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bluemerakis · 1 day ago

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ skin covered in ego ❞

❝ all the stars ── ၊၊||၊|။||||။၊| ── kendrick lamar ft. sza ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, dual pov, angst, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v, fluff, just sappy drama actually. pls lmk if i forgot any :)

synopsis ─ a retrospect of how soldier boy meets his saving grace—a superhero he’d been forcibly co-partnered with during payback’s prime. throughout their time spent together, she helps to refine all the fragments of him that have always lingered within, but had lacked the grip to pull together into something whole—respectable. eventually, with her influence, he reinvents his image into a sense of self he can claim without pre-programmed shame, and in the process, he discovers just how pivotal her existence is within his formerly, self-centred universe.

word count ~ 9.2k

based on this fic

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ʿ Skin covered in egoʾ

Vought-American’s council room felt suffocated with the aged, bronze statues looming in every corner of the space—a dramatic glorification of countless Vought-owned Supes, both old and new alike, that you’d neglected to learn the names of. Like honourable guards, they perched on their metal posts with watchful eyes meant to convey a sense of security and comfort. But instead, the weight of their rusted, faux eyes compressed your lungs to the point of shallow, jittery breaths, and the impressive height on them made you feel belittled. Judged.

Misplaced—like you’d never measure up to all the virtues of Supe life that their metal forms had come to embody.

The unwelcoming, inanimate atmosphere was only given a certain life by the company’s executives, who’d personally received you at the doors and guided you into this room. But there’d been no genuine sentiment beyond professionalism to warm their welcoming smiles, and every advance they’d made in becoming better acquainted with you had felt orchestrated—robotic. It’d done little to soothe your unease, and everything to feed the mental monster fear-mongering your better judgement.

Now, in the midst of the council room, the executives were fanned out all around you in a formation that should’ve made you feel caged in—like you were about to be fed to something far worse than the statues’ lingering jaws of judgement. But even then, you didn’t seize any wise instinct to flee. You felt immobilised by dread—the dread plaguing the idea of new beginnings. Your new beginning as Payback’s newest, super-abled member.

The title should’ve left you feeling honoured. Where you should’ve celebrated the letter housing the formal invitation, you mourned the loss of the comforts you’d come to call home. Where you should’ve marvelled at the idea of getting to work with Vought-American’s renowned Supe team, you harboured only a nagging fear of never measuring up to their standards. Where excitement should’ve imploded within at the mere idea of meeting the Soldier Boy, only panic arrived to brace every inch of your mind.

You were terrified.

And what didn’t help your rattled lungs was the way the doors to the room seemed to part with a dramatised creak, displacing the tense silence momentarily—only to replace it with an overwhelming air of self-righteousness as the man you dreaded meeting finally strode into the room. It was as though all the air in the room parted and pressed up against the walls to accommodate his demanding existence, and all at the expense of everybody else unlucky enough to share the space.

Clad in the iconic green uniform you’d seen advertised across countless costume stores, Soldier Boy marched a line that drew directly toward you. His jaw was perched on some invisible stage of importance, his hardened eyes finding yours in a cynical standoff. His broad shoulders were braced with a practiced composure as he covered the length of the floor, and it only added to the overwhelming demeanour you were sure he’d forged for the sole purpose of intimidating everybody below his pay grade.

As he drew up before your waiting form, you found yourself rooted to the spot—frozen with the uncertainty of how to approach the figure you’d come to know as America’s icon. But thankfully, you were shielded from Soldier Boy’s grilling glare as the executives all around you stirred, taking turns to greet the leader of Payback with more enthusiasm than they’d showed you.

You took that moment to gather your wit, but your attention didn’t falter from Soldier Boy, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he came off as a dull, painful contrast to his bustling higher-ups. He seemed disinterested, gloved hand outstretched to deliver curt, half-hearted shakes—if only to fulfil the duty of formalities that must’ve come hand-in-hand with his position of import. It was so unlike the charming and chatty persona you’d grown used to seeing through on-screen commercial airings, but his aloofness didn’t seem to phase the executives.

It shouldn’t have surprised you, either. Meeting your heroes never went to plan. Reality wasn’t something that could be as carefully scripted as the faux media aired from every corner of America—and like that, you knew that Soldier Boy’s cheery personality was all an act. It’d fooled you, that’s for sure.

As you stood there, unable to tear your gaze away from America’s Sweetheart, you couldn’t help but seize the close-up company to study every detail about him—his sharp features rigged with enough tension to fuel an army, the captivating green of his eyes framed with a hard stare, and the soft, light brown hair that seemed to effortlessly catch the room’s light. And yet, for the long-standing reputation of war he’d forged his name within, there was not a single scar carved into his fair skin to reflect the records. But it didn’t make him less rough and raw.

And admittedly, he was breathtakingly beautiful—like he was made to be more of a God than a disciple.

Everything about him laid a siege on your lungs—made breathing the same air as him feel impossible. But you were forced to adapt when his attention finally forsook the executives to pin you down, and for a second, you saw him squint with a curiosity that mirrored your own. But the fraction of transparency he’d let weaken his carefully-curated mask was blinked away before he furthered his advance on you, effortlessly clearing a line through the loitering executives.

Subconsciously, you held your breath as you watched his taller frame stagger up to you. He drew up before you with an arm’s length of space to spare, the shy space breaching your bodies quickly becoming infused with his strong cologne. His gaze was intense as he searched between your features—enough of a silent interrogation to make your skin crawl with the urge to buckle your head. But you didn’t. You feigned bravery by holding his quiet challenge with a fragile determination, just hoping that he didn’t catch the subtle bop of your throat.

Your apparent boldness must’ve been an amusing feat on your part because the corner of Soldier Boy’s lips hitched with a light smirk. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything, but it did everything to thicken the air circulating between your faces. You wished he knew what was going through his mind as he scrutinised what felt like every inch of your face. It was intense—slightly uncomfortable, but you continued to hold his attention out of a petty need to prevail. Your head only buckled to shed his glare when movement on his part caught your eye, his hand finally neglecting his formation to lift in the offer of a greeting.

“What’s your name?” He asked—the sound unexpectedly sonorous. Dulcet. Composed. It’s not an octave you’ve ever heard broadcasted across the radio—so you figured it must’ve been a genuine detail about him. Something worth remembering.

Hesitantly, you reached out your own hand, drawing it rigid to still the nerves before you slid your fingers across his palm. Instantly, his own fingers seized your hand in a firm grasp—but he didn’t shake on it. It made you lift your head with mildly-alarmed curiosity, and when you met his gaze once more, you saw that same look of scrutiny he’d branded you with upon his arrival.

“Does the mouth on you talk, or’s it only there for the sake o’ pretty smiles? Which you still haven’t graced me with, by the way,” He said smoothly, features now polished with the same charm he often weaponised amongst his fans—as if you were some fangirl he’d expected to swoon under his influence.

You uttered a mental scoff at that. You’d be damned to let Soldier Boy believe your otherwise muteness was owed entirely to his presence—and while it definitely played a role, it wasn’t the singular circumstance holding your tongue hostage. Today had been extremely overwhelming. Draining. It had put a damper on your mood—and clearly made you come across as a meek thing star-struck into silence. But you were far from it, and if you were to work alongside Soldier Boy for the foreseeable years to come, you’d rather not have his first impression of you be a doting fangirl.

You firmed up your own grip on his hand, which the Supe acknowledged with a hitch of his brows and a subtle jut of his lower lip. “She speaks,” you replied eventually, thankful that the sound was clear and not breached by a quiver. “And she smiles when she’s smiled at, which I don’t seem to remember you doing, either,” you added with a certain spunk.

Soldier Boy grinned at that—perfect, white teeth blooming into view. But it didn’t last long, and it certainly wasn’t as authentic as the action was made to be. It quickly simmered into a laxity of his jaw, tongue poking out to drag across his lower lip—like he was attempting to understand you. “Alright,” he conceded ambiguously, his grip on your palm unrelenting. “Fair enough—and if you’re goin’ to be joinin’ my team, you better keep on makin’ points as valid as that,” he huffed half-heartedly, eyes making a bold dip toward your lips. “And some more,” he muttered distractedly.

You pretended not to notice his wandering, flirtatious eyes, your own gaze steadfast at eye level despite the faint hint of self-consciousness burning your body hot. “Our team,” you corrected thickly, which made the Supe’s attention snap back to you with a newfound focus that banished his play-boyish desires from existence.

“The hell you mean our team?” Soldier Boy demanded tensely, his voice roughened with a note of disapproval as he finally released your palm in disdain—like he’d touched something revolting. But he didn’t wait for your answer as his head swivelled to drink in the idling executives, and the glare on him must’ve been scathing because a few of them were instantly averting their attention—like students who didn’t want to be picked on by the prying teacher.

You watched the Supe retreat a stride as he sought to confront the only people in the room with more power than him—in title, at least. If it came down to getting physical, god bless their souls.

“The fuck is she on ‘bout, huh?” He snapped, his voice resonating across the room. “Payback’s mine—I built this team up from the fuckin’ ground. I own each and every one o’ those sorry shits—turned them into somethin’ worth a damn! So if you think I’m just gonna step aside and let some dreamy-eyed rookie take the credit, you better think again—or somebody’s gettin’ their useless fuckin’ head bashed in.”

You grimaced at the temper on him. It took one hell of an ego to speak so confidently about one’s ability’s, and you didn’t doubt Soldier Boy harboured enough of it to represent the entire male population. It made you wonder how his super suit could contain all six feet of it.

The executives had warned you about his temper prior to this meeting, and the likelihood of an outburst once the news finally reached him. You’d taken it with a grain of salt—unconvinced that the leader of Payback could be so comparable with a teenager grappling with puberty—but as you stood observing his slightly feral stance, you decided, then, that you’d seen it all.

Feeling as though you should have some say in this—being a new addition to the team in question—you cleared your throat with enough purpose to turn all the heads in the room. Soldier Boy abided last, as though it was a mockery of his importance to spare you the light of day. The Supe turned his body fully to face you, and the displeasure radiating from his rigid stance made you clench your jaw with careful consideration. The last thing you wanted was to ruffle his invisible cape the wrong way. You didn’t need that sort of drama on your first day—and you certainly had zero desire to entertain a feud that would taint the rest of your days with Vought-American.

You offered Soldier Boy a tiny nod of thanks—a peace-offering, but the Supe merely lifted his chin, as though undecided on his standpoint with you. You took your lower lip into a brief bite before releasing it with the first clause of your peace-treaty.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” you began lightly, taking a few steps toward him until you were returned to the personal vicinity from before.

“That so?” He mocked bitterly, watched you with careful eyes almost turned scornful. But he didn’t falter an inch from his position, so you figured that he was listening, anyway.

You lifted your hands in a steadying gesture. “Look, I’m not here to steal your spotlight—”

“Nobody’s stealin’ my spotlight, sweetheart,” he cut in with a scathing huff, and an equally heartfelt frown to accompany it.

Your nostrils flared with a breath of patience, providing the pause you needed to reason against the urge to strangle him. “Like I said,” you continued tensely. “Not here to steal your spotlight. The only reason Vought decided to recruit me is because I’ve been gaining attention with my most recent feat—”

“Yeah?” He interjected, arms coming up in a cross as his head tilted with the slightest interest—but somehow, it still felt like a mock. “And what’d ya do to get on Vought’s radar? Campaign for the destructive feminists? Screamin’ some free the nipple bull-shit at the top o’ your lungs?” He paused at that, lips drawing into a slight pout as his eyes flickered skyward. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he made some silent concession. “On second thought, they might be onto somethin’ with that,” he stated, eyes finding yours in a mischievous squint—like he sought to get a rise out of you.

You weren’t going to let him rub your hair the wrong way, so you disregarded that comment entirely—but it didn’t stop the word dick from blaring at the back of your mind. “It was a fire,” you clarified, which apparently was a detail mundane enough to make Soldier Boy’s lips draw back with disinterest. “Started in the park of a neighbourhood I used to patrol frequently. Burned right through to the nearest house, and the family got caught inside. Parents and three kids—one barely old enough to walk.”

As the Supe listened, the judgmental furrow in his brow didn’t relent, but there was some new interest to his attention because his chin jerked in your direction. “So?” He prompted. “What’d you do—tell it to fuck off? You a wind-whisperer or somethin’?”

Far from a wind-whisperer, but I know a few ways to tell you to fuck off, you remarked silently. Your tongue poked at the inside of your cheek in a summons of patience. “It’s easier to show than tell,” you said tensely, the explanation so ambiguous that Soldier Boy frowned questioningly.

“Well, we don’t got all fuckin’ da—” his words caught in his throat as he sputtered on some invisible lump, his arms uncrossing in a state of panic. Almost instantly, his cheeks flushed with a deep red only elicited by a lack of air, and the veins usually tracing his temple in secrecy now bulged with a concerning thickness. His eyes—bloodshot in the state of his asphyxiation—flickered to you with a primal fear that you didn’t believe he’d ever worn, before his attention dropped to the hand you’d brought up in a focused clench.

Decidedly satisfied with your display, you relaxed your flexed fingers, and it was the singular permission that the Supe needed to draw in a large bout of air, his chest rattling with a series of coarse coughs. He staggered over slightly, but caught himself just in time to remain respectable.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he choked out, frown lines carved into his forehead as he lifted his head to glare at you past stray strands of his bangs—freshly escaped from the prison of his collected hairdo. “Alright. . .” He murmured hoarsely, fashioning caution—and wiser words—as he straightened to full height and faced you once more. “I’ll admit, that’s not the worst parlour trick.” You knew that it was Soldier Boy for that was impressive, so you accepted it with a satisfied jut of your chin. Then, the Supe’s index finger lifted in your direction in a stern scolding. “But don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned.

You smirked at that, crossing your arms with the intent to negotiate. “Stop doubting my capabilities and I won’t have to,” you countered smugly.

Soldier Boy glanced around the room with a clenched jaw, as though unhappy with his dwindling sense of control, before turning to face you again. “Yeah, whatever,” he relented with a sniff, but you could have sworn that there was a shade of red still lingering in his cheeks. “So I take it you choked the shit outta that fire, too?”

“Mhm. Saved the whole family. Some guy saw the whole thing and reported it to. . . whoever the hell makes things like this happen. Next thing I knew, a Vought-American letter’s in my mailbox. Apparently, I left quite an impression on the public, and they thought it’d be good for the scores—having me partner up with the Soldier Boy.“

“The public is gonna love it!” One of the executives chimed in eagerly, as though seizing the opportunity to quench the lead Supe’s ruffled fire once and for all. But when Soldier Boy slowly turned to cast him a glare, he wilted back into silence.

Turning back to you, the Supe scoffed. “What—so we’d be like America’s next, hottest couple?”

You paused at that, mulling over the title. Admittedly, it had a certain ring to it. “You could put it that way,” you said thoughtfully. “Because if there’s one thing this country loves—it’s Supe scandals.”

For the first time, the lead Supe showcased an emotion other than scorn and condemnation—he laughed, genuinely laughed. “Ain’t that the goddamn truth,” he agreed gruffly, head briefly tilted to the ground as he considered your words with ridicule. “God bless fuckin’ America.” Then, he lifted his eyes to you, and they softened with just enough tolerance to come off as respect. “Whaddya say then?” He asked. “Ready to take on the role, sweetheart?” There was the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips—like he was eager awaiting your reply.

“First of all, drop the sweetheart thing,” you told him flatly. “It’s not flattering, and it’s certainly not the panty-dropper you think it is.”

Soldier Boy’s brows lifted with brief offence at being called out, but then his chin dipped in surrender. “Fine. You got somethin’ else you prefer? Cause you still haven’t told me your name.” His eyes glinted with something mischievous as he added, “sweetheart.”

With a light shake of your head and a weakly amused smile, you offered him your name. He rolled it over his tongue once or twice, then winked in acknowledgment once he’d mentally marked it down.

“A beautiful name, but I still think sweetheart suits ya,” he wondered aloud.

You couldn’t help but smile at the nerve of the Supe. He’s attractive—he knew it, and so did you. And you also couldn’t deny the way some primal part of you seemed to flutter at his attention, but you were wise enough to know that it wasn’t exclusive—nothing ever was when it came to him. “Well, I guess it’s a shame that you’ve named every other woman you come across sweetheart,” you scoffed.

Soldier Boy’s smirk deepened, like he enjoyed your nerve. “What—you callin’ me some sorta floozy?”

You shrugged innocently. “If you really have to ask that, I think you know the answer.”

His chest rattled with a chuckle—you figured you should’ve started a tally of all the times you got the Supe to laugh. You might’ve been able to pawn it off to some museum showcasing historical events to behold.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmured half to himself, then sobered his attention as he cast you a scheming glance. “Just one last thing,” he said.

“What?”

Soldier Boy leaned into your vicinity—close enough to feel his breath flush your nose with warmth. “Think you can handle being tethered to my side ‘round the clock?” He murmured lowly, a smug smirk poking through as he eyed you like an object of desire.

You braced your chin with a boldness to match his. “Can you handle me?” You countered levelly, arms coming up in a cross as you searched his sultry stare.

“Damn right I can,” he murmured even softer than before—more like drawled, but it was no less intense. His attention snagged on the view of your lips for a few, hot seconds before fluttering back up to your eyes.

You stole your own glance of his lips, and you wandered whether they were good for anything other than offending every person he came across. “Really? Sure I won’t take your breath away?” You jabbed lightly, casting him a heavy-lidded stare.

Air jetted through his nostrils in an amused sound, his tongue poking through to sweep across his lips. “You already have,” he admitted with a heavy stare. “And I don’t think you’re quite finished yet, either.”

Those words took you by surprise, your head recoiling a measly centimetre, but Soldier Boy seemed perfectly content with his choice of words—unmoved by your reaction. With a mildly flustered swallow, you shook your head lightly. “You’re trouble, Soldier Boy,” you remarked carefully, but a fraction of a smile still managed to slip through.

“Ben,” he corrected, lips wound thin with a devilish smirk. “And you may be right—but I’m all the right kinds of trouble, sweetheart.”

ʿ Get to talkin', I get involved, like a rebound

Got no end game, got no result, got to stay downʾ

The first week at Vought-American had been quiet on the mission front, so you’d spent most of your time exploring the compound, though not without unsuccessfully shaking Ben’s company. More often than not, the lead Supe got his fill of entertainment by trailing around after you like a sheet of toilet paper you’d accidentally tracked from the bathroom. It drove you insane, but he was relentlessly clingy, so he’d gotten his way and stuck around.

And what made it worse, was that—against your will, you’d come to tolerate him. But as the weeks turned to months, tolerate became appreciate, and it wasn’t long before appreciate became crave. Coming to terms with the fact that you actually sought out Ben’s company had been a jarring moment in your character arc. You’d made yourself the promise—when it all began—not to let the faux title of America’s Power Couple influence your heart. But beneath all the Supe makeup, you hosted a very human heart that thumped loud and clear, and it was the ultimate weak link that betrayed your own.

You’d tried hard to fight the urges that had jumped you without any prior warning, but it felt impossible to escape when you were attached to his hip every other day—if not to cover one another in adrenaline-worthy missions, then to pose for the camera as the duo that America had come to adore. The news of your partnership had taken to the headlines almost immediately, and it meant that there was no going back on it—meant that you truly were stuck with him now.

Most of the public had voiced their adoration for your relationship, and as part of the act to make it believable, Vought had sent you both to events as a couple forced to act in love. There were shared hugs, hands draped across your waist during idle chatter, glances exchanged with intense passion, and lips contacting with a point to prove—and it’d all made it difficult for you to not join in on the public’s swooning.

In stark contrast to your own, very clear struggle with the push on professional boundaries, Ben seemed elated by it all. Marvelled in it, even. He seized every opportunity to make casual remarks that burned your cheeks hot, or made sure to hover his hand a fraction too long when lightening the load on your palms. He could see right through you, and he’d made true on his word to pose the trouble he’d warned you of.

One night, he’d taken it a step—one giant leap further.

After a late night, last minute meeting with the executives, you and Ben had exited the room in tandem, and it wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere past walking you back to your suite. But it did. It did—from the moment he cut in front of you with an earnest look morphing the features you’d come to memorise in the midst of your growing infatuation. And it did when he took the step that pressed your bodies close together, exchanging heat like a symbiosis that had always meant to exist. And it did when his hand came up to frame your jaw with a gentleness you’d never seen him practice, his lips lowering onto yours with a point that invalided your every pre-conceived notion on his capabilities.

You should have pulled away—if you’d known what was good for you because you knew that Ben was no role model for long-term commitments. And you knew that your heart would be the first to find that out somewhere down the line. But because you chose to listen to what was good for your body, instead, you pressed your lips against his with a force that made you an equal accomplice to bad decisions.

You should have pulled away, but you didn’t.

ʿ It's the way that you making me feel like nobody ever loved me

Like you do, you doʾ

The door to Ben’s suite slammed closed behind you before his hands seized your waist firmly, his lips hot on the trail to provide all the reinforcement needed to corner you against the nearest wall. With a passionate lack of care, the length of your back was pressed flush against the cement as his palms glided over the meat of your hips, squeezing the anatomy with an appreciative firmness before they glided to the underside of your thighs.

His lips feuded with your own in a sloppy and heated make out, then dipped into the divot of your chin when he buckled an inch to gather the momentum needed to hoist you up. Your arms instinctually found his neck in a vice grip, legs coming up to wrap around his waist as he successfully—and effortlessly—lifted you into his grasp. His head leaned back into yours to slur a brief kiss across your lips, large palms tightening around your thighs as he turned and steered the both of you toward the nearest sofa.

You were blind to where the sofa began, but Ben lowered your form just enough for the armrest to graze the small of your back before you were tossed a very short distance into the cushioned length of the couch. The thud of your back against the sofa knocked a breath from your lungs, but you weren’t afforded the chance to replenish it before the Supe came crashing down on you with one motive in mind: devouring you.

His lips crashed into yours once more, one hand curling around your nape, tussling your hair as he pressed you further into his famished lips, while the other skilfully worked at undressing you. And it wasn’t long before he was dragging a wet trail of kisses down the arch of your neck, around each perked bud of your breasts, and down the line of your abdomen.

“Fuck, Ben, it feels so good,” you breathed out appreciatively, head burrowing back into the sofa and toes curling into the material as he flicked and dragged his tongue through your folds—tracing all sorts of patterns he’d perfected through prior experiences you’d chosen to bar from your mind.

His tongue was rough—impatient, and it did a splendid job at summoning your high. But his hands trapped your thighs against the sofa to deny the buck of your hips that would’ve given you the last push you needed to fall into the abyss of pleasure, and before you could complain, he pulled you up at the wrist and spun you around.

Positioned ass up and face down, he smoothed over the skin of your ass with an appreciative hum. “You look good like this, sweetheart,” he remarked crassly—only because he knew it’d burn you the darkest shade of red. And it wasn’t long before he slid himself into your welcoming entrance, his thrusts driven with by purpose—rough, quick and straight to the point.

He fanned a hand over the small of your back, pressing you further into the sofa while the other found firm grip at your hip. The space was filled with a raw skin-on-skin percussion that sounded primal—shameful, almost, but you were so far lost to the drilling of his tip against your cervix that you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You craved him—craved the way he made you feel. And you showed him through the slurred moans pouring from your mouth with every snap of his hips against you.

His broad chest pressed against your bare back as he brought himself to your ear. “Jesus, you’re somethin’,” he growled, his thrusts intensifying to the point of flattening your lower half against the sofa. “You’re everythin’,” he husked against your hair, one hand coming up to wrap around the front of your neck while the other tightened into a bruise-worthy grip at your hip, and as he pummelled you into the cushions, all you could think about was how you never wanted this to end—and you also hoped that the sofa wouldn’t break.

ʿ You kinda feel like you tryin' to get away from me

If you do, I won't moveʾ

You counted another night in Ben’s bed, where raked your gaze over his sleeping form, and it marvelled you that he could look so at peace with himself��with life. In waking times, where he constantly barrelled from one mission to the other, he gave the sort of impression that he didn’t know a second of peace—like he’d been made solely for war and conflict. So seeing him like this—it warmed something inside of you. But the feeling didn’t linger when you swallowed thickly with a guilty realisation.

You’d lied to yourself.

What was supposed to be a once-off, one-night stand had turned to weeks of ritualistic, late-night visits. Almost every other night, you and Ben were tackling one another—a battle of bodies and orgasms. It wasn’t supposed to go beyond that first night—and once it did, you’d told yourself that it wasn’t supposed to go beyond a physical relationship.

But it had—for you, at least. You hadn’t exactly had the nerve to ask Ben whether he saw you as anything more than a warm body to pass time—didn’t think you could handle that punch to the gut. But it’d been slowly eating you up inside—the uncertainty of it all.

Deciding that it wasn’t tonight’s problem, you cosied up beside his sleeping form, eyes drifting closed to summon a sleep that would quell your mental misery. It took a while, and after a few tosses and turns, you’d settled in with your back facing Ben. And at some point—just as you started to swoon with the first glimpse of dreams—Ben’s hand shifted to wrap around your waist. That singular action provided all the comfort you needed to slip off into easy dreams.

The days following that night had taken a complete detour in energy. Ben had been uncharacteristically distant and curt—almost as though he’d reverted back to the hardened persona you’d thought you’d worked your way through with the weeks spent at Vought—with the time spent at his side. You had no concrete idea on what had installed the distance between you, but you suspected that the Supe had come to realise the feelings you bore for him outside of a night of fun.

It must’ve deterred him because he kept your every interaction short—filled with nothing but droning reports and information about the next missions to come. It was agonising to endure, and you wanted nothing more than to go back to the way things had been before.

But they didn’t.

Back in the warmer days—prior to the current, cold ones that currently hosted you both as strangers—you would find Ben waiting outside your door, craving more than what your body had to offer him. Company, chatter that wasn’t rehearsed down to the last line, and friendship. He didn’t have many friends—you’d once told him that directly in the heat of an argument, but hadn’t looked too marred by it. Despite his ego, he could admit that he wasn’t the easiest person to tolerate.

But you had learnt to, and maybe that had played a role in morphing your relationship of pleasure into a relationship of the mind, body and soul—all at once. And you realised then, that maybe Ben did share all of your finer feelings. It would certainly explained the way he’d suddenly turned his back on everything you’d once shared. As much as you wanted to chase after him with the question armed at the ready, eager to gun down the excruciating tension, you chose to offer your surrender, instead.

Ben wouldn’t come around with your pestering. He had his own things to figure out. And when he did, you could only hope he’d take the initiative of returning to you—unshielded, unhardened, vulnerable. That he’d acknowledge the truth that hung over both your heads like a brooding storm cloud—the truth that what had started out as a hollow title of professionalism had been filled to the brim with countless banter, near-death experiences, and shared warmth that warranted a type of closeness only this lifestyle could provoke.

That you were more than partners—more than two people playing make believe for the public eye.

That you were in love.

You could only wait and hope that he’d see it, feel it, and own it.

ʿ I just cry for no reason, l just pray for no reasonʾ

On the drive to the next mission, the vehicle’s air was thick with tension. Ben manned the driver seat, so there wasn’t much opportunity for his stare to forsake the road ahead—but when it did, it never lingered on you for more than a second.

He gave nothing away, either. He’d gone back to being as mysterious as when you’d first met him, and it made your heart ache. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, head turned to gaze out of the window as though it could shun the taunting reality into non-existence—but it didn’t.

Each passing second of silence weighed heavier than the next, and Ben said nothing, did nothing to alleviate the crushing force of it. So all you could do, as you found yourself drinking in the buildings and trees whisking across your vision, was hope and pray that he’d live up to his title, act the soldier and put an end to this misery by confessing his feelings for you.

But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that it was a day you’d never come to outlive.

ʿ I give thanks for the day

For the hours and another way, another life breathin'ʾ

The mission had taken every wrong turn possible, and you’d been caught in the cross-fire of the enemy’s newest anti-supe contraption that had left you severely wounded—injuries that not even your super-abled body could resolve.

Your vision was mostly blurred with the severe bloodloss, so you couldn’t make sense of the shapes whisking past your vision as medics carried you through Vought’s compound. The pain festering at multiple sites upon your body was debilitating and brutal, almost enough of a force to persuade you into letting go of life entirely—but a hand kept you grounded, tethered, through the dragged out minutes that it took to set you down on that operating table.

Ben’s frantic face appeared in front of yours, but most detail of his features were lost to your disorientation. His lips moved with words that sounded distant, and your face scrunched with the frail effort to try and perceive them—but you couldn’t. Darkness began pressing at the corners of your vision, threatening to drag you into a sleep that had no return. You caught the way one of the assistant’s placed a hand onto Ben’s shoulder, tugging at him with a passion that the Supe didn’t permit—if evident by the way he straightened up to send his fist flying into the assistant’s face.

Guards showed up to contain him, and he cast you one last glance with a mouth gaped around a shout you couldn’t acknowledge. You wanted to reach out to him, to tell him you’d be okay, but you couldn’t. The world weighed heavy on you now, blanketing you with a darkness that felt comforting—tempting you into fluttering your eyes closed for a much needed break.

And you listened.

For a while, there was nothing. You floated through endless, dark matter, ceasing to exist in the bottomless space. And then a light beamed through, so blinding that your eyes screwed shut to avert the assault, and when you opened them again, you were greeted with the view of Vought’s hospital. You blinked many times, fighting off the haze that had consumed you for god knows how long, and when you finally mustered up the strength to lift your head, you found Ben nestled at the side of your bed.

His cheek was settled into the cross of his arms, his eyes sown shut in a steady sleep. You don’t know how long you’d been asleep, and how long he’d been camping it out beside your comatose form, but what you did know, is that you were thankful to have survived the whole ordeal. Thankful to see another day—to see Ben here with you.

With great effort, you reached out a hand to brush through his hair—and he’d always been a light sleeper, but this time, he didn’t stir. Not immediately, at least. It took a few surfs of your hand through hair before his eyes fluttered open to drink you in, and it was then that you noticed just how deep the skin beneath his eyes had sunken—as though the wait he’d endured to acquaint you in the land of the living once more had burned through everything that he was. Exhausted him to the point of a humanly slumber.

Instantly, Ben collected himself into a sit, hand reaching to grab yours fiercely. “You’re okay,” he breathed, his green eyes brimming with raw relief, and slightly teary along the edges. “Jesus, I thought I’d lost you,” he choked out gruffly, jaw clenching around his worst fear.

You smiled weakly, warmly, sympathising with his pain as your own eyes grew teary. “I’m right here,” you murmured meekly, your voice cracking with the prolonged disuse. “I’m not going anywhere,” you added in a soft, broken whisper.

Ben’s composure cracked at that, and instead of responding with words he had no experience utilising, he leaned himself toward you to place a chaste kiss on your forehead. When he pulled back to gaze at you, something in his expression shifted, and he felt compelled to speak, anyways.

“You wouldn’t stand a damn chance, anyway, ‘cause I’d follow you all the way to the edge of the earth—holdin’ that fuckin’ lifeline that’s keepin’ you tethered to a sorry dick like me. ‘Cause I’m selfish—and ‘cause I’m nothin’ worth a damn without you.”

Your heart imploded at that, the tears that had been idling about your eyes now cascading down your cheeks uncontrolled. Ben’s hands shifted to cradle your face with an unfamiliar tenderness—one that you could, and would, grow accustomed to—as he leaned himself down to place a kiss on your lips.

When he came face to face with you once more, his eyes brimmed with adoration. “Fuckin’ hell, I love you—I do. I’ve been a real pussy ‘bout it these last few weeks, but I do,” he murmured.

“I know,” you told him gently, leaning your cheek further into his hold. “I’ve always known—I just needed you to be the first to say it. You needed to decide what you wanted for yourself—”

“You,” he cut in instantly, earnestly. “You—god, you’re all I want. Nothin’ else—nobody else.”

You smiled weakly at that. “Then I’m all yours.”

ʿ I did it all 'cause it feel good

But wouldn't do it all if it feel bad

Your recovery was slow, but Ben had been by your side through it all, handing off missions to the rest of Payback while he nursed you back to full health within the comforts of his suite. Nothing you asked of him was ever too much, and it made you burn with a newfound love for him—made you fall in love with him all over again.

Better live your life

We are running out of timeʾ

Little did you know that the next mission to come would be as heart-breaking as the last. You and Ben had gotten split up in the midst of Niaguara, and the gunfire was so heavy that you’d lost tabs on his whereabouts during your attempt to take cover. All around you, bullets whisked through the air. It was defeaning—overwhelming, and you almost thought it’d never end short of claiming your life.

And then the scene around you only intensified when an aircraft suddenly blared overhead, and your head tilted back against the brick wall shielding you from death as you tried to get a glimpse of the structure. But when you saw what dangled from the aircraft—a contraption immobilising and holding Ben’s unconscious form captive, your heart seized up on the spot with such panic that a bullet might as well have pierced right through it, ending all that you were.

And you almost wish it did—that you’d been put out of your misery right there and then because as you watched the aircraft grow smaller with the distance, you weren’t sure you’d ever see Ben again.

And like he’d told you back at the hospital—that wasn’t a life worth living

ʿ Love, let's talk about love

Is it anything and everything you hoped for?ʾ

As soon as you’d recouped with the rest of Payback, they’d enlightened you on who the aircraft belonged to—that is was the Russians that had kidnapped Ben. It sparked some sort of hope within you, knowing that you had a lead to follow, and you’d taken it upon yourself that evening to plan out his rescue with Vought’s executives.

It was then that the jarring truth of it all had been revealed, that Ben’s kidnap had been staged by the company—and Payback—itself. You’d been outraged and overcome with an anger you hadn’t thought yourself capable of, doing something regrettable in the process.

It all happened so fast—your hand curling into a fist that drained the lungs of the closet executive to the point of no return. It only hit you once his body dropped to the floor, never to stir again despite the remaining, panicked executives rushing to his aids. And they’d cast you horrified stares, something that told you you were done for if you didn’t make a run for it now—so you did.

You didn’t look back as you fleed the compound, not once, but you made a beeline toward an office you knew held all the information of Vought’s dirty secrets, adding another body or two to your fatality count to acquire the files that would lead you directly to the Russian compound holding Ben captive.

The journey there had been a hassle, almost enough to make you want to give up—but then you pictured how helpless and afraid Ben must’ve felt, and it fuelled you with the power you needed to keep on going. You needed to see him again. You would see him again.

You’d managed to gain access to the compound under the alias of a compound v scientist, and given your very real knowledge and experience on the sciences, it was an easy role to assume—and one that brought you all the more closer to seeing Ben again.

But the circumstances of your reunion was far from ideal—Ben strapped to an experimenting table while a lab assistant approached you presenting a vile of poison you were to inject into his veins, all without a single guess about what it’d do to him. How it’d completely remake him. But you did it, anyway because your compliance meant building trust with the Russians, and trust paved way toward power—influence. And that meant that you could take control of these sessions—keep him safe.

So you grabbed the needle and approached Ben, who drank you in with an amalgamation of relief, betrayal and fear all at once. But the minute you sank that needle into his arm—all his emotions sobered up into one, single thing. Hatred. And it ate away at everything that you were, and continued to do so in all the years that passed.

But despite the heartbreak, you kept at it—kept on returning with needles of poison you’d modified with just enough care to spare him disastrous side effects, finding solace in that fact to ignore the way each dose completely remade him. You weren’t sure how much of the Soldier Boy you’d come to know and love would be left by the time the Russians concluded the experiment, but you did know that you were doing a necessary evil to keep him safe from something far sinister, should you be taken off the experiment.

And thankfully, that day never came. You’d made contact with a group known as The Boys—who launched the plan to free both yourself and Ben from the compound in exchange for a favour that only Ben could fulfil. Once he’d done it, you were both free to pursue your newfound freedom, and to rekindle the bond that the tragic years had eaten away at. And you were given the chance to explain that everything you’d done to him had been done from a place of love—as fucked up as it sounded.

And it wasn’t a type of love you’d ever dreamt of knowing—of showing him.

ʿ Or do the feeling haunt you?ʾ

Ben watched your lip quiver with the memories of the harmful emotions and experiences that he hadn’t been around to shield you from. The time with the Russians had broken him in every manner physical—all part of the plan to build him up into something far more lethal. But you? You’d been mentally reconstructed.

As you delved deeper into your experience working under the Russians, he listened to you speak with a heaviness he didn’t usually acknowledge—not him, super-abled Soldier Boy, strongest man alive with nary a concept on humanly burdens. Emotional and physical. But the words that slunk from your mouth settled over him like a deadweight that had him feeling—for the first time ever—like he was helpless in escaping it. Like he was weak.

He felt weakened by the guilt of knowing what you had been forced to endure. The strength you’d mustered up in order to stick poisoned needles into his arm, and the strength you’d needed to keep your chin elevated with the memory of the goodness in your heart. And he felt weakened by the guilt of knowing, there and then, just how much you truly loved him.

It was crushing.

He’d never mastered the depths and tides of his emotions, but you’d taught him how to surf the currents with just enough control to remain afloat. And it was a regrettable skill on some days—days like this—where he was forced to feel things he’d perfected the art of ignoring for. Because now, he felt it all.

And it haunted him—the way you love.

The way you love him. The way you’d do anything for him. The way you’d bargained away years of your life to ensure that the years of his were bought and secured. The way you’d once promised you’d stick with him through it all, and the way you’d followed through. Because deep down, he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it.

The guilt of knowing your love—it haunted him.

ʿ I know the feeling haunt youʾ

Ben found his lips wandering every inch of your skin with a need to memorise the taste of your flesh. He pressed kisses the soft apples of your cheeks, to the bridge of your nose, to the fragile sheets of your lids after you’d simmered into a symphony of pleasure. And because he’s greedy, he even found his nose burrowed into the crook of your neck while his lips branded the arch—where he inhaled the scent of you and surfed a wave of ecstasy that put the bona fide drug to shame.

You were an assault on his senses, disorienting every sensible instinct he’d spent years forging. His instincts were critical. They made him strong and driven and deserving of his title as a soldier. But you. . . you were like a foreign scent that had wafted beneath his unassuming nose—a scent that he just couldn’t ignore. A scent that triggered some other, unexplored instinct within him, and it compelled him to blindly follow you. Allowed himself just enough slack to be consumed by you.

Once he'd worked his way into the wet warmth between your thighs, his thrusts were slow and sensual. Patient. He wanted to savour every second of you-more like needed to. He gripped one of your thighs with a firm gentleness, the other arm venturing beside your head to prop himself up as he carried his hips toward yours. Your hands curled around the muscle of his biceps in a sensual line, moans spewing from your lips before your palms flattened over the toned contours of his back—nails gripping his flesh to keep yourself grounded against his ascension-worthy movements.

He took his sweet time feeling on, listening to, and indulging you. And once you begged him for more, he delivered. He nurtured your high with a quickened pace, releasing your thigh to join the other you'd wrapped around him. He settled both arms on either side of your head, and there, he hovered himself over your lips, pressing scattered, incomplete kisses to the tender flesh while he focused on the tension connecting—and threatening—to end you both.

“Just like that, Ben,” you breathed into his ear, your hand curling around the nape of his neck, where you clung to him like any other hair embedded within his skin.

“Yeah—I got you,” Ben grunted against your lips, air jetting through the slits of his grit teeth as he endured the overwhelming storm of pleasure. He pressed a firm kiss to the corner of your lips, eyes briefly flickering up to where your expression contorted with each of his thrusts. And he studied everything—the bold furrow of your brows, the lustful haze glazing your eyes, and the way your nose scrunched with every other prod of his manhood. You were breathtaking, and it drove him feral. “I got you,” he repeated—promised.

He felt as the hand you’d furled around his neck drifted up the expanse, fingers ploughing through the field of his hair to entangle with the unruly strands. His eyes fluttered closed—however briefly—at the way you tousled his hair. The sensation was overwhelming, hypnotising—almost enough of a physical persuasion on his shoulders to release a year’s worth of tension. You’d had that effect to you from the moment he’d met you, and somehow, it’d always worked on him.

It wasn't long before you finally let go of yourself, and he tossed a line of his own to match. Then, you were briefly smothered by the weight of his panting form before he rolled himself over to the side and pulled you into his arms. You instantly took to nestling his one arm in the crook of your neck, and his other moved to drape loosely across your waist while you drifted into an instantaneous sleep.

As Ben laid there, curled around the fragile body he’d tucked into the safety of his grip, he felt like he’d been reborn—like the hands the Russians had forged to meld iron could now cradle fragile glass without instilling a single crack. Like he’d been modelled into something—somebody more than his upbringings. Somebody worthy enough to be bestowed with the highest honours of loving you.

It amazed him, really, how you’d unintentionally strolled into his life with zero intention to take up space within it. And yet, you’d managed to selfishly hog every inch of his heart—making him feel things that forced him to reminisce the misery of humanity and feelings. You filled his heart with adrenaline that was unlike any he’d ever hopped himself up on amongst the battlefield. That adrenaline was potent—wired him to flee the dangers constantly gunning for him. But this adrenaline—the type only you could get his heart to muster—it drew him in like a whirlpool that would swallow him whole given the chance.

It made him want to do anything but flee.

Your grit, your wit, and your unwillingness to let him dangle from the rope he’d hung himself from had left more of a mark on him than the binding of his trauma. For once, he actually craved to memorise the lines left behind by the cuffs you’d unknowingly slung around his wrists—tugging him along after you like a dickless mutt begging for some long-lost action. And he blindly followed. He didn’t question it. For once, he didn’t want to question it.

He only wanted you.

God, admitting it made him feel like a goddamn swooning pussy—but you’d once smacked him across the shoulder for saying that aloud. He’d get better at it—the whole holding hands and professing feelings thing. He would. Admittedly, it was difficult following through on a resolution so soft he could have throttled it between two firm fingers—but he’d made you a promise, and it served as an armour that shielded his word against any intrusive impulse he’d allowed to jab at his life for far too long.

As he laid there, savouring the bare warmth of your body pressed against his with every hushed breath, he couldn’t have pictured a more ideal view. He’d once thought it a big, stinking pile of bull that one person could demand everything that you were—that somebody could ever matter that much to warrant his unfaltering devotion. But now, he knew it to be true. He knew it with every glance he stole of you.

The thought of losing you haunted him.

It haunted him with the same fear that the solar system would regard the loss of their sun with—the singular body drawing in and holding everything together. Making it whole. Complete. Functional. In the same way, you’d become a sort of North Star in the black expanse of his heart, orientating the soul he’d thought he’d lost ahold of a long time ago. You kept him grounded and guided. Safe.

And in all that he was and ever would be—everything that you’d thought him capable of—he’d devote it to keeping you safe, too.

Even if it killed him.

Because the thought of having you plucked from his grasp was one that he couldn’t entertain without a debilitating dread. Life without you wouldn’t be truly living—it would be boiled down to fruitless survival. It’d be the misery he’d been trapped in before you came and snagged onto the latch that finally set him free. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t be forced back into that cage.

So, the arm he’d loosely strung around your waist neglected all careful consideration as he pulled you tighter against him. You stirred briefly with a groan so soft and slurred that he might as well have imagined it—but he clung to it like a mantra of just how real this all was. It was selfish, maybe, trapping you against him with a fervour that wouldn’t have him letting up anytime soon—but he did it, anyway.

Ben wasn’t supposed to be human enough to be marred by anything. Physical wounds could scarcely be inflicted, but scars couldn’t be left behind. It was an exhilarating reality—one that made him feel invincible. Fearless. But you—the thought of letting you go, it was unbearable. Crippling. Fear-worthy.

And it haunted him.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ first of all, i was on my sza shit more than usual and the lyrics of this song resonated with me and the sb’s unfinished story i was thinking about. i had always wanted to do some sort of story portrayal for how he and fem!supe!reader met, sooo have this ig?! second of all, i did not forget about wrapping this fic up, i just got severely demotivated and side-tracked. oopsie. i swear i’ll post the last part some day. for now, it’s rotting in my drafts, unedited and with a few gaps that need to be filled. my motivation comes and goes like the auroras, so that’ll come when it comes lmfao. thirdly, i hope you guys enjoyed this. i started out feeling great about this, but i’ve been sitting with a massive migraine as i finished it, so it feels like ive placed words that dont quite click. idk? 🤷‍♀️ also im like 8 followers from 700 so take this as my wtf thank you sm gift!! 😭 this is not proofread bc it’s 1 am and i have class tomorrow so actually i apologise for the horrendous amount of errors you’ve likely come across—i’ll fix it tomorrow, i just wanted to get this out like i promised

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @floralscented @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb

want to become part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

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practicalgauntlet · 1 day ago

Text

τότε μείνε μαζί μου

"Then stay with me."

Spencer's POV

Synopsis- They say there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more- Revenge.

Category- Heavy angst, retribution

Warnings- feral Spencer, angry Spencer, grieving Spencer, beating someone half to death, blood and gore, thoughts of violence, actual violence, Spencer goes ape shit the way Hotch beat Foyet. Vivid details of someone's nose breaking, blood, lots and lots of blood, OOC, I paint a very graphic image of Spencer's snap.

Notes- I love writing angst, I don't know why I just hope you enjoy it. And I'll make good on my promise for something tooth-rottingly sweet, so don't get too angry with me <3 This goes out to @slipk-holy for helping me edit, you're the best!!!

Wordcount- 3,123

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer sits in the middle of his apartment, his last words to your lifeless body still echoing throughout his otherwise empty mind.

"I'll wait for you my darling, you better be waiting for me on the other side."

Spencer was not a religious man. But when it came to you, he believed in miracles. He believed that someone out there plucked you from your divine path and placed you in his life. Spencer prayed to whoever had put you in his life to return you. He pleaded to hold you in his arms once more, but there was no answer.

He never believed in the afterlife. He thought of it as nothingness, a lack of consciousness where one ceases to exist on any plane. The idea of holding you, of seeing you once more clung to the fibers of his mind. It kept him from breaking entirely.

So maybe Spencer was a man of religion if only it meant you awaited him with open arms.

He hadn't moved in such a long time, his back aching from the upright and cross-legged position on his hardwood floors. Spencer lacked the motivation to crawl onto the couch or drag his body into the shower. He hadn't had the motivation to do anything really, other than replay the memories he held so dear to his heart.

But as he looked around his apartment, still teeming with the life you lived there, disdain rose up his throat like bile; burning a path through his body until he was boiling over with it.

Your most recent book was still open on the coffee table, the collection you brought with you still mixed with his on the massive bookshelf. Your slippers were still haphazardly strewn across the floor where you left them that morning, the echo of your halfhearted attempt to convince him to call in sick was still so fresh.

He felt something hot and putrid clawing its way out of him, singing every piece of skin and bone it touched on its way out. It was nasty, and vile, leaving a trail of change in its wake. Spencer could feel the mutation in his soul. He could feel the emptiness devour him whole, chewing on his bones for every last morsel he had to offer.

All that was left was a devastating rage. A fury that threatened the world around him. An indignation that promised singed handprints wherever he touched. A wrath so powerful he was no longer the man he was proud of. He was a stranger, an offensive mockery of what once was.

And the best part?

Spencer didn't care.

Spencer didn't care as he stood up and kicked the coffee table into the wall sending glass shattering all over the floor. He plucked the book out of the pile of carnage, not giving a shit about the splinters of glass embedded into his fingertips.

Spencer didn't care as he ripped the pages out of the book, hurling the empty hardback through the window. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the destruction sparkled around him.

Next was his bookshelf, the stories and words he'd share with you when the two of you couldn't sleep now flung across the room. The bookshelf was toppled, and not a care in the world was given as it crashed to the floor.

Spencer was a whirlwind of devastation, a tornado of obliteration so fierce there wasn't a corner nor cabinet that was untouched by rage.

Wherever you lingered, he destroyed. The chair you'd always sit at was slammed into the wall. The mug you favored was shattered against the floor. Every instance of your memory, of your ghost, was annihilated by his hand.

When he got to the bedroom, his chest heaving with firey vengeance, he paused.

Your side of the bed was still crinkled, the indention of your head imprinted on the pillow. Your Kindle was still charging on your nightstand. Your knickknacks and decorations still hung in every corner and on every shelf.

It was like you were just at the store and he should start dinner so it would be hot for when you got home. Like you were in the shower or on call. Anything but dead.

He couldn't tear apart the last remaining proof that you lived, that you had grasped his heart with your bare hands and allowed him the same privilege.

No, he couldn't bring himself to taint the preserved capsule of the life he shared with you with anger. Or sadness. Or the grief that left him raw and vulnerable. He couldn't even step one foot past the doorway.

He closed the door.

There was no use in even trying.

Before he could move on to the bathroom, the itch in his fist for more destruction too tempting for someone so usually non-violent, his phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

Spencer didn't feel like answering it or talking to someone about his wife and the chokehold her death has on him. He was perfectly content in watching his world crumble around him alone.

But it rang. And it rang. And it rang.

In a sudden burst of energy, Spencer marched right up to the source of the maddening noise. His mobile phone was neatly tucked into his satchel pocket, at fifty percent, just the way he left it after unceremoniously tossing the stupid fucking bag to the floor.

Spencer grabbed the phone in one hand and his heaviest lamp in the other. There was something so twisted about the relief that flooded him every time he brought the base of the lamp down on the phone.

His teammates would call it overkill if the phone was a person and the lamp was a knife. They would profile him as someone who was devolving, someone so close to snapping almost entirely that they had to act swiftly. In a way, he was. In a way, he was exactly like the monsters they hunted for the bloodlust that raged through him was for one thing only.

No amount of superficial destruction could keep his need for violence a bay. No, Spencer needed something organic to put his fists through. But for now, the insistent ringing of his phone has stopped, and he felt just a tad bit better.

Until his landline rang.

There was no breaking this phone, the technology old but surprisingly durable. So he only had one choice left if he were to save the last remaining shred of sanity he was clinging to.

"What the fuck is so important that you have to call me every six seconds?!"

He seethes, face hot with ire.

"Woah," J.J, breathes into the phone. "Calm down, Spence. I'm just calling to check up on you."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Spen-. I'm sorry. I just needed to know you were okay."

Spencer was beyond annoyed, beyond aggravated. He could feel himself splitting at the seems with hatred and violence.

And Spencer didn't care if he was taking it out on his friend. Spencer stopped caring a long time ago.

"Oh, I'm fucking fantastic J.J. Just beaming with joy! It's not like my wife died not even twenty four hours ago. No, everything's happy unicorns and God damn rainbows."

J.J. just sighed.

"Spencer, I'm just trying to be there for you."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. But instead of comforting him like it should have, like it had done in the past, it irritated him even more.

"Sure, thanks."

Spencer was ready to hang up, ready to unplug the phone and toss it out of the broken window. But he heard something in the background, and his attention was once again drawn away from his agony.

It sounded as if someone were speaking to J.J., their tone urgent and dead serious. Spencer couldn't make out the words, but he could make out the importance of them.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. We're just having some problems with an unsub."

He knew exactly who she was talking about, knew why she was purposefully vague with him. And the second it all clicked, the second a plan swiftly formed in his head, he was dead set on a path.

"Okay... just- stop calling me for a while."

He played into the grieving husband shtick, not letting a drop of indignation seep through his voice. Arousing suspicion would nip his brilliant plan in the bud, and Spencer just couldn't have that.

J.J. was hesitant to agree, with her being an amazing friend and all, but ultimately relented. Spencer just needed space is all, at least that's what she told herself.

Spencer gently sat the receiver down, an eerie calm settling over him. It was a rage he'd never felt before, one that guaranteed an end. A retribution.

Revenge.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was easy for Spencer to just walk into headquarters.

Too easy.

Maybe it was because of the pallor of his skin, or the dark bags that had become so much darker. Maybe it was even the shabby robe he still wore; his pajamas reeking of depression.

Either way, Spencer didn't linger for long. The faster he was in and out, the less suspicion he'd raise. The less suspicion he arose, the longer he'd have with his ultimate agenda.

It was calculated perfectly, executed just so. Swiftly enter the building, sadly waving to the guards all the while mumbling about friends, and help, and shoulders to cry on. Sympathy was so easy to wrangle, so easy to manipulate.

They let him in, their eyes downcast to avoid the miserable expression on his face. He should be upset at how easy it was to get in. There really should be more security. But then again, he didn't really care, did he?

He breezed passed the main office, passed the badge check, and into the elevator. Now would probably be the point where reality would hit. Was he really planning on interfering with an ongoing investigation, just to get answers he could deduce himself?

But none of that even registered as he watched the numbers slowly click up.

The lobby leading into the bullpen was empty, void of his friends or the others he knew only in passing. He was alone. The perfect environment to enable his downward spiral.

That collected calmness puppeteered him like a marionette, its hooked claws pulling the strings of his limbs towards the hallway that led to the interrogation rooms.

This is where he heard the commotion of the BAU in action. Hushed demands, muffled yelling, the occasional sigh of frustration. They hadn't noticed him yet, his socked feet concealing his footsteps.

He popped his head around the corner, watching as Hotch, Morgan, and Emily whisper to each other in front of the viewing window. J.J. and Rossi were sitting inside the room, their backs towards the window and their undivided attention upon Dimitri Cain.

Just the sight of the man had his blood boiling, his fingers twitching, and his throat closing around a violent burst of every emotion possible.

Anger- because his wife was dead and he was the man responsible.

Sadness- because he was reminded that he could never look upon the love of his life ever again.

Jealousy- because he wasn't the one in the room, demanding answers and getting them.

Joy- because he was closer to scratching that itch than he thought possible.

J.J. and Rossi exit the room, their faces grim and arms crossed with frustration. The five of them move away from the interrogation room.

"We need to form another plan,"

He heard Hotch say, his voice tight and stern.

The team agreed and left the door in the hands of a guard whilst they plotted. Now was the perfect time. He couldn't believe the luck he was having.

Maybe there was such a thing as the divine.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dr. Reid."

The guard said as Spencer approached.

"I was called in to help, you can ask Hotch but I doubt he'd enjoy being second-guessed."

"I just don't think-"

"Please..."

Spencer pleaded, and the tone he used was genuine this time. There was no manipulation nor tactic to persuade, only unadulterated desperation.

"I need something to do."

The words unsaid seemed to be as loud as those spoken, the guard's face falling with sympathy as he hesitated.

I need something to distract me.

Only a brief second did Spencer play with the idea of attacking the guard. He knew of all the pressure points to swiftly and quietly take him down; it wouldn't be hard to get what he needed.

But the guard stepped aside.

"Thank you."

The heavy door was opened.

Spencer stepped through, his body tingling with a blazing fire.

The door clicked shut.

He was alone with the object of his undoing. The breaker of his world. And there was nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose.

Spencer sat across from Dimirti, the man in question eyeing him with a speculating gaze.

"You're gettin' nothin' outta me."

Dimitri leaned back and blatantly challenged Spencer.

"I just have a few questions."

"Are you even a fuckin' fed? You look like shit."

Spencer unconsciously mimicked Dimirti's stance, staring the man down with an unbreaking mask of tranquil fury. He let his silence answer for him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Alright, I see how it is."

"And how is it, Dimitri?"

"It's that reverse psychology shit, not gonna work on me."

Spencer just shook his head.

"Just ask me the stupid fuckin' questions already so I can get this shit over with."

Spencer hummed, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Why did you take her?"

"Again with this bitch-"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Eyes wide, Dimitri stilled. Then, realization glided across his face. A slow smile spread, tainting Spencer with its wickedness.

"You're the husband."

It wasn't a question but a mere statement.

You got what you want, I have a husband-

Please! I don't want to die!

Spencer pounced like a lion, toppling the table with Dimitri still cuffed to it. He was lost in the rage, mind, and body willingly subject to the agonizing fury that was slowly becoming a shield.

He couldn't hear anything, not a thought registered. Only the broken screams of his wife as she pleaded to live.

Spencer straddled Dimitri, completly in control as the man beneath him writhed.

Something sick and twisted bloomed inside him with the first punch. With the second, that evil forged a bond with his soul. Once pure and golden, Spencer Reid was now as dark as the blood that seeped from Dimitri's nose.

On the third punch, Spencer could feel the cartilage break. The splintering of his knuckles was nothing but an afterthought to the satisfaction and relief that plagued him.

Dimitri wiggled under him, trying with all his might to kick him off or slide his hands out of the cuffs. But Spencer kept going.

He brought his fist down again, Dimitri's face already swollen beyond recognition. The deep burgundy of Dimitri's blood sprayed across Spencer's face, across his chest, and outward into the air.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, he was giddy. His face stretched in a feral grin, every tooth shining with glee as he continued to pummel Dimitri into the stained marble floor.

Someone was screaming, the ragged and unfamiliar sound muffled like it was underwater. His ears were ringing, adrenaline and undiluted grief pushing everything Spencer ever was deep into an iron box and tossing it down the hole you left in his heart.

It wasn't until he was ripped from Dimirti, that he realized he was the one screaming.

"You killed her!"

Spencer thrashed against the strong body behind him, the grip under his arms unmoving despite his best efforts.

"You killed my wife!"

Feebly, Spencer tried to continue the beating, swinging his long legs towards the motionless body lying on the floor. Something wet hit his face, the sensation shocking his senses back into the present.

Derek was behind him, growling his name like Spencer was a rogue unsub who refused to listen.

He was dragged out of the room, his limbs now hanging numbly at his sides. Cold metal was wrapped around his wrists before anyone even tried talking to him.

Spencer welcomed the bite, savoring the only thing he could feel.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Hotch was in his face, his eyes wide with frustration. The team was behind him, but Spencer didn't even spare them a glance. He just looked past Hotch, unseeing and unfeeling.

"Spencer!"

Finally, he dragged his emotionless gaze towards his boss who was frothing at the mouth with anger.

"I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know? What do you mean, 'I don't know'? I should fire you!"

"Then do it."

What did he have to live for anyways?

A team that would only look at him with pity? A family that would treat him like he were made of glass, cracked and begging to be shattered.

Hotch huffed a sigh, hands on his hips.

"Listen, kid. I know exactly what you're going through. Vengeance isn't the answer."

"Says the man who did the same exact thing I just did. The only difference between you and me is that you got your retribution immediately."

Spencer hated the look of understanding that creased Hotch's brows, the empathy that threatened to undo all the apathy that was holding him together.

"This anger isn't going to bring her back..."

Spencer knew this. He knew nothing could bring you back. No amount of praying, religious devotion, and possible rituals would bring you back to him.

The simple truth was that he was lost without you.

He didn't know how to live without you by his side.

Something dripped onto his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up and could see nothing but his swimming vision, he realized he was crying.

An unstoppable sob wracked his body, forcing his shoulders to cave in and his chest to implode. The damn was bursting, his walls cracking with each broken cry.

When he took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to control the crumbling mess that was his mental state, it all crashed around him.

His throat burned with the intensity of his scream. All his grief, all his anger, and sadness, and desolation were unleashed. He curled in on himself, hugging his sides as if he were able to replicate the feeling of your embrace.

The team surrounded him, hushed assurances, and murmured comfort as they all wrapped their arms around him. It still wasn't enough.

It still wasn't you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A/N- This was supposed to cure my writer's block, but it still has its claws in me. I keep comparing my writing and my stories to those I see on my feed and I only get discouraged. But comparison is the thief of joy, so please let me know if you enjoy this. Feedback is very much welcome in any form but I need to know if I'm doing something right.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #no use of y/n #angst #angst no comfort #dealing with grief #crashing out #canon typical violence #last part

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bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue · 2 days ago

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I love seeing all your fandom origin stories! Mine was when I was 5 and picked out Meet Molly from my school’s library, and my grandmother read it to me after I got home from school. I read almost all the books from our library’s little American Girl section (although not all in order)! It’s been an on-and-off obsession ever since, probably the oldest one I’ve ever had.

I did see the little photos and mail-in cards that showed the dolls in the backs of the books, but had no idea they were primarily a doll brand—for a few years I thought the dolls were a fun side thing, probably much to the relief of my parents’ wallets.…

American Girl fans of Tumblr, what was your very first exposure to the brand?

Mine was finding a Meet Kaya book in my primary school's library.

#american girl #american girl dolls #dolls #toys #books #children’s books #children #fandom #stories #textpost #maya’s musings #another embarrassing fun fact/piece of Maya Lore™️:#so you know the pages at the beginnings of the books that show every girl and their story’s year in order?#when my grandmother was reading ‘meet molly’ to me we started with that page #and i pointed to the oldest one (kaya whose year is 1764) and was like ‘were you alive then?’#and was actually kinda disappointed to hear that she was ‘only’ as old as molly’s decade (the 1940s)#and my grandfather was ‘only’ as old as kit’s decade (the 1930s)#so i sort of credit that with being the first time i got actual perspective on historical timelines/events at age 5 #another fun/embarrassing piece of Maya Lore™️ is that i also think american girl was my first exposure to the concepts of race and racism #i brought home ‘meet addy’ from the library and my grandmother read that one to me too #and i’d never heard of the civil war or slavery before (since i was 5) so my grandmother explained it to me #(quite well actually considering she wasn’t born or educated in the us and immigrated here at age 29!)#and at the end of her explanation i was like ‘does slavery still exist?’ and she was like ‘no…abraham lincoln…blah blah blah’#and then i asked ‘do black and white people still exist?’#somehow in her whole explanation she’d forgotten to mention that this was based on people’s skin color and ‘black’ meant dark brown-skinned #so i just thought ‘black’ and ‘white’ were arbitrary categories given to people #and addy looked like my african american friends at school for totally unrelated reasons #like i said—embarrassing but kinda fascinating look into a young child’s mind and view on race!

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phantomwithbreakfast · 3 days ago

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⁀➴ 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦 ⚡︎ 𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪

Laughing through tears, unraveling in between. Die with a smile, right? If the world was ending… (:

Being hyper-fixated is one thing. But obsessive? That’s a whole new level of delulu. The squishy hug is proof of it—a desperate grasp at something intangible. I WANT ONE!

Danny lingers behind me, like a shadow of my imagination. A figment, a Phantom, a whisper of something that shouldn’t exist yet clings to me like a haunting. He is the echo of my emotions, the reflection of my fractures. We are two broken souls intertwined, unraveling in tandem.

He is my impossible soulmate—a story never meant to be, yet written in the core of my own being.

My OC Hailey together with my Danny OOC. ♡

⟢ NEVER going to draw sneakers from the back ever again.

⟢ full post lurking on my instagram.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #phandom #digital art #procreate #digital illustration #digital drawing #oc #oc art #danny phantom ooc #danny phantom au #dp #dp art #oc artwork #meet the artist #ghost boy

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lsunstreakerl · 2 days ago

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sunny i would die for seb and lewis’s reactions to finding out they neglected max in that a/b/o verse

maybe... maybe more on this later... I'm already at 1.6k words though so here you go!

"I mean, come on man, it can't be any worse than Max."

Lewis's voice is light as he laughs, and he's trying to ease the new rookies into the pack, make them feel at home, but Daniel's jaw clenches anyways, scent sharpening.

He's been butting heads with Lewis for the past year- hard enough convincing Max that his omega status didn't have anything to do with him leaving, even harder to actually leave him.

He'd been hoping with three new rookies maybe the pack would start to ease up- they're closer to Max's age, knew him as kids.

But here Lewis is, using him as some kind of scapegoat, and Daniel-

Hulk nudges him gently.

"Mate- you are going to stink up the whole room if you don't quit."

Daniel forces the feeling back down, gets control back over his scent. Still- when Lewis gets a taste of it, looks over at him with concern- Daniel meets his gaze head on, lip curling slightly in a snarl.

It's openly defiant, and he's lucky no one else notices, otherwise Lewis would be forced to confront it immediately, handle whatever challenge Daniel has for him publicly.

But Lewis doesn't like to lead like that, so he just narrows his eyes before he finishes the rookie tour.

Daniel means to forget about it, scrolling his phone in the lounge when the door swings back open. Lewis stalks back in, and his scent is both confused and agitated.

"What the fuck, Daniel?"

Daniel barely glances up from his phone. He hasn't done anything close to forgetting about it- he's spent the last forty five minutes remembering every slight against Max, getting progressively more worked up about it, and his scent is permeating the room, defensive and angry.

If he's finally going to blow his lid about the Max thing, he's going to make it worth it.

Seb slips in, and both Charles and Hulk follow- two people Daniel is likely to listen to if somehow the pack alpha and omega can't get through to him.

They'll probably have a whole crowd by the time Daniel is done.

"Can I help you?"

Seb's eyebrows shoot up as Lewis snarls softly.

"I don't know what your problem is Dan, but if we could talk about it, instead of you challenging me when I'm bringing in rookies-"

Daniel scoffs.

"What, like bringing in rookies is sacred? I'm not exactly sure when you two started giving a shit about that."

Seb looks startled at being included, but Daniel's certainly not letting him get out of it.

"Daniel- bringing in rookies has always been important to us."

The snarl from his chest surprises even him, the result of years of watching Max, endlessly hopeful for approval and acknowledgment but never getting it, watching a pup- an omega pup- try and hide his heartbreak each time he's passed over-

Garages are not meant to be packs, but Redbull is, because the drivers pack has failed.

"Go ahead and tell that to Max, yeah? I'm sure he'll agree with you."

The scents in the room sour, and Lewis's face scrunches up.

"Okay- I know we dropped the ball on Max, but Daniel- he's a beta. And he's okay, clearly."

Daniel's scent is a thick cloud in the room, ozone and lightning, a near oppressive miasma.

"Alex is a beta. So was Sergey. That didn't stop either of them from being brought into the pack, did it?"

He abruptly stands up, and Seb takes a step back while Lewis snarls back at him, but Daniel's not backing down, not even to the pack alpha, not for this, not for Max.

"And don't fucking tell me that 'he's okay'. You aren't in that garage- you'd love to pretend he doesn't exist, wouldn't you?"

His accent has thickened, and Seb releases his scent a bit, tries to sooth the room.

"Daniel- I think we've had a miscommunication, yes? Max has not wanted to be in the pack."

"Oh don't- don't even start-"

Daniel's growling, low in his chest.

"You wouldn't know, because you never fucked asked- and if you had, maybe you would have realized that he did, he just doesn't know how to say it- and maybe that's because he's a fucking pup!"

He's right up and Lewis's face, and Lewis finally lets go on his scent- there's a brief moment where it's smothering, telling Daniel to stand down, but-

"Or maybe you could use your eyes, or your nose, or if you're feeling really generous, your brain- and you'll notice he's not a damn beta at all, you stupid cunts, he's an omega, and right now Redbull's picking up all the slack!"

Max had- Max had begged Daniel not to tell them, but Daniel can't keep it to himself anymore, can't bear to watch it- and Max feels betrayed enough already, it's not like he can make it worse.

There's a sharp scent change, horror from Seb and a deep note of surprise from Charles and Hulk, but Lewis-

Lewis makes a wounded noise, stepping back.

"No- no? No, we would have- we would have noticed."

Daniel feels the laugh bubble out of him.

"Well, great job on that front, cheers to the pack alpha, yeah? Wrap it up, Lewis Hamilton is soooo great he can decide dynamics now!"

"Daniel."

Seb's voice is sharp, the one he used when Daniel was younger, getting into things he shouldn't, toeing the line in press conferences. Daniel doesn't care- he's not the rookie anymore, he had his own rookie, and he's doing exactly what Seb taught him to do- protecting him.

Daniel doesn't want to hear whatever it is Seb has to say- something to smooth over the situation, to make it less than it is, and he doesn't-

He doesn't want to hear it.

"No, fuck that, I'm going out."

He stalks past Lewis, who takes a few steps after him.

"Hamilton, if you don't actually want to fight with me right now, stop following."

Daniel lets the door slam behind him, and some part of him feels the sting- he's treating pack like shit right now, but deeper, tucked underneath it-

He wants to go see Max. If only to sooth the ache in his own chest. Wants to curl up in the team nest and have Max doze off next to him, bury his nose in his hair and smell pine and tart blackberries, the slight edge of milky pup scent he hasn't quite managed to get rid of yet.

No one in Redbull has told Max- as far as Daniel is aware- that when he's curled up in a pack pile, deeply asleep, sometimes he'll purr.

It's a treasured memory, because Max straight up refuses to do it any other time. GP has the best luck in the team of drawing it out, but Daniel is a close second.

Was a close second.

He stops for a moment, realizing he can't. He can't go to back to Redbull and climb in the nest, can't curl up with Max and the others, and this is why garages aren't usually pack- it hurts too much when a driver leaves.

"Fuck."

------

It's Charles that breaks the silence, looking wide-eyed at Seb.

"Max? Max is an omega?"

Seb opens his mouth before shutting it again. He's not-

He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to make it better, hasn't even fully digested the implications of what Daniel had shouted at them.

Max Verstappen is a beta. He's an aggressive beta, cocky and arrogant, who wants nothing to do with them, and he's a danger to the pack on track.

Seb's head hurts. Trying to reframe it-

Max Verstappen is an omega. He's practically still a pup, has pack bonded with his garage, and-

And wanted to be part of the pack. As a driver. Because he is, he's a driver, and he's so young still, and he's-

"Seb,"

It's Lewis with his hand on his shoulder, soothing him, and Seb barely recognizes his own scent, drenched in shame and guilt and sorrow.

"We'll fix it- we can go talk to him."

An omega. They're few and far between as is- the loss of Nico to the grid had been rough, and even now as Seb is thinking about it, Nico had spent so much time with Max-

"Lewis- Lewis, Nico knew-"

He sees the moment it hits Lewis as well, jaw clenching as his squeezes his eyes shut briefly.

"Damn it."

Lewis turns to Charles and Hulk.

"You two- none of this leaves this room until Seb and I get it figured out, got it?"

Charles nods meekly, half hidden behind Hulk, and Seb is sure the two of them smell horrid at the moment, but they need to fix this-

Omega. A pup, and Seb had seen Jos, there's no way Max got what he needed, and he's-

He's relying on his garage for his needs, when garages aren't built for it, aren't designed to withstand pack dynamics. They can't function under the strain, and the chances of having a Team Principal who is also a pack alpha are slim. A Team Principal and separate pack alpha leads to issues within the pack, and he has no idea how Redbull has been managing for two years.

God. Max wasn't even an adult, and all Seb had seen was an arrogant kid, hadn't even taken a second to look further.

Maybe if he had they wouldn't have missed it.

Instead, they now have a deeply damaged pack bond with Daniel, a nonexistent pack bond with a grid omega, and potentially an entire team under packbond strain.

How this is only blowing up their faces now is a miracle.

#omegaverse #yes seb you fucked up #ficlet

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kasagia · 2 days ago

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Tell me it's you...

Pairing: young!Aleksander "Eric" Morozova/Darkling x fem!heartrender! reader Summary: The legendary Darkling saves your life from the Drüskells. You tell your friend Eric about this, but he advises you against seeking the Shadow Summoner. You don't listen to him. And you find him closer than you dared to think he was. Now you beg him to stay with you. Aleksander Morozova's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist Oneshot inspired by: "Tell me it's you" from Mufasa... yeah, I just couldn't leave that song. I never thought The Lion King would inspire me to write a oneshot for Darkling... Hope you enjoy it! Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @chelseyyouraverageluigi @watersquirtpewpewboomm @summersummoner-pat

"It was... like something out of an adventure novel. I'm telling you, Eric, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Suddenly, shadows appeared; I couldn't see practically anything, and then they cut Drüskells in half. I... I've never seen such power. In anyone. Ever." You tell your friend in shock, half-sitting, half-lying on his bed as he bustles around you, tending to your wounds.

"You may have imagined it. No one has seen the Darkling or any of his ancestors in centuries. Shadow Summoners are freaks of nature. The fact that they are virtually nonexistent shows that they shouldn't exist." The dark-haired man replies dismissively.

You grab his hand as he's about to apply gauze soaked in the medicinal plant dimension to your cut brow and give him an offended look.

"No, Eric, I know what I saw. Maybe not exactly; maybe I didn't really see him, but it was definitely a Shadow Summoner. As when the king's men were pursuing us and we were hidden from their view by a cloud of shadow. The fact that there are few of them proves how powerful they are. Not everyone is meant to wield such responsibility on their arms. To be a saviour." You say and let go of his hand.

"You speak too highly of him. He's probably a power-hungry maniac, a heretic, not some Grisha saviour."

"I know it's him. I'm sure of it. Just as I know it's him and only the Shadow Summoner who can stop this hunt for us. We have to find him. Maybe you don't feel it, but I do. Without him... without him we have no reason to even try to fight the Tsar, Fjerda, Shu Han, and Ravka for our freedom."

Eric sighs and shakes his head in disbelief at your stubbornness. But he doesn't have time to respond to you, because suddenly his mother enters their one-room, small cottage.

He pulls away from you and gives his mother a warning look. You only stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him because the older woman walks straight to you, ignoring her son.

"The whole village is gossiping that they saw my son bring you unconscious and bloody to our hut. What happened to you, little heartreder? Did you use your powers on yourself?"

She nods at the young healer in the doorway while examining you. And if you didn't know her better, you'd almost believe the older woman was actually worried about you. Luda steps to your side and uses her powers to heal you. You clench your teeth and look at your teacher, slightly offended.

"I was taking Marika home. We took a shorter path through the forest, and the Drüskells attacked us. She ran away and alarmed Eric, and I... somehow managed to scare them away." You lie to her about the last part, feeling your friend's burning gaze on you.

Earlier, you promised him that your... unusual encounter with the Shadow Summoner would stay between you. It wasn't safe to talk about them. Besides, you doubt the old woman would believe your story, however true it is.

You nod in thanks to Luda and try to ignore the burning feeling of jealousy as she sends one of her longing glances towards Eric. You quickly regain control, reminded of the watchful gaze of the older woman who was still present.

"I don't understand why that girl called my son, since he controls his powers like a baby controls urine." You're very proud of how you manage to keep from snorting in amusement at her ridiculous remark. Eric, on the other hand, seems to not appreciate at all his mother's teasing.

"I'm here, mother."

"And you should be in the village and working. I don't know what you want to feed yourself with, but now that winter is coming, it will be harder and harder. Stop hovering over that poor girl like a dog over a hedgehog and go find yourself some useful occupation. I'll look after her."

"But, mother..."

"Go, Eric. I'll see you later." You assure him with a warm, gentle smile.

He sighs and gives his mother one last, warning look and approaches the bed. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and after making sure your wounds have healed nicely, he leaves.

"What?" You ask her, blushing slightly with embarrassment as she stares at you.

"One day, he'll put me in my grave, and he'll regret it." She sighs and stands, her black hair interwoven with more frequent streaks of grey, and you see her hands shaking slightly as she hands you a cup of herbal tea.

Lately, you've started to notice that she... stopped looking so young. Before, you couldn't believe that Eric was her son, but now, it seems, time has started to catch up with her. And she's become impossibly more grumpy and stubborn.

"Will he?" You ask, raising an eyebrow teasingly and taking a sip.

"Don't let yourself get carried away, little brat. Just because you make him more bearable doesn't give you the right to mock me. You know perfectly well that this halfwit is head over heels in love with you. So for the sake of all of us, kill it before you break your hearts."

"I... we are just friends." You persist in refusing to admit your feelings to her. She looks at you for a long moment and sighs, nodding at you reproachfully.

"Believe the words of an old woman, Y/N. You... you deserve something more. Don't destroy your peace and life because of one pair of pretty eyes."

"We are not together." You repeat yourself, not even trying to explain to her how beautiful Eric's dark irises were. Worth any pain he could bring you—something you doubt would ever happen anyway.

He was too good to hurt you. Ever. However. He was... Eric. You could always count on his help and support; he always somehow managed to be there for you when you needed him the most. So how could you fight your growing feelings for him?

"I know. But I also know him and you. So trust me when I say, he is not good enough for you."

"Aren't you confusing your roles? Shouldn't you be saying this to Eric?" The woman frowns the moment you say her son's name.

She sighs and gets out of bed, arms folded, when she was staring at you—as if her cold, disapproving gaze would change the way your stupid heart sped up whenever he was around.

"Usually the voice of reason does not break through the deafening scream of foolish love. And this boy... he is a lost cause."

"Maybe I like lost causes?"

"Y/N... you are a smart girl. So for your own good, leave before it's too late." She gathers your things and offers you a hand to help you up.

You accept her unusual, gentle help and take your bundle from her. You absentmindedly stroke the charm on your bracelet—a small stone of your favourite gemstone that Eric gave you for your birthday—as you think about how to respond to her.

"I... I am not going anywhere. I promised him I won't leave him. He is my friend."

"Ehhh... stupid child." The woman shakes her head, irritated by our stubbornness, and leads you to the exit.

You are already on your way to the village when Baghra notices a familiar figure lurking in the recesses of the hut. Her mood darkens even further when she realises an extra, unwanted pair of ears has heard your conversation.

"Happy, Aleksander? Or should I call you Eric?" The woman huffs in exasperation and grabs her old journal from the table.

"You yourself said I should hold my real name away from anyone." Aleksander answers her with the same cold, emotionless tone she gives him and steps out of his shadows.

Only now does Baghra take a moment to look at him. He snorts when he sees the streak of blood carefully hidden beneath his cloak from your view. But not from hers.

"I should also mention your stupid heart then. She will die before you, you know that, right? No matter how much you love her or how hard you will try to protect her, she will grow old, and you will remain in the same shape as today."

"Unless I stop summoning."

"As if you could. I bet you've already done it today, right?" Aleksander turns his gaze away from her. He watches your retreating figure from the window, his heart clenching at the thought that one day he will no longer be able to be by your side or watch you from his shadows. "Let her live her life. She may be a powerful heartrender, but she is still not us, Aleksander. She won't live forever; she is not equal to us. Can you watch her slipping away from your fingers each day? Watch her die in your arms?"

He clenches his fists. Unconsciously, he lets his shadows break free and spread throughout the hut. Baghra sighs and approaches him. She places her hand hesitantly on his shoulder, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

"We overstayed here, Aleksander. I leave in a week. And if you really care about her, you will leave with me." Baghra looks at him for a long moment, then lets go of him. She heads for the exit and puts her hand on the doorknob but stops when she hears his voice.

"And what if I don't?"

Cold silence cuts through the air between them. Baghra looks at her son over her shoulder, and for a moment in his eyes, she sees the glow of her old self. A naive version that didn't yet know the true realities of this world, the curse hidden behind her powers. And since Aleksander wouldn't listen to her, to draw from her experience, all she could do was leave him to realise alone, in pain, that there were no others like them, that they were condemned to a life of solitude.

"Then prepare yourself for losing her anyway."

Aleksander clenches his fists as he is left alone in the hut. He lets his wonders flow out of him as he sinks into total darkness. And even the memory of your smile, something that always managed to fight his darkness, only makes the shadows grow thicker around him. Because as much as he hated his mother, he knew there was some truth in her words. You would eventually leave. And he would be all alone. Again. And even if he told you who he really was... it wasn't at all sure that you wouldn't turn away from him like everyone else before you did.

The truth was that you would cast him out. So he has to leave first... before you break his heart, that you didn't even know that belonged to you the moment he met you and got to know you.

He screams, letting his shadows in him exit through his mouth, swallowing the tears that roll down his cheeks.

"I've asked everywhere, and no one has noticed anyone new coming to the village. So it must be one of the locals or someone who arrived recently. But no one comes to mind, with... well, him. My investigation is at a standstill."

You grumble as you walk beside Eric through the forest path. Snow falls around you, causing a few small flakes to cling to his dark coat and hair. He looked adorable. Even with his red nose and the grimace that appeared on his face whenever you mentioned the Shadow Summoner in his presence.

"Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe he doesn't want to be found? Maybe he prefers to stay in his shadows, where he belongs."

"No, Eric, you... you didn't see what I saw, the power that flowed from him. He killed them all with a wave of his hand; it... it was incredible. If only he hadn't hidden, if only he had gathered us all and led us... maybe we would never have had to hide again, never have to make new homes, never have to worry about being discovered, about having to run away and start our lives over for fear of being tracked down and killed for who we are. You must feel the same way I do. Haven't you had enough? That every time you find a home, someone comes and takes it away just because we can do more than them? That we have power that they fear? Eric... I can't live like this. I'll find him. Even if it's the last thing I do, I have to convince him... there's no other way for us."

"That's a pipe dream, Y/N. Even if he gathers us all... forms an army... even among our own kind, there will be those who would seek to destroy him." He replies sceptically and stops to look at the frozen river. You sigh and shove your hands in your pockets, trying to warm yourself up a little.

"There will always be some. Is that why we have to keep hiding in our holes like rats? The Tsar will never change his mind about us if we don't act. We can't bury our heads in the sand, Eric. I'm not going to... I'm not going to let my children, if I have them, live in a world like that... to go through what we went through."

"Y/N..." He sighs and looks at you for the first time since you brought up the topic of the mysterious Shadow Summoner.

You frown as you see a glimpse of pain and concern in his eyes, wondering what could have caused him such a negative agitation. Before you can say anything back, suddenly an arrow flies near you and embeds itself in the ground not far away from you.

"Come with me." Eric takes your hand, not waiting for your reaction as he starts to drag you away.

He runs, pulling you in the opposite direction of where he heard the barking of dogs and the shouting of men. As you pass the arrow, you see the distinctive Fjerdan finish on it. You curse under your breath and speed up, running with Eric to one of the safe havens you and the other Grisha had set up in case the Drüskells 'witch hunt' resumes.

Unfortunately, you're running too slowly, or there are too many Fjerdans (you can't tell because Eric is pulling you along and setting your pace so fast that you can barely move your legs, let alone look back) to lose them. Your lungs are burning, and your heart is beating fast as you wade through the folds of snow.

You doubt that you'll be able to defend both yourself and Eric because you certainly won't leave him alone to these bloodthirsty men. Or that was the plan, before he pushed you into some Saint-knows-where hole big enough for one of you to hide.

"Stay here."

"No, Eric..." You hiss in desperation and grab his sleeve, realising he'll die if he goes alone.

"Stay here, Y/N. I will be fine. I promise. Just stay right here and wait for me." He cups your cheek in his hand and presses his lips to your forehead as you sob quietly into your hand, holding him tight by his sleeve, not wanting to let go. "Hush. I'll be back. I promise. Just stay here and be quiet."

Despite your efforts, he somehow manages to wiggle out of your grip. As he asked, you press your hand to your mouth and stop all the cries and sounds from escaping your throat. You close your eyes and focus on your surroundings, trying to feel the beating of hearts around you.

You shiver as the ground above you shakes with the force of the Drüskells that are chasing Eric. You try to help him in any way you can, slowing some of their heartbeats, tiring them out more, even managing to stop a few of them altogether—something you could never do in your lessons with Baghra. But it's still not enough; you still feel like there are so many more of them than Eric can handle alone.

So you do probably the stupidest thing, but the only right thing you can do in this situation. You come out of your hiding place and run in the direction Eric ran.

When you reach the clearing, the first thing you notice is him, standing surrounded by Fjerdarns. You see his eyes widen when he sees you, too surprised and frightened to notice one of the Drüskells sneaking up on him.

"Eric!" You scream and lunge at him, your hands moving in a practiced motion, manipulating the blood flow of the Fjerdan who wanted to attack him.

But you walk into the trap yourself, and before you can blink, one of them shoots you with an arrow. You scream in bewilderment and grab your arm, trying to staunch the blood while controlling as many of the Fjerdan soldiers as you can, trying to keep yourself and Eric alive for as long as you can.

And then, shadows spread across the clearing. You close your eyes and sigh with relief as their familiar coldness takes hold of you. Men scream in terror, hunting dogs growl around, but after a moment, everything falls silent. All you hear are two heartbeats: yours, calm and sluggish after losing blood from the wound you inflicted with the shot, and Eric's, quick and sudden.

Before you know it, you begin to sink to your knees, both physically exhausted from running and using your power and emotionally exhausted from almost seeing your deaths.

"It's okay. It's okay. You are safe. I got you." Eric whispers, stroking your hair tenderly as he catches you at the last second. And then something inside you suddenly snaps.

Suddenly, you remember the exact moment your mysterious Shadow Summoner saved you all those weeks ago, and as it turns out, he did it again. Eric could summon shadows. He used them to save you for a second time. He... he was the Shadow Summoner. And with that revelation, you faint in his arms.

When you wake up, it's not by Eric's side like in all those romantic novels you like to read before going to bed—your passion that Eric laughs at you for. No. You wake all alone in some makeshift bed. Or rather, you wish you would wake up alone, because the first person you see is…

"Baghra? Am I in hell?"

"You were close enough." The woman grumbles, pressing a cloth to your shoulder. You hiss as you feel the herbs burn your healer-sealed skin. "My stupid son got it into his empty head because of your little accident that the Drüskelle came here for him. So he left. To give himself to them."

"What?! And you let him?!" I ask angrily and throw the blanket off me. I reach for my coat and quickly button it, searching the small room for my shoes.

"You know him. What was I supposed to do? Only two things can stop this stubborn moose: you and his death."

You sigh angrily at her and quickly tie your shoes. You hiss when your haste and carelessness slightly strain your injured arm. But the pain you feel is only an annoying distraction in the face of fear for Eric's life.

"He left a few hours ago. To the north. If you concentrate hard, you'll be able to feel his heartbeat." Baghra advises you as you take a pair of daggers from her. "Y/N." The woman grabs your elbow and forces you to look at her before you leave in a hurry. "Bring him back in one piece. And yourself too. Saints knows what that imbecile will do if anything happens to you again."

All you can do is nod at her as you leave one of the rooms in your hideout. You push your way through other Grisha, trying to get out of the abandoned tomb you all have turned into a base and back to the surface as quickly as possible.

Your blood boils; everything boils as you think about what will happen if you don't get to him in time. You wonder where he even got that stupid idea of turning himself in to the Fjerdans. It won't solve your problem. They'll still be after you, even more when they realise that they killed... that they killed HIM.

You run through the snow, following Eric's footsteps and praying to every known saint that you'll make it in time. You had so many things to tell him... so many important confessions that you were afraid of. You still are. You realise that... Eric didn't tell the whole truth about himself, but on the other hand, you know that in his situation you would proceed just as carefully and maybe even more.

He was the Shadow Summoner. He created something, creatures that could kill people with a wave of his hand. He was something completely different from you and the rest of the Grisha, something much more powerful. And you know perfectly well that they will only listen to him and follow him. If ever there is anything good for you, it will only be with his rule over you.

Luckily, Eric doesn't run far from you. A few hours later, you're able to feel his heartbeat in the distance, or at least you assume it's his. It's strange to admit to yourself that you know that delicate rhythm perfectly, that you've been listening to that song of his heart unconsciously all those nights you spent together by the fire, snuggled up together, supposedly seeking extra warmth, but in reality subconsciously craving the closeness of the other.

You loved him. Even before the Shadow Summoner thing came to light. And you know he cared about you, too. And you would do anything to keep him with you…to make him what you and the other Grisha needed.

You almost fall to your knees with relief when you finally find him. He stands by the frozen river, staring at it with a blank expression, his fists clenched, completely oblivious to his surroundings. In any other situation, you would have snuck up to him, thrown your arms around his shoulders, and berated him for his lack of attention, but now, all you can do is stare at him silently.

Seeing him makes you realise who he is, what he's capable of, and honestly, all those scary stories about the powerful Shadow Summoner don't fit the Eric you know at all.

But you knew that no matter who he really was… you would be there for him. With him.

"Tell me it's you." You say, pulling him out of his own thoughts. He turns to you slowly, staring at you as if he's seen a ghost, as if he can't believe his eyes that he's seeing you.

"Y/N, you should be resting in the hideout..."

"Tell me it's you. I... I know it's you." You interrupt him and take a few steps closer to him.

He frowns at you, pretending not to know what you're on about, but from the way his eyes widen for a second and his heart skips a beat, you know he knows exactly what you are up to.

"I am afraid that I have no idea what you are talking about. Did you hurt yourself in the head? Let me see."

"Don't make me look crazy, Eric. I know, it's you. I may be stupid enough to not realise it earlier, but I am not that stupid to not see it now. You were always there at every major disaster, saving the day, like you knew exactly where to be; you saw more than any of us... For God's sake, you never even summoned a single damn wind. Baghra lied that you had no control over your powers, that you practically had none, but you hid from all of us that you are... please don't hide from me anymore. Tell me it's you. The one we've been waiting for so damn long."

"I... you have no idea what you are talking about."

"Eric, please..." You reach out to take his hand in yours, but he moves away from you before your skin can touch for even the slightest moment. He breathes heavily, quickly, shocked to find that his best attempts to keep who he is a secret from everyone have been in vain.

"You don't know anything, Y/N! I am not even Eric; I... I don't know what I am. What you think I am... I am not. I am surely not anyone's saviour. Whatever you saw... you don't know what you have seen. I... forget about it." He mumbles, his eyes wandering on your figure as he decides what to do, what to say to make you change your mind, to make you doubt what you have seen.

You can see the internal struggle in him, as he wants to reach out for you, but at the same time, he is also keeping his distance from you. So seeing his conflict, the panic state he found himself in, all you want to do is soothe him.

"I see you." You interrupt him and cup his cheek in your hand, grounding him for a moment, making him forget everything else as he looks at you. The lump in his throat eases; he feels the tension in his body leave as you stroke his bearded cheek tenderly with your thumb. "I may not know your real name, or the amount of power and responsibility or pain you carry within you... but I know your soul. I know the man you are trying to hide behind your shadows... but I won't allow you. Not anymore."

He instinctively nuzzles his face into your hand. He closes his eyes, unable to bear your sympathetic gaze any longer. He knows he should do to you what he did to all those who came before you: push you away, make you believe he'll disappear forever, go along with his mother's plan, and let you think he died at the hands of the Fjerdans, but... he couldn't. Not with you. Not when you've become involuntarily an important part of his sour heart that's sought your light like grass hidden for months under snow.

He's been alone in the darkness of his shadows for too long. And if letting you in meant breaking him completely... then he thought a few years with you were worth every pain that resulted from the subsequent loneliness.

"Ever since you appeared, I've been running from something deep inside. And it's worse than I feared, because I look in your eyes, and I can't hide. I tried to push you away..."

"Don't push me away." You interrupt him and take a step closer to him.

"But the feelings come back, just twice as strong." He finishes his thought and wraps his hand around the wrist of your hand that’s still caressing his cheek, tangling his other hand in your hair and pulling you closer to him so he can press a kiss to the top of your head. "And I... I don't know what to say." He whispers shakily, closing his eyes and burying his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent like calming salts.

"You know just what to say." You respond in an equally uncertain, tearful tone, holding him tightly against you, not letting him move an inch away from you, not when you finally have him where you need him—pressed against you.

"I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere. I never did. Every time I find a home, something happens to take that home away. You do not want such a stray like me."

"You are exactly where you should be. The way you feel when you're with me... Beside me... This is the most right… this feels the most right. Please, don't hide from me anymore." You say, slightly pulling away from him to look into his dark eyes.

He tightens his grip on your hair, his gaze on you burning, almost electric as he stares into your eyes as if they were the answer to all his questions and doubts.

You don't know what he finds in them, but they're convincing enough for him to lean slightly toward you, tightening his grip on your wrist and holding your hand against his cheek as if you'd even dared to think for a moment about letting go of him.

He brushes his nose against yours, a hot shiver running through you as you feel his breath on your lips, the beating of his heart speeding up madly, slowly becoming the only thing you can hear. You close your eyes, allowing yourself one quick breath before you lean down and connect your lips in a shy kiss.

He doesn't allow that insult. In an instant he's all over you, wrapping his hand around your waist and pressing you against him. He deepens the kiss, his full lips caressing yours with incredible gentleness and passion as you both moan softly, finally doing what your hearts have longed for for so long.

You start to lose your breath, but that's nothing when you finally feel his hands on you, the warmth of his body so close to you, the taste of his lips that turns out to be so much better than the best candy you sometimes bought at the market. It was addictive, magnetic, the most intoxicating first kiss you've ever experienced. And not because he was the Shadow Summoner, but simply because he was himself—your Eric.

Eventually, you have to pull away. Your lungs are burning, demanding your stolen heart, but they can't find their voice. Your heart is screaming with joy, pure excitement that quickly dies when you open your eyes and meet his worried gaze, the familiar frown of contemplation you've grown to hate over the past few weeks.

Whatever he wants to say dies on his lips as you silence him with another quick, needed kiss. You desperately think about what to say to him, how to convince him to stay with you, and you realise that you have only one good bargaining chip he could be truly interested in—yourself.

"Don't run away anymore. Don't run away from us... from me." You ask him, placing your hand on the side of his neck, moving away just a few millimetres—just so you can look at him properly, begging him not to leave.

"If you knew what I've been doing all these years… what crimes I've committed, what I've been a passive witness to… what I'm capable of… you'd curse me like they all before you did."

"You don't know that. You can't know. We've been waiting for you for so long, Eric…"

"Aleksander." He interrupts you, looking at you thoughtfully. His hand moves to gently cup your cheek as he traces the line of your lower lip with his thumb. "My name is Aleksander." He repeats in a whisper, causing a faint blush to form on your cheeks.

"Aleksander." You test his name on your tongue, and you know from the way his eyes soften and tears well up in them how deeply he is touched by the tenderness with which you say the name he has protected so much. His real name. "That suits you more. Please, Aleksander... Sasha... don't run away this time."

"I..." He’s speechless at the endearing nickname you gave him. All he can do is bury his nose in your hair and pull you closer to him, engulfing you in a desperate embrace as if you’re the one who’s about to run away.

And from the way he strokes your back, the way he breathes in your scent, you know he won't leave you. You've found the Shadow Summoner. Now all you had to do was stay by his side and help him unite Grisha. And while you were at it… you could take advantage of the special care he'd bestowed upon you. For as long as fate would allow.

Thanks for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it. I really appreciate any comments and kudos/hearts if you want to take your time to share your thoughts about this one. Have a nice day/night!! 😊🖤🖤🩵🖤🖤

#aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling x reader #oneshot #the darkling #romance #aleksander morozova #shadow and bone #eric x reader #baghra morozova #darkling x reader #the darkling x you #aleksander x reader #idiots in love #confession #first kiss #hidden identity #mufasa the lion king

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paranoiddreams · 1 day ago

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Long Live the Queen - Prologue

Eden Sukuna is the daughter of the Queen and King of Curses, Y/n and Ryomen Sukuna. After her mother dies when she’s only 7 years old, she’s immediately put under the pressure of continuing her mother’s legacy, and becoming a great leader as she once was; but Eden doubts she’s ready for this, having dreams of her own she believes her mother would want her to chase. But her father is unwilling to let go of his expectations for his daughter, and the memory of his wife that comes with them. Unbeknownst to both of them, y/n is unlike the monarchs that once stood in her and her husband’s place, she’s here to fight for her family in life and death; Long Live the Queen, they said…

Warnings!! - Major character death, parental grief, monarchy, swordsmanship, none in this one really :D

WC!! - 570

A/n!! - after asking whether I should post this or not, I got a really good response!! I’m so excited about this, I love this story. If this post preforms well then I may continue the story. Lmk what you all think! Disclaimer, this is VERY inspired by The Cruel Prince, and basically the whole Folk of the Air series by Holly Black, she is my one of my many inspirations for writing hehe. Definitely check out her books if you’re interested in royalty, fantasy, folklore, and Fae😌

Ever since y/n, the Queen to the King of curses, died in a crossfire between a group of enemies infiltrating the Sukuna kingdom, the land she once ruled has never been the same.

The village people sung and held vigils for weeks, sometimes months, after she perished. Murals of her regal beauty were painted all around the village. The plant life seemed to change to a sad gray-blue color that could only mean that even the physical land of her kingdom was grieving as well. But no one, not even the royal land they stood upon, grieved as astoundingly as the king and princess of the Sukuna kingdom.

At just seven years old, Princess Eden had to stand in front of the people her family honorably ruled for centuries before her existence, and listen to her hell bound father tell them that their Queen had died. As she watched an uproar of anguished cries break out over the crowd, she found herself unable to comprehend how she herself should react in the moment.

Eden is her father's daughter after all, so how could she be expected to portray herself as anything but fearless and cold-blooded?

It is still said that the news of Queen y/n’s death brought upon a great storm that lasted weeks over the land, and the rage of the king was felt by all of the village; like a shock wave that destroys everything only a few seconds after the bomb drops.

This brewing storm only mirrored the storm growing inside of Eden; as the years went by and her father became more bound to his mission of hunting down his wife’s killers, it grew even more disastrous than the day before.

But she poured every ounce of herself into the royal training the king insisted on her attending at the early age of ten, hoping to console that part of herself that has remained a distraught seven year old girl.

Eden still practices for hours on the gray hills of grass behind the kingdom, learning to parry, riposte, and feint attacks with a wooden practice sword, just as she did under her father’s supervision in the start.

Sometimes, she catches herself fighting as if she were the Queen in her final moments.

Did she feel the adrenaline Eden does as she slams the side of her sword against her imaginary opponent's? Did she also get bruises on her knees and shins? Queen y/n was known as the most skilled Queen with a sword in all of Sukuna history; did she remember that title in her final battle?

If she did, Eden imagines that it must not have meant much in the face of death.

Sometimes, for a few moments, Eden believes that if she could go back in time with all that she knows now, and fiercely fight for her mother's legacy, she’d be able to save the once thriving kingdom her family created over centuries.

But at the end of training, even if Eden is knocked down to the ground, or standing in triumph over her opponent, nothing she can do will bring her mother back; and nothing she can practice or dedicate herself to can distract her from that.

Despite all of this, Eden still goes back to the kingdom at dawn everyday, whether she's ready to face her father and the constant reminder of what she once had or not.

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winntir · 2 days ago

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Things about my own Transformers universe that you didn't ask for and you'll just have to read about

Elita-One was an air commander before the war, and her relationship with Orion Pax was fraught with conflict because of their differing classes, military and laborer. Even worse was when they conceived a child, who was transferred from Elita to Chromia before its protoform could begin molding. They later had to send their child away during the war.

The Quintessons created the Transformers as two lines of robotic servants: domestic and military. Over the years, the widespread military bots eventually formed a united force to return to Cybertron, conquering it with the aid of the Fallen, a betrayer whose name was stricken from all record.

Jazz was one of the first scouts on Earth when considering it for long term colonization in the 20th century and came back with the name.

Also, Jazz is a femme.

Megatron is Elita-One’s dad. He was also one of the most prominent generals of Cybertron. He betrayed Cybertron during the beginning of the war to gain power, becoming one of the big Decepticon leaders. However, he’s not the leader of all Decepticons, just one warlord among many. He may have significant influence, and few would stand against him, but he’s not emperor.

No one can take Spike's name seriously. He’s also one of the first human allies the Autobots had on Earth. Every time a new Autobot comes to Earth, there’s a whole song and dance getting over his name. His revenge is never correcting an Autobot when they call a rooster a cock.

Any human character you can think of definitely exists. What exactly they’re doing varies. Miko is the tour guide at the Ark, the Burns family works with the Protectibots and the associated rescue ops, and Kelly is having her car hit on by Side Burn.

Side Burn came to Earth on the Ark in crystalline stasis. He's still the younger brother of Brawn and Prowl. Prowl is a ninja.

Several sparks were put into crystalline stasis for the voyage from Cybertron to Earth to make the most of energy and space. There’s a waiting list for new bodies, as protoforms are a resource of constant conflict. They could also be carried to term via gestation, but there’s always personnel shortages, and few are willing to set aside the long period of time to raised them back to maturity.

One of the quirks of using blank protoforms is that the revived bot discovers what their true alt mode should be. Obviously, they’re an Earth vehicle or animal, but their spark data assists the computer in deciding what to pick. This has led to several Autobots who were meant to be aircraft but made to be a land vehicle becoming an aircraft and developing a fear of heights (i.e. Blades, Silverbolt).

Any Seeker you see that shares Starscream's body type is one of his clones. He claims the origins were part of a tax evasion scheme from before the war, but he kept making them long after the start when that wasn’t relevant, and continues to do so whenever there’s an unattended protoform. The truth is he’s trying to rebuild Skyfire's genome based on his own, but the results are more and more flawed each time. He doesn’t realize he already perfected it years ago, and now, he’s just creating flawed copies of himself.

The Dinobots are 100% Wheeljack's kids. I haven’t figured that one out yet.

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separatist-apologist · 11 hours ago

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How Did It End

Summary: When Morrigan was eighteen years old, she found a rare, enduring love with a human princess during the human rebellion. That love died gasping in her arms, and Mor swore she would never love another again.

Five hundred years later, standing in a training ring, Mor recognizes a pair a hazel eyes.

For @sjmromanceweek

Note: I stole this idea from @ablogofsapphicpanic who thought it would be a good idea for feysand. I'm not sorry.

Read on AO3

War was hell.

Morrigan wasn’t built for it, though she excelled all the same. She’d been born to privilege, to be the pampered, pretty daughter of a lord. The dutiful daughter that secured her family’s position without complaint. And maybe in another life, Mor was that daughter—sometimes she wished she could have been. She’d tried to be, in every way she could.

She dressed the way they wanted her to, held her cutlery exactly right and spun around a dance floor with such grace strangers had once wept at the sight. Mor walked with her spine straight, her chin held high, her hair a perfectly curled cascade of gold. Men stopped to look.

She rarely noticed them.

Seventeen years, and one night with Cassian had told Mor all she’d ever needed to know about herself. It had been a moment of defiance—her first ever, truthfully—to avoid a brutal, cruel marriage to a brutal, cruel male.

Cassian was handsome. He was kind. He’d been patient and attentive and she’d felt good when he touched her. But that was all she felt, and when her eyes had fluttered shut as he’d lowered his mouth, she’d imagined another, softer face of a female she’d once known when she’d lived beneath the mountain.

Just friends. She would have sworn it even then. But deep, in her heart of hearts, Mor had known there had always been a little more on her end. She loved Cassian, but it wasn’t romantic—it was friendly. He’d tried coming around for a while after that, but took the hint when she refused to meet with him alone.

He wanted to discuss what happened. What it meant. Rhys must have explained the whole thing at some point. Her cousin knew, jaw clenched when she announced it to her uncle and her father, prepared for whatever consequences came next.

She didn’t want to think about that. Not as she stood on the edge of the faerie realm, staring down the dull, human world she’d been cosigned to. The humans had queens, now, and she was sent as one of the ambassadors to help negotiate the end of the war. Victory wasn’t a certainty—Hybern’s forces had swept into Autumn the day before, scattering the royal family. If Mor was lucky, they’d at least take out Beron.

And Eris. Perhaps both, in one fell swoop, leaving the grieving widow and her brood of younglings to rebuild. If only. Likely, some other, more terrible lord would ascend to power given the transfer of magic in Prythian. Why did it always pick a male?

Rhys had once snapped at her that it didn’t always.

“The Mother picks who is worthiest. It’s not about gender, Mor.”

Then why was it always a male?

She pushed the thought from her mind. The humans had queens. Queens. Six of them, if Rhys was to be believed—and she did. How barbaric and backward could they possibly be? Even with their budding, fragile society, the humans had managed to find six females of noble birth and elevated them into queens of their specific, new societies.

The war still raged, and yet here, in these places, there was hope. Mor had never seen any of the human societies that existed beyond Prythian, had been told they were wastelands where humans lived no better than cattle, and sometimes worse. She’d heard a story at a party of humans who’d eliminate their waste where they stood and continue on as if it were the most normal thing in the world. They consumed their children, according to other stories.

They needed the strong, steady hand of a more superior, smarter master—or, that was how her father told it. He didn’t want to be that master, but it was more practical than moral no matter how Rhys tried to dress it up.

Humans bred far easier, and more often than their fae counterparts. It was too hard to control so many of them. Rhys’ father had spent centuries in the attempt before he finally stopped bothering and freed his slaves. Rhys counted that as a win, and maybe it was. Maybe it was unfair to hold his bad reasons against the High Lord. At least he’d freed them—Spring hadn’t.

But…Day Court had freed their slaves a full decade before, and allowed them sanctuary within their borders, making an enemy of many other courts. It had been a noble decision—Phobus argued passionately that humans were a shared ancestor and had inherent worth and dignity, despite their lack of immortality.

“There is nothing just or moral in long lives,” she’d heard him once say. She’d been no older than fifteen, but it had stuck with her and Rhys. He’d wanted to join the fighting, arguing with his father until he was sent to the front lines to die.

And Mor was sent as an emissary, presumably to get her away from Cassian and Azriel. Her father still held some sway with his brother, and Keir would be damned if his daughter interbred with Illyrians. Hate her as he might—the insult with Cassian had been nearly too much, but a marriage would send Keir over the edge.

She hadn’t seen Cassian in months. Azriel never left her uncle’s side, but Cassian was just gone, and sometimes, in the deepest, darkest held places in her soul, she was convinced she’d condemned the young warrior to death.

Mor pushed the thought from her mind as another figure winnowed beside her, smelling faintly of vanilla and lime. It had been a compromise between the allied forces—no one trusted the Night Court, and Mor by association, so the Day Court had offered to send one of their famed scholars along.

Mor had never met Arina in person, though they’d exchanged a few letters in preparation for the journey. While Mor was there to broker a treaty, Arina was there to chronicle the lives, culture, and society of the humans in an attempt to both better understand them and reshape the narrative around their existence.

Propaganda, Rhys had cynically called it.

Maybe a little propaganda was a good thing, if used by the right person. Arina certainly seemed unassuming, though if Phobus had sent her, it would be a mistake to totally underestimate her. It was tempting—the scholar was absurdly beautiful in a way anyone might appreciate, though Mor was certain males never would. Buttery blonde hair cascaded down her back, pulled into a rather polite knot at the nape of her graceful neck. Smooth, brown skin made the vivid green of her eyes seem starker by comparison, and though she wore a rather loose dress, it seemed to cling to the curves of her body the way water droplets did to blades of grass.

And serious, given the slant of her pink mouth.

“It’s safe,” Mor rushed to assure her, wanting to, if nothing else, make a friend. She was surrounded by males all the time—one female friend wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m not worried about that,” she replied without any malice to her words. Still, like Mor, she hesitated to take that step across the border. No matter how open-minded they claimed to be, all those old stories still lingered. No matter how many blades Mor wore, she, too, couldn’t bring herself to step across first.

The Day Court scholar offered up her palm, bag slung over her shoulder. “Together?” she suggested, that same frown etched over her features.

Mor clapped her hand with Arina’s, grateful to not be alone even if they were strangers. “Together,” she agreed.

Mor wondered if Arina, too, counted down from five in her head or if she simply waited for Mor. There was no tugging, no pulling her over that invisible boundary. One moment, their feet were planted in the lush, lovely grass of the faerie realm and the next the whole world seemed to blink out of color, turning a drab, miserable shade of gray.

Looking over her shoulder, Mor couldn’t see a difference anywhere but in her mind's eye. There was merely a sea of swaying grass beneath a cloud covered sky. They’d been instructed not to winnow to the human palace, which meant the two females would need to walk to it.

It seemed the humans didn't trust them, either. Mor tried not to bristle over that—she’d been writing these nobles for months, now, while the High Lord of Night hovered over her shoulder demanding she phrase it just so.

They didn’t trust the males of Mor’s species. They’d wanted females, a shame given the Helion of the Day Court would have been far more astute company than the little slip of a woman keeping pace beside her. She came with a heavy recommendation from Helion, who was almost certainly doing something with her, given the way those golden eyes winked when he’d taken in Mor.

Ugh.

Mor had heard stories of the humans, of course, and their brutish, backward ways. She held on to her belief they couldn’t be that brutish if they’d elevated their females, something the fae would never do willingly. Not collectively, anyway. Rhys might consider her his equal, but no one else around him did. Even Cassian and Azriel shifted from one leg to the other when Rhys asked Mor her opinion first, their annoyance swallowed and yet still felt.

That didn’t mean these women had any real power, of course. Perhaps they were merely figure heads, controlled by men. That seemed unlikely to Morrigan, who had been around enough males and men to know they never missed an opportunity to claim power and credit, even if none of the accomplishments technically belonged to them.

She and Arina remained silent for the walk, barely glancing at the other as they made their way forward. Grassland gave way to farmland, and then sporadic, small hamlets that became villages, that became towns, that eventually became a bustling city filled with the rounded ears that marked them human.

Many of them stopped in their tracks as she and Arina walked up the roads, their own eyes wide with a mixture of fear and distrust. There was no awe in their gaze—children hid behind their mothers skirts while men gripped whatever they held in their hands, prepared to use it like a weapon.

Mor half wished Cassian had been allowed to escort them. She’d been instructed not to harm a human, even in self-defense. She supposed it benefited her father and uncle to have her here—either she succeeded, and they made valuable allies and absolved themselves of the atrocities they had willingly participated in, or she was torn to pieces and they were freed of her once and for all.

Beside her, Arina didn’t seem concerned at all. She offered tentative, shy smiles to those she passed, tucking her hair behind her ear so people could better see the long arch and the pointed tip. Children whispered among themselves, braver than their parents, especially as they neared the towering stone walls that guarded the city.

Sentries stood post along the wall, their bow strings pulled tight, arrows notched. Mor swallowed, following Arina’s lead as she tried to banish any outward signs of fear. Could humans smell it? She didn’t think so, but also didn’t know. Didn’t want to test it and find herself buried in some shallow, unmarked grave. Mor’s eyes kept darting upward, though, her palms sweaty from nerves.

She had no weapon save for her own training and inherent strength. It might be enough to push a few back, but if it came down to a numbers fight, Mor knew she couldn’t win. She’d need to rely on her own social graces and hope humans had similar customs.

They were stopped at the gate, a crowd milling behind them. “Weapons?” a rough voiced guard asked, his brown eyes weathered at the corners. He, too, was looking at them other with that mix of curiosity and distrust, his sword gleaming in the gloomy light.

“No weapons,” Arina said, offering him a toothless smile. Mor thought that was wise—no use letting them see those pointed canines and remind them of what the fae were capable of.

“I need to check,” he told her, his voice wavering ever so slightly. Arina glanced over at Mor, swallowing as she nodded her head.

“Of course,” she agreed, though there was no mistaking how uneasy she was. Arina stood utterly still, which seemed to make the humans nervous, though Mor couldn’t understand why. They were careful with where they put their hands, respectful as they patted her down, feeling for daggers that might be concealed by her clothing.

Mor loathed when it was her turn. They didn’t make eye contact, and it was brief enough though not so brief she didn’t feel uncomfortable and a little nauseated. She didn’t want a strange man touching her.

Didn’t want any man touching her, if she was being honest with herself. She kept it to herself, grateful when the human guard nodded his head, indicating they could step into the walled off city. Unlike the outside, which seemed to be made up mainly of the farmers that helped sustain the overall population, inside was a bustling city that could have rivaled Velaris for scale, and Rhodes in terms of organization.

Mor had expected a hovel or less. Filth and mud while humans lived in squalor and erected tents, their leaders planning while the rest were little better than servants. That's how it was being done back in Prythian during times of war or stress. There were clear hierarchies among them, just like back home but something felt different.

More relaxed, she thought as she took in the lined rows of houses, painted in bright colors with matching shutters and steepled rooftops. The roads were laid with even cobblestones and though there were horses pulling carts through the throngs of city-goers, Mor didn’t smell the tell-tale scent of animal feces that she did so often in Prythian. How did they clean it, if not with magic, she wondered with no small amount of awe.

There were so many things she’d never seen before—vendors selling bolts of cloth in colors no fae wore, fabric she couldn’t name. Vegetables and fruits brightly colored, some spined or swollen, that she’d never tasted. Beads that glittered even in the gloom and flowers and meats and cheeses and a million other things she wanted to lose herself in.

Mor’s steps started to slow, and might have stopped entirely had Arina not pressed two fingers into her elbow to keep her moving. How did the Day Court scholar resist temptation? The people in the city were just as curious, their chatter slowing and quietening as she and Arina passed with their guards—two at the front, and more at the back. Mor could sense their presence, though she didn’t dare turn around and look.

Looming before them was more of a large estate than a castle or palace. It sprawled, much in a similar manner to the Forest House, those far newer and likely with less underground caverns—not that Mor had ever seen of them. She’d heard the Forest House stretched deep into the ground, though, and somehow didn’t think this palace did. Not to the same extent, anyway.

It seemed to be made of some kind of gleaming marble, with large, supporting columns and stairs that led from the city up to the main drive.

There were no gates to keep people out, and only a handful of mostly ceremonial guards, armed with rapiers rather than heavy swords and bows. Their uniforms were crisp hues of blue and gold, with a fleur de lis emblazoned on the front. How did they manage to keep people out? Or did they just allow anyone to come strolling in, for any reason at all?

Mor made her way up the stairs, stomach tumbling nervously. Before that moment, coming to the human lands and meeting any of their royalty had been more conceptual in nature. It was real, now. They were here. Whatever happened, whatever came next, Mor was completely at the mercy of a species her kind had spent centuries enslaving. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all—why should they listen to her?

If it were the other way around, she knew her uncle wouldn’t. Still, this was diplomacy and Mor wanted to treat it with a delicate, gentle hand. It was better than being sent back to her fathers home and the punishment he’d devise just the moment no one was watching him again. If she could prove herself useful to her uncle, there would be a life for her outside of the Court of Nightmares, and more than anything, Mor wanted that.

She felt like a child beside the far calmer Arina, who didn’t betray anything on that pretty face of hers. Mor kept glancing over as they stepped inside, waiting for her to react the way Mor felt. Her eyes didn’t even widen, fixed straight ahead as though this were normal.

Focus on yourself, some inner voice ordered.

The inside of the palace was busy, as one might expect, with servants that were allowed to be seen, alongside people bustling down this corridor or that. Mor could only guess their jobs given they all seemed to be dressed in similar fashion. There were more layers to the clothing here, more panels of fabric and boning that was visible, both for men and women.

Pants, too, which was frowned upon for females back home. Her father would have beaten her within an inch of her life. Her own dress conformed to her body like liquid, shifting and moving so you never lost sight of what Mor looked like. There were no layers to it, just the fabric it had been constructed with, with no need for the heavy structure or boning the humans employed thanks to whatever magic was woven into the threads.

She felt exposed, though, with her sheer sleeves and dipping neckline. As they walked, she noted it wasn’t the men who looked at her with surprise and, perhaps, condemnation, but the human women. Their eyes would fall on her face before traveling toward her neck and then to her feet before snapping back to her face. Sometimes, Mor thought she saw pity there, though why they might pity her, she couldn’t begin to guess.

Mor rather liked the openness of the palace. There were windows everywhere, thrown open to allow a gentle breeze to flow through. Without magic to regulate the temperature, the materials were chosen carefully to keep the chill or stifling heat from overwhelming the people who lived within the walls.

She could marvel over engineering later. She, along with Arina and their guards, climbed a winding set of stairs to where the newly minted queen sat. It was the only time Arina gave any reaction at all, though it wasn’t to the queen itself but the embroidered tapestries that hung over the grand halls walls, depicting scenes of humans slaughtering their faerie slavers in rather excruciating detail. Arina betrayed no fear—only awe, though if it was the craftsmanship or the battles portrayed, Mor couldn’t say.

Sitting atop the throne was a rather young women—lovely, Mor thought, in that human way of theirs. Mortality made any beauty humans had seemed aching—fleeting. All the more beautiful for the shortness of their lives, the brevity of their youth.

Mor guessed her age around thirty—maybe a little younger, but not much older. Her dark hair was half braided from her face, the rest falling in tight curls around her shoulders. The woman’s skin was a dark brown, unmarred by disease, offset by eyes so dark they seemed almost black. Gold jewelry adorned her throat and wrists while a matching diadem, inlaid with sparkling lapis lazuli gleamed atop her head.

Arina dropped into an easy curtsey, reminding Mor that she, too, ought to show her respect. She’d been staring at the teardrop earrings, the rings that adorned long fingers, and the rich cobalt dress the woman wore. She oozed royalty, and yet the lines etched just around the corners of her kohl rimmed eyes told Mor she had endured suffering that was unimaginable.

She didn’t rise from her throne, set at the far end of the room. Stained glass windows just behind her threw a rainbow of color across the raised platform, making this woman seem almost divine. How had they chosen her, and where had they found her? Mor didn’t think any human remembered their old lineages, their nobility that the fae had so thoroughly erased.

No, these were new families, made royal by measures Mor didn’t think she’d be privy to.

“I’m surprised you arrived,” the queen said once Mor and Arina straightened themselves back up. “Your…High Lords, is it?”

“High Lords, yes,” Arina murmured, eyes glittering with suspicious amusement.

The queen nodded. “How quickly one forgets. They balked when I said we would only accept women into our court.”

Mor wanted to ask why—the queen seemed to expect her to, given the way her head cocked to the side, lips parting with an answer to an obvious question. Mor chose not to—why reveal how naive she was so early into their meeting.

“We’re grateful to be here,” she said instead, hoping she sounded sincere. She was glad to be there, to be useful in some small way, and to be far away from the family who just barely tolerated her.

“You’re not, but you will be,” she replied, finally rising from her chair just as the doors behind them opened. A younger woman—a few years older than Mor, perhaps, but not by much, strode into the room. Mor’s breath caught when she saw her, adorned in a gold beaded, lilac dress. Her own dark hair hung in loose curls around her face, and rather than the onyx eyes of the queen, this woman had hazel eyes, more gold and brown than green.

She halted when she realized what she’d stepped into, eyes bouncing from Mor to Arina. “Sister, I…”

“Emerie,” the queen murmured with a softened voice. “Our emissaries from the west have arrived.”

Emerie’s gaze hardened, those eyes landing on the tell-tale arched ears sticking from Mor and Arina’s head.

“How long are they here for, Andromeda?” Emerie demanded, crossing her arms across her chest. Mor was too enamored to be offended—Emerie was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her entire life. Want bloomed through her, stronger than anything she’d ever felt in her life—a pull to touch her, instinct long dominant, now alive and writhing in her veins. Mor caught the scent of her, cool like the air blowing snow across the mountains in Illyria.

Emerie looked like home.

“Until freedom is secured, I hope,” Andromeda replied, gracefully crossing the floor to greet her younger sister.

Emerie turned to look at them, eyes narrowed with that same distrust. “Hostages?”

“Emissaries,” Andromeda corrected, brushing a strand of hair from her sister's forehead with affection.

“We’ve come in the name of peace,” Arina added, offering a pretty smile. Emerie didn’t react.

“Your kind doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” she retorted as her sister shushed her without anger.

Mor’s eyes locked with Emeries—what horrors had Emerie witnessed? The same as Mor? Worse? She opened her mouth to disagree, but found she couldn’t. She still bore the scars, after all, of her father’s nails. Right then, Mor could feel the hands on her body as they’d held her writhing, screaming body down so he could nail that note into her body.

She could still see Eris’s sneering, horrible face as he left her where she was.

Mor offered Emerie a slight nod of agreement, which seemed to pacify the woman, if only a little. Some flash of understanding seemed to cross Emerie’s expression, even if her gaze didn’t soften. That was enough for Mor, who wanted to talk to her, though for the life of Mor, she had no clue what she’d even say.

It didn’t matter. Emerie was shooed away, chased off by a few giggling ladies in waiting in equally pretty, rustling gowns that seemed to eat away at the silence. Mor tried—and failed—not to watch her leave. She was there to prove herself and do a job—nothing more.

And yet.

#emorie #mor x emerie

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toastyyjams · 23 hours ago

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TELL US ALL OF YOUR ORV THOUGHTS MY HSY BRAINROT IS SO BAD I LOVE HER SO MUCH

TY FOR GIVING ME AN EXCUSE TO RANT ABOUT ORV OMG

if any pjsk followers of mine reading this dont know orv its a series called omniscient reader's viewpoint!

i highly recommend reading the webtoon first for visualization but definitely read the novel starting from the chapter 180s (theres . like 551 chapters it took me months to finish but it took my older sibling like 3 weeks so it depends how insane u are /lh)

def recommend it if youre a huge fan of found family dynamics mweheheh and also mythology . its like a heart wrenching story disguised as a BL

gonna get into spoilers from the novel so heres ur warning !

anyway u said all my thoughts. so here we go

hsy oughhhh i love her sm shes more than just 'girlboss' i think shes more girlfailure cuz how do u manage to plagiarize ur own work smh /j

YOOHANKIM DYNAMIC MAKE ME ILL like the author cant exist without a reader . but the story also cant exist without an author . but you cant read anything if theres no author to create that story yk like THEYRE ALL TIED TOGETHER ITS AGHHH

during the previous ask i mentioned how orv handles platonic love and im still super happy how its portrayed esp kdj and ysa ... ik alot of ppl ship them romantically and/or often make them exes or such

but ive read rly good kdj x ysa platonic soulmate fics and OUGHH MY GOSHHH it made me go crazy cuz they care about e/o sooooso much

like how that one scene where kdj randomly traumadumps on her and as a defense mechanism he goes haha . just kidding XD ! but then ysa just . quietly holds his hand and shuts him up

bc ysa will never understand what hes gone thru but she can and will listen/support him when he needs it yk theres no words that need to be said shes holding his hand as kind of an anchor like 'hey ik u said u were joking but ik ur not and thats ok'

jung heewon too oughhhh when she goes "this is no salvation" I WENT BONKERSSS kdj stop hurting your companions!! u want them happy but u deserve it too!!!!!! shaking his shoulders YOURE KINDER THAN YOU THINK THE STORY YOUVE LOVED FOR YEARS AND KEPT YOU ALIVE LOVES U BACK KDJ AUGHH

i love the fact that 98% of the novel is in first pov of kdj and the fact that hes an EXTREMELY unreliable narrator . like i usually dont like first pov but orv does it well

esp when all of a sudden during the epilogue it started being third pov when kdj split into the 49% and 51% IT GAVE A RLY GOOD SENSE OF "wtf is happening . something is wrong" it rlly gives us readers the same feeling the characters have like uhmmm kdj ur ok now rigjt. right! i remember feeling so confused and uncomfortable at the sudden third pov ITS SO CLEVER

can i just also say i absolutely hate the live action . orv is meant to be consumed as a novel LIKE OF *ALL* POPULAR WEBTOONS TO ADAPT ITS THE ONE THAT WOULDNT WORK AS LIVE cashgrab ass scheme smh

i also hate and admire the fact that anyone who has finished orv is a kdj fragment . i hate how anyone who finished the entire novel kins kdj in some sort of way . like when i kin pjsk characters for example im just like haha i relate #relatable but when it comes to kdj . hes just so uncomfortably relatable for me like i need to put him under a hydraulic press

"you who reads this will survive" ITS SOOO CLEVERR its addressing kdj and YOU! the whole theme of the novel is just so . personal lowkey so when the live action got announced and some annoying ass mfs were making fun of orv fans for being upset i wanted to rip my hair out THE STORY IS FOR US kdj himself would be rolling in his grave at the disrespect for a webnovel fr

#asks #sry for the use of colors all of a sudden #wanted to make it easier to read #im normal about orv!!

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polo-drone-070 · 2 days ago

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Losin meself in da footie drill - Final Session – No More Maximus, Only Gold

Links : Session 1 Session 2 Session 3

I fukin’ know what’s comin’.

The last few sessions built up to this. The way me brain’s been slippin’, the way the orders been stickin’, even after the visor lifts. How I wake up at night, me body still twitchin’ with drill commands, me mind loopin’ plays like I’m still on the pitch.

I ain’t dumb. I know what’s happenin’.

But it don’t fukin’ matter.

‘Coz deep down, I know this is what I need. What I was fukin’ made for.

It’s pre-game trainin’ now. The real deal. After this, we hit the pitch, we fukin’ crush the Emerald Titans. But right now? Right now, I gotta disappear. Gotta fukin’ erase what’s left.

Me heart’s poundin’ like mad, adrenaline surgin’ through me veins. A part of me—tiny, weak, barely hangin’ on—feels this flicker of fear, of hesitation. Like, this is it, bruv. Last chance to fight it. Last chance to be you.

But I ain’t fightin’.

I ain’t runnin’.

I’m kneelin’.

I’m waitin’.

And when they bring the helmet over, I’m fukin’ shakin’ with anticipation.

The Moment of No Return

The second I see the visor, I fukin’ need it. Like air, like water, like everythin’ I ever wanted but never knew. Me breath’s all shallow, me hands twitchin’, me whole body buzzin’.

Fuk, bruv. I want this. I fukin’ ache for it.

And when they lower it onto me skull—

I. Am. Gone.

The instant the visor locks in place, everythin’ vanishes.

A deep, all-consumin’ warmth floods through me, wrappin’ me in pure fukin’ obedience. Me mind don’t just blank—it shatters, dissolvin’ into nothin’, breakin’ apart like it never fukin’ existed in the first place.

"Recover. Regroup. Target. Tackle."

The words consume me. They ain’t just commands anymore. They ain’t instructions I hear.

They’re me.

I don’t fukin’ think—I respond. I don’t hesitate—I move. The orders don’t come from outside anymore. They come from within.

‘Coz there ain’t no difference no more.

I ain’t Maximus. I ain’t a player. I ain’t even a person.

I am Gold’s machine.

And fuk, bruv—it’s perfect.

Erased. Rewritten. Born Again as Pure Gold.

Me body’s a fukin’ weapon—a force built for the pitch, trained to dominate, shaped to win. Every movement’s flawless, every sprint precise, every tackle unstoppable.

There’s no wasted thought, no hesitation, no questions. Just orders. Reflex. Action.

Every second feels like an eternity of bliss. Me whole existence is reduced to movement, to execution, to service.

And it’s right.

I was never meant to be me. I was meant to be this—a tool, a pawn, a machine for the team. For Gold.

And now I fukin’ am.

"Recover. Regroup. Target. Tackle."

I feel the words sink deeper than ever before. Not just into me mind. Into me core.

This ain’t temporary. Ain’t trainin’.

This is permanent.

I ain’t gonna snap outta it. I ain’t gonna shake this off. I ain’t gonna come back.

There is no more Maximus.

Just the team. Just the commands. Just Gold.

Final Integration – Controlled forever

The session goes on for hours. Every second pullin’ me deeper, rewritin’ me completely. Erasin’ everythin’ that don’t serve the team.

I don’t even remember what I used to be. Don’t even fukin’ care.

Why would I?

This is better. This is right.

I don’t think. I don’t choose. I don’t exist.

I comply.

And when the session finally ends—when the visor lifts, when the light floods back in—

I. Do. Not. Leave. The. State.

I’m still in it.

Ain’t no fukin’ transition, no moment of snappin’ back to reality. ‘Coz this is reality now.

The lads slap me back, rubs me sweaty scalp, joke about how locked in I was—how I barely even blinked the whole session.

But I barely fukin’ hear ‘em.

‘Coz the commands are still there, loopin’ in me skull, directin’ me every move.

And I fukin’ love it.

They tell me to hit the showers, so I do. They tell me to gear up, so I do. They tell me to get ready to win for Gold, and I obey without a fukin’ thought.

Maximus doesn't exists anymore.

I am only this now.

Only a player. Only a pawn. Only a drone for the game.

No more past. No more future. No more choices.

Just Gold.

Forever.

_______________ To join the Gold Team, contact @goldenherc9, @brodygold or @polo-drone-001.

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bnhaobservation · 2 days ago

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@biggibbins said:

My take on the 'retcon' I think it's more of a "what is seen in the shadow is often misunderstood by the mind of a child" kinda thing yk? Because both Touya and Shoto were children when they last saw thier mother, and there is litterly NO way for Dabi or Shoto to know that information(same goes for Dabi accusing his father of forcing his mother to have children) Rei isn't the type to discuss such things with her children so my guess on it is Dabi and Shoto making assumptions instead of retcon.[i hope that made sense] Also with the flowers; is it not possible to greenhouse them to get the result of them blooming/staying the same out of season?[i know nothing about plants]

Don't worry, it makes sense and it's a possible Watsonian explanation, but it comes with some problems.

From a Doylist angle, generally, when an author uses this trick he also reveals it's a trick. As in he let the characters involved know they remember wrong or have someone who's aware of the truth say they can't reveal it to them. Here neither Enji nor Rei (Touya also told his mother that her parents sold her) correct Touya's belief or give us a reason on why it was better if Touya were to think so.

Also, another thing to consider is that chapter 301 originally wasn't planned at all. When Shouto told his own past, Horikoshi hadn't planned Touya yet, and originally Enji wasn't supposed to live long enough to take part to the second war, and, very likely this also means it would have been only Shouto who would have faced Touya in battle, not the whole family.

If chapter 301 originally weren't meant to exist, if Touya as a Villain was created after Shouto told us of his past, this means when Shouto explained things to Midoriya the Todoroki family's past was meant to be very different.

We know that the Todoroki family's past was retconned more than once, Shouto's prototype was changed to give us our current Shouto, Horikoshi in chapter 302 first messed up and said Rei was hospitalized AFTER Touya burned, when he had Fuyumi said if was PRIOR to it, and then he had to retcon the scene for the volume version.

Honestly I have doubts thinking when Shouto told Midoriya about his past, Horikoshi already planned to have him be mistaken because at the time he was a child.

If we move to the Watsonian angle instead, Touya was made aware at 4 that he was born to fulfil his father's dream. It's not something Touya says, we've Rei saying Touya now knew why they had him, likely this happened when they discussed the problems Touya had with his Quirk with the doctor, meaning they might have explained him of the Quirk marriage.

It's canon for some reason they discussed WHY Touya was born in front of Touya. Touya is also not so small when he last saw Rei as he was almost 14 and, as said before, he discussed with his mother how his grandparents sold her, with Rei never telling him he was mistaken.

It would also be pretty weird for Touya and Shouto, who canonically couldn't interact together, to make the exact same assumption without the slightest basis.

Note that Touya never said Enji forced Rei to have children, he said he forced Rei to marry him.

If we want to try to smooth the retcon into something that could work in canon, Rei's parents needed to be persuaded because they originally wanted to marry Rei with someone else, then Enji waltzed in and they changed their mind. Rei being forced doesn't mean being dragged into that marriage kicking and screaming but being pushed into it by social conventions.

In the same way as Touya, who is Enji's firstborn, would be expected by society to inherit his father's job, and the fact he can't makes him a failure in society's eyes, Rei, as the Himura's daughter, was expected to be a good daughter and help her poor family and marry Enji and give him the children he wanted.

Still, this post is pretty hold... I've discussed a little better Enji and Rei's marriage here.

As for the Gentians... I couldn't find info about greenhouses growing them out of season. I guess it's not impossible but, as I can't find info about them, I can't tell for sure.

Said all this, if you prefer to theorize that Touya and Shouto are simply making assumptions, please, don't let me stop you and sorry for the long rambling. I just love to talk about the Todoroki family.

BNHA Observations, speculations and assorted info: Pre-marriage Todoroki Enji (Part 2)

So, in order to write my fic, I spend much time observing canon scenes, comparing the manga and the anime version, take note of details, translations and info in them as well as finding out how are some things called.

Since what I noticed/speculated/found out can be of use for other fic authors I thought to share as well.

Resources:

Chap. 301 "The Wrong Way to Put Out a Fire, Part 1" (火の不始末前編Hi no Fushimatsu Zenpen) Chap. 31 "The Boy Born with Everything" (全てを持って生まれた男の子 Subete o Motte Umareta Otoko no Ko) Chap. 302 "The Wrong Way to Put Out a Fire, Part 2" (火の不始末後編 Hi no Fushimatsu Kōhen) Chap. 187 "Flaming Roar! vs. Nomu: High-End" (燃えよ轟け！VS 脳無：ハイエンド Moeyo Todoroke! vs. Nōmu: High-End) Chap. 387 "Congealing" (煮凝り 'Nikogori')

Ep. 130 "The Wrong Way to Put Out a Fire" (火の不始末 Hi no Fushimatsu) Ep. 19 "The Boy Born with Everything" (全てを持って生まれた男の子 Subete o Motte Umareta Otoko no Ko) Ep. 88 "His Start" (始まりの Hajimarino)

School Briefs I "Notice from School"

OBSERVATIONS, SPECULATIONS AND ASSORTED INFO:

As of now we only have two more scenes which depict Enji pre marriage, the first being his 'Miai' with Rei and the second being their first 'date'.

The scene are flashbacks placed while Enji is at the hospital so first let's look at...

THE FULL SEQUENCE AS IT IS IN THE MANGA

So now let's focus solely on the scene in question and, since it has been transposed in anime version (and the anime added scenes) let's have a...

COMPARISON BETWEEN THE MANGA AND THE ANIME

The anime starts by adding more scenery, we see what could be the Himura house, which is also a traditional Japanese house... though with all the green it has around it seems its garden is a lot bigger than the one of the Todoroki mansion.

Actually it might also not be the Himura mansion but some place they have chosen for the meeting but it seems more a traditional Japanese house than anything else and the Himura used to be wealthy so they might still have their old residence and anyway... who knows?

The anime gives us also a close up of the Shishiodoshi (鹿威し literally, "deer-frightening" or "boar-frightening") device or Sōzu (添水 "Adding water") fountain, a bamboo water funtain originally derived by a devices to frighten away animals that pose a threat to agriculture and who's currently part of the visual and aural design of gardens, and are used primarily for their aesthetic value.

We also see the Soribashi (反り橋 "Arched bridge"), a red arched bridge, over a pond (probably a Koike (鯉池 "koi pond") filled with Koi (鯉) carps, or, more specifically, Nishikigoi (錦鯉 “brocaded carp”) carps.

'Jiki No.1 no yobigoe takai Endeavor-sama kara o koe kake itadakeru to wa yume ni mo omoi masendeshita! Gyōkō no kiwami ni gozaimasu!!' 「次期No.1の呼び声高いエンデヴァー様からお声掛けいただけるとは夢にも思いませんでした！僥倖の極みにございます！！」 "I never dreamed that I would be approached by Endeavor, who has been hailed as the next No. 1! We are at the height of luck!!"

The anime shows Rei's father bowing to Enji while the dialogue has him calling Endeavor-sama. He uses his Hero name and the -sama (様) suffix which is highly respectful.

Interesting enough, even if Enji is marrying Rei because he doesn't think he can surpass All Might, according to Rei's father there's many people who think he'll do it.

All Might and Endeavor have around 10 years of difference as, during the final fight with All for One All Might says he's more than halfway through 50 while Enji should be 46.

In chap 165 Enji has said at 20 he figured out he couldn't surpass All Might, and we know Touya was born when he was 22 so, considering Touya should have been conceived when he was 21, either he's still 20 or he's just turned 21 and he and Rei will have a fast marriage.

On another side, Rei's father never mention Enji also coming from a prestigious family, just that he's the Number 2 Hero and, possibly, will become the Number 1, which might hint to how Enji didn't come from an equally prestigious family and make a name for himself after he became a Hero.

The anime partially shows us Rei's father's face. In teh manga he's just a black shadow but he gives me the feeling Horikoshi planned him to look different than in the anime.

The anime changes the background a little, in the manga there's a scroll on the wall, in the anime we see white Fusuma (襖) doors, vertical rectangular panels which can slide from side to side (they're often painted with scenery but not in this case).

Also the glass window in the manga is close while in the anime is open.

They are in a Washitsu (和室) room, a Japanese-style room with a Tatami (畳) mat flooring and they're sitting on Zaisu (座椅子) chairs, Japanese chairs with a back and no legs.

In the garden there's also a Ishi-dōrō (石灯籠 "stone lantern"') lantern, a lantern made of stone in its Yukimi doro (織部灯籠 "Snow-viewing Lantern") variant. The customary placement is at the edge of land and water and the original Japanese character describing this lantern may have meant ”floating light”.

The anime adds Rei's father turning toward her but doesn't show Rei looking at the side. She's just staring down. As for Enji he seems to frown a little.

The group is drinking tea. In the manga they're probably using normal Chawan (茶碗 "tea bowl") bowls, traditional Japanese bowls used for preparing and drinking tea.

In the anime though they seem to be using the Chinese Gaiwan (盖碗) bowls, Chinese lidded bowls without a handle, used for the infusion of tea leaves and the consumption of tea, which consists of a bowl, a lid, and a saucer and they are still used by tea connoisseurs all around the world, as a simple piece of teaware that gives the brewer a lot of control over the tea.

I might be wrong though, maybe they're just Chawan bowls or maybe the Himura are using their best tea set, which happens to be a Chinese one.

The anime then adds exposition from Enji's point of view.

'Ichiō, miai to iu katachi o totte wa iruga, koreha "kosei" kon' 一応、見合いという形をとってはいるが、これは"個性"婚 "Just in case, although it was made to look like an arranged marriage meeting, this was a "Quirk" marriage."

'Jishin no "kosei" o yori kyōka shite tsuga seru tame ni haigūsha o erabi, kodomo o uma seru tame no kekkon' 自身の"個性"をより強化して継がせるために配偶者を選び、子どもを産ませる為の結婚 "A marriage to have children in which the spouse is chosen in order to strengthen and pass on one's "Quirk""

'Ore wa nozonda noda. Ore no honō no "kosei" to kōri himura-ke ichizoku no kōri no "kosei" ga majiwareba, All Might o mo koeru Hero ga umidaseru to' 俺は望んだのだ。俺の炎の"個性"と氷叢家一族の氷の"個性"が交われば、オールマイトをも超えるヒーローが生み出せると I wanted it. If my fire "Quirk" and the ice "Quirk" of the Himura family were combined, I could create a hero that would surpass All Might.

'Katsute wa meikadatta Himura-ke mo ima wa aoikitoiki…' かつては名家だった氷叢家も今は青息吐息… "The Himura family, which was once a prestigious family, was now in deep distress…"

'No.2 Hero no chii to meiyo, soshite djisankin meate ni Himura-ke no tōshu wa ore no teian o assari to ukeireta' No.2ヒーローの地位と名誉、そして持参金目当てに氷叢家の当主は俺の提案をあっさりと受け入れた "The head of the Himura family easily accepted my proposal, aiming for the status and prestige of the No. 2 hero, as well as the dowry."

'Kotowaru koto mo dekita hazuda' 断る事もできたハズだ "She could have refused."

'Daga kanojo wa "kosei" kondearu koto mo shōchi no ue de, ie no tame ni ore no tsuma ni naru to iu' だが彼女は"個性"婚である事も承知の上で、家の為に俺の妻になると言う "However, even if she was aware that it was a "Quirk" marriage, and said that she will become my wife for the sake of her family."

So... this exposition remarks it's a Quirk Marriage but they don't quite want to admit it so they make it pass for an arranged marriage. Because if your family sells you off but it's not for the purpose to strenghten your husband's Quirk, it's so much better. -_-

Anyway at the meeting there's just Enji, Rei and the "family head" (当主 'tōshu'), which is generally assumed to be Rei's father (but it could have been her grandfather if he was still alive... or her brother if her father died prematurely).

Generally in arranged marriages, or better in the 'Miai' (見合い, "matchmaking"), the marmatching meetings made to organize arranged marriages there's either a mediator or the parents of the two who're meant to marry. Enji though is alone. We can speculate that Rei's mother (whom we know is alive) is absent because she's preparing more tea or retrieving sweets... but Enji went there alone and we'll never, through the whole story, hear about his mother.

Maybe she died too.

While in the manga the family head only sounds honoured to receive Enji's proposition in the anime he looks at Rei greedily, as if instead than Rei she's saying a stack of bills. I feel bad for Rei.

On a sidenote this clashes a bit with how Shouto presented the whole thing back in the past. Shouto made it look as if they were pressured into agreeing to him marrying Rei...

...while in the manga they just seem glad he asked to marry her and in the anime they seem delighted to sell her to him.

Also the anime in this scene and the manga in another scene implied Rei could still have refused. She was likely pressured but could still say no, while Shouto paints it as if she and her family had no choice but to sell her off... though it can be a matter of translation.

'Jisseki to kin dake wa aru otokoda… Oyaji wa haha no shinzoku o marumekomi' 「実績と金だけはある男だ... 親父は母の親族を丸め込み」 "He is a man with accomplishments and money. . . My old man won over/seduced/persuaded my mother's relatives"

'Marumekomi' (丸め込み) seems to have a not so positive implication as it's used to imply you manage to talk someone into doing what you want, as if the Himura didn't really want to sell Rei and needed to be persuaded.

Tōya too also seem to imply the Himura were forced into selling Rei...

'Endeavor wa katsute chikara ni kogarete imashita. 「エンデヴァーはかつて力に焦がれていました」 "Endeavor was once thirsty for power."

'Soshite All Might o koe renai zetsubō kara yori tsuyoi "kosei" o motta ko o tsukuru tame' 「そしてオールマイトを超えれない絶望からより強い"個性"を持った子を作る為」 "And out of despair of not being able to surpass All Might, in order to create a child with a stronger "Quirk"

'Muriyari tsuma o metorimashita' 「無理やり妻を娶りました」 "He took a wife by force"

Tōya uses 'muriyari' (無理やり), which means "Forcibily, against one's will".

In the manga he'll also say (without Rei correcting him)...

'Obāchan-tachi ga binbō shi tetakara okāsan o uttandaro' 「おばあちゃん達が貧乏してたからお母さんを売ったんだろ」 "Grandmother and the others were poor so they sold mother, isn't that it?"

'Okāsan wa sō suru shika nakattandaro' 「お母さんはそうするしかなかったんだろ」 "Mother had no choice but to do that, isn't that it?"

Here it doesn't say his father forced them to sell his mother, but that his grandparents did it because they were poor and insists on how Rei "had no choices" (しかなかった 'shikanakatta')... which Rei doesn't deny with him but will later deny in an inner monologue.

'Sentakushi wa kagira rete itakeredo' 選択肢は限られていたけれど "Although my options were limited"

'Erande susunda no wa watashi no ashi de' 選んで進んだのは私の足でーーー "I chose to move forward with my feet."

'Semete sono-sakide wa waratte iyou to' せめてその先では笑っていようと "At least I'll try to smile there"

'Omotte ita no ni...' 思っていたのにーーー… "That's what I was thinking…"

She claims she had limited options but, confirming Enji's words, she still could choose.

I should probably say that the impression I get from Tōya first saying it was Enji who forced Rei to marry against her will (same as Shouto), and then him instead choosing to blame his grandparents for Rei's marriage, with Enji and, more important, Rei, feels like a retcon (and since this chapter already contained a retcon in its magazine version I wouldn't be surprised if this was the case here as well).

Of course we can excuse it with an 'at the time Tōya was still longing for Enji's love and didn't want to blame him too much...' only to remember he was blaming him in that same chapter in his chat with Natsuo so... whatever.

And, in addition to this, there's also the narrator in "School Briefs I: Notice from School" which says Enji "singled out his would-be wife and forced her into a Quirk marriage".

Really, this doesn't make it look like Rei even had the option to refuse... only for chap 301/302 to change the situation having Enji say she could refuse, Rei saying she chose that path for her family's sake and Tōya not blaming anymore his father but his grandparents for that marriage.

So, skipping the old bits as retconned out of the story, honestly the impression I got of the Himura from the scene was they saw this as their golden chance as soon as they were asked out so Enji didn't really have to work on being persuasive. Maybe it's just me, though we'll later learn the Himura were already into organized Quirk marriages... however their own were to strenghten their own Quirk as they tended to marry among distant relatives.

In Japan is considered incest only if you marry someone who's a second or a third degree relative so I guess they could safely marry among forth degree relatives.

Rei also will claim she

Anyway really, I doubt Enji had to do much work to persuade the Himura and, if he hadn't shown up, her family would have still likely try to organize her marriage so...

The anime cuts Enji's pouting face as he and Rei walks around the place.

The flowers Rei is watching are Gentians.

In the series we see Enji gifting them to Rei in November as she has them during the Second Hero Billboard chart which takes place in November but she also has them during the Paranormal Liberation War which takes place in March.

Now, we can assume the first kind of Gentians Rei has are likely the ‘gentiana scabra’, a specie of gentian with a blue (青色)/purple color (紫色), also called Japanese Gentian. In Japan their name is Rindō (リンドウ/竜胆) and well, they're basically The Gentian in Japan as when you mean to say just gentian in Japan you say 'Rindō'.

However this comes with a problem. In Japan the ‘gentiana scabra’ blossoms in Autumn, from September to November... so it's fine for Enji to gift them to Rei in November for the Hero Billboard chart... but it would be difficult to do the same in March, before/after the Paranormal Liberation War,

The alternative is that the second gentian we see, the one she's holding in March is actually a 'gentiana zollingeri' or Fude Rindō (フデリンドウ), another gentian typical of Asia which is either white or blue and whose flowering period is Spring, usually from April to May... but the problem is I've heard this gentian is usually quite small so... no idea. For now I'll let the guessing to who knows more about gentians than me.

Now let's focus a moment on what Rei says...

'Kono ohana watashi ga suki tte itta no' 「このお花私が好きって言ったの」 "I told him I like/love these flowers"

'？' 「？」 "？"

'Hajimete atta koro tatta ichido' 「初めて会った頃たった一度」 "Only once when we first met"

Actually, the Japanese text in this scene matches more with how we saw it being played out. In the flashback Rei never said they were her favourite flowers and here she confirms she only told him she liked/loved them.

Anyway, according to this scene, this mean they have that walk in which they saw the gentians on their first meeting.

And that's all we know about Enji pre marriage form the manga.

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