and trying to find patterns in the texture until the exhaustion overtakes you, and you fall back asleep.

Thankfully, your subconscious doesn’t torment you with any more cruel sights. You wake up to gentle November sunlight warming your skin and birds chirping — last month, a pair of doves had made a nest in the tiny alcove by your window.

You get dressed quickly, sorting out your hair and straightening your uniform. You’re in the middle of lacing your boots when there’s a knock at your door, the familiar rhythm that you know can only be Bodhi; like clockwork, he comes down the hall to get you every morning so you can walk to breakfast together.

You unlock the door with your mind, something you’ve been able to do for the last week, breathing a sigh of relief when he walks into the room unharmed and smiling. You hug him extra tightly, tucking your head into his neck and holding him a moment longer than usual, comforted by the steadiness of his breathing.

“You okay, Darling?” he asks, sounding concerned.

You hum in contentment. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

You don’t mention the dream, because nobody wants to hear about their own death, and it would be silly to bother him with something you’ve already gotten over — though you know the image of Bodhi bleeding out in your arms on the floor of that empty classroom will likely be burned into your brain forever.

He gives you an easy smile, shouldering your bookbag and gesturing for you to head out the door.

You’re comforted by the normalcy of the day. It’s almost too easy, too smooth.

Everyone is present and accounted for at breakfast, in good spirits — as good as they can be, in your current situation. Battle brief passes quickly, with no reports of catastrophe, though you know that they likely aren’t giving you all the information they have. The dragonkind test you’d been so worried about is much easier than you’d expected, and you have the rest of the afternoon off until dinner.

You don’t object as your squadmates suggest you use one of the empty common rooms to study in — the same one you’d seen in your dream. 

What would you even say? Sorry, guys, but can we pick somewhere else to be, because I had a nightmare last night that Bodhi died in this room? 

You shake it off, repeating Sìodha’s words in your mind as you crack open your textbook: It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

But then every word of the conversation going on around you starts to sound very familiar, like you’ve heard it before — like they’re reciting lines for a stage play.

It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

But this can’t be a coincidence. There’s too many similarities for comfort; the location, the timing — the sun is just starting to set — the exact page that each boy’s book is open to… you remember that, remember Sawyer’s book being open to a page with that same illustration.

“Have you done number four yet? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let me see.”

You predict their replies with nearly perfect accuracy — because you’ve heard this exact conversation before.

What if it is real? What if you’re trapped in an endless loop like in one of the novels you’d read, where the leading lady has to live the worst day of her life over and over until she figures out how to change it? 

You could hardly bear to watch the light leave Bodhi’s eyes in that dream, and so help you gods, you are not going to see it ever again; you’re going to do something about it.

You’d read some theory in a philosophy book once that the flap of a butterfly’s wings can set off a chain of events that cause a hurricane. Would it be safer to stop this exact moment as it happens, or to interrupt now? Or was that dream really just a dream, and today will just be a normal day, or Basgiath’s version of normal, and you’re worrying over nothing?

“I don’t think that’s it. I think that’s the answer to number five, though.”

Those are the words. You’d almost missed them, too concerned about what’s going to happen in the next five seconds, but you should have just enough time if you act now. Sìodha seems to think so too, sending you a flood of urgency and panic.

You tackle Bodhi to the ground, wrapping an arm around his waist and putting a hand behind his head to cushion his fall as you both hit the floor. Your knuckles split on the impact, pain ripping through your hand, but all you can focus on is Bodhi underneath you — his eyes wide with shock, but still blinking up at you, his lips parted in a gasp, but not slick with blood, his heart racing, but not stopping. 

There’s a shout from beside you, the clatter of metal against stone, and the sounds of a brief struggle. Dain has the would-be assassin pinned in a matter of seconds, Sawyer helping him restrain her and haul her away, leaving you and Bodhi alone, still tangled up in one another on the floor, his eyes locked with yours.

He finally manages to form words, but not a complete sentence, still stunned. “What… How did you… What?”

“I saw this in a dream last night,” you answer, your voice wavering. “I saw you sitting right here with me, talking to Sawyer. You said that same sentence, and then there was a knife in your chest.” 

You look to your right, where it lays on the floor a few feet away — the exact shape and length as the one you’d dreamed of. “That knife.”

Bodhi’s eyes widen even further as he puts it together.  “I think that was your signet,” he breathes. “You’re a visionary.”

You finally let go of him, moving to sit by his side on the cold stone of the floor and staring blankly at the dagger. It had missed either of you by at least three feet, but had you acted a second later, or not at all… That doesn’t matter, you suppose. What matters is that Bodhi is alive; that you’d been able to save him, because you’d known what was going to happen and you altered course at the last second. 

You should be proud of yourself, but all you can think about is his words to you, and the implications thereof. If this is truly your signet, then you’ll have to watch this kind of thing happen over and over, and likely not just to Bodhi, but to the rest of your friends, too. But what if you can’t stop it next time? What if you see something happen to the twins? They’re a two-hour flight away, and you can’t abandon your post just because you had a dream that something bad happened to them. 

Will any of your dreams be just dreams anymore, or are you going to see all manner of terrible things every night for the rest of your life? How are you supposed to distinguish between dreams and reality, between the sleepy inventions of your subconscious, or the magic of your signet?

“I’m sorry, child. It is a powerful gift to have, but it can be quite cruel.”

You can hear Bodhi speaking, likely a thank you and some soft reassurances, but you don’t process the words. You don’t respond to either of them, still not fully convinced that this isn’t another dream.

The warmth of his hand on your arm starts to pull you out of that numbness. “Talk to me, darling.”

“I watched you die,” you whisper. “There was nothing I could do. I just had to hold you, until… I thought it was just a nightmare, but then it started happening in reality, and...”

You shake your head, eyes welling with tears that you try to blink away. You tell yourself that there’s no reason to be crying, no use when he’s standing in front of you, alive, breathing and talking and holding your hand, but you can’t stop the flood of emotion; confusion and relief and horror and several other things you can’t put a name to right now.

“Hey,” he coaxes, “look at me.”

You focus your gaze on him, on those soft brown eyes that still blink at you, the rise and fall of his chest.

“I’m okay,” he says softly, wrapping your hand around his wrist, mindful of your scraped knuckles. He positions your fingertips over his pulse, pressing them into the skin so you can feel the gentle beat of his heart. “I’m alive, because you saved me.”

You nod silently, warm tears slipping down your cheeks. 

He gathers you into a warm embrace, rubbing your back in soft, soothing motions. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, my darling girl. But the next time something like that happens, you tell me, okay? I don’t care if you wake me up at three in the morning, I want to be there for you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Good.”

You stay like this for a moment, just sitting with him and finding comfort in the warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his breathing.

“Do you want to go to the healers for your hand, or do you want me to wrap it up for you?”

“Want you to do it,” you answer softly, still feeling a little fragile. You don’t want to be away from him, even for a moment; you might work up the courage to ask if you can sleep in his bed tonight.

“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your temple, getting up to pack your bags.

Dain and Sawyer haven’t returned, likely still in Varrish’s office with the unbonded girl. You scribble a quick note to thank them, and to say that you’re done studying for the afternoon, leaving it on top of Dain’s book.

Bodhi picks up your bag, shouldering it along with his own.

He stops to pick up the dagger, sheathing it at his side, and you blink at him, confused. “You’re keeping it?”

“Of course I’m keeping it. It’s a memento of my first assassination attempt.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Only you could be so proud about someone wanting to kill you.”

He pulls you in closer, tucking you under his arm. “Not nearly as proud as I am of you. You should have seen it. I’ve never seen you move that fast in my life.”

Your cheeks warm in embarrassment, suddenly shy. “I was worried I’d lose you,” you say softly.

“You won’t ever lose me,” he soothes. “We made each other a promise, and I intend to keep it.”

“So do I,” you say quietly. “So do I.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t have any more terrible dreams -- visions -- for the rest of the week, just a generalized sense of anxiety and insomnia, waiting for the next one and wondering what it’ll be, what terrible fate may befall one of your friends.

Each day that passes simultaneously soothes your anxiety and stokes it. If you aren’t dreaming of any terrible things, then they won’t happen, but what if you don’t dream them? What if you can’t see harm coming to them in advance, and thus can’t prevent it?

As soon as you enter the gym for Emeterrio’s class, it hits you again; that incredibly strong sense that something very bad is going to happen, very soon.

Bodhi sees your posture change, your normal relaxed and graceful presence tightening uncomfortably, and puts it together immediately, looking at you with concern.

“I have that feeling again,” you manage, forcing down the acid rising in your throat. “But this time, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“It’ll be okay,” he soothes.

“You don’t know that,” you reply, still looking around, surveying the gym for anyone that could pose a threat to you or any of your friends, which happens to be every single person in the room. 

He takes your hand, and the feeling stops; vanishes completely, as if it was never there. Bodhi’s presence and his gentle touch have always been a comfort to you, often the only comfort you have, but nothing like that has ever happened before, a relief so intense and sudden.

Your gaze snaps to him, eyes widening. “How did you…”

He lets go, and the anxiety and nausea comes back in a tidal wave that nearly knocks you over. He lays a hand on your back to steady you, worried you’ll collapse, and the feeling dissipates again in the blink of an eye. Definitely not a coincidence.

“I think you turned it off,” you whisper. “When you let go, it came back.”

He blinks at you for a few seconds, processing. “Do you think that’s…”

“Laurent and Daneel,” Emeterrio calls.

Oh. That’s what you’re supposed to be worried about.

“Deep breath,” Bodhi prompts.

You inhale as deeply as you can before he moves his hand off of your back, and you aren’t hit with another tidal wave, just a normal, manageable level of anxiety appropriate for someone about to start a challenge match.

But as you step onto the mat, the anxiety fades into… something new. Confidence, like nothing you’ve ever felt before -- like you know you’re going to win this fight, without question, like it’s already been written down in the professor’s gradebook, and carved into history. 

Interesting.

You lower your head to your opponent in respectful acknowledgement, getting a snarl in response. Well, then. Maybe this will be harder than you’d thought -- but you still have that unshakeable feeling that you’re going to come out on top.

She makes the first move, a punch that you’re able to dodge easily. She tries again -- and you step to the side without thinking, avoiding the blow by a few inches.

You continue dodging and blocking, reacting naturally, almost subconsciously, not even thinking about your movements. 

You feel the same strange feeling you’d felt during the conversation leading up to Bodhi’s would-be assassination; you’d known all the words, knew what was going to happen because you’d seen it in a dream -- only you don’t remember dreaming any of this at all. It had been a total surprise that your name would be called with hers, the intense anxiety you’d felt being the only indicator, and even then, you’d been worried that it would be one of your friends in danger, not yourself.

Very interesting.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you realize exactly what is happening -- this is your signet at work, that familiar hum of power through your veins as you move, keeping you a few seconds ahead of everyone else in the room.

“You’ve had your fun,” Sìoda nudges, sounding amused. “Now end this, and end it well.”

The girl agrees. “Come on, you filthy fucking traitor! Fight me already!”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the quadrant as they wait for you to respond -- every eye in the gym is watching you, even the other cadets that are supposed to be fighting across the room, but you don’t move, don’t react to the comment, preparing for what’s going to happen next.

She hurls a dagger at you, enraged by your lack of engagement in this fight -- and your hand flies up to catch it, your fingers wrapping around the hilt and stopping it in midair.

Silence. Absolute dead silence.

You examine it for a second before you tuck it into your belt, looking back up at her. “Let’s fight, then.”

[dolche-tejada]

Since the latest episode of MHA brings this up again, I'd like to rant about how badly Hori took his audience for morons through the resolution of heteromorph racism in the epilogue.

When you introduce social issues in your story and that this same story sells itself on the idea that your heroes are there to solve them and make the world a better place, you can't cheat on what you promised to your readers. And that's what Horikoshi did. He cheated.

I guess everyone remembers the ""excellent"" treatment of the heteromorph racism during the fight between Shoji and Spinner ? Which can be summed up to “Even if you almost get beaten to death every time you leave your house, you should endure in silence until things get better !”

Well then watch out because Horikoshi actually proposed a real solution to this... Offscreen.

SO WHAT WAS THE FUCKING POINT ?! The whole purpose of a story is to learn from it right ? So what am I supposed to learn when the only concrete thing onscreen is to shut angry victims up when they finally fight back after decades of discrimination ?

And I'm talking about this plot here but it works with others too ! Like Toga and Quirk Counseling, we're shown that Ochako has extended this across Japan, okay… And so ?

Because the real problem with this system isn't that some kids haven't benefited from it but that on the contrary it's just there to force atypical children to conform to biased standards of normalcy, which is literally what drove Toga to break apart in the first place !

But guess what, same shit here : No resolution to this problem, Hori just tells us everything's fine and we're supposed to take his word for it.

Now some might tell me that he had no choice but to rush these themes because of his frail health… BUT DON'T MAKE THESE THEMES MAJOR ISSUES OF YOUR LAST ARC THEN ! If he doesn't want to make the effort, he shouldn't try to make me believe he did when he forfeits on his own challenge ! Either he'll accept it or he admits he failed.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐀 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

Superheroes came in many different shapes and forms. Yours just happened to be a man with dark hair, blue eyes, a warm smile, and scrubs.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ღ Nurse!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ღ 825

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ღ Fluff, comfort, hospital stay, sick fic

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ღ Well, this was cathartic. It was originally just going to be a moodboard and then it turned into a drabble.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ღ Hearing by Sleeping At Last

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ღ @the-slumberparty Week 2 Creation Challenge — Masterlist

𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹 ღ 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝐀 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It wasn’t that you wanted to be stuck in a hospital room, no–it was the fact that your body, even after the best of care, still failed to maintain any kind of normalcy.

The constant beeps from the monitors around your bed lulled you into a fitful sleep that ended far too soon with shift change starting. There were hushed voices at your door doing handover and you stirred, shifting in your sleepy daze to look at the small window in your door, only to smile happily at who was looking straight back at you.

Bucky. Your favourite nurse who took care of you every single trip to this dreaded place. He was easily the most charming and handsome fella you’d ever met, and here you were, looking like hot garbage. You cursed whoever was listening for that particular turn of events. 

The door opened slowly, allowing the bright lights of the hallway to flood into your dark room. You heard him call goodnight to Wanda, your day nurse, and he entered, smiling happily while he switched a softer light on. 

“Hey, doll,” Bucky whispered, walking straight towards your IV pole, a bag of saline in his hand, your charts in the other. “How’s my favourite patient doing?”

“Absolutely fantastic,” you croaked. 

Bucky chuckled and moved his hair behind his ear before he leant forwards, penlight in hand. You groaned loudly in protest and Bucky clicked his tongue. “I know it sucks,” he offered, frowning slightly. “But show me those pretty eyes of yours.”

Shock froze you in place and you looked up at him - he was smirking. “You smug asshole,” you grumbled, and Bucky laughed. 

A temperature check was next, and for better or for worse, you were still delirious and half asleep. “Alright, your arm, please, madam,” Bucky said, a phoney British lilt to his voice. You pouted, but offered your cannula free hand to him. “Atta girl.”

“Y’know,” you started. “You’re hot.”

The beep of the thermometer echoed in the silence while he just stared at you, a brow raised in amusement. “Am I?”

“Yeah, you are, the thingy,” you gestured at the thermometer in his hand, completely forgetting what it was, “wouldn’t even be able to register how hot you are.”

Bucky snorted and put the thermometer down to record something on your chart. “Remind me to come into your room when you’re this tired, doll. You’re cute when you speak your mind.”

Reality suddenly dawned on you and your eyes widened. “Did I really just say that?”

“You did, yep,” Bucky chuckled.

Your vitals check went smoothly, if you didn’t count the little hiccup of calling your nurse hot. There were no drastic changes which, much to your surprising disappointment, meant you could be discharged home soon, and that meant not seeing Bucky, even in the shitty circumstances. 

“How are you, Bucky? Still runnin’ round breakin’ hearts?” You asked around a yawn. 

Bucky looked down at you fondly, hidden amongst the cocoon of blankets and pillows. He grabbed hold of the IV line that was attached to the cannula in your hand, and adjusted the speed of the flow. “Nope,” he said. “When I’m not here, I spend my time back in my apartment with my cat. She runs a tight ship.”

“What’s her name?” You asked sleepily, blinking up at him. Bucky went to answer but you hissed in pain when you moved your hand, the long IV line had caught on the bed rail and dislodged the cannula. Saline dripped steadily from the broken connection and you tried in vain to mop it up.

“Oh, doll, hang on,” Bucky rushed, his gloved hands grabbing yours with such gentleness and care. “Let’s fix that up.”

“It’s that damn saline,” you whined. Reattaching a cannula was an annoyance, but having Bucky so close wasn’t so bad - he smelt so comforting, all of your favourite scents rolled into one, and his presence was even more so. 

“I know, I know,” Bucky soothed, working away at the dislodged cannula. “Whatever will I do to make it up to you, doll?”

Fuck it, you thought. “Get me a warm blanket and Introduce me to your cat.”

Bucky looked up from your hand, his lips quirked in a knowing smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes even the low light showed. “Alright,” he said, smoothing down the tape that secured the cannula in place. “That shouldn’t hurt anymore.” Slowly, he stood, but he didn’t let go of your hand. 

Embarrassment flooded you and you opened your mouth to backtrack, but a squeeze to your hand stopped you. Bucky was still smirking. “Alpine would love you.”

When you were eventually discharged, a piece of paper with a neat scrawl of, ‘your favourite asshole’ and a phone number was tucked into the pockets of your pants, and you felt like you had landed on the moon. 

It paid off to shoot your shot, after all.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[queenshelby]

THE FUTURE (PART THREE)

Pairing: Emmett (A Quiet Place) x Original Female Character

Warning: Age Gap, Forced Procreation, Past Sexual Abuse, Angst

Three weeks after Caitlyn and Emmett returned to the Island and Caitlyn was afforded some time to settle back an, the Council summoned them for a meeting to discuss some arrangements for them and Caitlyn's fostered children.

Evelyn was on the Council as well, and she was sympathetic towards Caitlyn's precarious position as a young woman who, before coming to the island, had escaped from the clutches of those who had destroyed her life. She could not imagine what Caitlyn was going through now that, due to her age, she was asked to partake in the procreation program and, therefore, tried to help her as much as she could. 

Emmett also understood Caitlyn's plight, and he sympathized with her even though he was usually rather harsh and private.

He had known loss, pain, and sacrifice himself, and as he witnessed the vulnerable young woman navigate her own struggles, which somehow made him soften a bit. Despite his reservations, he agreed to move in with her and act as a guardian to her children. Essentially, he was to play the part of father and lover without actually being neither, but the Council did not know this, other than Evelyn who was privy to Emmett's plan.

"Emmett," one of the members of council began to speak. "It is our understanding that you have agreed to be paired with Caitlyn and, considering her youth, we expect this collaboration to yield results quickly, as per the new procreation program," the representative decreed, bringing forth a chuckle.

"You fucking people," he sighed, rubbing the crease between his brows. "Why someone would go through the trouble of reproducing when we can barely offer a decent life to those who already live here is beyond me but, yes, I agree to be paired with Caitlyn," he exclaimed, making his position clear. 

The air in the room grew heavy with tension, intensifying with every word he spoke and a ripple of unease crept through the Council's ranks, challenging their demands and causing uncertainty to bubble beneath the surface. Evelyn observed the exchange silently, proud of Emmett's defiance and confident in his abilities to navigate the challenges that lay ahead and, yet, she had to caution him.

"Emmett, we need your assurance that you will comply with the program," she emphasized, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, causing him to sigh again. 

Then, Emmet nodded nonetheless, understanding the implications of his earlier words. Being paired with Caitlyn meant that she was safe from other men who might abuse her just like the men on the mainland did before she was rescued. This was not something Emmett wanted for her and, as thus, he agreed to comply.

"We will do our best," he then reassured the council while you sat there, silently, nodding and wearing a forced smile. You tried to hide how you felt about this arrangement, but the subtle glint of distress in your eyes gave you away. Yet, you silently hoped that this would be enough to keep you safe from the prying, and at times malevolent, eyes of those that ruled over this strange island.

The meeting carried on for a while, as they discussed all the details of your new living arrangements and it was decided that Emmett had to move in with you and make available his cabin on the beach for new arrivals.

You were also told that you had three months to fall pregnant, failing which you would be paired with someone else. 

Emmett observed the distress etched on your face, knowing the immense anxiety this news provoked. But like the strong and resilient woman you were, you reframed the situation in a different light. Three months was enough time to devise an alternative plan. Three months meant you could continue working on your farm, growing food for the community. Three months was enough time to consolidate your relationship with Emmett, forging a friendship that could ultimately buffer the emotional storm that was about to unleash upon you.

And this is exactly how you chose to look at it, on the outside at least.

***

That same day, Emmett brought his belongings to your house

. You watched as he carried his bag, taking in the sturdiness of the worn leather, the way it hung from his shoulders, remnants of a once simpler time before everything changed, before the world as they knew it collapsed.

"I will take the floor," he signed, rolling out the swag in the living room which is where you too were sleeping. In the corner of the Livingroom there was a small bed which was yours and in the one small single bedroom next to it, the two boys were sleeping on mattresses on the floor. You had no kitchen and only an outdoor shower. Your house was simple as you had built it with your own hands, but Emmett did not seem to mind. 

It was a roof over their heads, after all. He nodded approvingly as he surveyed the small but cozy home. Despite the austere conditions, Emmett could not help but appreciate the tranquility of your surroundings.

"You did well here, Caitlyn," he complimented, as you watched him shed his worn-out jacket, revealing the muscular contours of his upper body beneath. The cuts and creases on his arms were fitting reminders of the life you both led on this island.

Though Emmett was a seasoned survivor, Caitlyn wondered if he was capable of fathoming the inner turmoil you harbored as you navigated your complicated existence on the Island.

Emmett's eyes fell on the crude drawings that adorned every vertical surface of your wooden walls. They were children's stories, representations of their lives that your two boys had curated. He smiled warmly at the simplicity of their stories, the pure joy and imagination they conveyed.

They reminded Emmett of his own children who had died on the first day of the invasion and his look softened almost instantly.

His thoughts were miles away, lingering on the memories of their soft laughter, beaming smiles, and his heart caught in his throat with a longing so deep, only the silence of their world could contain it.

But things were different on the Island. Life was fragile, but Emmett had learned to be resilient. It's all about adjusting to new situations, and this was one of them.

Reaching for his bearded chin, you made him look at you as, clearly, he was lost in his own thoughts right now.

"Thank you," you signed, grateful for his genuine show of support. "I truly appreciate it."

Emmett met your gaze, his piercing blue eyes radiating strength and resilience, as well as a shared understanding. "You are welcome, Caitlyn," he signed back sincerely. "But don't expect too much from me," he went on to add, his wry smile serving as a reminder that, despite his strong-willed appearance, Emmett still grappled with his own demons and unresolved issues.

"The boys are your responsibility, and I will stay out of your way wherever I can and I expect you to stay out of mine," he continued, his hands swiftly conveying his message, as Caitlyn studied him with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

His blunt honesty startled her, and she found herself struggling to respond, until eventually, she nodded her assent. "Understood." She knew that he did this merely to protect her and this was enough for her to be grateful to him.

It was a sham they were running for the sake of the procreation program and she had no intention of falling pregnant. Living with Emmett saved her from being abused by other men and offered her a measure of protection which, at least for now, was all that mattered to her.

To be continued...

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[hayanwulf]

Hi, in case you write a/b/o, can you write IronStrange where someone flirts with alpha Stephen and omega Tony steps in to stop them? That would be great!

Okay, I’m guessing you wanted me to write traditional a/b/o here. I, however, am not used to writing traditional. I tried (and failed) so went back to the way I always write my a/b/o’s. Non-traditional and with a high level of normalcy.

“Norns, you look pathetic ogling at that sorcerer,” Loki commented dryly, hands crossed over his chest and legs propped up on the conference table. The Avengers meeting hadn’t yet started, so the few people already present were more or less lounging.

“I’m not ogling at anyone,” Tony replied whilst clearly staring at the sorcerer in question, who sat all the way on the opposite side of the large table, discussing something with Bruce. “It’s called careful scrutiny.”

It was true. Stephen was a new player to the team — and it had taken a lot of persuasion to make that happen even if Stephen had been an ally nonetheless — so obviously, as a co-leader of the Avengers, Tony needed to observe him to learn more about his abilities, battle sense, teamwork skills, the like. There was absolutely no other reason for Tony to observe the Wizard, nope. And it was most definitely not because Tony found the doctor attractive, intelligent, witty, and with the most intoxicating yet calming scent he’d smelled from an alpha in a long while. Stephen smelled like rain and fresh tea leaves, which, how was it possible for an alpha to have such light, soothing tones in their scent?

But anyway, that was not the reason Tony was currently observing Stephen.

There were only practical reasons for observing him, yup.

Loki let out a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a giggle. Tony turned to glare at the Asgardian, who was currently in his alpha form.

“You aren’t fooling anyone but yourself, Stark. But if that is what you choose to believe..” Loki smirked, pulling his legs off the table to stand up, and leaned towards Tony to speak quietly, “All the better for me.”

Tony felt it the moment Loki shifted to his omega, the strong, musky undertone of his scent replaced by a pleasant kind of sweetness. Tony blinked and sat up straight, watching a little cluelessly as Loki sauntered around the table.

The Asgardian arrived by Stephen’s seat and leaned his back on the table, body tilted towards Stephen, eyes tracing the Wizard with interest.

Finally, it clicked what Loki was doing, and Tony stilled.

Stephen blinked up at Loki’s posture, no doubt already having noted the switch in gender. “Hello, Loki,” he said with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

The responding smile Loki gave was somewhere between mischief and mirth. “I do not plan to sit around in this inane gathering they call a ‘team meeting’. I would rather do something enjoyable, or at the very least, meaningful,” Loki spoke, then gave a light tilt to his head and raised a challenging eyebrow. “Care to join me?”

Stephen held Loki’s gaze for a long moment, a considering look in his face.

No, no.

Tony could not let this happen.

He could especially not lose to Loki, of all people.

“Or,” he spoke out loud before he could stop himself, catching the attentions of not only the magic users, but also Bruce, Natasha, Hope, and Scott. “We could go back to my penthouse after the meeting. Order takeout, watch some movies.”

Lame.

He immediately wanted to kick himself.

But.. it was safest. It was all he could think of in the spur of the moment. They’d already had takeouts at Tony’s penthouse a few times, even if Stephen had never seemed to want to stay for long.

Tony could never quite figure out why.

What did it mean, Tony wondered, that Stephen never stayed till the completion of even a single movie with Tony, but had seemed ready to take Loki up on his suggestion just a moment ago?

“Sounds like a plan,” Stephen’s words pulled Tony out of his head, startling him a bit with how quickly his doubt got defenestrated.

He looked up to find the Wizard gazing at him with warmth in his eyes, lips turned up just a hint. Tony knew that Stephen did not easily give away his feelings, be it through scent or expression. Tony was among the few who were privileged enough to not only receive those warm looks from Stephen, but also know what he smelled like when he was content and happy.

Tony was grateful for being among those people.

He smiled up at Stephen, bright and genuine. “Better pick a movie before the meeting’s over.”

Loki, Tony realized, was staring at him with lips downturned, which seemed less out of annoyance and more out of disappointment, which, what?

Whatever.. the crisis had been averted and Tony had acquired a not-date.

For now, he was content with that.

[scribblesofagoonerr]

WIPS | © scribblesofagoonerr

Disclosure: all fic titles are subject to change

last updated: 22/09/2024

chaos fc | reader!monkey

getaway racecar driver - monkey attends the f1 with leah and as usual it's very chaotic

flu season - a slightly less chaotic work where monkey gets sick and is way too stubborn to admit it

standing ovation - monkey scores a goal during a big tournament and decides to celebrate with the fans much to leah's disagreement about it not being safe

rehab mischief - when it comes to monkey being injured along with vic it's a sure reciepe for distaster

tiktok trend fail - monkey and kyra attempt to do a tiktok trend and it epically fails

buddy & monkey: double the trouble | reader!buddy x reader!monkey

i'm nothing but a burden - overhearing a conversation between some of the girls, monkey has self doubt that she's nothing but a problem to leah and jordan

buddy the rat has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? - monkey convinces buddy to dress up as a rat for halloween however leah is less than thrilled about the idea

first chirstmas - flash back to the first christmas after buddy is born and monkey has settled in

favourite little buddy - the day that buddy is born and monkey meets her favourite little buddy for the first ever time

new adjustments - a flashback of life adjusting to a house with a newborn and teenager

improvised hair cut - buddy decides she wants to try and cut her own hair much to leah's horror while jordan finds the whole thing amusing

s'appin girl, ya alright? - monkey decides to try and teach buddy a new tiktok trend

swearing mishap - a second part of the the bubbles are pink, jackass where buddy uses her newfound potty mouth at jordan's house much to her amusement

stranger danger - monkey puts' buddy in untentional harm during a run in with fans

separate | leah williamson x reader!buddy x jordan nobbs

separate IIII - there's another challenge when it comes to going to bed

acting out | lia walti x teen reader x caitlin foord

fifth installment - there's improvement at the school after the bully is dealt with but there's still ongoing issues with reader

inner demons | leah williamson x teen reader

Leave me alone - aftermath of reader going to katie's after hearing what leah said

Make us proud, kid - reader starts to make her return to training

Not ever alone in this battle - there's a blip in reader's recovery

Only the lonely - reader still continues to struggles but tries to make out like things are fine

Progress is key - reader has an emotional breakthrough

Quitting seems like the easiest option right now - there's yet another setback in readers' recovery and she debates quitting football

Remember how far you've come - reader makes her return to the pitch

Stronger than you know - There's issues that arise when the Media seem to get a hold of information about readers' life

This is your moment to shine - the aftermath of the turmoil in readers past life

Unbelievably proud of you - reader continues to make progress

Vague moment of joy - reader experiences a fleeting but significant moment of happiness that brings a sense of normalcy

We're proud of you - A full year has passed since that night

X marks the spot - there's ups and downs in life but reader discovers' a significant turning point in life

You're gonna go far, kid - there's a minor setback of struggles for reader and it seems all too easy to give in to the temptations

Zooming all over the pitch - In the final part of the alphabet-themed journey, reader experiences a triumphant moment that symbolizes her growth and success

our wonder kid | beth mead x teen reader x vivianne miedema

we've got you, we're here - reader continues with her eating as her training becomes more intense

triumph return - reader makes her comeback after being out 9 months with her acl injury

like mother, like daughter | katie mccabe x child reader

christmas clash of colours - child reader is insistant that she wants a football top for christmas, however it's not the right team

split decisions two approaches, one love school trouble

three parts of child readers life during her teenage years dealing with the ups and downs of her mums' being separated and dealing with general teenage struggles

going pro injured first of many

three parts of child readers life during her adult years dealing with life issues

cookie monster saga | child reader x steph catley

down under in aus - reader and steph arrive in australia ahead of the world cup

mascot - reader gets to be steph's mascot during the opening game of the 2023 world cup although kyra and charli are fighting over reader being there's instead

don't listen to them | platonic reader x katie mccabe x caitlin foord

reader is the next up and coming big thing in women's football and she recieves a lot of media attention and one of the things is a cause of an eating disorder

tiny dancer | third installment of small bump

3 - 5 mini series of 5 five years later and the aftermath of readers' death and how it's taken a toll on leah and the kids' lives

grief is a funny thing sometimes | arsenal wfc x platonic reader

come back soon the weight of the news i'm not ready to say goodbye just yet

reader's brother dies on deployment and she goes through the 5 stages of grief with the support of her fellow team mates

[kottkrig]

To Embrace The Shadow: Absolution (End)

Lucretia is faced with her own mistakes and what the consequences might be if she forgets why they call her the Shadow Mother.

World of Warcraft | Original Characters

Found Family

“Can you come home now?”

Zala looked up from Lucretia’s arms with misty eyes. The elf often asked to be held without any fear of her mentor's sobering presence.

“Yes, of course. I will not abandon my people, and I owe you three a lot for securing my recovery ahead of time…” Lucretia faced her anticipating audience. The men were reaching out as if she might slip away again, but they were too modest to ignore decorum as quickly as their Sister.

“First of all, you deserve an apology.”

Letting Zala go, she floated back as much as she could in their modest space. She took off her miter, which was constructed from nothing but pure energy, as was the rest of her; the Shadow Mother was the wraith of a mortality left behind. The vessel she mantled was the one her people knew best, and she let it appear largely as cadaverous as she was before her ascension. She refused to be ashamed of her undeath, which she never chose for herself. Failing her kin, however, was a result of her choices.

The trio watched as she apologized for her arrogance, for taking their loyalty for granted. She was sorry for seeing herself as above consulting them about her plans, and just expecting them to comply. Her overconfidence put them all in danger and left them to clean up her mess.

The prestige tied to her name was earned, but she was not invincible, and she was the most responsible for reminding them that neither were they.

“My greatest joy would be for you to one day walk your own ways, but I cannot let you go with the presumption that any of us are untouchable. It would violate our third and most difficult tenet, and in turn, undo the others. All three must work together.”

They stared at her in stunned silence. It certainly confirmed her arrogance.

“But I have shackled your growth, and you have every right to be disappointed with me.”

Zala was quick to accept her apology. Lucretia had a hunch that she was just exhilarated with their reunion, as their bond sometimes leaned on the familial side over simply teacher and student. It wasn’t Lucretia’s intention for Zala to become so attached that it might hurt her autonomy, and they would have to work on that. Lafayette was similar, albeit more guarded with his opinion. It was likely that he followed Zala’s initiative, as he often did choose to go with the flow and submit to a more assurant personality. Only when the following silence got too tense for him did he seem to add his own input.

“You couldn’t predict that this would happen. But maybe… maybe we should have talked more beforehand. We could have helped you prepare better.”

Lucretia agreed with him and was pleased to hear him speak his mind. She then faced Cletus and found him avoiding her gaze. She had supervised him the longest, with promises of prestige dangling in front of him–which she knew he would eventually achieve–but she had held him back for years. Perhaps she feared for his safety, or perhaps she savored having such loyal acolytes at her beck and call, but loyalty was unwise without mutual trust. It might have dawned upon him and made him hesitant. She could not blame him.

They didn’t need to forgive her, and she was hoping that they would take their time with their final decision. Receiving her humility was what they deserved. As for herself, she could handle any heat coming her way from the cult. Uppity Dark Clerics who thought she got her comeuppance were insignificant when she had the honor of seeing her students flourish together.

Things eventually started returning to relative normalcy, but Lucretia had to rethink her approach as a teacher. She decided to bring the trio aside, one at a time, and offer to loosen her grip on them. If they were to grow further, they needed to be challenged, and she could use her privileged position to advance theirs.

Lafayette’s anxiety held him back from progressing any faster than at a sloth’s pace, and Lucretia knew that she contributed to his sheltering. The living and the dead could walk all over him, and he would take it in silence instead of standing his ground. His success in reclaiming control of his sight tasted of the respect that he longed for. It was going to be a lifelong journey to challenge his fears, and he would be facing setbacks, but such were the trials they all faced as early as learning their first tenet. He often settled among the cult’s archives, where anyone who needed something had to consult an archivist. If he was taught on how to manage their texts, others were wise to respect someone who held onto occult knowledge.

Zala rambled on about a dozen things on her wishlist, but it wasn’t quite material things that Lucretia had in mind. They could revisit that matter at another time, so the two concluded that her role in preserving their grounds should broaden beyond menial labor and patrols in Deathknell. She had proven that she could plan for and journey into the unknown, and then return safely on her own. An elven ranger was exceptional for sweeping across the wilds with her silvan knowledge, and even someplace as haunted as Lordaeron needed care to maintain balance. It was her home, and she should be free to explore and nurture it. Lucretia urged her to be vigilant as the eyes of the Forgotten Shadow, and Zala eagerly swore to honor the trust put in her.

Cletus’s relationship with her had become tense. He fought harder than he should have for their sake, and was facing burnout as his only reward if he was just going back to being her eternal promising student. For one who had come so far, she still hadn’t ordained him. They both knew that his weak point was vainglory, and while power was what they all sought, every cultist had to constantly measure their capacity for it. Even the most successful of Dark Clerics weren't above remembering the tenets, or they risked falling like she had done. Cletus could charm his way forward all he wanted, but it meant nothing if he wouldn’t practice what he had been preaching in this time. Whenever he felt certain about it, Lucretia promised to be there to avow his commitment, and bow back at him as an equal.

She was self-aware enough to recognize her worries about letting go of control, knowing what it might cost a Shadow priest to be careless. She was proof herself of what rigid discipline could accomplish, but her students would never be able to breathe if they couldn’t reach above the surface. All four of them were left with scars reminding them of their trials, that they saw it through, and that there would be more trials to come. They would continue to face failure, prejudice, hatred and devastating loss, and she couldn’t always be there to protect them. What she could do was teach them how to protect themselves, and each other, until they were ready to walk their own ways. Their paths were not for her to decide for them, when such was not the will of the Forsaken.

It was challenging to adapt and persist through difficult times, and there may be endless time for any Forsaken to lead. But they were a stubborn people, and when those who reviled them as abominations kicked them down, they crawled back up and spat in the faces of their oppressors. The Cult of Forgotten Shadows sought to enhance what it meant to be Forsaken, and when to be Forsaken meant spiteful survival, they embraced the shadow that had been cast over them.

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Bloody Love Letter

The overdue fluff (I tried, okay?) snippet for @thelazywitchphotographer

TW: Blood, murder mention, knife mention

To most people, the sound of footsteps padding across asphalt in the middle of the night would have been worrying, but Villain didn't exactly fit into the category of 'most' people. Besides, these particularly heavy footsteps were dragging across the street slowly, probably belonging to a drunkard, all the more reason for her not to give a damn.

Still, she decided to humour her unfortunate stalker, turning around to face them, the expression on her face something between irritable and smug, one dark eyebrow arched and a very slight upturn of her lips.

The familiar mask that she was so used to wearing seemed to practically melt into nothing as she realised who the footsteps actually belonged to: Civilian. The man was dressed in his usual business casual, a pair of jeans and a white shirt, except this time, it was more of a shredded rag of blood-stained fabric than a shirt.

Scratches and bruises littered his face, dark crimson encrusted on the corner of his lips, and he was also sporting a black eye. Except the civilian was unfazed in the slightest, as though this was some sort of everyday occurrence. "I'm sure you've seen a lot worse," he remarked casually in response to the look of utter shock the villain had failed to hide, her eyes going wide.

"What happened?" she questioned, as the muscles of her face worked to pull it into a neutral expression.

The civilian snorted incredulously. "I skipped my skincare routine, so I don't look as pretty as usual," he retorted, his lips stretched into something between a smirk and a dark scowl.

This was the kind of insolence that the villain would kill people for, but Civilian had been sharp enough to notice he was an exception, an idea that was frankly poisonous to the villain. She wished to remind him exactly just how dangerous the game he was playing was, but in his current state, it really didn't seem like the time.

So, she simply ran a hand down her face exasperatedly, "Who did this to you?" she demanded, a slight edge of well-concealed anger to her tone that she knew the man would catch.

"What I did to him. You should've seen the other guy." He grit his bloodstained teeth in a feral grin, an expression the villain had never known he was capable of, thanks to his usually mild-mannered nature.

The villain sucked in a sharp breath, folding her arms across her chest. Whatever had warranted this kind of reaction from the civilian was definitely terrible.

Or maybe, if his words and cocky attitude weren't misplaced, this was an indication that the man was a lot more dangerous than he'd seemed, and she just wasn't entirely pleased with that conclusion.

"Alright, hotshot. What did you do?" she challenged, her own piercing blue eyes trained on the civilian's sage green ones, trying to stare through him as though he was no more than a sheet of paper, as though something in his resolve would crumble.

It was the civilian's turn to take in a heavy, measured breath, his gaze refusing to meet the villain's. He seemed almost lost, for lack of a better word, worrying his lip between his teeth, his smug attitude crumbling incredibly fast. "I- killed him," he admitted, trying hard to hide the solemness in his tone with a matter-of-fact intonation, a poor cover-up he failed to paint over the nervousness.

The civilian was never the type to take risks. Before he'd met the villain, he was as cautious as could be, a normal man with a normal job who lived in a very normal neighbourhood. Or that was what the criminal had took him for at first, until she'd found out that this was merely the tip of the iceberg. The civilian had gotten tired of trying to glaze over every side of him with well-fabricated normalcy.

But to confess to murder? That was lightyears away from "trying to change things", from driving a little faster than he was used to or any of the new things he'd done after he'd known her. If there was any shred of his old self, of any basic common sense, he should've already noticed by now that there was a great chance he'd ruined his life, shredded it to pieces.

"Why?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper, instinctually feeling like she would despise his answer.

This time, there was no hesitation in the civilian's tone. "He said he'd go after you. Said he'd hurt you, and I wasn't giving him that chance. Consider it my bloody love letter," he half-snarled, his fists clenched and the muscles of his face taut with conviction.

The villain tried for a few false starts, only for nothing to come out, her lips left parted in surprise. 

At that, the civilian's expression softened into something she'd never seen before, into something she realised she wished to see more often, something that lit up his features beautifully. 

The civilian was a good-looking man, in a strangely dishevelled sort of way. Dark, wind-ruffled hair with very slight flecks of grey and unwaveringly bright tourmaline eyes that never seemed to dim no matter how exhausted he was. Surprisingly, the crimson streaked across his face seemed to highlight the high-set cheekbones; somehow rendering his current frazzled state even more beautiful than what he usually looked like.

And the realisation that she found the civilian attractive seemed to hit her like a freight train, as did any wave of strong emotion she wasn’t accustomed to. Still, the lingering tension in the air as he crossed the distance between them was very palpable.

“I love you.” The soft smile he gave her at her expression of surprise was equal parts cruel as it was kind. The villain had never been the oblivious one, the shocked audience of a plot twist. So openly vulnerable with someone who downplayed his own cleverness more often than not as a protective tactic.

But she wasn’t exactly sure she hated it. Quite the contrary. She’d evaluated their relationship as that of two unlikely friends aware of each other’s attractiveness and no more, something surface-level and entertaining, but she’d come to realise in that moment, that she’d been wrong. 

“I love you too,” she offered as the civilian’s surprisingly warm fingers skirted across her hand, and Villain tentatively got closer, her lips pressed to his jawline, almost fitting there perfectly. She didn’t mind the blood on her mouth, she probably didn’t even notice as the civilian pulled away for a moment, her breath catching in her throat until he got closer again, a soft, almost high-pitched laugh of euphoria escaping his lips as they made contact with the crown of her hair, velvet-soft and blissfully cool against her skin.  

“Do you trust me enough to let me take you home so I can fix you up?” she asked.

He pulled away again, a wild, wolfish look in his eyes. “You know, I didn’t even need a knife to kill him,” he answered cryptically, except between the two of them, this was a clear enough response.

✨Timeskip✨

"Just one more left," she said placatingly.

"Well it burns," he hissed, pulling himself away from the cloth soaked in antiseptic near his face, and yet he made absolutely no effort to stop her from pushing him down on her lap again, unless you considered a petulant mock-pout an effort.

"I'm sure you've seen a lot worse," the criminal replied swiftly, quoting him from earlier with her lip curling upwards subtly as she wiped away the last of the blood and dirt on him. The civilian looked significantly younger with all the gunk off, the white hairs seeming to have shown up prematurely, with him being so stressed half the time.

Except right now, he sported a lazy half-smile, looking at her admiringly through half-lidded eyes, lashes so enviously long they fell against his cheek when he blinked. He lifted himself upright, easily pulling her into his lap and tracing the shape of her cheekbone with his finger and then slowly kissing it. "It's never been fair, how gorgeous you've always looked, but now that you're mine, maybe it is, only slightly more just," he crooned, kissing the other cheek with a haunting gentleness that made it seem impossible that he could've killed someone, but with enough passion to prove the previous assumption incorrect.

The villain hummed thoughtfully, pulling him even closer somehow and running her fingers through his hair, smooth like strands of silk now that he'd showered. She felt him shiver, knowing full-well he was touch-starved, "It's alright. You'll get used to it."

"I will," he replied with a smirk, except he leaned further into the touch as she ran her hands through his hair and down to his shoulders, still unaccustomed but the small smile on his lips as he closed his eyes indicated his approval of the touch.

Love is not as concrete as we like to believe. It is certainly senseless to try and learn the exact mechanisms of it because only a fool would wish to learn of something that does not exist and never could. And sure, it is a terrifying product of fate, an outcome of a game where you can only control half of the moves, but still, love is such an awfully human quality; just as wild, just as unpredictable and just as beautiful. It holds the power to draw blood, to start fires but also to bring the taste of euphoria to your lips better than any drink or drug could ever hope to.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi @those-damn-snippets @whatiswhumpblog @ghostofnorth

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[adhdo5]

Thing I just sent in Discord just str8 copy pasted because it's late and I'm. Oaugh. Them

This is an O5ver thing ~kind of in general like in different ways all of them are Miserably Bitter About The World and are variably lashouty and mean and cold and like evil on their face But they aren't disingenuous or hypocritical or even uncomplocatedly self serving? The most straightforwardly self interested among them are 2 and 13 Like they say they care about the world and want to make it a better place and they're telling the truth . The problem is that they are evil and they are missing the fundamental notion of paradigm that like , maybe it is in fact OK to not belong to the paradigm . Maybe you Don't have to self justify to literally cosmic extents. And maybe people can and in fact must be trusted to act on their own Like they're literally just auths . Is the problem They are so worried about so many myriad things and so meticulous in their execution they miss the forest for the trees. They see no problem with the nature of normalcy and authority and hierarchy as things that exist. Those are to them as natural as breathing And challenges to the legitimacy of normalcy are fundamentally answered with "well the normalcy is bad. We will invent the mythical good normalcy " And whenever they fail to invent the mythical good normalcy. They go "well that was a skill issue. We will be colder and less cruel and more forward thinking and we will increase the thickness of the walls and the amount of cameras and we will re-check the reality anchors and one day it will be perfect" Project HYPOSTAT-2 has been postponed indefinitely.

[captainhunnicutt]

HI SHAN!!! since I’ve been thinking about late seasons Beej lately, how do you think he would handle his return home from the war?

HI BABY

Oh man. Hitting me with the good and difficult stuff right from the start.

I don't think BJ deals well with returning from Korea, and I don't think he actively does anything to help himself.

I've often wondered about this, and always come back around to the idea that BJ's entire world view has been flipped upside down and bled all over. Mike said it best when he said that "if [BJ] continued to do his best to give of himself to people in need... that it would be somehow serving his wife and daughter as well. And at the end, he'd be able to go home with his head held high." so the question really becomes... did BJ go home with his head held high?

I don't think he believed he could, and because of that he struggles from the day he gets home until... who knows when.

I don't think he becomes a drunken shell of a man. I don't think he becomes outwardly angry or cold or totally unrecognizable - but I do think his worst traits have been exacerbated and he struggles to learn with how to deal with them. I think he struggles with how to reconcile with which came first: was he always like this and having his entire world view flipped upside down and bled all over - against his will - brought it out of him OR was having his entire world view flipped upside down, bled all over and repeatedly challenged - against his will - the reason he is the way he is now? It's a chicken and the egg thing, and I think for someone like BJ (tries - and yes sometimes fails - to maintain some level of rationality) that is an impossible thing to accept and live with. Something has to be first. Something has to be to used to explain. Something has to be put to blame.

I think for a long time, BJ struggles with trying to figure out who he was before Korea, who he wanted to be during Korea, and who he is after Korea - and how are all three of those BJs him?

I think he also just really struggles with acclimating to the sense of "normalcy" that he left behind. Little things like dishes being in a different cabinet, new pictures on the wall, a new toothbrush, being able to come and go as he please ("Ag, you know what I am? I'm a prisoner of war.") and really wrestling with seeing actual physical proof that life went on without him. The Hunnicutt household did not implode in his absence, but that doesn't mean he wasn't needed or missed or wanted. But so much of his self worth seems wrapped up in the idea he needs to be needed - that stepping foot into a home where everyone is healthy, the gutters are clean, and everything is satisfactory... cannot be easy for him.

Does any of that makes sense???

[dracwife]

🎲 for summerisle. in honor of summerisle saturday.

ship: a love immeasurable -> summerisle/heidi word count: 1170 summary: howie takes issue with the nature of heidi and lord summerisle's relationship. i didn't mean for this to become a full fic.

41. a kiss out of spite.

“Surely, a man of your status and self-respect wouldn’t…” Howie lets out a nervous laugh.

“Wouldn’t…?” Summerisle prods him. Though it was little more than a question, between the two they both knew well it was a challenge, a dare even. Go on, he’s saying to Neil Howie, say it.

“Oh, come on now. You are subject to a Christian nation, as you well know. And -- and you may be teaching this heathen religion of yours to these poor, unfulfilled youth and…Well, I can allow that, because they may still see the err of their ways when they mature and get a little common sense, but you cannot run around, no matter private property or not, and spew this absolute perversion! Everywhere I look, it gets worse, but I draw the line here, I do!”

Summerisle tilts his head curiously, an amused grin tugging at his cheeks with rather disinterested eyes. The gathers his thoughts for a moment, exhaling audibly, that forced, friendly smile not for a second faltering as he stands tall, much taller than Sergeant Howie, and looks down at him as he begins.

“I fail to see what you refer to, Sergeant. I believe in the fluidity of life, its many facets altogether, in my opinion, are ever open for change. Do the flowers not bloom in spring, and wither in the autumn? Does the tide not ride high one day, and run low but hours later? The moon, even, runs in cycles, never stagnant, and that’s not even to reference the rest of our earth. The caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, the egg hatches into a chick. The leaves change color through the seasons, and birds will migrate in the winter. Nature adapts to what best suits its needs, and I do believe we humans try to do the same. Who is to say what the ‘correct’ way is for us to find content in our own cycle of life? Perhaps you, Sergeant, find comfort in the routine of your own normalcy. Personally, I would much rather experience as much of what this great earth offers to me as possible. What you may call deviance, I would call the culmination of what has been offered to me. You are engaged, are you not? From what you’ve said, you worship regularly, too? As do I, dear Howie, though under different conditions I can only presume. The desire for companionship is felt all the same in either case, yours or mine, I’d imagine.”

“An outstanding misinterpretation of devotion!”

"I suspect we differ in definition, then," Summerisle rounds the den to seat himself comfortably in one of the many chairs.

Howie follows as obedient as any dog, "It is completely unnatural." 

"But it is so very human to fall in love, isn't it?"

"Not in this way. Were the investigation of Rowan Morrison not taking precedence in my visit, I would have half a mind to arrest you both now -- I will certainly be reporting this to the proper department once I reach the mainland I assure you."

"Kindly, Sergeant, I believe you might have quite the case to make -- In almost all respects besides social representation, Heidi is female, and comfortable in admitting so."

This only flabbergasted Howie further, a sputtering mess of fury and disgust, "Sexual deviance at its finest! And with all the other indecent practices I have witnessed on the island!"

"There is nothing sexual about it, quite the opposite in fact," Summerisle tuts, which pauses Howie's rant for but a moment.

"And maybe, if you kept it in the privacy of your own home, I could look past it, but --"

"Need I remind you, Sergeant, that you are in my house. And I would expect that a man of your manner would, if nothing else, respect the dignity of his hosts. I understand that perhaps you are not so accustomed to the things that you may see here, but," Summerisle, standing now, and voice raised just ever so slightly, causing an already very small-feeling Howie to shrink even more; He realized then the impossibly imposing nature of Lord Summerisle, "You would have the decency to not speak ill of my family, lest not in my own home."

Though his inflection tipped upwards, phrasing it as though it were some sort of question, it was indubitably a command, one that Howie simply conceded to as he smoothed his lapel. A terrible blow to his ego aside, he sheepishly meets the eyes of His Lordship again, whose undoubtedly alarming anger had already melted away, back into that friendly, approachable smile Howie had been invited into his manor in the first place with, "But of course, I would never think it to come to that brutish sort of insult. Heathens as you may think of us, we are still civil."

It almost frightened Howie -- seeing Summerisle swap between the two temperaments so quickly, his brows furrowed more the longer he stood thinking, if he had so easily hidden his anger, what ever else could the island be concealing?

In that moment, a third joins them in the den, carrying a small platter. They offer it first to Howie, who simply shakes his head, turns and gazes out of the window again. He feels too ill even to meet their eyes. 

Heidi, however, shrugs it off and simply wanders coolly over to Summerisle, who with a small thanks takes one of the mugs of tea.

Heidi mumbles something about being nearly out of milk, and as Howie steals a glance towards the couple he looks over just in time to see him, half bent over, Summerisle's hand resting gently against the other's cheek as he presses their lips together in a relaxed, but delicate kiss. He watches as they part slowly, in both their eyes that same look, a word he could only -- and it pained him so to even admit such a thing -- describe as reverence, with the kind of sincerity and passion that he could only otherwise ascribe to the way a servant may worship it's master. He dare not call it love, not after he argued so violently against it, but the thought prodded at him still that it may well have been the same way he looked at his own Mary, and for a second he considered that he had been too harsh. 

Heidi clears his throat though, and pulls Howie from his reflection, and murmurs about needing to visit the market -- Howie thinks he even hears an affectionate name alongside the "Murdoch" he refers to the man as, Howie makes a note of his lordship's first name finally, befitting to the rest of him -- surely referencing the mainland. He bids a quick, soft goodbye through a warm smile, bowing his head again to Howie as he exits the room, tea tray still in hand, leaving Summerisle and the policeman alone once more. The pagan watches Howie carefully, eyes sparkling with the sweet sense of spiteful victory alongside taunting curiosity, at what Howie's next move may be. 

He merely sighs, "I hope you will forgive me of my rash transgressions. It was rude of me."

"I never held it against you for a moment, my devout friend. I simply hope you may learn a thing or two during your stay."

[godsfavdarling]

chapter 05

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!oc

summary: Molly woke to rain, her mood shifting from giddiness to loneliness, missing Spencer.

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist

warnings: symptoms of anxiety (but it all ends well!)

words: 3k

As Molly woke up to the gentle patter of rain against her window, a palpable shift in her mood hung in the air. The giddiness that had colored her week gave way to a sense of unease and loneliness on this particular Friday morning. 

The raindrops outside seemed to mirror the somber notes of her emotions, creating a melancholic backdrop to the start of the day.

Despite the persistent rain, Molly went about her morning routine, the usual excitement replaced by a subdued demeanor. 

As she got ready for work, the echoes of Spencer's departure on Tuesday lingered in her mind. But so did the memory of his lips, a gentle whisper that greeted her every morning as she opened her eyes. 

The sensation of his touch had become a constant companion, painting her days with a soft glow of warmth. But not on this day.

The uncertainty of Spencer's return weighed on her, adding to the heaviness of the day. He left for a case in Texas. Molly's thoughts, usually filled with the enchanting memory of their kiss, now carried a tinge of worry.

The anxiety that had crept in, casted a gloom over her usual optimism. Everything seemed to conspire against her, as if the universe had decided this particular Friday would be a challenging one.

The simple act of getting ready became a struggle, her clothes feeling unfamiliar and awkward as they failed to provide the usual comfort. It was as if the fabric itself had betrayed the routine reassurance it once offered. She settled on a long-sleeve black shirt, gray wide-leg pants, and black shoes.

Items slipped through her grasp, a frustrating clumsiness that only added to her growing sense of anxiety and annoyance.

With each passing moment, the day unfolded like a series of small misfortunes. Things that normally flowed seamlessly now resisted her efforts. 

The looming threat of being late hung over her, intensifying the feeling of things spiraling out of control. 

It was as if the rain outside had permeated every aspect of her day, creating a disheartening cascade of mishaps.

As Molly rushed through her morning, the city's muted colors and the rhythmic drumming of rain on the windows mirrored her state of mind.

..................................

Amid the challenges of the day, Molly found herself in front of her class, attempting to maintain a sense of normalcy. As she guided her students through the lesson, she couldn't help but notice a group exchanging glances and hushed whispers.

Throughout the class, the uneasy feeling persisted, and Molly's intuition hinted that the students might be discussing her. 

It wasn't until later, during a break, that snippets of conversation reached her ears. It became apparent that the kids had been making comments about not only her appearance but also they were expressing frustration, suggesting that many had failed the recent test because they perceived it to be too difficult. 

The weight of their judgment pressed on her shoulders as she continued with the next lessons.

The once-confident strides she took in front of the class now seemed measured, and the lingering comments fueled her internal doubts. 

As she continued the lessons, the weight of the students' judgment added to the challenges of an already difficult day. The classroom, which was usually a space of knowledge exchange, now felt like an arena of scrutiny, intensifying Molly's sense that everything was going wrong.

She gathered her belongings and absentmindedly checked her phone. To her surprise and delight, a message from Spencer illuminated the screen.

"Hey Molly! Just landed! The rain can't dampen my excitement to see you! How about we turn this gloomy day around with a movie? I've got one in mind, and I think you'll love it. What do you say for a meet up later?"

Molly couldn't help but smile, the idea of escaping into the cinematic world with Spencer providing a welcomed break.

Despite the gloomy weather outside, the invitation brightened her mood. The rain, which had seemed like a relentless force earlier, now became a backdrop for a potential evening of shared laughter and the comfort of Spencer's company. Molly replied with an enthusiastic yes.

.............................

Spencer's anticipation reached a fever pitch as he waited for Molly to arrive. The decision to meet right away heightened the sense of immediacy, and he knew Molly could be at his doorstep any second now, having just finished her classes. 

The memories of their shared moments, the lingering kiss, and the delightful dinner fueled a palpable excitement within him, turning the minutes into an eternity. 

He couldn't wait to hear about her day, hoping to turn the evening into another delightful chapter in their growing bond.

As Molly knocked on the door, he swung it open with a bright smile, ready to welcome her.

However, the excitement in his eyes dimmed as he noticed Molly's disheveled appearance. Concern etched across his face, he couldn't help but ask, "Hey, Molly, is everything okay?"

Molly forced a smile, attempting to conceal the underlying unease. "Do I look that bad?" she quipped, a hint of vulnerability peeking through. Spencer, ever observant, sensed her distress and treaded carefully.

"Yeah... kinda.... well no... but did something happen?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. Aware that she might just be tired, he was ready to offer comfort and support.

"Oh... I'm okay, just tired," Molly reassured with a weary smile as she entered Spencer's apartment. 

Sensing her reluctance to delve into the details, Spencer decided not to press further, opting to let the matter rest for now. Wanting to lighten the mood, he suggested ordering some food.

"Hey, how about we order some takeout? You've had a long day," Spencer offered, concern still evident in his eyes. 

However, Molly declined, shaking her head. "No, thanks. I appreciate it, but I'm not really hungry."

Spencer, eager to make Molly feel more at ease, offered her a warm cup of tea. She accepted with gratitude, finding comfort in the soothing aroma.

She took a sip of the tea, letting its warmth envelop her. "Thanks for the tea. It's exactly what I needed," Molly said with a genuine smile. 

Looking around, she spotted a collection of movies on Spencer's shelf, amongst what must have been thousands of books, and couldn't resist asking about the one he had chosen for the evening.

"So what made you pick 'Solaris'? I read the book a long time ago, but I don't think I've ever seen the movie," she inquired, her interest piqued.

Spencer grinned, a glint of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes as he explained his nerdy reasoning for choosing "Solaris." 

"Well, you know me," he began with a playful twinkle, "I'm a sucker for intricate sci-fi concepts and mind-bending narratives. 'Solaris' has this fascinating blend of psychological depth and interstellar mystery. It delves into the nature of reality and consciousness, which I find utterly captivating. Plus, Tarkovsky's cinematography is a masterpiece."

He chuckled, realizing he might have ventured into his nerdy realm. "But hey, if it's too much, we can always switch to something else," Spencer added, his tone lighthearted, ready to cater to Molly's preferences.

Molly smiled appreciatively at Spencer's nerdy enthusiasm. "No, not at all. I'm actually really intrigued. Let's go for 'Solaris.' I'd love to watch something you're passionate about," she replied.

As the scenes of "Solaris" unfolded on the screen, Molly found her mind drifting away, unable to fully immerse herself in the cinematic experience. 

The weight in her chest grew more pronounced, and she couldn't shake the inexplicable feeling of sadness. Her eyes teared up, and a sense of unease settled over her, contrasting with the warmth of Spencer's company.

Confused by her emotions, Molly tried to refocus on the movie, but her thoughts kept wandering. She pondered the events of the day, searching for a reason behind the heaviness she felt. 

Spencer, sitting beside her, remained engrossed in the film, unaware of Molly's internal struggle.

In an attempt to push away the unexplained sadness, Molly discreetly wiped away a tear and leaned into Spencer's comforting presence. 

Despite the sweetness and solace of Spencer's company, Molly found herself unable to shake the heavy cloud that had settled over her emotions. His presence, though comforting, couldn't penetrate the inexplicable sadness that lingered within.

"Is everything okay?" Spencer asked gently, his voice filled with genuine care. However, those simple words acted as a catalyst, unleashing the floodgates of Molly's emotions.

Unable to contain her feelings any longer, Molly broke down. She quickly got up, apologizing between shaky breaths, "I'm so sorry, Spencer. I don't even know why....Um... I think I need to go home." 

The unexpected intensity of her emotional release caught her off guard, leaving her with a profound need to retreat and gather herself in the privacy of her own space.

As tears streamed down Molly's face, making it difficult for her to catch her breath, Spencer, genuinely concerned, reassured her, "It's okay, Molly. We can talk about it if you want. You don't have to go." He could see the struggle she was facing and wanted to offer comfort.

Despite his reassuring words, Molly insisted, "I better go." 

However, Spencer, not wanting to see her leave in such distress, implored her to stay. "Please, Molly. I don't want you to leave like this. We can talk, or I can just listen, or we can do anything that will make you feel better." he urged, his genuine concern shining through as he extended a comforting hand, ready to support her through whatever she was going through.

Through tears and a shaky voice, Molly expressed, "I don't want to bother you, Spencer. I've already ruined the evening." Her words carried a mix of vulnerability and self-blame, as she grappled with the weight of her emotions and the belief that she had disrupted what was meant to be a pleasant time together. 

Despite Spencer's assurances, Molly's own internal struggle kept her from fully accepting the comfort he offered.

Spencer, his voice gentle yet firm, sought to dispel Molly's self-blame. "You didn't ruin anything, Molly. Everybody has tough days, and it's okay." he reassured, wanting to emphasize that her emotions were valid and that he was there to support her.

Begging her to stay, he added, "Please, don't go unless you really want to be alone right now. We can talk or just sit together, whatever feels right for you."

As Molly's tears intensified, Spencer moved closer, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of her emotional storm. With a genuine sincerity in his eyes, he offered, "Molly, I'm right here. If having me around helps, I'm here for you." 

Feeling the genuine care and support from Spencer, she couldn't help but wrap her arms around his chest, seeking solace in the warmth of his embrace.

She allowed herself to release the emotions that had built up throughout the day. She wept into his shoulder, the tears becoming a cathartic release. 

Spencer, understanding the depth of her feelings, gently placed his hand on her back, offering a soothing and reassuring touch.

"Would you like to lie down for a bit? I can stay with you." 

She nodded in response and he led her to his bedroom, hoping she wouldn't interpret his gesture the wrong way. 

His intention was solely to create a space where she could find comfort and rest, a sanctuary away from the challenges of the day. Spencer wanted nothing more than for Molly to feel better.

She settled onto her side on the bed, and Spencer, standing nearby, offered, "I can leave you for a moment if you want." 

However, Molly, feeling a mixture of shyness and a longing for comfort, protested. Her voice carried a hint of vulnerability as she asked, "Would you mind... I mean, you don't have to, but... could you maybe lay down with me for a bit?"

Spencer responded with a gentle smile, "Absolutely," and joined Molly on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her, providing a comforting embrace, and placed his hand over hers. 

The warmth of his touch and the shared closeness became a source of solace, where words weren't necessary, and the simple act of being together conveyed a sense of understanding and support.

As Spencer continued to hold Molly in his arms, he noticed a subtle shift in her breathing. The short, irregular breaths gradually gave way to deeper, calmer ones. 

The flow of tears ceased, and he could sense the tension easing from her body. 

He remained still, ensuring not to disturb her newfound tranquility, and gazed down at her with a soft smile.

................................

As Molly gradually awakened to the soft light of the morning, she felt the warmth of Spencer's still wrapped around her. With gentle movements, she turned around to find him peacefully asleep, his face partially obscured by the curls of his hair.

Caught in a quiet reverie, Molly couldn't help but stare at Spencer, taking in the peaceful expression that graced his features as he slept. Lost in her thoughts, she must have inadvertently woken him. As his eyes slowly opened, he greeted her with a soft, "Morning"

"Morning," Molly replied, her voice carrying a softness that matched the tranquility of the moment. 

As the memories of the emotional night resurfaced, she began to apologize, but Spencer gently interrupted her, "You don't have to apologize, Molly. Last night was tough for you, and I'm just glad I could be here for you. Are you feeling better today?"

She nodded appreciatively, meeting Spencer's gaze. "I'm okay. Thank you. Nothing happened... not really." 

Her words carried a weight of unspoken emotions, hinting at the complexities of the night before.

"It's okay," he reassured, "You don't have to share more than you're comfortable with. I'm just glad you're okay now. If you ever want to talk about it or if there's anything I can do, I'm here." 

Molly took a deep breath, as if summoning the courage to articulate her feelings. "Nothing happened. It was just a bad day. Everything was wrong, and I was just feeling insecure. The kids... some of them weren't nice, I guess, and it all just hit me. I don't know. I don't have... many people to talk to, so I guess things just... built up."

Spencer listened attentively to Molly's explanations, understanding the weight of her words. After a brief pause, he spoke with a comforting sincerity, "Molly, you can always talk to me. You won't bother me, and it doesn't matter that we don't know each other that well. If you need someone to listen or share with, I'm here for you." 

Touched by Spencer's supportive words, Molly expressed her gratitude with a heartfelt "Thank you." Despite her attempt to hold back tears, emotions overwhelmed her once again. Spencer, seeing her tears, offered a gentle smile and leaned in to kiss them away.

.............................

Molly and Spencer spent the weekend together, and as Sunday morning arrived, Molly was abruptly awakened by a sharp pain in her lower stomach. She laid there, tense and uncomfortable, the pain interrupting what had otherwise been a peaceful sleep.

The realization of the situation quickly overwhelmed her, and her mind started to churn with worries. 

She didn't have any pads or medication with her, let alone a change of underwear. Beyond the need for painkillers, she needed something to help relax the cramps that now gripped her.

In the dimly lit Spencer's bedroom, Molly winced as the pain persisted. Spencer's hand rested on the side of her, offering a sense of comfort. 

Sensing Molly's unease, he stirred from his sleep and, his voice thick with concern, asked, "What's wrong?"

Molly hesitated for a moment, feeling the pain intensify, before finally admitting, "It's nothing. I just need to go home."

"Molly...?" Spencer's concern deepened, evident in his voice. He wanted to help, to provide comfort.

Unable to withstand the pain any longer, Molly gave in easily. "I think I got my period and don't have anything with me. I didn't... I forgot I'd get it soon and I don't know if I..." she mumbled, unable to fully articulate her words. 

The worry of potentially staining Spencer's bed sheets weighed heavily on her mind.

Spencer, however, responded with calm reassurance, "It's fine. It's just blood. Wait here." He offered her a soft hug before getting up and dressing. "I'll run to the pharmacy and get you what you need. I'll be back in 10."

"Spencer, it's okay. I'll just go home," Molly insisted, still hesitant about inconveniencing him.

"No, it's fine. You're in pain. I'll get you what you need," Spencer reassured her, his concern outweighing any inconvenience. The commitment in his voice made it clear he wanted to help.

After Molly explained the medications she usually takes and what pads she likes, Spencer inquired about her favorite pastries and left swiftly.

Molly's realization hit her like a wave. The emotional breakdown and heightened sensitivity she had experienced over the past few days suddenly made sense. It dawned on her, and she couldn't believe she hadn't considered it earlier - her period was on its way. 

Molly closed her eyes, hoping to find some relief from the pain. However, before she could slip back into slumber, Spencer returned to the apartment with a bag of essentials.

She looked up as he walked over to her bedside, presenting her with the purchased pills, pads and a package of new underwear, leaving her surprised at how quickly he had managed to get everything. 

Alongside these necessities, he brought a bag of pastries, including some with chocolate.

"I got you what you usually take," Spencer said, handing her the medication. "And I thought you might enjoy these pastries, especially the ones with chocolate. Oh, and I grabbed some new underwear in case you needed it." 

He smiled gently, his concern evident in his eyes. "Feel free to take a shower or a bath if that helps. If the sheets are stained, no worries. I'll throw them in the washing machine and change the bed. And I'll make you some tea."

[mindfights]

a little chargestep drabble, post-retribution. drips and drabs of intimacy in recovery.

You brace for it, wait for it, want it; Ortega's condemnations, his revulsion, the little tells on his face that confirm everything you feared for years in stereo.

It doesn't come.

It takes time, but you both to settle into some kind of normalcy. It's incremental, the little intimate moves Ortega makes. Fingers lacing with yours, climbing onto the bed beside you — careful not to jostle you, naturally, kisses when you're willing. He doesn't want to spook you, not when you're healing and cornered, and that's perhaps the most obvious and honest read you've ever managed of him.

When they return, the flirtations are less speculative. He's touched your bare skin, run his mouth down the inside of your thighs. He's heard how his name drips off your tongue as all strength in those thighs give out, and he has kissed you, proud and heated.

He develops a habit in your established routine. Helping you dress around the restricting plaster was practical, but this is indulgent. Ortega brushing your hair — an act you repeatedly tell him you're capable of doing yourself to hushed admonishments — and without fail pressing kisses to the back of your neck. Then down. Right to the crown of the tattoos that other you. Whispered insinuations against the flesh you've hated and fought to conceal your whole life about what you could get up to if he just took the day off.

He likes asking you if you want to make up for lost time with a smile that's too soft for the suggestive tone.

You wish the 'idiot' you shoo him off with was sharper.

It's impossible to be sharp with him when you're swimming in one of his undercover sweatshirts, smelling him, smelling like him, legs frighteningly exposed. To vent heat, you justified. You're not ready to say he makes you almost believe you're safe.

Eventually, he provokes you enough with that charming smoothness of his that grates, and you snap at him. Call him an idiot and tell him he has to use the three brain cells that villains haven't beaten out of him yet to see the logistical problems with all his come-ons.

He laughs until he's breathless. "Ains, you're turning me down over logistics?" It's a non-issue, one he's glad to prove, scooping you up like it's nothing. "You know I like challenges."