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revrover · 2 years

Text

The Stranger - Pt. 2

Part One: The Stranger

Part Three

Pairing: Namor x Reader

Word Count: 8k (lol whoops)

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Language, PLOT

Summary: Namor isn’t the only one who has been searching for his general. Thanks to you, Namora’s life was saved -- but when your connection to the two strangers brings you face to face with a hostile group of government agents, you find yourself in the crossfire of a much bigger conflict.

A/N: OMG first and foremost thank you for being here, thank your for coming back, and thank you for reading. This has taken me a bit longer to post because I’ve been pouring over it every day for a month, trying to get it just right. Comments, feedback and reblogs mean THE WORLD to me, so feel free to show some love and as always please be kind!

***I do not give permission to copy, plagiarize, or repost my work as your own in any form!

There is a growing unrest inside you.

Days have passed since your encounter with Namor after saving the life of his general, Namora. Two mysterious strangers who have left your mind reeling with questions, unrelenting and unquenchable as a flame that dares to spread like wildfire, consuming your thoughts entirely.

You repeatedly play the memory over in your head with no rational way to explain what you witnessed; her blue skin, his superhuman strength; the curious metal that outfitted both of their armor; how they disappeared into the vast open ocean.

"Something on your mind?" A fruit vendor asks, snapping you back to reality. You stand in the middle of the bustling village marketplace, doing your best to orient yourself quickly.

“Your head is — how you say…? — in the clouds, yes?” The vendor asks in her best English, smiling politely at you as she stands next to her cart, eager for you to buy something.

"Is it that obvious?" You joke with a tired laugh. "Two, please."

You scoop up a pair of fresh mangos and hand the woman some change from your pocket. She kindly accepts it with a nod of appreciation. Carefully sliding the fruit into your bag, you return a nod of your own.

You continue to walk through the market, the damp air carrying an aroma of local cuisine and sweat fills your lungs. Weaving your way in and out of aisles created by vendor carts, you feel a sense of calm as you watch the locals interacting with one another. There's beauty to be found in their sense of community.

Typically, you would gather your needed food and supplies and then be on your way back home, but today as your mind wanders, so do your feet.

Meandering down another aisle, your thoughts drift back to Namor, specifically the morning you found him on your front porch. You can practically feel the warmth of that sunrise as you imagine its light illuminating his dark eyes. You picture the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth when you asked him if he would come back, a moment you hold onto tightly. The memory gives you optimism that you will see him again someday and hopefully have the opportunity to ask him more questions.

Lost in thought, you hardly notice a small crate sticking out a few inches further than other accompanying carts in the aisle. Tripping your foot as you walk by, it nearly tumbles you to the ground. You manage to catch your balance and your breath before face-planting into the dirt. Immediately turning to apologize, you find an elderly man seated behind the crate, his back leaning against the wagon behind him and his eyes shut.

The man is slender and his head bald, save for a few wisps of hair above his ears. Most of his body is covered by a knitted green poncho, well-worn and fraying along the hem. To both your relief and surprise, he seems completely undisturbed by your clumsy collision with his crate of goods. Unsure if he’s even awake, you reach down to help reset any items on the crate you may have displaced.

Your jaw drops slightly as you see the contents on display. Spread out on a velvet brown tablecloth sits a small assortment of beautiful books, scrolls, and other documents. Admiring them, you reach out and push back one of the scrolls, revealing a gorgeous hand-sketched portrait of the island.

“Did you draw this?” You ask, impressed by the skill of it.

“Mmm,” He hums, shaking his head, "But I made very good trade with the man who did.”

You find his answer odd, though slightly amusing, considering he never opened his eyes to see which piece you were referring to. As you browse the rest of the items, a particular book stands out to you. It’s different from the rest of the collection — small and bound in leather, although the leather itself is worn and brittle-looking. You pick it up and inspect it closer. The binding is loose, the pages aged and tattered.

“Careful with that one. Very old.” The elderly man says, his eyes remaining shut. “Nearly 400 years. Got it in a trade with a visiting merchant from our southeastern sister islands."

How does he even do that? You wonder as you start delicately flipping through the pages of the book. You make it about midway through when you open to a particular page that makes you freeze, your heart nearly jumping out of your throat. Your eyes widen as you bring the page closer to your face.

It’s a crude drawing — basic, two-dimensional, and very old like the man said, but the likeness is undeniable. Depicted is the figure of a man. He dawns a grand snake-like headpiece and is grasping a spear. His body is adorned with jade and other metals. Sharp ears. Winged ankles.

"Excuse me!” you ask the elderly man with an exasperated breath, practically jumping over the crate as you lean forward and shout, “These!" You flip the book around to show him the open page, pointing excessively at the picture and the glyphs below it. "What do these say?!"

Your voice is eager and desperate, emotions you hardly try to hide.

The man's left eye slowly squints open.

“Only few are still legible.” He says, shrugging.

“Okay, yes, but the ones you can read, what do they say?!” You plead.

He sighs, opening his other eye and leaning forward slightly to get a better look. After a moment, he leans back against the wagon and closes his eyes again.

"King. Serpent. God. Monster."

You hang on to each word he tells you. Turning the book back around, you bring it back up to your face for another closer inspection.

"How much?" You ask, ready to make a deal.

The elderly man cracks one eye open to look at you for a moment as he considers his price, then wordlessly points to your arm with a feeble finger. You follow his gaze down to the small beaded bracelet around your wrist — the last reminder of your life before coming to the island. You hold your arm up to him, making sure you understand correctly. He nods politely, and without hesitation, you untie the bracelet and toss it to him.

"Nice doing business!" He says with a wide grin as he holds up the bracelet. You are already nose-deep in the book as you turn on your heels, quickening your pace as you head home where you can study more carefully.

Maneuvering your way out of the market to the outskirts of the village, you hardly need your eyes to guide your feet home. You take advantage of the remaining daylight to examine the pages as you walk, turning page after page and scanning for any information about Namor and his people. There’s little there, the book seeming to be a very old, mingled account of island history and lore. Seeing as you are not a historian and certainly not a linguist, it’s difficult to decipher. Still, you do your best to piece together what you can from the pictures.

King. Serpent. God. Monster.

The sky begins to dim. You can hear the faint roar of waves as you near the coastline. It’s too dark to see much detail on the pages now, so you carefully tuck the book into your bag as you step over the trunks of palm trees. The path beneath your feet gradually turns from brush to sand, and soon you find yourself walking along the familiar stretch of beach that leads you home. You stare out into the darkness, listening to the rhythmic pattern of ocean waves and breathing in the salty evening air. The moon hovers above the water, burning brightly as countless stars paint the sky behind it.

You continue walking in the darkness, but there’s an uneasiness building in your gut the further you go. You should be nearing home by now, but no lanterns have come into view. You always light lanterns before heading into town. They burn for hours in your absence so, by the time you return, you have light to guide you. All you see now are shadows and silhouettes that dance against the tree line, and every sound and indiscernible movement has you on edge.

It’s not until you are nearly a stone's throw away that the bungalow materializes in the night. Your stomach twists as the wind blows by you, rustling your hair and causing the snuffed-out lanterns hanging from your porch to creak as they swing back and forth. You hear shuffling, and small beams of light sporadically shine through the cracks of lumber that make up the walls of your home.

There is someone inside.

An alarm goes off in your head, screaming at you to get out. As quietly as possible, you begin backing away. Eyes fixed on the bungalow, you take one step back. Then another. Then another. Then — thud.

Your stomach flips and your throat tightens. While you pray you’ve miscalculated and miraculously made it to the tree line in three short steps instead of thirty, you feel the unmistakable presence of a body directly behind you.

“Going somewhere?” A deep voice growls menacingly. It belongs to a man, his tone gruff, although you can’t quite make out his accent. You do, however, feel the blood drain from your face as you slowly turn your head, finding what is quite possibly the largest human being you have ever seen. Dressed in black military-grade tactical gear and armed with enough ammo and firepower to take on a small army, you know there is no fucking way you are getting away from this guy.

The man grabs your arm and forcefully drags you toward the bungalow. Once up the stairs, he pushes you inside and releases his grasp. You rub your arm and look up to find another man standing in your kitchen, his back turned away from you as he stands hunched over your table. He’s dressed in similar tactical gear and has a walkie-talkie hooked to his belt. A lantern burns next to him as he seems to be pouring over some sort of map.

“Sir,” the man behind you bellows.

The man at the table straightens his posture and turns around to face you both. His hair is buzzed and his face is stubbly, with a thick prominent mustache that stretches across his upper lip. He seems a bit older, and by the ‘sir’ formality, you are fairly confident he is in charge.

“Ah, we were wondering when you would be back.” He says in a sly tone, his accent American.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” You respond in anger to the unwelcome visitor.

The man takes a sweeping look around the place, then his eyes come back to you.

“I think we can agree that “house” is a bit of a loose term.” He responds with sarcasm, a knowing look on his face. You continue to stare him down, unresponsive to his quip. The man loosens his shoulders and smiles at you. “Where are my manners? Agent Barrett.” He reaches his hand out, offering to shake yours.

You don’t move a muscle.

There is an awkward moment of silence, then Agent Barrett’s hand retreats. He turns, beginning to pace around your tiny kitchen. The room is in rougher shape than usual, clearly ransacked by whatever search was conducted before your arrival. The agent picks up a small roll of gauze from off the counter and holds it up.

“Tell me,” he says, inspecting the bandage material closely, “have you had any visitors recently?” His gaze quickly flicks over to you, an eyebrow raised.

Your pulse quickens as your blood turns to ice. Your mind immediately flashes to Namora floating wounded in the water; to Namor breaking down your door; to the two of them disappearing into the night. You put on your best poker face and shake your head.

“There’s no one around here for miles,” you explain, trying to be as convincing as possible. “You should try more inland towards the village. Most tourists, if any, stick closer to town or retreat to the far side of the island where—“

“Oh, she’s no tourist.” Agent Barrett chuckles, cutting you off. It feels insulting as if your suggestion were so preposterous it was borderline humorous.

She. He is looking for Namora.

Setting the gauze down next to the sink, Agent Barrett turns and walks over to you.

“You’re certain you haven’t seen anybody unusual around here in the past few days?”

He’s standing much closer now. Something about him makes your skin crawl. You eye the gun strapped to his hip and doubt it is for self-defense. Again, you shake your head.

Barrett sighs and gives you a disappointed smile.

“Okay.” He says softly while nodding his head. He backs away from you as the room lingers in silence. You allow yourself to take a breath, but the relief is short-lived. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”

On Barrett’s cue, the large man behind you grabs your shoulder and kicks the back of your legs, dropping you hard to your knees. With his free hand, he yanks the bag off your other shoulder and tosses it to another man who emerges from the doorway to your bedroom. He catches the bag and immediately starts rummaging through it.

“Hey—HEY!” You shout, “What the hell are you—“

“A woman!” Barrett yells. “Pale blue skin. Very skilled swimmer. Four days ago, she single-handedly took down three UN-sanctioned vessels in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic! Three! Now where I’m from,” he crouches down to your level, aggressively getting in your face as he drops his voice lower, “that’s what we call an act of terrorism.”

Adrenaline overtakes your body as you feel your heart beat so intensely it threatens to break right out of your chest. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Barrett’s henchman searches your bag. He pulls out the mangos and tosses them on the floor. Then, he grabs the old leather-bound book. Turning it over in his hand, he looks at it for a moment and tucks it into his belt.

“She was wounded,” Barrett continues, calling your attention back to him, “and our intelligence indicates she washed up somewhere along this shoreline. That's where her trail goes cold. And as you said, there's no one around here for miles. No one, except you."

His implication is obvious.

“This woman, where is she?” He makes a last-ditch effort to convey a friendly tone, but you can hear his patience dwindling. "And please don't make me ask again."

You stare at him coldly, lips sealed together. You’re not telling this man a damn thing.

"Mmmm," is all he grunts, his eyes dropping to the ground. He heaves a heavy sigh as he pushes against his knees to stand up. Once on his feet, Agent Barrett stares at you for another moment before nodding his head to the agent behind you. The next thing you know, you are suddenly being pulled up by your hair, the man’s grip tight against the back of your neck as he turns and pushes you out the door.

Your hands clamor to his as you struggle against him to relieve the painful tension pulling on your scalp, attempting to release his grip on you. But the man is too strong and drags you down the stairs of your porch with ease. You make it a few meters down the shore when he shoves you down to your knees. Your legs make divots in the sand as your hands catch the rest of your body’s momentum. Hunched over, your knees and palms sting from the sand's friction.

You immediately tense up as you feel a gun press against your head, the cool metal barrel hungry to fire. Hearing footsteps approaching behind, you quickly swallow your fear to maintain composure. Agent Barrett walks past, turning to position himself directly in front of you again — only this time, he doesn’t crouch down to your level.

“Look at me.” He demands as he towers over you. His body language makes it clear who is in control. In the only act of defiance you have left in your arsenal, you keep your gaze laser-focused on the water straight ahead of you, refusing to give in to his instruction. Growing impatient, Barrett roughly grabs your chin. He clasps it tightly as he yanks your jaw upward, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

“You’re going to tell me about your friend, and you’re going to tell me where she is, right now," he growls.

You stare at him, disdain in your eyes. You momentarily scan your surroundings and count nearly twenty other men on the beach now. It’s enough to make your gaze and your heart sink straight to the ground.

Even if you wanted to tell him, you don't have the answers Barrett is looking for. His face hardens as your lack of cooperation and unwillingness to talk becomes clearer and clearer. Loosening his grip and dropping your chin, Agent Barrett looks at the agent next to you.

“Do it,” he orders, leaving you without another word as he walks back up the beach toward the bungalow.

The gun presses even harder against your temple and you hear the irrefutable sound of it being cocked as a bullet rolls into the chamber. Your heart is heavy as your eyes begin to well with tears. You stare out at the ocean, the night swallowing the horizon save it for the piercing glow of the moon that cuts its way through the sky down to Earth. It’s a better view than most get in their final moments, you suppose. For that, you consider yourself lucky.

Time seems suspended as you feel the ocean breeze blow past you, pouring over your skin and filling your lungs as you deeply inhale these final moments. You savor the way the salty air envelops you like the comforting embrace of an old friend. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try fighting back the tears. Despite your best efforts, one single drop escapes, racing down your cheek as you accept your fate.

Zzzzziiinnng!

Where you expect to hear the split-second ring of a gun firing before getting your brain blasted out the side of your skull, you instead hear a high-pitched whistling through the air and the unmistakable slice of a blade penetrating flesh. The weight of the gun barrel against your head slides limply away, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground next to you.

Your eyes shoot open. You turn to see your executioner now lying dead on his back with a spear pelted through his chest. Your eyes widen in fear, then settle on the spear itself. A spear you recognize — because it’s the same one that was held to your throat only a few days earlier.

Namor.

He's here. Desperately your eyes search the ocean line, scouring the darkness for him.

"We're under attack!" Someone yells frantically from behind you. It is one of Barrett’s men.

"Open Fire! Open fire!" Another one shouts.

You immediately abandon your search for Namor, hitting the deck and covering your head as dueling bullets and spears fly over you. Hearing anguished cries from both sides, you peek out from over your arm and watch in horror as an agent a few meters away looks down at their dart-ridden chest. They drop to their knees, then fall forward onto their face.

Your head whirls around at the sound of another spear making contact with a body and dropping it to the ground. This agent is about ten meters away from you, and while your first instinct is to get the hell out of there — run as far as you can as fast as you can — you notice your little leather-bound book tucked into the belt of the lifeless body.

You tell yourself to leave it. You plead with yourself to leave it.

“Damn it,” you mutter in frustration to yourself. You are getting that book.

Before you can give it another thought, you are already army-crawling through the sand. The sound of gunfire rings in your ears as more weapons return their fire. You scramble to the body, staying low to the ground on your chest and abdomen. Once there, you reach out and grab the book, wrangling it free from the deceased man's belt. You shove it into your waistband when something behind you explodes, causing you to duck your head and shield yourself with your arms.

The battle is deafening and disorienting. The mix of adrenaline and shock threatens to override your entire system as you try to maintain your focus.

Keep moving, you tell yourself.

You lift your head, ready to run, but your breath catches and you freeze. Mere inches from your face, you find yourself staring at someone’s feet and feel the presence of their body hovering over you. You brush the stinging sand out of your eyes, pleading in your mind that this is not the end. Not now. As your vision sharpens, you feel a surge of hope. There in front of you are two winged ankles.

Your eyes shoot up. Standing above you, illuminated by the light of the moon and the rapid sparks of machine guns firing, is Namor.

He looks down at you, his stare intense as his nostrils flare and his chest rises and falls with each breath. Gripping the hilt of the spear, he effortlessly removes it from the body next to you with one pull, his eyes never leaving yours. The ongoing battle on the beach doesn’t deter his attention from you in the slightest. From behind him, a handful of armed warriors with pale blue skin come storming out of the ocean.

“Namora!” He calls, and one warrior immediately splits off from the group. While the others continue to push the team of agents to the far side of the beach, the general comes to Namor’s side and your eyes widen as you take her in. Almost unrecognizable from when you first met her, Namora is a sight to behold. Instead of weak and wounded, she now stands strong and commanding, fully outfitted in her armor of woven jade and metal. Dazzling lionfish spines adorn her head and neck, and she wears the same mesh apparatus over her nose and mouth as before. You are astounded when you squint and barely see a seam remaining where you had stitched her up.

“K'uk'ulkan.” She answers, standing at attention.

Namor’s eyes are still fixed on you. He hands the retrieved spear to Namora and then nods in your direction.

You become nervous, suddenly uncertain if the pair of them have come to you as friend or foe, watching as Namora tightens her grip around the weapon.

“Go.” Namor urges, and a wave of relief washes over you. Friend.

“Where are my goddamn reinforcements?!!” You hear someone shout into a walkie-talkie. You recognize the voice as Agent Barrett's.

“Go NOW,” Namor commands, his eyes flicking up in Barrett’s direction. The expression on his face becomes menacing as he strides past you, his muscles rigid and his pace purposeful. He pulls his own spear out of the larger agent who nearly executed you as he walks past the body, arming himself.

Without hesitation, Namora strides forward and links her arm under your shoulder, pulling you up to your feet and yanking you quickly toward the trees. Before you can reach them, however, more men dressed in black combat gear come pouring out of the thick foliage, ready to attack.

Three surround you as the others rush to provide relief further down the beach. Instead of guns, these agents come armed with batons and other blunt weapons. Namora whips you back behind her, placing herself between you and the approaching enemy. She walks toward the agents, rotating her spear in her hand. You’re surprised by how relaxed her posture is as she waits for the men, each one at least twice her size, to make the first move.

The agent to her right makes the first advance, lunging forward at Namora. She meets him with speed and ferocity, quickly sidestepping him only to grab hold of his shoulders. She uses them as an anchor to whirl herself around him, gracefully landing and her feet and then lodging her spear into his back. The man cries out in pain, but Namora quickly delivers the final blow as she twists the spear in deeper and shoves it upward toward his lungs.

No sooner does his body hit the ground when the two other men charge at her. Like a beautifully choreographed dance, Namora drops to her knees, sliding across the sand between them to duck under their attacks. As she does so, she nimbly summersaults back onto her feet and turns one hundred and eighty degrees. Back on the attack, she runs hard at them. You watch as Namora delivers a combination of charged punches to one agent, then springs back to avoid the swing of the baton from the other. To counter the move, she kicks the man above the kneecap with so much power it sends his whole leg backward and brings him to his knees. She grabs the sides of his head with both of her hands, thrusting it down hard against her knee. You feel the grisly sound of blunt broken bone deep in your core as his skull makes contact.

As the man’s head reels backward, blood pouring from his face, Namora seamlessly transitions between her two opponents, avoiding another attack from the third agent she had previously deflected with punches. Her attention back on him, she trades blows as they fight in more hand-to-hand combat. Between kicks, punches, and counter-punches, Namora strategically inches herself backward until she’s practically standing on top of the first body she dropped. Baiting her current opponent forward, she taunts him with the tilt of her head, exaggerated by her headpiece. It works like a charm. He charges at her, and swooping under him, she wraps around his chest and pulls him over the top of her, flipping him onto his back. In one calculated motion, she pulls her spear from the body of the first agent which is now easily within reaching distance, and drives it into the second.

It all plays out in front of you so quickly when the third agent with the broken nose — well, broken face, really — groans as he gets himself up, ready to have another go at Namora. She engages, but as she moves towards him you see a fourth man emerge from the trees, raising a gun to shoot.

“LOOK OUT!” You yell to warn her, but pure instinct has your feet sprinting forward to stop him.

You don’t process any thought or consider any tactic, you just hurl yourself at him. The two of you collide, crashing to the ground with all the power and momentum you can muster. You scramble for his gun and manage to knock it away, but he barrels you over him and slams your back against the ground. The impact forces the air out of your lungs, temporarily paralyzing you as you struggle for breath. The agent straddles your body, putting more pressure on your chest as he pulls a knife from his hip. With all your strength, you fight to hold his arm back. He breaks through your grasp and takes a swipe at you, but reflexively you deflect it away with your hand. The knife slices open your palm and you cry out as you try to continue pushing his arms back.

When he raises his blade again, a blur of orange lionfish spines come streaking across as Namora flies over the back of the agent and yanks him off of you. They tumble across the sand, but she quickly gains the upper hand by entangling him in a headlock. Clutching your injured hand and still struggling for oxygen, you look on as she tightens her grip around the man’s neck and then abruptly cracks it to the side.

The sound makes you sick to your stomach, but you also feel a sense of relief. And gratitude. Your chest heaves as you finally start to catch your breath, your entire body buzzing. You turn to see the dead agents Namora has so quickly disposed of, their bodies dispersed across the sand. She unwraps herself from her most recent kill and makes her way to you with haste.

As she reaches you, you hear the chaos and fighting continue further down the beach. Then, the faint sound of a helicopter approaching. Barrett’s reinforcements.

“There are too many of them,” you say in distress as you witness more agents pour out onto the sand to fight Namor’s warriors. Even if each one had Namora’s four-to-one kill ratio, they are still outnumbered. As the chopper blades get louder, Namora looks at you intensely, reaching out her hand.

“Come,” she insists.

She’s gotten you this far. You grasp her hand without hesitation and she pulls you to your feet. You edge closer to the tree line where you hope safety and concealment await you, but as you reach the lush landscape something pricks your ears. It’s not gunfire. It’s not the chopper.

Namora tugs your arm as she tries to usher you into the trees, but your focus is elsewhere. A faint, melodic breeze moves past you like a ghost, causing your mind to become hazy. As the sound grows louder, an indescribable melody rings in your ears that is both euphoric and dreadful. You don’t even notice the tension of Namora’s grip on your hand increase as your feet redirect you toward the water, compelled by its call.

“No!” Namora yells at you as she yanks your arm. The force of it snaps your attention back for a moment, and you watch as the agents who line the beach suddenly cease fighting and instead walk undeterred paths straight into the water. Terror fills you as they wade further and further out, the water coming up to their knees, then their hips, then their chests, until they are completely submerged underneath.

You shoot a glance to Namora, petrified and confused. Whatever is happening, she seems unaffected. Your thoughts and vision begin to cloud again, and you feel like someone else is controlling your body as the ocean summons you along with the others. Every part of you feels entranced by the chorus of voices in the air as their notes overwhelm your senses and leave you disoriented. Namora grabs you, practically throwing you over her shoulder as she runs into the trees. You become hard to carry, so she pulls you both into the cove of a sheltered root system at the edge of the foliage. Huddling next to you, Namora tightly wraps her arms around your head to cover your ears with her hands.

Pupils dilated, you desperately try to hold onto any shred of active consciousness before giving in entirely to the song. Your mind becomes infiltrated by it and begins to process what you see in pieces; men in the water, drowning themselves; gunfire raining down from the night sky; Namor, spear in hand, leaping into the air, taking impossible strides toward a chopper; the chopper spinning out of control.

You feel the heat against your face as the chopper crashes to the ground, exploding on impact. The last thing you remember seeing is Namor in the distance, standing on the sand. Illuminated by the raging inferno that burns behind him from the destroyed chopper, he is fierce, incredible, and terrifying.

A god. A monster.

The haunting chorus melody continues to consume your mind. Even with Namora’s help, you feel your body shift as it involuntarily attempts to get up. Namora squeezes her palms over your ears with even more strength and restrains your movements.

"No." She whispers fiercely.

You squeeze your eyes shut, covering your hands over Namora's as tightly as possible. Blood pours from your hand down hers, trickling onto your shoulder. The noise is too much, and as you feel yourself begin to scream, everything goes black.

——

Your feet drag through the cool sand.

That’s the first thing you see when you finally become conscious again. Your head hangs low in front of you, pounding as it bobs up and down. It’s still dark out, but you find your home lit up by more lanterns as you approach the pathway to your porch.

You glance to your right and left, discovering you are being assisted by two people on either side of you — Namora on your right and a much taller blue-skinned man on your left. His shoulders are wide and his head is outfitted with an armored hammerhead skull. Arms slung around both of their necks, your body is in a state of pure exhaustion as they get you up the stairs to the door.

As you start to step with your own feet, they are alerted by your recovered consciousness. Quickly, the man unhooks your arm from around him, steadying you against Namora. He retreats as you find yourself gaining feeling back in your body. Namora patiently waits for you to get your bearings, and when you do she opens the front door for you, ushering you to go inside. You follow her instruction, and there waiting for you in the bungalow is Namor.

Namor stands against your kitchen counter, the same place you stood when he first came crashing into your home. His arms are folded across his broad chest. Although his head is down, his eyes are flicked upward toward you, watching your every move. The flame of a lantern on the table glints off his irises, illuminating the dark stare that hovers just below his furrowed brow.

“Please, sit.” He says with a stern voice, his open palm gesturing toward a chair at the table.

As you sit down, you hear the front door close behind you.

Silence.

"Those men," he finally says, pushing himself away from the counter as he stands up straighter, “they were seeking information?"

You only nod, afraid to say too much.

“It’s safe to speak here. I’ve made sure of it.” He promises, sensing your reluctance to engage in conversation.

“They wanted to know about Namora." You answer cautiously.

Namor's expression grows even more serious. He subtly shifts his weight from side to side before settling back into the center of his powerful stance.

"And even with your life on the line, you said nothing."

You are unsure if he is making a statement or a question.

"Why?" He asks through a clenched jaw.

"Why?" You repeat back to him, caught off guard by the question. "Does it matter why?"

"Yes,” Namor says directly, raising his eyebrows. “Because I need to know if I put my spear through the right person.”

The seriousness of his statement hits you like a brick. Your mind flashes back to the beach, you on your knees with a gun to your head as Namor’s spear plows its way through the man next to you. How easily, you wonder, could he have changed his aim by just a few degrees if you had decided to open your mouth and spill what little information you did know to those men?

As you think about it, you also begin to ask yourself why. Why did you keep your mouth shut? Why did you help Namor and his people?

You take a deep breath as you consider your reasons, then lift your gaze to him.

“You barged into my home, broke down my door, and threatened my life. But even then, the motives behind your actions were clear — the love and concern for your people. These men,” your eyes trail away as you feel a wave of anger build up inside, "these men were driven by self-interest and self-preservation. It wasn’t hard to choose a side.”

His face is stoic as he listens to your answer.

“Plus,” you add, “I promised you I wouldn’t say anything. Twice.”

Namor looks at you the same way he did the night you met him. The look that tells you he is debating whether or not you are telling the truth. You are a witness testifying on the stand, and Namor is your judge and jury.

“Well, that is twice now you have saved my people. Again you have my gratitude." He says with a sigh, his expression softening.

You give a small smile, but it disappears when an unrelenting ache pounds inside your head, pulling you out of the moment. You reach up to rub your temple and suddenly feel a surge of pain coming from your hand, instantly reminding you of the injury you sustained from your face off against one of the agents on the beach.

“Shit,” You exclaim, pulling your cut, bloodied palm away from your face and looking at it.

"Here," Namor says, grabbing the roll of gauze off your kitchen counter as he moves in your direction. Pulling up a chair, he sits down directly in front of you so your knees are practically touching. He gestures for your hand. “May I?"

You consider his offer as you stare at the thick veins protruding from his forearm, binding themselves to his defined muscles like vines around a tree. Eyes darting back up to his, you cautiously nod your head to accept his help while simultaneously extending your arm to him.

Namor takes your injured hand gently in his own, cradling it as if it could shatter into a million pieces. Amazed by how his hand dwarfs yours, you feel a surge of energy in your chest when his thumb begins to rub along your wrist. He takes the roll of gauze and begins carefully wrapping it around your palm.

Calmly maneuvering each layer of the bandage, Namor's brow furrows ever so slightly as he slips deeper into a state of concentration. His grasp is firm but gentle, rotating your hand in tandem with the bandage and you take comfort in his touch.

Studying his face, you admire each feature and detail closely. You see the traces of salt against the rich tones of his skin, and soon your willpower gives way to a desire slowly being coaxed inside you as you allow your eyes to trail from his face to his broad shoulders, down his muscular biceps, and finally to his strong hands as they work to take care of you.

Namor begins humming softly as he continues wrapping your hand. There's a warm timbre in his voice that resonates in your ears, drawing your gaze back up to his face.

"That song..." your voice trails off as you grow more entranced by it, unable to find the words to describe its intoxicating melody. But a surge of fear runs through you as you recall another tune, the one from the beach, its haunting cadence prickling the back of your mind.

"My people have many songs," Namor says in a tone equally rich to his humming, calming you instantly. "Each one with a meaning and purpose."

"What is the purpose of that one?" You ask quietly.

Namor’s hands stop as his eyes wander up to yours.

"It's a lullaby, meant to bring the soul peace." His eyes flutter back down as he resumes wrapping the bandage around your hand. "My mother would sing it to me when I was a child."

"It's beautiful." You say reverently.

A smile spreads across Namor's face, but there's a hint of sadness in it. He leans down to your hand and you can feel your heart beat faster as his mouth hovers mere inches above your skin. The warmth of his breath rushes against your wrist, sending shivers through you. With great care, he tears the gauze with his teeth before tucking the loose end into a fold of the bandage.

"It is," he agrees, staring down at your hand which he now holds carefully between his own. "Especially in a world where peace is scarcely found."

His voice is gentle, but there is a bitterness brewing beneath the statement.

"I have spent my life ensuring peace for my people. Protecting it. Preserving it."

Namor looks back up at you, letting go of your hand as he sits up straighter in his chair. The room is quiet as his words sink in and you drop your gaze to think. As you do so, your good free hand migrates to the leather book still tucked in your waistband, your fingers fiddling with the binding.

“What is it?” Namor asks, snapping your eyes back up to his. You swallow nervously, unsure if you should share what is on your mind. Then again, you may not get another opportunity.

Slowly, you pull the book out from against your side, opening it to its marked page before pushing it across the table to him.

“You say you’ve spent your entire life protecting your people.” You preface, hesitating a moment before asking your question. “Is that... you?"

Namor stares at the book in front of him, tracing the outline of his likeness delicately on the open page with his fingertips.

"A version of me." He answers.

"How...." you rub your temple as you do the unnecessary math in your head, already knowing the hundreds of years difference between the book and the man in front of you doesn't add up. "How is that even possible? That book is centuries old, I mean," you are at a loss trying to wrap your head around it all, coming up short with any logical explanation, “who are you?"

Namor looks up at you, then his gaze descends back onto the open book. He gives a sad smirk.

“You are one of very few to ever ask who I am instead of what I am." He strokes his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. "The answer to neither of which will be found in your book." He says, shutting it and sliding it back toward you. You reach for it, only he doesn’t take his hand off the leather cover right away.

"You must always be weary of your authors.” He warns. “The preservation of one's opinion over time does not make it fact, no matter how long ago it was written."

He relinquishes his hold, you finish sliding the book back to your side of the table. Namor searches your face as his eyebrows pull closer together, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes.

"I wear the mantle of king and am the protector of my people.” He begins. “They are my responsibility by birthright, a charge I’ve dedicated my entire life to upholding.”

Namor proceeds to tell you the story of his people — how they were driven from their home by Spanish conquistadors, and how their gods provided a remedy for a foreign disease that led them to seek sanctuary in the ocean itself. He explains that his mother was among them, pregnant with Namor at the time, and how the remedy herb altered his very being in the womb. Mutant is the word he uses, the reason for his strength and abilities, as well as his slow aging. He then describes the horrors he had seen upon returning his mother’s body to the surface world after her death, and the vow he took to keep outsiders away from his people and his beloved city he calls Talokan.

"So you see," he says leaning forward as he places his forearms on his knees, his face even closer to yours now, "I am no god. Nor am I a man. What I am is a leader who loves his people. If that makes me a monster, so be it. I will see the world burn before I subject my people to its sins and savagery.”

It’s a lot to take in. You study Namor’s expression as his stare now lingers away from you, his mind somewhere in the past. You can’t even begin to comprehend all that he has seen or experienced, but you do feel a clearer understanding of why he is the way he is. Filled with compassion for him, you cautiously reach up and cradle his face with your non-bandaged hand.

"You're not a monster." You reassure him gently.

This brings Namor’s attention back to you immediately, his dark eyes searching your face earnestly as he takes a deep breath through his nose. The bristles of his scruff are rough against your palm, creating a warm friction when he leans into your touch. Namor closes his eyes and lets out a sigh so deep it's as if he's releasing a weight from his shoulders, one that he has been carrying for far too long. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it deeper against his cheek.

“K’uk’ulkan,” a voice calls from behind you. You drop your hand back down to your lap as Namor glances over your shoulder. The man with the metal hammerhead skull stands at attention in the front doorway, his body so large it consumes the space entirely. Namor nods at him, then looks back at you.

"It's time," he says, pushing himself up to his feet. “More men will be coming. Namora is outside — collect what you need quickly, she will take you to a safe place.”

The realization sets in, and your heart sinks. Your home is no longer safe and you can’t stay here.

Namor offers you his hand, helping you out of your chair and onto your feet. In doing so, he pulls you into him and tucks his hand delicately under your chin. He’s impossibly close as he tilts your face upward toward his own.

"I am sorry." He whispers, a soft and apologetic tone in his voice. He gives you a remorseful look, but all you can think about is how little space currently exists between his lips and yours. Namor’s gaze flutters down from your eyes to your mouth, but the moment is fleeting as he drops his hand from your chin and takes a step back.

“Go.” He says, encouraging you to get your things. It’s his last word before walking past you and exiting out the front door.

Left alone in the empty bungalow, you make your way over to your bag still on the floor from earlier that evening. You take it and march into your room, grabbing some clothes, your toothbrush, and other small essentials. You don't have much in terms of possessions in the first place, so it doesn’t take long for you to collect what you need.

As you exit your bedroom, you get ready to leave when you look over at the small book on your table. Namor insisted it held no answers for you, but you go to retrieve it anyway, stuffing it in your bag along with the rest of your belongings.

You take one last look around your home, once an unfamiliar broken place that over time became your haven and sanctuary. It breaks your heart to leave, but you know you must.

“Thank you,” you quietly whisper to the room, hoping in some way its energy or spirit or anything can hear you. You make your final exit, walking out to the front porch just as the dawn is starting to break over the horizon. Warm hues cast shadows of orange and red across the island, and you breathe in the early morning air. As you look out across the beach, you are surprised by what little evidence remains of the night’s events. No bodies. No fires. Just large divots in the sand and some smoke along the tree line from a few singed palms.

Namora is standing at the edge of the pathway leading to your porch, waiting for you. Descending the stairs, nerves prompt you to tighten your grip on the shoulder strap of your bag as you brace yourself for the unknown.

“I’m ready,” you say when you reach her.

Namora looks at you seriously, then nods her head. Reaching up to her face, she carefully removes the apparatus from over her nose and mouth. It is the first time you have seen her whole face, unobstructed by the peculiar covering. She’s just as striking without it, and you notice a beautiful jade ring pierced through her septum, echoing Namor’s. She turns the mask in her hand and guides it onto your face, sealing it against your skin.

“Come,” she tells you, turning toward the ocean.

You take one last look back at your home, then fall into stride behind Namora as the two of you walk into the water.

-- -- --

Tag List (I think this is how you do it? Sorry if not, still figuring this whole Tumblr-thing out): @looneylikesbooks @omgsuperstarg @chixkencxrry @vainillasmil157 @demoiseller @sodonuthideout @shoutaaizawas @stany0url0calwh0res111 @hjjks @duckwithsunglasses

#namor #namor x reader #namor x you #namor x gen!reader #Namor x y/n #mcu namor #namor fluff #namor fanfiction #namor fanfic #namor imagine #k'uk'ulkan #black panther wakanda forever #namora #namor of talokan #Wakanda forever #fanfiction

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tumblingxelian · 1 month

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I was reading a post by @casscainmainly earlier & my brain went on a tangent regarding the "who is Bruce's favorite" thing. & no this is not gonna be a wholesome "Bat-dad doesn't have favorites" post, this is a "Bruce is too messed up to have the kind of coherent beliefs, feelings and focus for that kind of behavior.

This is not a man with a stable & consistent mood, this is a man who argues with his cowl in the basement while he has company over.

Anyway, I will address this in order of appearances so:

Dick is the "Favorite" in the sense he is in Bruce's eyes a Bruce who managed to cope healthily with his trauma, grow up, move on and be happy as well as a hero.

On some days, this inspires Bruce, and is what makes him feel Dick is better than he could ever be. On other days, this is why Dick could never measure up to him, why he lacks the iron will, the drive, the focus, to be the best he could be.

Jason is or was the "Favorite" in the sense that he was the one Bruce went in on eyes wide open, that's his son, no complexity or ambiguity about it like with Dick or Alfred, they are family.

How well he did is up in the air, but he was trying, which is why Jason dying was basically his parents all over again but now its a parent losing a child not child losing parents. He can't handle it so he consigns Jason to a pre-made tragedy rooted in criminality.

Tim is the "Favorite" in the sense he is the one Bruce sees the most of Bruce in, IE, dark haired, blue eyed, rich boy of Gotham. He is Bruce without the tragedy, & someone Bruce has less preconceptions about.

This is also why Bruce started up mind games and trying to make Tim eventually be Batman but also at other points clearly didn't see Tim as suitable or fitting as well, again, moods.

Stephanie, she is not his kid and was never at risk of being the "Favorite" but she was taught by him. As usual, he projects, he projects Jason, her father, her background & class, her existence as a girl, IE, damsel, in his mind (Writers outfight confirmed this).

He's never once seen her, but there were a few moments that showed they could have had something cool, but it was not to be.

Cassandra is the "Favorite" in the sense that she is what Batman wishes he had. All the skills and training in the world to a superhuman degree, no civilian life, an 'innate' grasp of the morality he grapples with, and the same obsessive drive.

Note, I didn't say Bruce, I said Batman and also that projecting what you want on a person isn't the same as favoritism, nor is it healthy, nor is it even consistent.

Cos Bruce also hates sides of Cass that remind him of himself, IE, he willingness to do what she thinks is right over obediently listen, her self sacrificial tendencies. & he resents sides that aren't like him, the more reckless, less coldly detached parts of her, or her stepping away from his ideal path. In many ways he's jealous.

Damian is not the "Favorite", but he is symbolic of one of Bruce's longest lasting and most passionate love affairs. He is also, like Jason a symbolic representative of family, of what he could have but for the mission.

Damian is also his circumstances, his history, his bloodline, his grandfather, and no matter what he does, he can't escape these things in Bruce's eyes, we are all defined by our families he thinks.

Duke is not the "Favorite", though he does have the least complicated relationship with him due to the era of his arrival and his time becoming a vigilante before they even engaged much.

What's more, Duke was a independent vigilante before he was Bruce's student and well practiced in establishing his own boundaries & definitely has some of that "he matched my freak" energy.

IE, Bruce deciding to become a vigilante at all, Duke holding him before a train to spark his memory, they have zero chill.

So while there'd definitely some projection given his parents, and jealousy/paranoia/admiration with his natural talent and powers. Its a more overtly mentor-like relationship which lessens some of the baggage.

Emphasis on the word, some and no this doesn't make Duke the "Favorite", because if Bruce can't major project, pedestal or pre-judge someone he can't 'bond' with them to the same extent.

Note:

Again, its harder with Bruce, cos its comparing where he was and what he became over a mostly linear period and then reboots happened, amnesia happened, Bruce's persona got shifted, this makes things complicated dammit >< But I hope this was interesting!

#DC #Batfam #Bat-Clan #Bat Clan #Detective Comics #Text Post #Bruce Wayne #Project much?

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raphaellight · 19 days

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Mike vs Harvey: Genius and talent

Suits does present us Mike as a genius. Fotographic memory, mind capable of analyzing enourmous number of data in a span of minutes. He is also charming and fast-witted. A perfect lawyer.

And it was made a thing thruout most of the show. Mike is the Genius, the mind like no other. It would usually be a story about a scientist curing cancer or creating new technologies and exploring cosmos if it wasn't a show about lawyers.

And yet, by the end, Mike is not THE best lawyer there is. Even in his prime, Mike Ross never topped that one guy. The one that took it upon himself to mentor him.

How is it, that the Golden Child with superhuman brain can't top this man?

There are plenty of things to unpack. Just looking for a appropiate pic of Harvey I found an article discussing how to build confidence by emulating Harvey Specter. Suits isn't exacly the deepest show, but that one thing we can all realise on this particular fictional story. Brain power is not all there is.

Don't get me wrong, I do not sign under "there is no such thing as IQ, everyone is smart" ideas and Harvey is definitelly one of the smartest fictional characters. It just shows brain power doesn't always equals competence and greater talent doesn't always mean greater succes.

While Harvey can't recite hole passages of lawyers guide book he read 10 years ago or memorize hole aggrement down to a coma in ten minutes, his experience, lessons and passion he has for his craft make him excel at things brain power alone can't equate to. He reads people like books and knows exacly how to use it to judge the best business partners for decades in advance and how to convince said people to work with him. He has experienced enough to know when he can take a risk and bold enough to do it even against his own boss opinions. Even if Mike can quote all of the American corporate law, Harvey can quote enough of it needed to win any case he needs. And he is passionate enough that everyone knows he will do anything to win any case that comes his way.

I'm not here to give definitive answer on who's better lawyer. Seems like a contradiction to everything I wrote up until now, but at the end, Harvey specializes in corporate law where as Mike, driven by his idealistic ideas and need for helping others turns more towards lawsuits against unethical corporate practices, which he excells at. In later seasons, when Mike stops being MC, he is often referred as "jury charmer" or something like that, while Harver is "the closer" that rarely brings a case to actuall court. They have slightly different styles, take on different cases and, most important, have different motivations for practicing law.

A phew years back, a friend of mine told me to "stop focusing on whether or not can I understand a field and just enter it" when I voiced my own anxiety about finishing high school and putting myself on a more specialized carrier road. In the show about top of the top, lesson we need to take away is that, we can always fill in if we are passionate and hard working enough. Talent and genius can put people only so far ahead. Even Genius like Mike Ross can't top a man that puts his hole heart into something. And remember, both of them had to look for Louis Litt advice when they delt with finance law.

#suits tv #suits usa #harvey specter #mike ross #suitstyle #men’s suits #suits #louis litt #on writing #writing life #talent #skills #learn #learning #motivation #iq #hard work

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veryace-ficrecs · 1 month

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Wolverine Hurt/Comfort Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

tommorow's jokes have yet to be laughed at (or said) by ArchaicVampire - Rated T

“Logan? What are you doing up, mein freund?” Logan thinks up a million things he could say, like I’ll sleep when I’m dead or I was doing my usual midnight pushups, but he doesn’t say any of that. There’s no use bothering him with bullshit excuses. “You’re the only one who understands.” The skeletons in Logan's closet are haunting him again. There's only one man in the mansion that truly knows how he feels.

O Memory, where is now my faith. by justbefeathersandthequietofthefall - Rated T

Logan vs Pain. i.e. Dealing with the fact that superhuman healing doesn't stop getting injured hurting like a bitch.

Call Me by My Name by CNWrites - Rated G

They were misfits on a team of misfits. Logan was used to that kind of crap. If he had put down bets, he would have said that Nightcrawler was the kind of guy who couldn’t take it. Apparently, they were both sticking around. ____________________________ In which we see five times Logan used something other than Kurt's name, and one time he actually used it.

There's a room where the light won't find you by Notsogoodwithnames - Rated T

Logan knows he was made for nothing but war. He never went to school. He never even took care of many children. Not even your own children. He certainly isn't qualified to teach anything that didn't involve the shedding of blood. Xavier saved him. The X-men saved him. Not only from himself but in so many ways than he can explain. Taking care of these kids is not going to fix anything. Or clean his hands, not even a bit, he's aware of that. But if there's a chance that he can do something right, better than anything he ever did, to help these kids have a better chance than he did. Then he's going for it.

So this is what it feels like. by OwBoy - Not Rated

“Sir?” the woman said as she came more into the light. Her shoes made a dull clopping noise with each step she took towards Logan. “Wha…?” Logan asked, his voice slurred. “The girl,” the woman said, nodding toward Laura, “Is she your daughter?” Logan's gaze once again fell on Laura and he nodded. “I thought so,” a slight smile crossed the woman's features as she spoke. “She looks just like you.” “Where…” Logan’s words drifted off as he took in the rest of the room. “Where am I?” he asked. “You’re in Canada,” she answered. “In a refugee town given to mutants by the Canadian government. It’s called Eden.” “Eden.” Logan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The place he said didn’t exist, the place Laura and the other believed they’d find and make their new home, the place from that stupid comic book, it actually existed. AKA: What if Charles, Logan, and Laura had all made it to Eden alive and started a new life together? Fluff, angst, domestic life, and brewing romance.

The same bell chiming the hour on the clock, and everything changed. by justbefeathersandthequietofthefall - Rated T

He drifted through the hallways, with every recognisable face sending him reeling. A few awkward conversations later, and he was in the Professor’s office having years of history dropped on him. Despite the importance of this, he was barely present in the conversation – a fact which Charles didn’t miss, who told him to go let it all sink in and that they’d continue later. ‘Let it all sink in’?

Fucking hell.

Exploring Logan's mental state after the events of Days of Future Past

Never Take for Granted by CNWrites - Rated G

Kurt Wagner would consider himself a fairly appreciative person. Perhaps that instinctual value of appreciation was the reason he felt giddy, warm, so overcome with love for his friend that he could practically feel it bursting out of his chest. “Don’t move ‘round, elf.” A heavy hand rested on an arm that Kurt hadn’t even realized he was trying to move. “Yer hopped up on morphine, you idiot. Yer gonna break your stitches if ya can’t cool it.” Oh. Or maybe that was why. _______________________ In which Kurt spends some time in the med bay after taking a hit for Wolverine. Luckily, his friend isn't the kind of person to leave his side.

#veryace recs #x men #wolverine #logan howlett #x men wolverine #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3

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bodyswappertransforming · 7 months

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Sheriff Bill.

Deputy Sheriff Bill’s mission required a transformation so thorough that not even the keenest eye could detect the lawman beneath the guise of a young Latin gang member. His journey would take him from the respectable uniform of a deputy to the street-styled anonymity necessary for his undercover role.

The sheriff's department's cutting-edge transformation machine stood at the core of this metamorphosis. With surgical precision and state-of-the-art technology, it began the painstaking process of altering Bill's features. Operations sculpted his face, softening his mature lines into the smoother countenance of youth, while subtly shifting his skin tone to a warm olive typical of Latin heritage.

Advanced bioprinting was used to rejuvenate his skin, erasing years from his appearance. Tattoos, essential for his acceptance into the gang, were applied with meticulous care, laser-etched onto his skin by the transformation machine to narrate a fabricated life on the streets.

One of the most noticeable changes was his hair. Where once he sported a modest, short style befitting a deputy, he now had to adopt a hairstyle that would align with his new identity. The transformation machine buzzed to life, and skilled robotic arms worked to give him a very short buzz cut, one that spoke of a no-nonsense attitude and a life lived with stark practicality.

His eyes, a telltale sign of his origins, were concealed behind advanced contact lenses that turned them from blue to a convincing shade of brown, also enhancing his vision to near-superhuman levels.

But altering his appearance was only half the battle. Bill underwent rigorous training to adopt the physicality of a man half his age. He worked tirelessly with a movement coach to capture the essence of youthful swagger, the relaxed posture, the lively gestures that were the unspoken language of the gang.

Voice coaches drilled him in the nuances of a Latin accent and the unique slang of the streets. Bill practiced until his own voice was a distant memory, replaced by the sound of a younger man whose life experiences were etched in every word he spoke.

Simulation rooms provided the final touch, immersing Bill in virtual encounters with holographic gang members. In these high-stakes rehearsals, he sharpened his instincts, learning to respond with the immediacy and street-wise intelligence his new persona demanded.

After months of exhaustive preparation, Bill could face the mirror with confidence. The man looking back at him was a perfect embodiment of his undercover alias—a young man with a buzz cut and the street credentials etched into his skin and soul. Bill was ready to disappear into the shadowy world of the gang, a ghost in the machine of law enforcement, primed to dismantle the organization from within.

#transformation #Body Transformation #transformation kink #bodybuilding #body swap #body possession #bodyswapperTF #tf #male tf #male to female tf #female 2 male tf #reality change #gay

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liz-allyn · 1 year

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sugar and vice, pt. 22 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: no amount of money ever bought a second of time.

words: 6.9k

chapter warning: soft smut, characters pretending to be mean and therefore breaking your heart

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. smut. Spicy situations. spousal / domestic abuse. family trauma. verbal abuse. PTSD, psychotic breaks/episodes, drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. possessive!peter, protective!peter. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships. having happiness ripped away from you.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you weren't alive when Tobey Maguire was Spider-Man, maybe you should wait.

Part 22

A wise woman once told Peter that time was the key to the universe. She was so incredibly right.

Even so, Peter had a complicated relationship with time. He was always on the wrong side.

He had too much, or too little. He’d lose it. It would get away from him. It’d be just out of his reach, mocking him from the ivory tower of a future he would never have.

The phrase ‘what if’ ticked away in his mind, like seconds on a clock. Like the broken hands of a clock face not too far from Roosevelt Island.

If he’d gone to bed an hour later, maybe he would’ve been awake enough to be able to save Ben and May from the gunfire.

If he’d gone into that convenience store a minute earlier or later, he would’ve never had the opportunity to try to be a hero.

If he had more time with Gwen…

If he had given her more of his time…

Time was the key to everything.

For someone who could crawl up walls and bend steel in his bare hands, he was rather powerless. What’s super about any of those party tricks compared to the power to control time? His estrangement with time left him weak and weary—no more than a street magician with cards up his sleeve.

But the night his Honey gave herself to him—for the first time in a long time—Peter felt superhuman.

He took his time with her. Washing the grime from her hair. Relishing her touch as she reached up to wash his back, and again as she ran gentle fingertips over his mending ribs. Long after their skin pruned, he held her beneath the roar of the shower, right next to his heart.

Peter would’ve let the oceans run dry if it gave them more time to just be.

When they emerged, the sun was setting.

He counted heartbeats and freckles and dimples and breaths as they searched one another for injury. Patiently, they tended to each other’s wounds, but he didn’t waste too much time with his temporary discomfort.

He’d live. In fact, he’d had worse. His natural healing abilities would take over eventually.

Until then, he could take his mind off his pain. And he was determined to do the same for her.

Peter focused his energy on stretching out each moment into an eternity, although that was hardly enough time to worship her how he wanted. He knew her so well already—or at least he thought he did— up until he noticed how her lower lip would twitch and fall agape as she reached orgasm.

This discovery intrigued him. More research was needed.

There were things about her body that only experimentation and practice could teach him, and the thought of unlocking more of her mysteries drove him wild.

He wanted to study her. To become an expert in what made her gasp and quiver. A master of her body and heart, even as he became a willing slave to both.

He wanted all of her, just as he’d said.

To know her, wholly.

Pleasure and pain. Joy and sorrow.

With a tender touch, Peter studied the scars of her past, stamped on her flesh like letters inked by a typewriter. He read each line, over and over, now committing to memory what he’d managed to miss because before he’d been in a hurry. Such a fool.

He followed the path of every bead of her sweat that served to punctuate the ecstasy of the present. Her soft sighs soothed him—crisp-sounding, like turning of pages in a book.

He should’ve taken his time to read her before, to really see her.

He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.

And so, ever the good student, he took his time.

He wanted to know her by heart. He’d turned his bed into a seminary, where soon he’d be able to recite her like passages from a Bible.

Devotion like that takes time.

‘All a man has is time,’ Uncle Ben would say, ‘and what he chooses to do with it.’

Peter wasn’t going to waste a moment of it.

A thin sheen of cooled sweat coated his nude form as he stood at the foot of his bed. In reverent silence, he regarded the delicate woman softly dozing in his sheets. His gaze was content as he took in the peacefulness on her face. Her lashes hung heavy on her round cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in a steady pattern.

She was curled up, snuggled with her face in the pillow as she clutched the bedsheet around her like a teddy bear. The eerie glow of dusk illuminated the curves not concealed by the sheet. Hidden paths up her thighs lured his gaze, barely obscured by the Egyptian cotton threads of the bedding. Her tiny fingers cuddled the edges of the fabric. It had turned into a chaste vestal robe which concealed places his mouth had explored an hour ago.

Even in her sleep, she was saintly and seductive. It was endearing as much as it was enticing.

His soft gaze continued down the path of her body. The rest of him hardened.

“I can feel you, you know,” she murmured against the pillow. “Creeping on me.”

The tips of his ears went red, eyes widening like a cartoon robber frozen in a giant spotlight clutching a money bag in his hand. She snorted with amusement as she peeked at him over the covers.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Peter chuckled in response, blushing.

“I’m not sleepy,” she lied. “Just resting my eyes.”

Both were exhausted.

If they went at it again, it would count as Round 3 for him, and Round 5 for her. Maybe even 6. His regenerative abilities blessed him with seemingly endless stamina, but it was no match for the kind of day they’d had.

The onslaught of damage, both physical and emotional, wore them down. Their activities wouldn’t have been possible if not for a mind-numbing wave of adrenaline-fueled lust that seized them. They were driven by the desperate need for compassion and comfort.

And yet, there he was: a caveman leering down at her with a boner.

She twisted around, studying him with sparkling eyes. She reached out her hands in his direction, making grabby claws with her fingers. “M’not even tired. Lemme show you.” He snickered, watching her fight off a yawn that suggested the opposite.

Carefully, he crawled up from the foot of his bed to her side, pulling the sheets back to position himself behind her. He pulled her close until her back was up against his chest, skin-to-skin.

“Noooo,” she whined softly. “Gimme you.”

Peter couldn’t hold back his grin, although he shook his head. “You have me. What you need is some rest.”

“You’re the one who's ogling me in my sleep with a hard-on. Like a weirdo.”

His smile glowed in the darkness. “Can’t help it, Honey.” He leaned down over her shoulder, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Everything you do makes me hard.” He followed the statement with the evidence lined up against her lower back. His hands roved over her hips, greedily gripping the flesh at the top of her thighs.

She hummed in satisfaction, making a noise that wasn’t helping either of them. He felt her body press even closer to his, rolling her hips. Peter couldn’t let out the erotic hiss gathering in his chest at the sensation of his shaft sliding between her cheeks.

He was losing control again. He propped himself up on one elbow with his hand keeping her hip still. “We... we should... sleep—you should sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep—”

“I don’t wanna.” Her head was turned upwards, glancing back at his winded expression.

“But-but you... need to—”

She bent her neck and captured his lips with her own. She pulled away with a seductive pout. “I thought you knew what I needed.”

Again, her mouth sweetly teased his, delicately coy, until she charged forward and conquered his kiss. For a few seconds (or... maybe a few minutes), he was the submissive one, as he succumbed to her desire. He remained helplessly complacent as her tongue toyed with his. It was only when he realized he’d lost track of the time that he pressed his fingertips to her chin and pulled away.

It was one of the hardest challenges of his entire life.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pleaded, voice deep in his chest. His forehead kissed hers as he held his eyes closed.

She blinked up at him curiously as he nuzzled her nose. “Do you need a moment?” she said shyly, biting her lower lip.

His lashes fluttered open as he stared down at the Milky Way in her eyes.

Strangely, he thought of the great sea explorers of the past. He pictured himself in Magellan’s place, standing at the helm of a carrack in the eerie darkness of the Pacific. He was adrift in a vast ocean of uncharted waters with no land in sight, nothing but the stars overhead to guide him. He clung to them desperately, fearful of the darkness outside of their hold, but awestruck by their wonder. It was like gazing at the gate of heaven. Being alone in the Universe, locked in an intimate moment with God herself.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured curiously. The question wasn’t worried or rushed.

Peter observed her intently, memorizing the pattern of her freckles. “I need so much more than a moment,” he breathlessly replied. His eyes shimmered in the dim light. “I need to stop time.”

She blinked several times, pondering his response with an uncertainty that might have gutted him if she had let it go on too long.

Thankfully, she answered with another passionate kiss, tilting her chin behind her shoulder. The air was swept from their lungs when she pulled away from his lips. “What about a lifetime?” she whispered. “What could you do with that?”

Affection warmed his eyes while passion ignited his stare. He didn’t hesitate further. The width of his hand cupped her jaw firmly, and he crashed his lips into hers. He breathed her into his lungs as he leaned over her, his cock resting heavily in the space behind her back.

She let her fingers card through his thick, brunette waves, playing with the damp ends that had curled up after the shower. Synchronizing her movements, she dragged her backside across his shaft and her nails through his scalp. He purred, twitching against her spine.

His hand travelled down again, memorizing the feeling of each pore from her jaw to chest...to her stomach... across her pubic bone... and finally slipping into her dripping folds. A satisfied hmmm rumbled from his chest as he licked a spot beneath her ear. The warmth of his tongue, matched with the roughness of his fingers, made her quiver in his grasp.

She pulled her hand away from his scalp, urgently searching for his waist to pull his lower back into hers. As the gentle tease of his fingers formed into a languid massage, she bucked her hips impatiently, using the arm under her pillow to balance herself.

“So needy,” he muttered, tone sizzling.

She mewled, her hand frantically searching for a place to land. It fluttered at his wrist, his bicep, his nape, then over to her chest, her breasts, and back to his hand again.

“Told you I’d take care of ya,” he whispered, bringing his other hand on the underside of her hip bone, replacing the outside one. “Just relax.” His other hand gripped her uncertain fingers, guiding them down to her breasts. He slowly squeezed each one of her mounds with his hand over hers, allowing his fingers to spin a wheel at her tender bud.

Intently, he watched as her eyes disappeared, rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it, baby, I gotcha.” His voice was dripping with dark chocolate. “Keep goin’ just like that.”

It was an order, somehow delicate and firm.

It drifted into her ear like smoke from a wildfire and only added kerosine to the blaze in her belly. He reached down and lifted her outer thigh, forming a V with her legs. Opening up her core allowed his hand better access to her clit, while the other hand groped his cock and positioned it at her entrance.

“You need me to slow down?” he questioned, his mouth going dry from the panting. “Jus’say the word, and we can stop at any—”

“Don’t stop, Peter,” she cut him off impatiently, her voice lilting in desperation. There was no room for shame. “I need to feel you inside me.”

With a breathless gasp, he obliged her hunger and his own. He pushed the eager, leaking tip of his cock through her wet folds, perhaps a little more forcefully than he otherwise would have. He drank in her expression—the wince on her face, the flutter of her eyelashes, the pathetic whimper quickly melting into an erotic moan.

“S’okay, pretty girl,” he soothed. “M’gonna make it better.”

The grip of his fingers pushed dents into the meat of her thigh as he pried her open and rolled his hips into her heat.

“Doin’ so good for me,” he praised, his need overwhelming his senses. He pulled his hips back and drove them forward, slow enough for him to imbibe in her tremors. Her core fluttered over every inch.

“Am I still a good girl?” she gasped with wide, wet eyes. Her head was thrown back against his shoulder and cradled against his bicep.

“Yeah, you are, princess,” he practically growled. She could feel the reverberation of his voice in her heart. “You’re my good girl.”

He sealed his lips around her open-mouthed moan, greedily licking it up for himself.

Each second stretched to a millennium. That’s what he would wish for if the Devil himself offered him a trade. However, it wouldn’t take long for the Dark One to realize that he had been cheated. Peter’s soul belonged to someone else already.

Until mountains erode into sand. That’s how long he wanted each kiss to last.

“God, you feel so good, baby...”

When sequoias that pierce the sky tumble and decay into the soil, from which a new giant is born and completes its life cycle. That’s how long he wanted each of her sighs to last.

“M’gonna be good t’you, always...”

Until every tectonic plate wades to a new home atop a pool of lava, and the face of the Earth is unrecognizable.

“You’re so good to me, Pete... s-so good—”

Until all the glaciers have melted. At the end of the next Ice Age.

—“...radio waves from Galaxy 0402+379, whose coordinates appear in the constellation Perseus, featuring binary supermassive black holes with the least separation of any directly observed binaries, at a distance of approximately 23.88 Light-Years. Now, who can tell me what happens when these two objects reach singularity? Anyone? — Yes, Mr. Parker...”—

“Don’ever wanna lose you, Honey... Never, never...”

Until the end of the Milky Way’s last dance, as the curtain falls while it takes its sister Andromeda by the hand.

“Shhh, you won’t, baby. You won’t lose me. Just—ahh—stay with me...”

Each moment stretched out into eternity. Slow like molasses. Dripping like honey.

She was right. Time was the key to the whole universe.

And as Peter pushed her toward another summit, clutching her close as they tumbled over the peak together, they shared a sweat-coated sigh of relief. Both of them were finally sated, at least for now. At this moment, they were content drifting off to sleep in the cradle of each other’s embrace.

He kept her body wrapped around his, her face buried into the crook of his neck. His hand weighed heavily across her back. Eyes closed, he listened intently to her familiar purr.

He knew it well. It was the one that would confirm she was asleep—the signal he would wait for to open his eyes and observe her beauty freely, without hinderance or shame.

“I love you,” he said.

Always.

A vow.

A hope.

A plea.

She woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the window panels.

Grey light pushed on her eyelids, prying them apart, while cool air scratched at her back. She responded by folding herself tighter and burrowing her nose into a warm chest. She was still dreaming, she thought. The scent of cedar and cinnamon filled her airways as calloused hands tickled her back.

She was dreaming. And it was a beautiful dream. She refused to acknowledge the light, fighting off the waking world.

When she felt a gentle brush of fingers clearing a lock of her hair from her face, she found the courage to open her eyelids. Gazing fondly at her were a pair of doe eyes. The light of day reflected off their hue, but the facets were illuminated from within.

Like candlelight. Like fire. Roasted chestnuts, caramel, chocolate, hazelnut, whiskey, brown sugar, and molasses. Warm amber, deep garnet, charred topaz, smokey quartz, bronze, brass, and gold. Earth and fire and water and the air that escaped her lungs.

And honey. Delectable, delicious honey.

She found it all in his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmured, his throat thick from hibernation. A beaming smile burst through his lips, burning through clouds outside.

Her heart stuttered as she basked in its glow. “Morning.”

He glowed. Her friend. Her protector. Her lover.

They lay in silence, regarding one another with warm gazes and warmer hearts.

“How long’ve you been awake?” she said with a tired smile, leaning back into her pillow to get a better look at his face.

“Not sure,” he whispered, threading his fingers through her hand and placing it near his heart. The short distance between them at the present was as far away from her as he could stand. “I was jus' thinkin' about how long I've been asleep. Too long.”

She blinked at the awe in his expression, blushing as she realized he wasn’t referring to last night’s rest. Her eyes sparkled back at him, feeling a slight ache at the corners. They held several seconds of blessed silence, taking in each other in peace, until Peter rubbed the haze from his eyes.

“We outta get up,” he sighed. “Need to pack.”

“Pack?” she repeated. Her smile dimmed a bit, as the dark memories of the past couple of days crept back into her consciousness. “Where are we going?”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, though not unkind. He kissed the back of her hand tenderly. “All you need to know is that we’ll be safe. And Bella and your sisters will be waiting for us.”

Her eyes fluttered wide. “Really?”

He smiled. “Really.” Gazing at her fondly, Peter watched the relief wash over her until it brimmed at her lashes. “I’m jus’ goin’ over the details in my head,” he added thoughtfully. “Does your ma ever play the lottery?”

She smirked. “No.”

“Well,” he pondered, “she’ll be so surprised when she finds out she’s won a million dollars and another vacation getaway.”

A snort broke through her foolish grin. “Practically astonished. Won’t even bother to question it.”

“She can come along as long as she doesn’t ask any questions,” Peter said delicately before giving it some thought. He added on a condition. “And she keeps her mouth shut.” More thinking. “And stays alone, in her own place, away from us and the girls.” His brow furrowed as he continued to ponder. “Maybe even on a different continent. I’m still fine-tuning the kinks in my plan.”

“Hmmmmm,” she grinned, leaning into another soft kiss. “Kinks.”

Playfully, she brushed her tongue against his, stirring a deep groan from his chest. When he pulled back, he fixed her with a sultry gaze. “Careful...” he warned. “You might start somethin’ you’ll have to finish. Again. And again. And again—”

She giggled and leaned in for another kiss until they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. The couple jumped, with Honey clutching the sheet to her chest.

“Pete!” they heard Felicia’s voice through the wall. “Open up! Or... close—whatever it is you’re in the middle of.”

Honey snapped her eyes to Peter, embarrassment flooding her expression. He grinned wide, amused by her flustered state.

“Just a minute,” he called back as Honey pulled the sheets off the bed and dragged them with her. Alarmed, she scurried across the room with a shocked look. “C’mon,” he muttered at her with a jeering chuckle. “You didn’t think we were that quiet last night, did you?”

Scowling, she flipped him off and disappeared into his closet. Coming to a stand, he paused with one foot over the edge of the bed, his smile fading.

There were two heartbeats at his bedroom door.

“Hurry up, Peter,” Felicia repeated, a lack of levity in her tone. “We’ve got company.”

In a blink, he had on a pair of sweatpants and was reaching for his phone. He pulled up a camera feed outside of his bedroom.

Felicia stood with her arms crossed impatiently, tapping her fingers along her biceps. A familiar face waited beside her, wearing crimson-tinted sunglasses and clutching a white cane.

Something sharp pulled at his chest, the brightness of his smile dimming. He glanced back at the closet doorway.

“C’mon, Pete. We don’t have time!”

Peter frowned.

Of course they didn't. It was always out of his reach.

He wiped the self-pity off his face as he pulled open the door. He hadn't bothered with a shirt, facing them with a bare chest still striped with bruises.

“Matt,” he stated, reading the grim look on the other man’s face. Peter didn’t need many words to confirm what he could already hear in his friends’ heartbeats.

“Sorry to wake you,” Matt stated tensely, “but we’ve got a problem.”

It took a minute for Honey to be brave enough to poke her head out of the closet. She was fully clothed, wearing a silk robe tied snugly around her waist, but her flushed cheeks telegraphed her embarrassment.

She expected smug and teasing expressions, if not from Matt, then definitely from Felicia. What she saw was the opposite.

“How much time?” Peter asked, brows furrowed and arms crossed tightly.

“Maybe a minute,” Matt answered. "Maybe less."

“Building’s surrounded,” Felicia added anxiously. “Cleaning crew just left. We haven’t had time to check the work.”

“They’re good at what they do,” Peter assured her. “It’ll be fine. We just need to put on our game faces, stay calm, and we’ll get through this—”

“They’re bringing an army down here, Pete,” Matt implored. “You need to be sure.”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn't be standing here,” he replied.

“You oughta be running,” Felicia said sharply, "preferably to LaGuardia."

“Leaving is a bad look,” Matt argued. “I cannot stress that enough.”

Felicia glared at him. “But you would recommend a trip to Ryker’s? I thought you were supposed to be a good lawyer?”

“Cat. We need to deflect attention right now. Stay calm.”

“Where are we going?” Honey questioned, her voice cutting through the tension like a hot blade into butter.

The conversation came to a screeching halt.

Eyes snapped in her direction, but she noted how Felicia immediately looked away. Even Matt turned his head; his nose pointed at the floor.

Peter was the only one who looked her in the eye. And when he did, it made her stomach twist. Despair filled his gaze.

He didn't need to say a word. She already felt faint. “Pe-Peter...?”

He dashed across the room, taking her face in his hands. As quick as the motion was, everything felt like it was moving too fast—need more time—and Honey couldn’t keep up. Like concrete weighed down her feet—what happened, what just happened, what’s happening—and the lights of an oncoming train blinded her.

“Pe-Pe—But—-wh-wha—? What is he talking about whatdoesthatmean who’scominghere wha-what-whatdoesshemean—”

“Easy, easy,” he cooed. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, yeah? I’ve got it under control.”

Her voice shattered beneath a whisper, “Don’t lie to me, Peter!”

He fell silent. Sorrow twisted his closed lips. Then, hesitantly, he explained, “The cops are here. They know about Walker.”

Honey gasped. And then she felt herself go numb.

“They were expecting him to check in this morning. And when he didn’t, somebody knew to come here.”

Tears flooded her vision with wretched memories riding them like a tidal wave. A python tangled itself around her lungs, constricting her breath.

“Now, they’re gonna come in and make a big show,” Peter continued to explain, “but it’s very important that you stay calm, Honey. Don’t say a word. Don’t answer any questions. Just follow my lead.”

She was crying. Her mind was traveling through wormholes in time. She was hurdling untethered into a cosmos of what-ifs and should-have-dones. Doubt and terror filled her expression as her heart broke into pieces.

“Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to you, sweetheart. On my life, I swear it,” Peter softly declared. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Honey blinked wet lashes up at him, still existing outside reality. “I... I’m... I’m not afraid.”

Peter went still, lips parting.

She stared at him with resolve, her voice turning to steel. “I don’t regret what I did. Even if I have to go to jail—”

“You’re not going to jail,” he promised, shutting down the idea.

“I’m not sorry that I killed him. I’d do it all over again, if I had to. He was a monster... and-and he needed to die. I’ll tell them—”

“Honey, you’re not going to jail,” Peter firmly repeated. “I am.”

She froze, her stomach and heart plunging. Her wet eyes went wide. “What?” Terror gripped her. “What!? What do you mean—”

Peter noted how she physically pulled back, like a cobra ready to fight to the death.

“Listen to me, listen, listen," he pleaded. "We don’t have a lot of time, so I need you to listen to me carefully, yeah?” Peter murmured, the sight of her tears twisting a knife in his chest. “It’s gonna be fine. They’ll take me in, but we can fight it. Nobody has to know what really happened, alright? All you gotta do is follow my lead—”

Now her mind was traveling elsewhere, plummeting down into hell.

She pictured Peter in handcuffs. In an orange jumpsuit. At his trial. For murder. Of a goddamn shitbag. A federal agent. Sentenced. To death.

She rapidly blinked as if doing so could clear the horrifying image from her vision. Instead, she kept shaking her head as the nightmare unfolded.

Her tongue wouldn't work right. “But-But—”

“You’re my brave girl,” he said with soft desperation. “Jus’ need ya to stay brave a little longer, alright?”

“You... you didn’t do—no, no, you can’t—”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he pleaded. “You, Bella, your sisters—you’re all gonna be okay. Just like I promised, alright? You just gotta go along with what I say. Whatever you hear, you gotta stay quiet, okay?”

“But...”

“No buts, you gotta trust me—”

“But... M’not—”

“I’m serious, Honey. I’m not playin’ around. Don’t fight with me on this—”

“I’m not letting them take you away from me!” she snapped, her voice breaking.

He went quiet as her fingers gripped him by the arms, nails digging into his flesh. She shook her head vehemently. In fact, her whole body was trembling like the facade of an avalanche. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared desperately up at Peter.

“You belong to me, too!" she said through sobs. "Okay? You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. I’m not running away. There is nothing on this Earth that I love more, and I’m not leaving you!”

Time stopped.

Peter blinked at her, unsure if he actually heard what she just said.

When he listened to her heart, it beat steadily. Drumming its truth. Each beat the tolling of a bell, ringing clear.

One moment stretched out into eternity.

Peter's eyes shimmered as he gazed down at her. His heart swelled beyond his chest, outside of the room, dwarfing the skyscrapers, eclipsing the sky.

Craning his neck, he touched his forehead to hers. He swore he could feel her devotion through her skin. He was empowered by it. Weakened by it.

Swallowing hard, he breathed her into his lungs.

Suddenly, they were alone in the room. In the city. On the planet. A shudder racked through her, a silent sob escaping her lips. “I... love you, Peter. I love you so much—”

“I know you do,” he nodded with a reassuring tone. Tears budded at his eyelids. “I know.” He hooked his fingers beneath her jaw and pointed her gaze up at his.

There she is, he thought. His light in the darkness. His hope. His Honey.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered.

She felt her pulse in her own throat as she gazed up at him with red eyes. He waited for a response. She sniffed and nodded, swallowing her panic back down.

He smiled warmly. “Then I need you to remember that I love you,” he said. “And don’t ever forget it. No matter what you hear, okay? I love you forever. No matter what.”

Heavy footsteps echoed from down the hall. Her stomach twisted helplessly at the sound. Peter pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. When they parted, he turned away from her. She watched his retreating form until she felt Felicia's fingers take her by the shoulders. Gently, the woman led her back away from bedroom entrance.

Honey watched him longingly as her arms ached to hold him. He kept his back to her, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Police!” a shout boomed from the hallway. “Coming in!” Honey felt a scream bubbling in her throat, desperate to break free.

The door opened with a bang.

Peter kept himself steady, casting his eyes downward as a herd of boots stampeded around him. In a blink, at least a dozen of NYPD’s finest filled the space, with pistols and rifles pointed at Peter. They barked orders, shouting over one another.

He was motionless.

Honey’s eyes darted around to see the ridiculous show of force, more befitting of Michael Myers or Hannibal Lector.

Half of them wore traditional police uniforms and bulletproof vests, while the other half wore full body-armor and carried SWAT-style equipment. Her eyes narrowed in on the SHIELD patch on the arms of one of the officers, her stomach twisting into knots.

“Hands up!”

“Put your hands above your head!”

“This is absurd—you’re in my client’s private residence!”

“Hands where I can see them!”

When Peter looked up at them, he was a different man. He looked surprised. His eyes glittered with amusement, and his mouth was crooked with a brash grin. Relaxed, he leaned back on his hands as casually as any visit, observing the intruders with a pompous smirk

“Mornin’, boys,” he said boldly. “Please tell me one of you brought donuts.”

“On your feet!” one of the SHIELD agents hissed. The man sporting dark stubble over his jawline and a military crew cut stepped forward and gripped Peter by the shoulder. With a yank, he hauled the half-naked man to his feet—or rather, Peter allowed himself to be manhandled into a standing position.

“Hey, watch it!” Matt snapped. “You lay a finger on my client, and I’ll have your badge faster than you can say your overly complicated acronym.”

“Tell ya what, Murdock,” the dark-haired SHIELD agent glowered at him with a cruel smile. “If you see something, say something.”

“You hear that, Matty?” Peter snorted. “Small Dick Energy over here’s brought his big guns and blind jokes today... What’s ya name anyway, pal?”

“Rumlow,” the SHIELD agent spat. “What’s it to you?”

“No big deal,” Peter shrugged. “I’m gonna wanna know which funeral home to send the flowers to, is’all.”

Rumlow’s face turned red with rage, giving him a look that shot terror down Honey’s spine. Peter smirked haughtily as a different police officer turned him around and wrenched his wrists behind his back.

“Ooh!” Peter hissed playfully, with a lascivious wiggle of his brows. “Easy, tiger. Gimme some time to recharge 'ere. I had a rough tumble last night—”

“It’s about to get rougher,” a husky voice called from the entrance.

Honey turned to see George Stacy’s ominous form blocking the doorway. His eyes were even baggier than the last time she saw him. His stringy, graying red hair looked unwashed, and he wore a wrinkled white dress shirt under his Kevlar vest. Marching into the room, the man glared at Peter with narrow eyes that could melt steel.

“Georgie!” Peter called out with glee. “I thought I smelled bacon. Good to see ya, buddy!”

“Captain Stacy to you, asshole,” Rumlow bitterly remarked.

“Oh, no, Georgie and I go waayy back—wait a sec....did you say ‘Captain?’” Peter questioned before turning to George in shock. “Really? Still? Ya mean they haven’t given you a promotion yet? That’s some bullshit right there—”

“Peter Parker,” George declared sharply, popping each ‘P,’ leering at him like a shark hunting a sea lion. “It’s with the utmost pleasure that I inform you that you’re under arrest.”

“I’m happy for you, Georgie,” Peter smirked. “Really am. You look like you could use some pleasure.”

“Captain Stacy,” Matt snarled, inserting himself between the two men, “I had a conversation with the Commissioner this morning. We agreed that Mr. Reilly was coming in of his own accord—”

“‘Ben Reilly’ can come on down whenever he wants,” George sneered disdainfully, pointing at Peter. “I’m here for him.” He flicked his eyes back to Matt, “If you wanna take something up with the Commissioner, go ahead. He’s downstairs.”

“That’s perfect—maybe we can all do a round of 20 Questions!” Peter grinned wide. “Anybody up for a game? Here. I’ll start:” He glanced over at George, lifting his chin proudly. “Never Have I Ever... been suspended from active duty for showin’ up to work three-sheets-to-the-wind and smellin’ like I bathed in a vat of Irish Whiskey.”

George chuckled mirthlessly, loathing in his eyes. “That’s funny. Always so clever.” His smile faded. “Make jokes all you want, Parker. They’re still gonna take it outta your ass at Ryker’s. If you even make it that far.”

The humor dimmed in Peter’s eyes, but his grin was infallible. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I know exactly how to tempt you,” George said through gritted teeth. He glanced across the room to the small woman hugging herself in a silk robe. “You.”

Honey’s glossy eyes went wide, stunned motionless as all eyes turned to her. “Me?” Her voice trembled pathetically, tongue fumbling. She was incapacitated by her fear as much as she was by her growing anger.

“You," Stacy grinned with a set of shark teeth. "You’re comin’ too. Cuff her.”

She flinched as a blue-shirted officer stepped towards her.

“Wait. Who?” the cuffed man piped up.

They halted at the sound of Peter’s confusion. With a crooked brow, Peter leaned forward, bending at the waist. When Honey made eye contact with him, she was shocked to see him practically looking through her. His face went blank, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if he’d found a stray cat on his front stoop, or a slightly-interesting ad in his mailbox. “Hi, there.” Awkwardly, he smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Uh...” He blew out an exaggerated exhale, utter shock on his face. “You!”

A crease formed between her eyes as she stared back. The crowd of officers glanced between them with growing confusion.

Peter eyed her with a blush, embarrassed. Sheepishly, he blurted out, “Eh. I gotta level with you. I didn’t know you were still here.”

A hitch formed in her throat as she blinked at him, her face looking as if he’d slapped her. By contrast, besides the slight discomfort of being caught off guard, he appeared apathetic. Like she was a total stranger.

“Um, look,” he said, scrunching his face like he was about to rip off a bandaid. “I... uh, usually this isn’t my style, but... M’kinda in the middle’a somethin’. So... if you could grab a cab home, that’d be great.”

Her stomach twisted.

Peter fixed her with an apologetic grin that was half-cringe, as if he was still attempting some level of charm without any kind of real remorse.

“Just hit me up on Venmo,” he added, as if their relationship was some transaction. Like selling an old couch on Craigslist. He suddenly looked alarmed, glancing at the officers around him, then added, “For the cab fare! Not the... y’know, anything we did last night.”

Mortification hit her like a truck. He simply wrinkled his nose and shrugged, then glanced away. He didn’t look back.

Honey wanted to vomit. She lacked the air in her lungs to respond in words. Instead, she responded with a brokenhearted, glazed-over expression of shock and horror.

“Bullshit,” Captain Stacy said, eyes narrowed between Peter and his mistress. “Don’t play games with me, Parker. I know who she is.”

Peter blinked at his estranged father-in-law, completely daft. “Really?” He glanced back in her direction, avoiding her eyes, then to George again. “Wait. She’s not your daughter, is she?!”

“No!” the man replied, his face turning red.

Peter sighed. “Thank God. That woulda been so weird.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Parker!” the police captain growled. “This woman is just as culpable as you are!”

“Really, Captain Stacy,” Matt added, skeptically. Doubt was slowly overtaking the room. “You can’t honestly believe that this, uh... um—” The lawyer cleared his throat, “—Mr. Reilly’s guest—is somehow useful to your case?” He scoffed with a laugh. “Or that she’s of any kind of consequence to my client at all?”

George pointed at the woman, who looked humiliated and near tears. “This woman is a witness, at the very least!” he barked. “She’s his girlfriend! His ‘Honey.’”

The way Peter raised one of his brows was almost comical, if it wasn’t so cruel. Incredulously, he glanced over at the devastated woman and snorted.

He looked back at George incredulously. “Seriously?” he scoffed. “Do you have any idea how many ‘Honeys’ I go through each month?”

The wince that followed could be felt throughout the whole room. Even strangers averted their eyes.

The mob boss laughed cruelly. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great lay with a cute face. But that’s it.”

A vein popped out of George’s forehead. The surrounding officers avoided eye contact, the situation becoming uncomfortable for everyone in the room. “This woman is practically an accomplice!” he bellowed, raising his voice loud enough to echo into the hall.

Peter gazed at him like he had two heads. “Accomplice?” He raised a brow. “You’re losin’ it, pops. I don’t even know her name.”

The pain was so sharp, she flinched. Like a stab to the back, or punch to the gut. A slap in the face. Her stomach lurched. Eyes blurred. She wanted to scream and vomit and die.

And still, she wanted Peter to look at her. To give her some kind of indication that this was all just a ruse.

Instead, he kept George fixed in his gaze, watching the sweat bead on the police captain's forehead as his outrage flared.

“‘Sides,” Peter taunted, licking his lips like a dog. “You know my type.”

The man’s eyes shot back to Peter, flashing red.

“That reminds me,” the mob boss grinned, a lewd twinkle in his eye. “How’s Helen?”

At the mention of his wife, George’s face dropped. His eyes went wide, the color vanishing instantly. The grown man lunged across the room with a growl. His hands were wrapped around Peter’s neck in the blink of an eye, practically tackling the cuffed criminal to the ground.

A ruckus of shouting, grabbing, and grunting broke out as George’s colleagues physically restrained him from continuing to choke Peter.

The melee suddenly came to a halt when an authoritative male voice shouted out from the doorway, “What the hell’s going on here?”

The humorless tone snapped the whole group into order. The doorway was shadowed by the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man with dusty blonde hair wearing a tailored suit. He was older, possibly in his 70s, and judging by the way the officers tensed up as he strode into the room, he outranked them.

“Anybody want to tell me what the problem is?” the man ordered, keeping his tone soft.

“Well, I’m missing a shirt, for one,” Peter complained. “And if you plan on takin’ my picture, I gotta tell ya, I don’t go topless. Least not for free.”

Matt spun towards the authoritative presence, infuriated. “Commissioner Pierce,” he greeted him firmly, with a faint tone of relief. “Your officer just attacked my client while he was restrained in handcuffs. Respectfully, I request that he be removed immediately from the premises.”

The Commissioner’s eyes roved from Murdock to George Stacy, who was still panting wildly, hair disheveled, and shirt askew.

“Captain Stacy, you’re dismissed,” the man declared. Just like that, it was over. Not even the SHIELD agents attempted to argue. George opened his mouth to protest, but Pierce silenced his rebuttal. “That is all,” he said calmly.

George snapped his mouth closed, stunned at the turn of events. He gulped down rage, and jerked himself free of his fellow officers’ grip. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Now Pierce was in charge.

He gazed over at Peter, staring at the lanky man past the end of his nose. Pierce looked as if he was sizing him up. His eyes were cold and impersonal, like judging a cut of meat. Defiantly, Peter glared right back.

Matt stepped in, more sensitive to the man’s authority than Peter. “Commissioner Pierce, I appreciate you sharing my concern for a conflict-free investigation—”

“No need for posturing, Mr. Murdock,” he answered. There was a sophisticated nature to Alexander Pierce that the others were incapable of. “We can make this quick and easy. Your client’s coming with us. Gentleman, please, kindly escort Mr. Reilly from the room.”

“So... no shirt then?” Peter remarked, before being 'pulled' along by the beat cops at his sides. The other officers moved with him, filing out behind him. “Forget my lawyer!” the mob boss called back from the hallway. “You’re gonna hear from my agent!”

Pierce scanned the room like a shark through water, landing on the small, mortified woman in the back. Honey looked up to see Pierce’s eyes narrowed in on her. Matt remained close, and deep down, she knew it wasn't for her support. The tall man approached her, studying her intently.

“So that just leaves you, then,” Pierce said. “Mr. Murdock, do you represent this young lady, too?”

Eyes glistening, she swallowed hard, focused on keeping the bile from crawling up her throat.

“No, sir,” Matt stated, mouth twisted with a smirk. “In fact, I don't have a clue who she is. I’m pretty sure you could question every person in this house—you’d get the same answer.”

With a firm jaw, Pierce said to her, “Who are you?”

Fawn-like, she stared up at him, blinking wet lashes. “I... I’m....” Her mouth fumbled before forming the correct words.

“I just make coffee.”

Continue to Part 23

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lividlilgirl · 2 years

Text

The Foreigner in Wonderland

(First text post. I just needed to infodump some stuff. I love reading other’s AUs, HCs and what-ifs/Imagines/Scenarios of X and Y series etc. Tried fanfic. My job and life can’t so this IS gonne BE hectic. Hope anyone reading find it as interesting as I did.)

[💟 🦁] / 🐙 🐍 /

The first thing you notice upon being conscious is being on fire. Next to the torrent of information you’re remembering. Or acquiring.

You are a servant. You’re name is... ███ That is your name right? Even so it feels alien to you.

Back at hand, the cat-like beast shouts about you suddenly appearing, and for you to give him your robes. You can review the information given to you along the way.

It was easy, getting Grim to settle down, though unwillingly. You meet the Headmage, to his surprise. He ignores you when you tell him Grim isn’t your familiar. Seemingly, more than happy to continue on, and so, the other coffins open up, with no fire this time.

Each student that weren’t a student at NRC already. You’re in timeout, seemingly for bringing a “rowdy familiar” with you, so you go up to the sorting hat last. Huh, another old memory. Your vessel’s chock full of refences.

“My name is ███.”

“... There is more than one soul with this one. They’re full of magic but of unclear origins. Therefore no Dorm truly suits this one.”

Grim saw this as an opportunity to show his stuff. Saying how he should take your place in this school. You weren’t meant to be here anyway. You were summoned here, but by who? Who indeed. Whatever the reason, you know one thing. The will of this land wishes to be saved. So why not?

Headmage Dire Crowley, just as he was about to spout some other nonsense again you speak over him.

“This is a school for those with potential in magic, no? If you’re so gracious, would you allow me to choose my own dorm?”

For some reason, other than the history and facts of this world you also gained knowledge of some people of this land. Mainly The Great Seven and the Headmage. Disney! Somewhere inside you you can’t help feeling nostalgic.

✧*✧*✧

Heartslabyul

You thought it’d be a long process to get sorted into your choice of dorm. Apparently not, maybe cause you weren’t a student yet.

Feeling half sorry and half endeared by Grim, you Gracioused your way into getting him accepted into NRC. Much to your Housewarden’s anger.

Riddle doesn’t know what to make of you. He knows what to do if a student get put into Heartslabyul or chooses to transfer here. Not you though. So he pays extra attention and is slightly more strict towards you.

Ace taunts Grim, he disregards you when you showed to be more knowledgeable than him about the Seven. You defend Grim and it starts a one-sided fight.

Because of your superhuman speed, Ace, You and Grim get to cleaning the cafeteria. Ace does something he isn’t supposed to which brings Deuce to speak up about being good students. A Fight starts and property damage ensues.

By the end of the week though, you four become well acquainted. Because friends is a no no word for the bickering Adeuce duo.

Cater becomes acquainted with you guys easily, even being the one to mentioned the Ramshackle Dorm. Which becomes your hangout spot and where Ace decides to hunker down when he gets collared.

Since your abilities/”magic” or magecraft is different from theirs you speedrun painting the roses instead with just a brush. Cater is intrigued and wants to take more pics with you.

Trey as usual is brotherly to all, and you. He’s extra worried when you decide to challenge Riddle along with Adeuce and Grim.

You easily could have become Housewarden but you just want to prove a point, and it’s just a huge responsibilty. So Riddle Overblots early but no worries, your abilites were practically made to stop this!

In the end, Heartslabyul is just kinda family like to you and you enjoy their companionship fully

Savanaclaw

Leona could care less as long as you don’t interfere. He does know a strong opponent when he sees one. And not smell one, your smell is magic but also not. It also encompasses your entire being so- a headache for tomorrow.

Ruggie’s tasked to get you to join their team and to go to practice.

It also acts as a way to keep an eye on you. Thanks! He doesn’t have to baby Leona as much! Now he’s just tailing you. You let him, as he’s no threat to you. Which is also what gets you to eat more and act more human.

You invite him to join you after a while, to which you become buddy-ish. Even if you hangout with Adeuce or just Grim more. Yeah, Grim is in Savanaclaw with you, so enjoy the catfights over food from Grim and Ruggie.

Jack is distant, he does his own thing. He’s intrigued by you but it’s none of his business. Up until you and Heartslabyul asks him about the potential foul plays. To which he gets roped into our investigation.

He admires your strength, tactical prowess and just overall and actual sense of Justice? He thinks? You say it’s just because you want to but... And as he makes a big deal of calling you an idiot, it’s no less admirable. Unlike the Adeuce group.

In the end you foul Leona’s plans, you still play magift with Savanaclaw which even things out a lot.

Though you do let the other dorms take their out on some of your members a little. Ha! Oh and this one Horned guy that nearly overpowered you during magift. Not that you were paying attention to him. You tried your best and both your houses tied. Phew! that was more of a mental workout remembering all the positions!

You meet Cheka when you “wake up” in the infirmary. Diasomnia might have won if you didn’t block the last disk shot with your head. to which you “faint” afterwards.

You also take jabs at teasing Leona about being “Unca!” during this, while petting Grim as he got to participate in the matches. He got a little beat afterwards.

So Savanaclaw is just a group of housecats to you, and you enjoy as much of their time as they let you.

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 7 months

Text

The Waves are Rising and Rising

|Beginning| |Previous|

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 will go up on Friday 😌

--//--

Jin Guangyao does his best not to walk around Bujing Shi like he’s floating on his own private cloud of happiness, but it’s tough when all his short term memories are full of gentle touches and sweet kisses and waking up in Lan Xichen’s arms.

The thought sends happy little shivers down his spine that even the bittersweet almost-confession of the night before cannot dampen.

The slightly more long term memories also send shivers down his spine, but they’re a somewhat different sort. In the cutsleeve novels that passed through his hands on the way to Nie Huaisang, the characters often wound up limping the morning after, and the severity of the limp was treated like some kind of bizarre trophy. Jin Guangyao, however, is still so full to the brim with Lan Xichen’s powerful qi that he doesn’t feel so much as a twinge — in fact, most of his usual aches and pains have been banished completely, and he can't help but marvel at how… for lack of a better word, how healthy he feels. Consistent pain has been his normal for so long that strolling along Bujing Shi's corridors without the impact of the hard stone ricocheting up from his feet to his knees and hips and back makes him feel practically superhuman. The bright intensity of the foreign qi has already begun to fade since the night before, and Jin Guangyao suspects that it will only be a matter of days before his perpetual aches and pains from old injuries make their return, and yet for now he feels invincible.

He shakes his head a little to try and keep himself on-task.

Lan Xichen had woken at his habitual five o’clock and, very thoughtfully, had woken Jin Guangyao too (with gentle kisses and soft whispers that had coaxed him out of sleep so carefully that it had been difficult to be grumpy about it) to make sure the he could get back to his rooms before any servants discovered that he was not where he ought to be. Lan Xichen had even, in a very gentlemanly way, left the room first to ensure that no one was in the corridor and he would have no one to witness him sneaking back to his bedroom in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday. Jin Guangyao had made it back with no one the wiser, and after a thorough clean with a washcloth and basin, changing his robes, reapplying his vermillion, and remaking his bed so it looks slept in, he had headed back out into the fort.

His objective is to gather intel; specifically, to look for any sort of indication as to why the hell Nie Mingjue had decided to step in and side with Wei Wuxian at the Phoenix Mountain hunt.

There must be some motivating factor we are missing, he had told his father. He does believe it, though he doubts somewhat that he’ll just stumble upon it wandering around Bujing Shi. Still, he needs something to report back, and he prefers not to outright lie where he can instead just bend the truth, so whatever little he may find could help.

As he rounds the corner he spots the first person he’s seen (besides Lan Xichen) that morning; a small figure, most likely a woman by the feminine cut of her steel-grey Nie robes and high bun. Her head is down, peering at some book in her hands distractedly, and Jin Guangyao almost doesn’t give her a second thought until they pass in the corridor and he gets a glimpse of her face.

Pale skin. Large round eyes. Full lips, turned down in a habitual frown.

The last time he’d seen her had been across the Fire Palace in Nightless City on the final day of the war. She’d been wearing red and gold, then.

Wen Qing.

What the fuck is Wen Qing doing here?

Mind racing, Jin Guangyao darts out a hand and grabs her by the elbow, stopping her in her tracks. Her head jerks up, and as their eyes meet, he sees a bolt of fear cross her face before her expression sets in fierce defiance. She recognises him, too.

Holding her gaze, he backs them both up into a side room and closes the door behind him. She goes with him easily enough, though she never takes her gaze off him, watching him intently. She’s anxious, but not nearly as scared as she should be at the prospect of being a known inner Wen family member in the heart of the Nie sect.

Nie Mingjue must know that she’s here then. And there’s no way she would have been able to sneak in — she must have been invited.

“You’re the doctor who recommended the dual cultivation. Aren’t you.”

Wen Qing wrenches her arm from his grip. “Nie-gongzi insisted that I research further options for his brother’s chronic qi misalignment and I made a suggestion about experimental treatment. It was Chifeng-zun’s choice whether or not to try it.”

During his time in Nightless City working under Wen Ruohan, Meng Yao had gotten to know Wen Qing in passing, and in his mind he dips into his file of information on her; she’s smart, with a sharp tongue, very no-nonsense (she probably fits in very nicely with the other Nie doctors, Jin Guangyao reflects wryly) and not prone to the sort of vices most of the other high-ranking Wen officers and inner family members seemed to share — namely, a lust for power, and a tendency to violently abuse it.

Of course it was her who suggested it. She’s not a member of the sect, so has very little veneration for Chifeng-zun, and she was well known in Qishan as a doctor willing to push boundaries to save lives. Her lust was for knowledge. With her out-of-the-box problem solving and willingness to disregard tradition, he can imagine her easily seeing through the tangled snarl of the Nie family fatality to a solution taboo enough that others would have continually disregarded it rather than mortify themselves by suggesting it to their sect leader.

But… why her? Nie Mingjue has hated the Wens since his father’s death. There is no way he would have sought her out, and conversely, his hatred is famous enough that there is no way Wen Qing would have decided she would be safe in Qinghe. What would possibly motivate her to settle herself right in the lion’s den? As far as Meng Yao could tell during the war, the only things she really cared about were improving her medical craft, and-

Her brother. Of course.

At the Phoenix Mountain hunt banquet, Wei Wuxian had been looking for Wen Ning. Nie Mingjue had intervened and enabled Wei Wuxian to find Wen Ning. Jin Guangyao had been so caught up in the complex political implications of it all that he’d not even considered the most obvious answer!

“You offered your medical expertise in return for Nie Mingjue’s resources in finding your brother.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t need her to confirm it; she has a terrible poker face (although in her defence, he probably does have higher standards than the average person).

“I didn’t offer anything,” Wen Qing says stiffly. “Nie-gongzi sought me out specifically. He suggested the deal and I took it, that’s all.”

And then she draws herself up to her full though still rather diminutive height, jaw set, glaring furiously at him, “You can run back to your father and tell him I’m here, I don’t care. My family is safe in Gusu now and that’s all that matters.”

Admirable, he supposes vaguely, as his mind turns over the rest of what she’s said.

Nie-gongzi. It was Nie Huaisang, then, who found her? But why on earth would he…?

Wei Wuxian, it must have been Wei Wuxian. The connection between all these absurdly distant dots. He’d mentioned that he owed Wen Ning a debt from the war, and the siblings seem to be very close, so it’s not too much of a stretch to assume that he’d known Wen Qing too, perhaps even seen her medical prowess first hand. Jin Guangyao can picture it in his mind; Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang, old friends from their days as unrepentant irritants at the Cloud Recesses lectures, sharing a drink or two together in the aftermath of the war, Nie Huaisang confessing his fears over his brother’s declining health, Wei Wuxian commiserating and suggesting a doctor with particular experience working with unstable golden cores…

Gods above, it’s so obvious now he’s put it all together! He’s furious at himself for not figuring it out sooner.

He should tell his father.

The thought sobers his self-recrimination immediately. He has found blackmail — Chifeng-zun, leader of the Sunshot Campaign, who fought and bled for the destruction of the Qishan Wen with a frankly terrifying single-minded intensity for years, is now being treated by not only a doctor from the Wen sect, but the niece of Wen Ruohan, the very man who killed his own father.

He doesn’t need to mention the dual cultivation for it to work, either. He doubts that Lan Xichen or Nie Mingjue would want to make it widely known that they’re fucking, so there’s a good possibility that he could spin this as an ambiguous treatment without needing to specify exactly what it is and incriminate himself.

He could. He should. He told his father he would find some political leverage that would help them control Nie Mingjue and now he’s found it.

So why does the thought make him feel sick to his stomach?

Shit. Shit.

“Telling my father of your presence here would bring me very little advantage,” he says, mind racing even as the words leave his mouth. “As you pointed out, the Jin sect no longer has possession of the Wen prisoners. One Wen alone would hardly be worth making an enemy of my da-ge, after all the work I have done attempting to repair our relationship.”

Wen Qing stares at him, searching his face for something. Jin Guangyao has spent a great deal of time perfecting his Honest And Open Expression, and it's strange to use it when he (at least mostly) means it.

"May I leave, then?" She asks brusquely, apparently finding whatever it is she was looking for in his face. "I have a job to do here."

He catches her elbow again as she turns towards the door; she immediately yanks her arm free and glares at him, and in response, he holds up his hands. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect… I must ask, though — Wen-daifu, you are Chifeng-zun’s primary physician, correct?”

Using her title was a good touch; Wen Qing is not vain but she is proud, and she rankles when not treated like a professional. When he calls her doctor the hostility in her eyes decreases just a little. “Not officially, though I am working with his personal doctor and giving him regular qi checkups.”

"Then can you tell me…" he swallows, hoping he is conveying appropriate concern, rather than the deep-seated desperate ache in his chest. "Can you tell me if the dual cultivation is working?"

To his surprise, her expression actually softens a little.

"He has shown some improvement. I think it is too soon to say for certain, but I do believe that this could be a more effective long-term solution than the musical treatment that was being attempted before."

It's working. Slow going, perhaps, though that's hardly surprising given that Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen have only really just started to figure out how to actually properly dual cultivate, and now that Lan Xichen has (thoroughly) demonstrated how to share qi, Jin Guangyao might manage to be of some help himself. The ache in his chest loosens just a little and he feels something almost like hope building there.

Nie Mingjue is not getting worse. Nie Mingjue is actually getting better. Nie Mingjue is inching slowly away from a horrific bloody death.

And then the hope gutters out as he realises —

Not if Jin Guangshan has anything to say about it.

He lets Wen Qing leave with a vague sort of bow, that doesn’t quite feel right given how they’d made their acquaintance in the dungeons of Wen Ruohan’s Fire Palace, but his mind is otherwise occupied with thoughts of his father. He leaves the side room and heads back to his guest quarters — with the question as to who prescribed the dual cultivation answered, his early morning prowling is no longer required — to have privacy to take proper stock of his situation without being concerned about what his face is doing.

The facts of the matter are this:

Firstly, Jin Guangshan wants Nie Mingjue dead. No, that is not quite accurate; Jin Guangshan wants Nie Mingjue under control, so that he does not interfere with any more of the Jin sect’s plans. He cares very little about how exactly that is achieved.

Secondly, Jin Guangyao… does not want Nie Mingjue dead. It had been a surprise to realise, but it is true. Unfortunately, he still finds himself craving the man’s approval and affection to a degree that sets his own teeth on edge with embarrassment. He cares about the man considerably more than is wise or helpful, thanks to his traitorous heart. The death of Nie Mingjue would hurt, and whilst he knows he will be able to endure the pain, he is considering facts here and the fact is: he does not want Nie Mingjue to die.

Thirdly, Jin Guangyao is actively working to prevent Nie Mingjue from dying, specifically using a treatment that is experimental and somewhat risky (socially-speaking), and yet, despite the early setbacks, it is not something he has any strong desire to stop doing. Kissing Nie Mingjue in the bath… the everything about what he did with Lan Xichen… the idea of never getting to experience that again feels like a punch to the gut. Again, he could endure it, but he does not want to. He wants to keep fucking his sworn brothers for medical reasons.

For any reasons.

Fourthly, Jin Guangyao now has a manner of leverage over Nie Mingjue in the form of Wen Qing. It is not the best or most impressive blackmail, however he thinks that a little embellishment and some careful rumourmongering might buff it up a bit into something more impressive — more effective. He could give it to Jin Guangshan, like offering his father a blade to hold to Nie Mingjue’s neck, and paradoxically it might offer Nie Mingjue a stay of execution. It’s leverage that, if he is not very very careful, could come back to implicate himself in the dual cultivation, and also, if he is honest (and it seems utterly pointless to not be honest with himself within his own mind) the idea of using this as blackmail against Nie Mingjue feels wrong, in a sickening kind of way. Perhaps if Nie Mingjue had been pushy or rude or forceful, he might not have such compunctions about it, but…

Once more, his mind strays back to the kisses they’d shared in the hot spring. Physical encounters do not need to translate to emotions, and yet… and yet…

Fourthly, Jin Guangyao now has a manner of leverage over Nie Mingjue in the form of Wen Qing, and he does not want to use it.

Jin Guangyao lays the facts out in his minds’ eye, arranging them like paperwork on his desk, as if changing the order or placing one above another might make them fit together better.

There must be a way to keep his father happy without burning his bridges with Nie Mingjue — and there must be a way to keep this strange intimacy with Nie Mingjue without visiting his father’s wrath on himself.

When he leaves Bujing Shi later in the morning, his path forward is no more clear.

--//--

Thankfully, by the time he returns to Jinlintai, the whole place is fully distracted by the official announcement of Jin-shao-furen’s pregnancy, so Jin Guangyao has a bit of a reprieve from both his mission to pacify his father and worrying about dual cultivation with Nie Mingjue.

He is, however, incredibly busy again. It will still be months yet before the child’s arrival, and yet there are so many things to prepare; this baby will be the heir to Lanling Jin, the first of the new generation, and there are a dozen traditions to be fulfilled — most of which make Jin Zixuan freeze like a cornered prey animal but thankfully Jiang Yanli takes in her stride with her habitual good grace.

With the agreement between himself and his sworn brothers that they will make their dual cultivation visits more spaced out to not interrupt their individual duties still in effect, Jin Guangyao only sees them for very brief visits at Jinlintai; with Lanling being in between northern Qinghe and southern Gusu, and an easy river journey from Yunmeng, it is a convenient place for minor sect affairs to be discussed without requiring extensive stays. Each time they take half a shichen or so to sit and play Song of Cleansing for Nie Mingjue, to make truly certain his health has not declined, and as much as Jin Guangyao tries his best to act as if nothing at all has changed…

Well, if he and his er-ge exchange silent, knowing looks across their guqins, conveying without words to each other that they’re both thinking of the last time they were together, then that’s their own business. Compared to what is going on in Jin Guangyao’s mind when he sees Lan Xichen (and he is absolutely entirely certain that the yearning is reciprocated), he considers the behaviour actually incredibly restrained.

By the time they approach the final trimester and Jiang Yanli is put on bedrest for her own fragile health, her son (for everyone is certain it is a son, which Jin Guangyao privately thinks is a little foolish given the chances of gender turnout are pretty much equal, but naturally he keeps that to himself) has a more extensive wardrobe than Jin Guangyao does, as well as hundreds of bespoke commissioned toys, a dozen embroidered blankets, an intricately carved wood and gold-inlaid cradle, and a whole range of commemorative trinkets that the common people of Lanling may purchase to celebrate the birth of the heir along with the Jin sect. Jin Guangyao has also, at Jin-furen’s insistence, begun to outline plans for the baby’s hundred day celebration.

This turns out to be a good idea, purely because the hundred day celebration turns out to be required somewhat earlier than expected. By about a month, actually.

(How interesting that this was the exact amount of time that the wedding needed to be moved forwards. If he is honest, Jin Guangyao is actually rather impressed that Jiang Yanli had managed to get Jin Zixuan into bed so quickly, given the… everything about him.)

Jiang Yanli goes into labour and it feels like the entirety of Lanling holds its breath. As much as she has a reputation for being kind and gracious (Jin Guangyao wouldn’t know, as Jin-furen does her best to pointedly keep them apart — he wonders whether if it is because she believes that he, as a whoreson, will try to seduce his brother’s wife, or whether she simply is doing her best to make certain he never gets on the receiving end of said famous kindness and graciousness) she is also well known to have low cultivation and be physically weak, so there is a very real danger that she may not survive the birth. Jin Guangyao does his best to stay busy at the other end of Jinlintai — and away from the high-strung, tense members of the inner family who will likely have even less control over their tempers than usual — until he hears cheers erupt from around the tower.

When he sticks his head out of the window of the small office he’s been working (hiding) in and sees a swarm of golden butterflies erupting from his father’s rooms to fly out over the city, he knows he has a healthy nephew.

Perhaps the joyful atmosphere is just infectious, or perhaps he just has a fondness for babies, but Jin Guangyao finds himself strangely eager to meet young Jin Ling. He does not expect to be called in on the day of the birth. He does not even expect to be invited along several days later, when Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian arrive (Wei Wuxian is just Jiang Yanli’s shidi, not even an uncle by blood, but that thought is unhelpful so Jin Guangyao obviously smothers it).

But when Jiang Yanli has recovered enough to leave her rooms, and it becomes commonplace for her and Jin Zixuan to bring A-Ling, swaddled in his nest of expensive blankets embroidered with peacocks and peonies, to socialise with the court, Jin Guangyao can't help but… hover. Jiang Yanli is a friendly woman who appears to have strong feelings about the importance of family, and he may not have much of a relationship with Jin Zixuan but his brother has never been actively hostile towards him, surely neither of them would object to-

It pays off one day, when Jin Ling is about a month old. Jin Guangyao happens to walk through the gardens near a small pavilion that the inner family favours, and if he slows down a little on the path to surreptitiously watch the tiny fat hands emerge from the blankets in Jiang Yanli's arms, then that’s his business.

"A-Yao," Jiang Yanli calls (more affectionate than their non-relationship truly is, but as his sister-in-law she is still comfortably within the bounds of propriety) when she spots him definitely not lurking between the flowers, "I don't believe you've been introduced to A-Ling yet."

Delight crests in Jin Guangyao’s chest like a huge wave and he hurries over as fast as he can without breaking into a jog. “I have not yet had the pleasure, no, Jin-shao-furen.”

“Sao-zi,” she insists, eyes crinkling. At her side, Jin Zixuan watches him, a small tired smile on his face as he leans over to place a cushion on his wife’s other side. For him. Jin Guangyao opens his mouth to respond, unable to stop the words being shaped by a reciprocal smile-

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Jin-furen storms towards them from the other side of the garden, and Jin Guangyao immediately shrinks away, hands going behind his back and almost tripping down the pavilion steps in his haste to retreat. “I- nothing, muqin, I-” his clever words desert him in his fear.

Jiang Yanli’s smile goes brittle and her voice wavers a little as she says, “It’s alright, muqin, I said he could-”

“A-Li, my dear, you are very sweet, but this is a bastard son of a whore,” Jin-furen spits, marching up the steps and moving to stand between the two of them, “it would simply not be acceptable for him to hold A-Ling. A-Ling is the sect heir, and the sect heir cannot be…” she curls her lip, “tainted.”

Jiang Yanli’s shoulders hunch, her expression flattening into a weak, neutral smile as she fixes her gaze down on the floor. Beside her, Jin Zixuan’s wide eyes flick between his wife, his son, his mother, and finally over to Jin Guangyao. With a mother’s sixth sense, Jin-furen must know that he is about to say something, because she shoots him a furious look, and he is immediately cowed, lips pressing tightly together.

It’s your son! Jin Guangyao wants to scream. You’re the future sect leader and you can’t even stand up to your own mother about who gets to hold your son!

The humiliation of the rejection and the potential threat of Jin-furen are more than enough to make him bow and flee. He marches blindly down the weaving paths through the flowers, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. He marches himself right to the first walk-in linen cupboard he finds and shuts himself inside.

He needs to compose himself. He absolutely cannot fall apart like this. He wraps his arms around himself and squeezes his arms as he sucks in shuddering breaths. He has faced so much worse than this. He has endured so much worse than this. Why is this hitting him so hard?

He rubs his hands up and down his arms, trying to rub warmth into his skin underneath the layers of silk, trying to breathe in time with the movements to calm himself down. The last time anyone else touched him with anything even approaching gentleness, anything more than just the briefest brush of hands, was when he was last in Qinghe, and that was months ago.

Absurdly, the thought makes him want to cry again. Everyone in Jinlintai treats him as if whatever he touches turns to animal dung, and yes, that has always infuriated and mortified him, and yet he has always been able to endure it just fine — but now that he knows all he has to do is write to his sworn brothers, and he can whisk himself away to a warm bedroom where he’ll be kissed and touched and wanted-

Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? He clings to his own arms, a pathetic facsimile of a hug. He wants to be wanted. All it had taken was Jiang Yanli looking pleased to see him and suddenly he’d realised how desperately he’d missed it.

Feeling like he belongs.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He hisses between his teeth. “Pull yourself together.”

He’s better than this. He’s stronger than this. He’s not gotten this far to lose himself to something as ridiculous as touch starvation. He is not the kind of person who is undone by yearning.

He lets go of his arms and makes himself stand up straight. He takes several deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. He tugs his robes back properly into place, checks the positioning of his hat with his fingertips, takes another deep grounding breath, and then steps out of the cupboard as if there was no question why he might be in there at all. The key to acting like a cultivator is an aura of casual arrogance, and he pulls it around him like a cloak.

A servant catches up to him a few minutes later, whispering anxiously about an issue in the kitchens, and even as he’s reassuring her half of his mind is elsewhere. This kind of emotional slip-up cannot be allowed to happen again. His desire for intimacy is apparently growing stronger, and if it cannot be pruned, then it must be managed like any other hunger. He will write to his sworn brothers and schedule another dual cultivation session, and that will tide him over until the hundred day celebration, when he can at least get Lan Xichen’s smiles and kind words, even if he won’t get sex.

That will be enough, he tells himself. He doesn’t have the luxury of not believing it.

|NEXT|

#the untamed fanfic #3zun #The Waves are Rising and Rising #Jin Guangyao #Nie Mingjue #Lan Xichen

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nuagederose · 8 months

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✨ gray ghost: the alexander nathan story ✨

a young mild-mannered, baby-faced, jewish protégé guitarist who gets shot in the head on his way to band practice, and instead of killing him, it makes him superhuman. hoping to finish by valentine’s day as it’s my gift to all of you.

outside of my comfort zone as i tend to write stories now that are more elaborate than this (so, forgive me if it seems a bit rushed or cringe), but also not because i made comics when i was in eighth grade so making these first few pages brought back all kinds of memories. done with nothing but a pencil and a couple of old pens!

ig: badmotorartist

#gray ghost #comics #comic art #comic books #original comic #alex skolnick #testament #testament band #comic strip #my comic #mini comic #pen and ink #handmade comic #handmade art #artists on tumblr #badgalnirvhannahart #eric peterson #heavy metal #thrash metal

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chibishortdeath · 2 months

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Had to remake this entire post cause I got gunk in my eye and set my phone down for two seconds to clean it and it crashed (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

Anyway, unfortunately slightly less excited/passionate version of this post it is then ughhhhh

Explanations yippie!

I got requested by some friends to draw Simon with short shorts and so I delivered. Really happy with the anatomy on this one :3

Yes this is Fuma slapping his ass and yes it was also a request lol

Simon did not expect that—

But it was a welcome surprise ;3

Simon and Fuma are cuddling in this one! It’s a little hard to make out what’s going on with their arms and legs tho whoops

Just a doodle about the artstyle crisis I had a bit ago with his hair. It didn’t last long and I ended up going right back to drawing it how I usually do anyway, but it was an interesting concept to try. Maybe I’ll try it out again someday cause it looks nice, but ehhhh I just didn’t end up enjoying drawing it very much tbh (TwT ).

To pair with the first image, I drew Simon in his cursed era with short shorts too hehe :3. I also started adding little dark vein patterns to the curse in this doodle :O. I think it’s giving cursed a lot more than just the bloody scratchy patterns I usually draw.

I like to think that maybe if Simon succumbed to the curse he’d end up a vampire. I mean, it’d track with vampire folklore surrounding the vampires’ curse. There’s a lot of stories where the vampire, even when dead or buried, can still long distance drain and inflict someone with illness and the end stage of it is death and coming back as a vampire or other spirit/ghoul. Aughhhh I had a much better rant about this written before the crash but I just can’t replicate it properly aaaaaaa curse you memory problems (;_; ). I’ll have to rant about vampire folklore in a separate dedicated post eventually, it’s fun :)

Yay, pose practice :3! Also this one is never getting finished, the anatomy was too fun to cover with big clunky armor 😔😔😔

This one I am also so proud of X]. I think this is my best depiction of the effects of the curse yet tbh. I had an explanation of the traits I usually depict it having before the crash, so I’ll try to make another one. First things first, it drastically affects the healing process. Things just don’t close up properly or at all in most cases. Old scars tend to open back up a lot easier and this is in part because of the second major effect: rotting. Rotting is a very explanatory word when it comes to physical ailments, implying decay or necrosis! It usually starts at the extremities or around the edges of wounds with skin darkening, bleeding, and either a dryness or wetness, then spreads inwards and downwards or through the blood to other areas. Especially in extreme cases, which I think 6 whole years qualifies for 💀. Simon would probably have very fragile skin in the most affected areas and long story short his hands and feet are probably raw most of the time yikes, ouch, this poor guy :(. I imagine that he probably has some kind of Belmont specific regenerative and resistant ability that’s kept him from dying from it for so long, since they are kinda implied to be a little superhuman in some way. Which is probably a blessing and a curse in itself because on one hand it did allow him to live long enough to fix the problem, but on the other hand that had to absolutely suck (haha, Drac haha). I’ve explained other elements of it in another older post now that I think of it, so I might have to gather all this stuff together and make a more in depth post about it cause it’s really neat to talk about :3! I had like a huge special interest as a kid for injury and disease cause I started making ocs and ran into a bunch of “how to write realistic injury” posts and I’m glad for it cause it comes back any time I’m writing or drawing something that requires that knowledge. :)

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grailfinders · 2 years

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Fate and Phantasms Viewer's Choice #12: Schneizel El Britannia

today on Fate and Phantasms we’ve got our very first build that is 100% not connected to Fate (yet), Schneizel El Britannia from Code Geass! he’s a Mastermind Rogue to manipulate his underlings and enemies, as well as a War Mage to always be on the same war page even when commanding your troops from way, waaay in the back.

check out his build breakdown below the cut, or his character sheet over here!

Race and Background

it might surprise you to find out, but this guy is a Human Noble, like most named cast members in CG. that means he gets +1 Dexterity and Intelligence, as well as proficiency in Animal Handling (by choice), History, and Persuasion (by background), as well as the Observant feat. that bumps up your Intelligence by another point, and it lets you read lips! in a more mechanically interesting move, it also adds +5 to your passive Perception and Investigation checks. the dude bolts at the first sign of danger, so he’s probably pretty good at noticing it.

Ability Scores

number one is Intelligence. you’re smart enough to give Lelouch a run for his money, and this entire anime is practically his power fantasy. after that is Charisma. knowing how to manipulate people is one thing, actually doing it is another. Third up is Dexterity- you don’t do much fighting on your own, but you know your way around guns well enough. errr, crossbows. your Constitution is just a little above average- you don’t do much fighting, but you do survive being tied to a pole for a couple days so you can’t be that weak. that means your Strength is pretty low, and we’re dumping Wisdom. you’d rather throw the game away than lose. that, and you miss a pretty important save at the end of the series.

Class Levels

1. Rogue 1: we’re starting as a rogue both for the extra skills and for proficiency with crossbows. speaking of proficiencies, you’re now good with dexterity and intelligence saves, as well as deception, insight, investigation, and perception! on top of that, you get expertise in two skills for doubled proficiency, so double down on persuasion and deception!

you can also make a Sneak Attack if you use a ranged or finesse weapon on a creature you either have advantage or have a friend nearby. that gives you an extra 1d6 damage to your attack once per turn.

you also know Thieves’ Cant. it sure is a language! I guess that’s English in the anime?

2. Rogue 2: second level rogues can make Cunning Actions on their bonus action, dodging, disengaging, dashing, or hiding with extra speed! I’m pretty sure we said this already, but boy are you good at getting the fuck away from danger.

3. Rogue 3: at third level you gain your roguish archetype, turning you into a proper Mastermind. that makes you a Master of Intrigue and of Tactics. the former giving you proficiency with disguise and forgery, and you can copy the speech patterns of someone you’ve talked to for 1 minute. it’s not enough to copy their voice entirely, but you can sound like a native of the area. which would probably be more useful if you weren’t the prince of a global empire- your face is spread far and wide by now.

the latter is more helpful though- literally! as a master of tactics you can help as a bonus action, and with an increased range to boot! you’re not really the one doing most of the fighting, after all. though you’re better at fighting when you need to, with 2d6 sneak attack damage.

4. Rogue 4: Fourth level rogues gain their first Ability Score Improvement, and we’ll use it to grab the Keen Mind feat. With this, your Intelligence rounds out again, and your memory is empowered to superhuman levels. Now, you can always know your directions, as well as what time of day it is. Most powerfully, you have photographic memory of the last in-game month. Truly a nightmare for your DM.

5. Rogue 5: At fifth level, you can perform an Uncanny Dodge as a reaction. If you’d take damage from an attack, you can dodge and take half damage instead. You don’t usually get into direct combat often, but it will help if someone tries to stab you in the back. Speaking of, your backstabbing deals an extra 3d6 now!

6. Rogue 6: Sixth level rogues gain another round of Expertise, doubling your proficiency in Insight and Perception to gain a better reading of the battlefield.

7. rogue 7: at level seven, rogues gain evasion. now your failed dexterity saves are as good as most peoples’ successes, and your successes negate damage entirely.

(speaking of damage, your sneak attack deals 4d6 of it now)

8. rogue 8: an eighth level rogue gets another asi, finally boosting your dexterity for better killshots. it also helps keep you alive, which is nice.

9. rogue 9: ninth level rogues get 5d6 sneak attack damage, and you’re now an insightful manipulator. with this, you can learn two of four scores compared to yours- their intelligence, wisdom, charisma, or class levels. you can also learn information about their history or personality, but that is up to your DM’s discretion. if you’re going to manipulate someone, you need to learn how they tick.

10. rogue 10: speaking of manipulating, it will probably be easier to do with higher charisma, so let’s use this asi to bump that up a bit, shall we?

11. rogue 11: an eleventh level rogue is a reliable talent- all skill checks you make with proficiency count as a 10 or higher at all times. there’s nothing more embarrassing than rolling a natural one while trying to show up your brother. trust me on that one.

oh right, 6d6 sneak attack damage, congrats.

12. rogue 12: twelfth level rogues get yet another asi, so maximize your intelligence for the strongest schemes now and the strongest spells later.

13. rogue 13: thirteenth level masterminds can take humanoid shields by using Misdirection. if you’re targeted by an attack that has another creature between you and your attacker, you can react to send the attack at them instead. you’re really not a fighter. I mean, you are, but you’re not one for getting hit.

14. wizard 1: your rogue levels were what you are. now it’s time for some goodies from the empire. at level one you gain a spellbook, a list of spells which you can cast and prepare from using your Intelligence. you get six spells now, another two each level after, and you can also learn more from other wizard’s spellbooks and scrolls. you’ll have to forgive Me for not going into detail about every spell, but feel free to check out the character sheet for that.

you also gain an arcane recovery- normally you regain spell slots on a long rest, but once per day you can do so on a short rest.

for your spells, grab longstrider to be the dirty coward you always dreamed of being, and mage armor so you can fight just as well in ornate finery as you can in leather armor.

15. wizard 2: at level two, you become a war mage, giving you a tactical wit few can match- now you can add your intelligence to your initiative roll. you can also make an arcane deflection as a reaction, adding 2 to your ac or 4 to your save. you can do so as often as you like, though you won’t be able to cast levelled spells the next turn. of course, there’s nothing to say you can’t be clever and hold your action, but I’ll leave the tactical thinking in your capable hands.

speaking of spells, magic missile is a useful tommygun, making several magic attacks that can’t miss their target.

16. wizard 3: third level wizards get second level spells, and just when you thought you couldn’t get any smarter enhance ability shows up to prove you wrong. now you can give yourself advantage on intelligence checks for a minute. or any other kind of skill check, though your smarts are most in-character. you can also use augury to simulate your strategy, learning if an action will deliver you weal or woe.

17. wizard 4: use your last asi to nab the lucky feat, giving you three luck points per day. you can spend one to roll an additional d20 on any check, attack, or save directly affecting you. then you can pick whichever one helps you the most. ladies love a high roller, don’t you know?

you can also use nystul’s magic aura to hide a creature or object from scrying. if you’re going to kidnap nunnally at the end of a campaign, it’s best you know how to hide her away from people who can use ninth level spells.

18. wizard 5: fifth level wizards get third level spells, and if your usual tricks aren’t causing your enemies to defect as quickly as you’d like, enemies abound should do the trick. with this, a target enemy will see all creatures as foes if they fail an intelligence saving throw. it can remake the save every time it takes damage, but those silly heroes tend to have hangups against hitting one of their own. oh yes, you’re obviously the villain here, come on.

19. wizard 6: at sixth level you can use a power surge to deal extra damage against a target with a spell once per short rest. you could also use dispel magic or counterspell to gain more charges, but not with this build.

make sure you grab sending though, it’s a lot easier to take part in an international plot when you can talk to your allies and enemies.

20. wizard 7: our final level of the build grants you the greatest power in the world- nukes! with sickening radiance you can call down a f.l.e.i.j.a. down on a nearby location, creating a glowing crater that deals radiant and exhaustion damage. alternatively, you can summon construct to call for a Knightmare Frame to fight in your stead.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

you’re good at helping party members do what they’re good at, and more importantly you’re good at figuring out what they’re good at. You’ve also got clever little spells to deny an area to an enemy, turn them against each other, and get the hell out of dodge if you need to.

speaking of being good at things, you’re really good at skill checks, with expertise in four skills, proficiency in seven, a spell that gives advantage on skill checks if you know they’re coming, and if all else fails you can roll a third die by spending luck points. also, all of your proficient skills are immune to natural ones.

in particular, your passive perception is ridiculous, so you’re unlikely to ever fall into an ambush you didn’t intend to. add in your boosted initiative, and you can probably jump out of any ambush you see before anyone even gets a chance to attack.

Cons:

and that last pro is really important, because if you do ever end up in a fair fight you won’t last long! you’ve got barely over 100 HP, the magical number to get power word death’d. also, even with mage armor your AC is only 16, so you’ll burn through that HP fast if someone gets in melee range.

having nukes is fun, but I’m not sure it’s seven level dip-tier fun. rogue’s capstone ability is actually super fun and helpful for this sort of build, and you’d also be able to completely negate advantage against you- super useful when you’re fighting another rogue.

your low wisdom means your big ol’ brain can pretty quickly be used against you by anyone versed in charming magics. thank goodness you live in a low-magic setting then!

…the show’s called WHAT

#code geass #D&D 5e #DND #schneizel el britannia #rogue #wizard

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blankticket · 1 year

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@gunsmokeheart

Vash is sure he makes for a strange silhouette right about now: he's carrying a sizable grey plastic tub on his shoulder, arm curled up to secure it; a thick tablecloth worn underneath the bin protects his coat from crumbs of dirt and dried trails of beige water. He's been stopped mid-transport by a familiar face, confronting him with warranted curiosity.

"They are worms, but… Not your sort," he answers the Beast carefully. While he's on guard from the memory of their last encounter, Vash's gut feeling is that they're asking moreso out of curiosity than threat.

With partial superhuman strength allotted back to him, Vash's readjustment of the tub isn't out of muscle ache, but to better allow Zazie to see the air holes that had been drilled along the sides of the container. The Plant had taken it upon himself to invest in a bit of vermiculture, keeping someone else's hobby in mind, but it wasn't entirely practical to be doing so within the housing he'd been given.

This secret spot in an alleyway nearby his condo in the Archimedes ward was close enough for quick and discreet transport of composting material brought from his home, and just secluded enough for most folk to leave him alone. Unfortunately, it still attracted the attention of critters intent on using the bin more like a cheap vending machine—hence his now-attempted relocation.

"Did you wanna see inside the tub?" Maybe that would assuage Zazie's concerns. His own, too. "They're sorta shy, to light especially. Not sure if you'll see them right away, even if I open up the lid."

#gunsmokeheart #gunsmokeheart 1

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battleangel · 1 year

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Football & Wrestling's Dehumanizing Nature - From a Fan

Things in Football that are dehumanizing:

•Number of players

•The facemasks

•The violence

•Fans mythologizing the players

•Fans believing the players are superhuman thus dehumanizing them

•Players dismissing the violence and cosigning what the NFL is doing which encourages fans to say, "Well, if Jason Kelce is okay with football, who am I to question the sport or the NFL?"

•TV personalities (former NFL players) seeming just fine to the viewers so it perpetuates the illusion that playing in the NFL isnt "that dangerous".

•Constant cognitive dissonance is encouraged at all times throughout every presentation of the NFL by players interviewed after the game, play by play announcers and color commentors, sideline reporters and studio analysts.

Are you ready for some death?

Viewers watched Damar Hamlin die live on TV. We had no update when he left the field. Then we found out later he was in a coma. Teams went back to practice.

Damar finally spoke, "Did we win?"

Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

The NFL had initially put a 15 minute timer on the screen when the ambulance removed Damar from the field. Players had been vomiting and sobbing around him. Viewers saw him lifelessly collapse backwards from an ordinary shoulder tackle to the chest.

Then we saw Stefon Diggs, one of the Bills captains, rallying his troops. Then we saw Joe Burrow warming up and throwing the football. The timer continued to tick down.

70,000 Bengals fans had been silenced.

Troy and Buck tell the viewers there is no official word yet on whether the game is going to continue but, as viewers, we can see Stefon Diggs and Joe Burrow getting ready to get back on the field on the sidelines. Then we see the teams head to their respective lockerrooms.

Troy and Buck tell us theres still no word on whether the game will continue, be postponed or cancelled. We are taken back to our studio analysts Booger, Schefty and the female co-host. Over an hour passes by without a decision. Finally, the call is made to suspend play.

But once Damar speaks, the NFL media removes the on-screen 15 minute timer from the endless retelling of the story.

Stefon never rallied his troops. Burrow never warmed up on the sidelines. The official story retold all week was that there was an official process the NFL had to undertake to call the game off and that, yes that process takes some time and isnt automatic and it did take over an hour, but the NFL did the right thing.

There was no on-screen timer. Stefon Diggs and Joe Burrow were never shown on the sidelines preparing to return to play.

Dont believe your own lying eyes.

Fans are constantly given mixed messaging. Football is at the same time: a children's game, war, brutalistic, violent, a blessing to be able to play, potentially career ending on every play, gladiatorial, as American as apple pie, entertainment, a crucible, a maker of men, just a game, high risk/high reward, not for the faint of heart, a character builder, concerned with "player safety", maximizing profit at all costs, a game that children play that NFL players get paid millions of dollars to play as adult men, a game with 100% risk of injury.

Which one is it?

NFL players have an aura of invincibility and immortality. Therefore, they will never get old, injured, have CTE, early onset dementia or memory issues.

They will live forever, always young, strong, unstoppable and immutable. They are our avatars and the audience lives (and plays football) vicariously through them.

Fans are constantly fed the lies by current players and TV analysts, many of whom are former players themselves, that the NFL players are "grown ass men" who knew the risks when they signed up, they chose to do this and, by the way, they are being paid handsomely for this. They would rather be playing football with all its risks than be a life insurance sales rep, for example. They live for the rush of the adrenaline and the hits just like the fans do.

Bullfuckingshit. What 8 year old can make a decision like this? Many NFL players started playing football at the Pee Wee, Mighty Tykes or Pop Warner levels.

An 8 year old child can truly decide if the game of football is worth sacrificing his mind over?

Most NFL players have older men in their families who also played football - fathers, older brothers, uncles. What kind of a choice is that if football is just what the men in your family do and you are a child?

Football is violent, exciting and fun. 14 year old teenagers - not adults - are filled with hormones and pumped up with testosterone. Even the NFL players who started later in high school, at the age of 14, I would argue were influenced by the glamorization of football in American culture, the hero worship its players receive, the tough gladiators they see every Sunday on their TV screens during football season and the social status conferred upon popular football players in the social jungle known as high school.

A million teenage boys play football in high school every year and never get paid a dime for it -- even the ones who play for big programs with games that air on ESPN Friday nights.

They are getting concussed. They are sustaining serious injuries. Their high schools are profiting handsomely. They are just kids! They are being exploited.

In high school football, per the rules prior to a recent rule change in 2022 - just last year, a quarterback cannot throw the ball away like he can in the NFL if he can't make a play.

Why are "grown ass men being paid millions" being protected more than kids playing for free in high school?

Out of the million high schoolers who play football every year, only 100k play in college and only 1,000 play in the NFL.

Division I college football rakes in billions, the men who are playing Division I football make nothing and are not even offered health insurance by their schools.

They often suffer debilitating lifelong injuries including head trauma, CTE, paralysis and even death. Yet the schools pay them nothing. Yes, they can now make money off of their Name, Image and Likeness (NIL).

But why do the schools make billions and the young men who sacrifice their bodies and minds for this sport get paid nothing by the schools endlessly exploiting and profiting off of them?

Why cant the schools making billions off of these young men's literal blood, sweat and tears even offer them at least health insurance that would cover catastrophic injuries?

College teams routinely administer powerful painkillers and narcotics to players, often times vastly exceeding the recommended dosage, without warning the players about the risks and serious adverse side effects.

A "grown ass man" is a fucking 18 year old per the laws of the United States. None of the men playing in the NFL made the initial choice to play the game of football as an adult.

Most started playing as kids, some as late as high school, at 14. All were children, not adults, when they made the decision to inflict bodily violence and harm upon themselves and others, to accept head trauma, collisions, concussions, potential memory loss, potential early onset dementia, potential CTE, potential paralysis and even potential death.

It was a decision guided by and heavily influenced by the older men in their families, our cultures worship of football and deification of the men who play it, the smiling TV analysts with their expensive suits who played the game, the intense poverty many players in the league suffer in childhood that they are so desperate to escape, the millions they believe they can make on the professional level when less than 1% of high school football players will ever even suit up for a game in the NFL.

Thats not a free choice by a "grown ass man".

Thats a coerced choice made by a child with long lasting and potentially debilitating, devastating and even fatal consequences.

Why are we okay with this?

So, even if the choice to play football is made as children and teenage boys, even if that decision is endlessly influenced by their fathers, brothers and uncles who played, the football gods on TV every Sunday, the smiling TV analysts in their expensive suits and the social rewards from playing the game, well, (the disingenuous argument goes) -- why don't they just walk away as adult men playing in the NFL? Why don't they do what Chris Borland and Andrew Luck did?

The reason those names instantly come to mind is because walking away from your NFL career early is vanishingly rare.

These men, since they were boys, have been indoctrinated into the mythos of football.

All they have known is football. If you start playing at 8, by the time you make it to the NFL, you have literally been playing football for most of your life. They don't know anything else.

Football is practically a religion.

Its not just a game. Its going to war with your brothers. Its a brotherhood. Its the epitome of masculinity. Its manhood distilled to its purest essence. It proves youre a man. It purifies you. Its a crucible and, if you pass through, you are a battle tested warrior.

Coerced choice:

•Father, brothers, uncles and older men in the family play football so its "just what the men in the family do"

•American society endlessly glamorizes and glorifies football

•Football is presented as the ultimate sport on TV and the players are shown as heroes

•Social rewards for playing football as football is the sport in most high schools that has the most fans in the stands and the good players are popular and are at the top of the social hiearchy in high school

•Football is equated with masculinity in our society - "its what tough guys do". There is a social reward for playing football in that you are automatically regarded as and conferred with the status of being a "tough guy".

•A child and even a teenager is not truly capable of making a truly informed choice weighing all of the potential devastating, debilitating, life altering and potentially fatal consequences of playing football. Children and teenagers tend to think of the "right now". Their brains aren't even fully formed and developed yet. Teenagers also are dealing with a rush of hormones and being flooded with testosterone. No one is actually sitting them down and walking them through the dangers of CTE, the dangers of multiple concussions, the long term and permanent brain damage associated with repeated head impacts and subconcussive blows, potential memory loss, devastating injuries, possible paralysis and even death. No one is showing them former NFL players who cant even get out of bed in the morning. They cant move their neck from side to side. They cant open a pickle jar. They are seeing the gridiron heroes on Sunday afternoon running out of the smoke filled tunnel to the roar of 70k screaming fans. They arent seeing the men who have lost their minds to this game. Their lives to this game like Junior Seau and Dave Duerson. They arent seeing Aaron Hernandez. They arent seeing the men who have killed themselves, hurt their families, killed other people. They arent seeing the men diagnosed with early onset dementia at 36. They arent seeing the men unable to work, completely disabled from their playing days, at 40 who are denied any assistance from the NFL. They arent seeing any of that.

Theyre seeing the glory, the glamour, the hits, the violence, the excitement, the social rewards, the rich NFL athletes with the money, chains and cars, their seeing society's worship of the game of football, they're seeing the fun and the good sides of the sport, that it instills toughness, discipline, builds reslience and courage, and gifts you lifelong friends. Theyre not being shown the Eric LeGrands. Theyre not being shown that men who stopped playing even at the high school level have been found post mortem to have had CTE. Not college. Not Division I. High school.

How many men -- and boys -- will we sacrifice on the altar of football?

"The physical, gladiatorial nature of the game attracted them in the first place, many said. Among its rewards were electrifying Sundays, deep relationships with teammates, personal pride and social mobility - it paid for their college educations and afforded them a lifestyle they would never have enjoyed otherwise."

Most were kids when they started playing (ages 5 to 8 - Joe Burrow started at 8). Why wouldnt football seem alluring as a child? Its violent, exciting and fun. In real life, you cant hit anyone, throw anything, be too loud, etc.

In football, you are rewarded for lack of impulse control when teachers and parents punish you for it in real life. Its attractive because all of the "look both ways before you cross the street" rules get thrown to the wayside in football. You are not only allowed to but are actively encouraged to and have to hit. You have to be out of control. The rule in football is, dont follow any of societys civilized rules and go out there and hit each other.

What child doesnt want to break the rules?

I feel the wild and unrestrained nature of the sport naturally appeals to a childs rebelliousness and impish nature.

Does that really mean that that child wants to struggle to walk and remember where their keys are at 40?

"Supplanted those thoughts deep within us"

Sublimation of the mind, sublimation of the self.

Its the only way the players can get into 70 to 80 car crashes Sunday then put the pads right back on Wednesday at practice and start hitting again.

Similar to training camps in boxing where you are literally getting punched hundreds of times in the head to prepare for a fight for weeks.

Its a constant process of self denial, self abnegation, erasing the self, willful amnesia, willfully brainwashing yourself, always with a cool bravado, an indifferent attitude, a devil may care swag, always unafraid, never questioning the constant physical trauma that you are constantly subjecting your body to.

The body doesnt want to be traumatized regardless of how much the mind or spirit of these players may want to play the sport. They are constantly going against their bodies' natural wishes and self preservation instinct to not be harmed.

Yet they get in the car again and suit up and put the helmet on for yet another car crash.

Serious injuries that require surgery temporarily short circuit the brainwashing ritual.

They are no longer with their teammates every day. No reviewing film, taking notes. No reviewing the game plan. Studying the opponent. No drills. No hitting.

Nothing but surgey, pain, solitude, recovery, medication and your body rebelling against your desire to go back to the very thing that caused the injury and surgery in the first place.

This applies to wrestling too. Flat back bumps are the most unnatural thing in the world. Thats why so many corporate team building retreats will ask you to fall backwards and let your co-workers catch you.

Wrestlers brainwash themselves for six to twelve months during training.

What do you think ring rust really is?

Its the body rejecting the unnatural trauma it is being asked to put itself back through after the wrestler returns after time away from the ring.

Theres nothing normal about concussing yourself as you slam your body against a mat that has wooden boards underneath it thousands of times.

The wrestler brainwashes himself and, through thousands of repetitions, forces the body to adapt, but to never truly accept the constant physical trauma.

So, when theres an injury and the wrestler is out of the ring for awhile then returns, the body initially rejects the unnatural reintroduction of the trauma. We saw this with the Young Bucks on AEW All Access.

The body doesnt want to be continuously and repeatedly subjected to physical trauma.

The body rebels, the mind suppresses. The body rejects, the mind denies. The body pushes back, the mind brainwashes.

8 in 10 former NFL players per a 2017 study report pain that lasts for most of the day.

The current NFL players are young men in their 20s who have an invincibility aura endlessly reinforced by the fans.

Testosterone, money, fame, women, 70k roaring fans and smoke-filled tunnels.

You cant play in the NFL, box, fight in UFC or professionally wrestle unless you have a self myth of invincibility.

They all feel like that and the media and fans endlessly uphold and reinforce the myth.

Why would they think beyond the current season, much less 15 to 20 years from now?

We worship their recklessness and marvel at their ability to throw caution to the wind, their physical courage and their lack of regard for their own well being.

Their braveness, toughness and swag. How they pop right back up no matter how hard the hit is. We endlessly cheer this all on and adulate them for it.

They are the only ones who have to pay for it later once the cheering stops.

"It's like being awfully drunk at night and throwing up and swearing you will never let it happen again," said Ralph Cindrich, a former NFL player who now serves as a player agent. "And the next morning you're having a bloody mary at 9."

It is exactly like this - this is the ritual brainwashing where you convince your body to get back into the car crash Wednesday after 70 to 80 car crashes on Sunday - 17 weeks in a row.

Same with hitting drills for months during training camp.

"To improve the quality of life for my family."

If the above quoted former player (now disabled human) doesnt care and is okay with all this, then I care that the NFL exploits all its current and former players by not offering them guaranteed contracts. A lot of the money in NFL contracts are incentives based on performance so if you dont play, or you dont play well, you dont get any of the incentives.

Contracts in the NFL aren't guaranteed like in all other major US sports so you can be cut at any time. Team physicians makes decisions and diagnoses based off of the teams interest, not the players.

Just because the players have been brainwashed all their lives by the men in their family who played the game and by coaches yelling and barking orders at them ("Sir, yes sir!") to accept all this as okay doesnt mean I have to.

They are told they're invincible their entire lives!

The fans tell you. Your coach and father brainwashes you.

What the hell else are the players going to believe?

They're already reckless or they wouldn't be playing a collision sport.

Then the fathers and coaches add their machismo crap and the fans add their worship and adulation.

Then we act surprised that the players themselves think they're invincible?

How else do running backs run through a wall of linemen 25 to 30 times a game? How else do cornerbacks launch themselves against players sometimes outweighing them by 100+ pounds? How else do tight ends bang on the line 70 to 80 times a game? How else do you get sacked 70+ times in a season and keep brushing it off like it's nothing?

The entire sport, like PBR (bullriding), is based off of the lie that these men are invincible gods, that they are indestructible, superhuman and impervious to pain then we as a society want to blame the men for believing the indestructability myth they have been indoctrinated with their whole lives??

Thats the vicarious nature of football, boxing, UFC, professional wrestling and PBR.

If just for a moment, I can pretend that I would have stood still and calm in the pocket and gotten absolutely smashed like Joe Burrow did when he calmly and accurately threw an absolute dagger for first down to seal the game against the Chiefs with a 350 lb defender barreling towards him at top speed.

If only for a moment, I can pretend that I would ride a 1500 pound enraged bucking Brahma bull then get wildly thrown off after 8 seconds.

Just for a moment, I can pretend I am Adesanya with my arms held high in exultation, in the bloody octagon as the fans roar their approval.

But then we get to go back to our real lives, heads and minds and memories and joints and bones and ligaments and tendons intact. They don't.

They pay the price for us to live vicariously through them as our avatars.

Why the hell didn't Jon Moxley (AEW former Champion wrestler) take his vacation?

We all know Moxley has replaced his alcohol addiction with an UNhealthy addiction to self-mutilation in the ring (aka the cute and dismissive euphemism of "blading") and constant physical matches.

He should have gone on vacation when MJF won. He literally can't. Renee knows this and the fans mock her for it when she dares to tweet her concerns over the love of her life and father of her child bleeding like a stuck pig for no reason on a random Rampage Friday night at 10:06 pm.

Moxley bleeds when his theme song hits someone on twitter says. Renee forces herself to type LOL in response while she cringes internally.

Why else was Moxley doing deathmatches in GCW as the World Champion on TV in AEW?

Its the same reasom why Joe Burrow said "I like getting hit" the season he was sacked over 70 times.

I know. Why am I still watching then?

Joe Burrow, Eagles, NFL, WWE, AEW, ROH, Impact, NJPW, Ricky Garcia.

Im still watching because I cant let go of my admiration for them.

Like, thats my internal struggle. But hell yeah, I'm human. When the music hits and Joe Burrow runs out of the tunnel, I mean seriously?

Its what their father, uncles and older brothers and coaches told them they were supposed to do.

Seriously, pull up Pop Warner tackle football drills for 8 year olds on Youtube and listen to how the coach gets them to hit each other.

We laughed at Giselle because she dared to tell an uncomfortable truth about the goat.

2,000 individual players played in the NFL last season.

There is no other sport like that in the world.

It allows and causes all these excesses and abuses. The players are nothing but interchangeable and disposable chess pieces because theres so many of them. Theyre nothing but videogame characters we get to switch off with a push of the remote button. Theyre not flesh and blood. Theyre not real. They are here to entertain and excite and inspire us. Then when Troy and Buck say good night, we turn them off, and they cease to exist.

How else does Sammy Guevara fly off the top of the cage unless he convinces himself of the same invincibility myth that NFL players convince themselves of?

Nothing can hurt me. I am invincible and unbreakable. There is no ladder I wont jump off of, no cage I wont leap off of, no spot is too high or too dangerous.

Its all bullshit but the fans eat it up and so do the athletes. Its an endless reinforcement loop.

We cheer Vikingo on and we pretend that Rey Mysterio hasnt had 14 knee surgeries.

We cheer the needlessly reckless and fucking dangerous high spots the most.

Our jaws drop, our adrenaline flows and we roar our approval as the spots continue to get ever higher, more reckless and more dangerous.

And all we do is give a bigger pop in return.

"The analysis, based on self-reports among former NFL players, found that Black players were significantly more likely than white players to experience diminished quality of life due to impaired physical function, pain, cognitive troubles, depression and anxiety. In four of five health outcomes, the gaps were greatest between Black and white former players."

76% of the NFL is black.

The above analysis showed that Black former NFL players were 50 percent more likely than white former players to have pain that interfered with daily activities, as well as depression and anxiety.

Black former players were 36 percent more likely to have cognitive symptoms -- including memory deficits and attention problems -- that impacted their quality of life. Black former players were also nearly 90 percent more likely to report impaired physical functioning, compared with their white peers.

Other factors that may affect health outcomes, the researchers also looked at number of seasons played in the NFL, position played, concussion symptoms, surgeries, body-mass index, use of performance-enhancing drugs, lifestyle habits including drinking and smoking, as well as pain medication use. The differences between races persisted even when the researchers accounted for the possible influence of these factors.

The researchers examined whether differences in health varied by a player's age, as a surrogate marker for diversity and equity in the era that they played in. Although younger nonwhite players were in the NFL during a period marked by greater diversity and greater equity, their risk for adverse health outcomes remained the same as that of older players.

A first-of-its-kind comparison between elite pro athletes suggests higher overall mortality among NFL players compared with MLB players. NFL players also appear to have higher risk of dying from cardiovascular and neurodegenerative causes compared with MLB peers. The differences warrant further study of sport-specific mechanisms of disease development. Clinicians treating current and former NFL players should be vigilant about the presence of cardiovascular and neurologic symptoms and promptly treat risk factors such as sleep apnea, obesity, hypertension.

The findings are based on a retrospective analysis of death rates and causes of death in 3,419 NFL (National Football League) and 2,708 MLB (Major League Baseball) players over more than 30 years.

There were 517 deaths among NFL players and 431 deaths among MLB players between 1979 and 2013. The difference translates into a 26 percent higher mortality among football players compared with baseball players. NFL players had a nearly threefold greater likelihood of dying of neurodegenerative conditions, compared with MLB players. They also had a nearly 2.5-fold risk of dying from a cardiac cause, the study showed.

Football players sustain countless traumatic head injuries throughout their careers. These athletes enjoy the best of care while on the team, but it's estimated that up to 80% of NFL's former players are not covered under employer-sponsored medical plans.

Theres such a high impact, risky style thats popular in wrestling today. I believe there will be severe consequences of this high risk style for todays wrestlers 10+ years down the road. Its just not safe or sustainable the way Darby Allin, Sammy Guevara, Young Bucks, Bryan Danielson, Vikingo, Lucha Bros, etc wrestle. It is too high risk and it is too hard hitting and there are going to be many repurcussions down the line.

The USFL and XFL players get a CHANCE to get to the NFL, theyre on TV and theyre continuing their dream.

They are also ALL getting concussed for ~$40k a year with NO health insurance coverage once they leave the USFL.

Unlike NFL, there is no vesting, pension or continuing health coverage.

So yeah, they can continue the dream, but at what cost?

Unlike a minor league baseball player, these USFL and XFL players will all have brain damage (literally what a concussion is) and may also have debilitating and even permanent physical injuries that continue after they leave their respective leagues with no continued health insurance from the leagues they played for.

If someone is paralyzed on a kickoff return in the USFL, what does that person do?

Its all the risks of the NFL without any of the financial rewards and without even the possibility of vesting, receiving a pension or continuing health insurance once they stop playing.

Injuries incurred while in the USFL will be viewed by employer sponsored health coverage plans as pre-existing conditions and most will be denied coverage.

Then what happens as most of these guys will never make it onto an NFL team?

Wrestlers do need protection from themselves but NXT, AEW, NJPW, GCW, etc encourages a flashy, risky, dangerous style with tons of stunts and ridiculously high spots.

Yes, they wrestle a lot less today, especially AEW, with a lot less house shows.

But coffin drops on the apron arent sustainable. 450 splashes from the top of the cage arent sustainable. Botched unnecessary risky ladder spots are completely dangerous.

Yet they happen again and again.

I gasp too, my jaw drops too, I say holy shit! too. Im human, I love drama, I love characters, I love personas, I love larger than life personalities, I love storylines, I admire physical courage, I respect the sheer physicality of it all and the toughness required, I love their bravado, I love their swag, I love that they took the road less traveled in society and said fuck a 9 to 5, the women are sexy, they are all brave and fearless as fuck, I love the gimmicks, I love the faceoffs, the staredowns, shit talk, confrontations, backstage segments and all the rest of it.

So similar to how I feel about football.

I dont love them breaking down their bodies and minds to entertain us in wrestling and football and boxing.

Im so conflicted.

I asked myself why I cant stop watching wrestling.

I am too invested in the characters, storylines and the wrestlers journeys. Too caught up in the drama.

Who else is Swerve adding to his crew? Cant wait to see BTE and BCC tear it down. Jade vs Taya, are you kidding me. Want to see Ruby, Saraya and Toni fuck it up.

I dont just want the adrenaline, I need the release. I seriously wanted to do that 7 week wrestling training class with Quackenbush. I am doing the 1 day wrestling workshop at Chikara's wrestling school in June.

I cant get over concussions from the flat back bumps. Thats why I backed out of the 7 week class.

They say subconcussive, science says me slamming myself backwards against a mat with wooden boards under it, "spreading the impact" or not, my brain is still being jerked with the impact, hitting the inside of my skull, thats a concussion!

Linemen hitting every play, concussion! Running backs running into a wall of linemen, concussion! Quarterback still as a statue in the pocket throws a dart to his wide receiver and gets absolutely smashed by a 300+ pound defender, thats a concussion! Tight ends banging on the line, concussion! WR smashed in the open field, concussion! Every QB sneak is a concussion! Every time the QB runs it in less than 5 yards from the goal line and smashes himself into a wall of men, concussion! Every kick off return that doesnt end in a touch back, concussion! Every onside kick, concussion! Punt return, concussion!

Every time players collide in football, concussion! Every time the QB falls backwards while being hit and slams his head against the turf, concussion! Every time a QB is sacked, concussion! Every time a LB hits the QB, concussion! Every time the DE rushes and hits the QB, concussion! Every time the QB is hit, concussion!

Every suicide dive is a concussion!

A concussion is head impact where the brain moves forward or backwards and hits the inside of the skull!

Its not nausea, dizziness, seeing stars, blacking out, loss of motor control, difficulty walking, memory issues or what a CT scan or MRI shows!

Its head impact where the brain moves forward or backwards and hits the inside of the skull even with no symptoms!!!!!

Every 450 splash, every splash to the outside, every top rope maneuver, every superkick, every stiff strike, every hard slap, every elbow strike, every kick to the head, every jump off the ladder, every jump from the top of the cage, every single time someone is put through a table, every time someone is thrown into the barricade, every time someones head is slammed into the exposed turnbuckle, every dive off the stage, every body slam to the outside, every slam into the ringpost, concussion!

Football and wrestling ARE concussions, period!

CTE tests in living people once available will expose the current lie that pretends that all of the above arent concussions and are normal football plays, normal wrestling spots, and "subconcussive impacts".

Science says they are concussions, multibillion dollar corporations like the NFL and WWE say they arent.

Who do you believe?

Heading the ball in soccer is a concussion. Batter being hit in the head by 95+ mph ball is a concussion. Catcher getting a foul tip to his mask is a concussion. Runner trucking the catcher or colliding with the catcher is a concussion. Many spots in cheerleading and gymnastics are concussions. Being checked against the board in hockey is a concussion. Tackles in lacross and rugby are concussions. Falling on hard wooden floorboards in basketball is a concussion. Elbow to the head from a defender in basketball is a concussion.

There is a reckoning coming in virtually all sports once CTE tests in living people are possible and neurologists say they will have it in 3 to 5 years tops.

Punches to the head in boxing, their entire sport, IS a concussion.

Elbows to the head in MMA, concussion. Knee strikes in MMA, concussion. Blows to the back of the head in MMA, concussion. Certain takedowns in MMA, concussion. Ground and pound in MMA, foundational to the sport, concussion.

There are changes coming among virtually all sports once the CTE test in living people is developed.

Tackle football will go away and will either become 7 on 7 with foam helmets like rugby and/or flag football.

Soccer will eliminate headers.

Hockey will eliminate checks and penalize things like high sticks more severely.

Mainstream boxing, I think, may go away.

MMA will focus more on wrestling, less on strikes, GnP and knockouts. It will transition more to tapping to submissions and pure grappling and wrestling.

Baseball will remove head first sliding and change some of the rules about how catchers can defend home. Hitters beaned in the head will automatically be removed from the game. Players in collisions running bases or sliding will be auto eval'd for concussions. Not sure what they will do with foul tips for catchers as that is rather unavoidable.

Cheerleading isnt designated as a sport, so there probably will be no changes. Gymnastics and synchronized swimming will have more frequent and rigorous concussion checks. Same with water polo and jockeys.

PBR may not change much, hard to say. The lower circuit rodeos are completely unregulated and those are the men (best of the best) competing in PBR. Not sure how much NASCAR will change either as every crash and slam into the wall is a concussion. Same with Formula 1, tons of concussions, not sure how much they will change.

There is a definite reckoning coming to the younger lower levels of these sports as schools, gyms and training facilities will be unable to get insured once it is discovered, depending on the sport, that ~20% to even 90%+ of the participants have CTE.

-----

So, thats why I cant stop watching wrestling, for football to be honest, its because of Joe Burrow. I wont pretend its deeper because it isnt.

I want to see his journey, I want to see him, I want to give him his literal flowers in person, I want to cheer him on. The Joe Burrow Quotes Note on my phone with all his quotes that inspire me says it all.

-----

Buffalo cleared Damar Hamlin.

-----

I still want to meet Joe Burrow.

---

Joe said he wanted flowerS and hes only gotten more than 1 flower from his team and not a fan. Thats not right. I want to give him the orange bouquet. They also never die so for someone like Joe who loves flowers, how cool is that. Plus the roses are Bengals orange.

Joe is risking his mind, CTE, incurring permanent brain damage and further physical and structural damage to his body to put himself on the line for the fans. He admitted to Colin Cowherd there are tons of games he doesnt even remember, he was hit so hard. He already has amnesia from the hits and concussions! And noone can get the man more than a lousy flower at practice? Fuck that shit.

Im giving him the bouquet after a game. Bengals vs Ravens in Baltimore.

No union in any of the wrestling companies. They're all freelancers, no benefits. WWE, covers injuries that happen in-ring. If a stinger hits you later after you've been released, then thats your ass.

Does AEW cover medical expenses for injuries that occur in-ring? I am not sure of the policy. Doubt it or Danhausen wouldnt have needed the gofundme for his broken leg and subsequent surgery. Right?

Wrestlers can be released at any time. No pension. The pre-existing conditions from wrestling will not be covered by any future employers medical coverage plans. Same as NFL players who dont get to 5 years and dont vest.

So, whats the plan as a wrestler, other than trying to get rich as a main eventer? The percentage who achieve that vs those relegated to AEW Dark, a few matches here and there, sporadic appearances on Elevation then release?

Same with WWE. Mid carder, jobber, moved down to NXT, used as an extra on Raw a few times, disappear off TV for months, announced as released after Mania.

Then who pays for all the injuries accumulated in the ring? Neck, back, spine? Broken bones? Herniated discs? Surgeries? Physical therapy? Who pays?

What if you never got over to the point where a gofundme gets you anything close to paying all those bills out of pocket?

Trained for a year, debuted at an indy show, made some rounds at MLW, some appearances at PWG, show or two at GCW, used as fodder on AEW Dark or on NXT, used as a jobber, in a few matches on Rampage a few months apart, and the fans only know you as the "black girl not Red Velvet or Kiera".

So, then what happens to that wrestler who has knee, back, neck, spine issues, that whatever job they have, whatever medical coverage, it wont cover injuries sustained during their wrestling career because theyre pre-existing conditions?

What happens when youre not Brandi Rhodes, you dont make $10k in 2 hours, you dont get a signing at Wrestlemania, the fans dont remember you or are indifferent at best, your gofundme gets a few retweets, you sell some used gear to a few male fans, what about the $50k to $100k+ (easily $500k to $1m+) in medical bills all out of pocket that you have to pay because no employer sponsored medical plan will cover pre-existing conditions that occur in a wrestling ring or, for that matter, on a football field?

What happens to the Damar Hamlins of the world who dont die?

They just get taken to the back. We are told by Buck and Aikman that hes the cornerback for the Buffalo Bills, played at Pitt, standout corner, this was his first primetime game. Folks, our thoughts and prayers are with him as we head back to the field. Bengals have the ball on the 25.

Only, there is no update on the broadcast. If youre a Bills fan, maybe you find out that he was forced to retire due to a rare heart condition because he couldnt get medically cleared.

No fanfare. Gameday Morning doesnt mention him. Hes not a star, like Stefon Diggs or Josh Allen. In our zeal for how great the match up was with the Bengals, we have forgotten the injured, now retired at 24, cornerback. He quietly fades into obscurity, without being vested, without a pension, without benefits.

What happens to him?

In fact, there are many Damar Hamlins. They dont die dramatically on the field then get resuscitated later.

They retire early into obscurity, depression, bankruptcy, endless debt, broken bodies, broken minds and broken dreams.

And no one thinks about them. Outside of a very few like me. I googled all this after Damars injury. I wanted to know, what about guys like Damar, rookie season or a few years into the league, catastrophic injury, no vesting since they played less than 5 years.

You didnt die on MNF, so no fanfare, no drama, no mainstream media coverage, no 2 million dollars to your toy fund in 24 hours.

They are forgotten and tossed and brushed aside.

They are the price of playing in the NFL.

High risk, high reward. You can make millions or leave penniless. Thats the risk these men take, but its also the reward that they can get. They choose to roll the dice. They are grown men. That is their choice.

But what happens to them?

Silence.

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