#THE ONE FLAW HE HAS AS A CAPTAIN!!! BAD COMMUNICATION!!!

[hauntingblue]

So roger gave the hat to shanks(to become pirate king after him I guess?) But didn't make it??? Lmao

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

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

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you��ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

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

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

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

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

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

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Captain's Orders 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, controlling behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The Captain takes it upon himself to change your life.

Characters: Steve Rogers

Note: I am still dizzy her and there but feeling a bit better.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You wouldn’t call it doom scrolling. That’s not what this is. You try not to search out the depressing headlines or the studies of the human character assuring you of your race’s inherent flaws. Yet, all those boastful posts about engagements, weddings, and promotions still make you feel crummy. 

Jealous? Sure. You don’t have any of those things and it isn’t as if you can hope for as much, either. You’re in a dead-end job, living in cramped apartment with your sister and her irresponsible friend, and your romantic life is next to non-existent; not that you’ve been looking. None of that is meant for you, otherwise, you’d have had some glimmer of interest by now. 

It’s like quicksand. Not very quick but it pulls you down lower and lower. Sinking and sinking until all you can see is the muck. There’s no way out now, you’re waist deep in it. 

You click under your favourite communities and start a new post. You don’t make many. Mostly you read and judge silently. You’re a lurker. Like in many facets of your life. You watch, you don’t do. But you’ve had a shitty day and you need to just let it out. 

Your fingers move as your thoughts boil in your head; your nagging manager, your lazy landlord, and your immature roommates. Nothing ever goes your way. Everyone else has it figured out and you’re just left to rot. You try! You do. Resumes, profiles on friendship apps, online courses; free, of course, it’s all you can afford, but you do try to improve yourself. It just doesn’t work. 

You hit ‘post’ and close the lid of your ancient laptop. It’s as thick as a book. The battery doesn’t hold a charge and the fan is as loud as a jet. You fall back onto your bed and look around your tiny room. That’s all you have. This space is as much as you can call your own and not really. You rent it, it can be taken away with one of those red stamped notices. 

You yawn and drag yourself up. A whole shift and you didn’t bother to have more than the bland break room coffee spewed from the off-brand pod machine and a couple sticks of gum. Tia got herself sushi before her shift but she can just ask her parents to send her money to cover her Door Dash addiction. 

You plod out to the kitchen. Your sister closes the fridge and cracks the tab of a beer can. You’re sure it isn’t her first.  

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Shea bobbles her head. 

Funny since Donna pretty much hollered at you for interrupting her TV show. You all pitched in on the flat screen yet it’s never your turn with it. You shrug and go to the cupboard. It’s not sushi but the spicy shrimp ramen isn’t too bad... 

“You work?” You ask. 

“Pfft, no. Didn’t I say I was going to lunch with Mason?” 

“Did you?” You take down at bowl. She probably did. You never remember. She’s always got a date or a party or a fall back. If she can’t make rent, she’ll smile a cute guy and get some money. 

“He bought me some shoes! You’ll never believe.” 

“Right,” you try not to seethe. 

You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. You’re eating sodium-laced noodles and holding back tears against old people wanting to print out their life story from a corrupt PDF. She’s pretty. She doesn’t have to try. Shea is all the proof you need that some people are just lucky. 

You put the electric kettle onto boil and the smell of burnt—something makes your lip curl. You pop the lid and look inside. It’s brown. What the hell? 

“What’s wrong with this?” You ask as you flip off the switch. 

“Donna!” Shea yells, “what did you do to the kettle?” No answer. Your sister hollers again. 

A door swings open and Donna stomps out with a huff. Her face is green as she has a mask spread over it and eye masks pasted beneath her lashes. 

“I’m getting ready--” 

“The kettle stinks,” you reach for a pot and find none. They’re all stacked and waiting to be washed. You snatch one off the top and flip on the faucet. 

“Oh, I heated up some bone broth in it. I’m doing a cleanse,” she smirks. “Tasted kinda weird.” 

“Bone broth?” You scoff. See. You try, they can’t even clean dishes. “Great.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine, just rinse it out,” Shea says. 

You scrub the pan and ignore her. You glance up as she slurps noisily from the can. Pre-drinks. Her and Donna are going out. Again. They can afford to because they don’t buy their own drinks. They don’t need to. You went out with them once and paid for all of your own, even though you’d have been happy enough with a single round. 

“Have fun,” you dry out the pan and slam it on the burner. 

“Jeez, maybe you should loosen up?” Donna chides. 

“Yeah, come with us. Dance it out,” Shea drawls. 

“No thanks,” you twist the knob and light the burner. “I have work tomorrow.” 

“Call innnnn,” Shea insists. 

“I can’t,” you sniff and step back to wait for the water to boil. 

“Boring,” she chirps. 

“Yep, I am,” you cross your arms. Your annoyed. When the go out, you’ll have to clean up this mess. You can’t handle another bout of fruit flies. 

You put the noodles in and let them soften. You stir in the oil and powder then retreat to your room with the bowl of boiling cholesterol. You let it cool and put a video on your phone. You don’t want to think. 

You eat deliberately. You savour the processed flavouring. You can’t go out sneak a midnight snack; Donna ate all your cookies. You label all your stuff in thick marker and she apparently can’t read. 

You hear them leave. They’re loud. They leave the television on. At high volume. 

You go out and shut it off. You need to sleep soon. Opening always comes after a late shift. Otherwise, how else would the corporation keep you disempowered. 

You open your laptop. You’ll but on some lo-fi while you charge your phone. Heck, the fan is like white noise on its own. 

The little red number at the bottom of the page stops you. You left the browser open. Someone actually responded to your post. You click and your stomach drops as you read the first sentence. 

‘Sounds like you cause a lot of your own problems. Maybe try some mindful exercises and get out more. You should also consider making some friends.’ 

You read it over and over. You’re angry. Hurt, too. But most that first thing. You can’t stop from replying. 

‘You got all that from me venting? I wasn’t asking for advice. I walk to and from work and I have friends.’ 

It’s mostly true. You do walk. Most days. And your sister is a friend, isn’t she? By association, so is Donna. 

Before you can look up your favourite twelve-hour lo-fi, another notification pops up. 

‘Looking at your post history, your diet could use some improvements. More veggies. And walking is a good starting point but you need to increase your endorphins. I’d be happy to send you some helpful guides. They’re easily searchable on the internet. We live in the age of information, you should consider taking advantage of that.’ 

Wow, what an asshole. He’s smug and obviously better than you. You click on his username and scroll through. Just as you expect. He posts in fitness communities. Not any videos of him but sharing tutorials and recipes for high-protein smoothies and fibre-laced juices. He wouldn’t know flavour if it puked in his mouth. 

You his ‘esc’ and go back to your own post; ‘thanks for the advice. Have a good one.; 

That’s it. You’re not arguing with some faceless douche on the internet. His response is as quick as the first. 

‘A helpful link.’ He hyperlinks the words. ‘You should at least stretch in the morning and go outside on your breaks at work. You might work long shifts but it’s no excuse to be lazy. If you’ve been in that role for so long, you should have more than enough references to move on to something that doesn’t make you miserable.’ 

You don’t answer. You know if you do, you’ll just embarrass yourself. Judging by the few pics of his real life and his cadence, he’s got everything. He just thinks it’s a matter of mindset. There can’t possibly be anything else which could make things more difficult for people. You just don’t work hard enough. Duh, everyone always says so. 

You close out of the page. If he replies again, you’ll block him. Simple as. You put on a lo-fi track and dim the screen. You roll over and tuck into bed. You fall asleep in a ball of stress; you have to wake up, shower, do all that human stuff, then make yourself face another eight hours of hell. 

⭐

“I hate working at the fucking copy desk,” you hiss as you take your bag from the cubby in the break room. “Good luck.” 

Darcy gives you a look as she sits at one of the tables, waiting for her shift to start. You grit your teeth as you should your purse and grip your jacket tight. You punch your employee number into the clock then head out. 

As you march down the aisle of toner, a customer tries to stop you. “I’m off duty.” 

“But I need a keyboard.” 

You ignore them and keep going. 

“I’m going to tell a manager, young lady!” 

You don’t care. Besides, why are they looking for a keyboard in the toner aisle. The signs above with the giant letters clearly show that the computer accessories are in the opposite corner. 

People are stupid. They might be able to read, technically, but they definitely lack comprehension. Just like Donna who can’t keep her hands off your snacks. 

You walk home in a simmer. If you let your temper get away from you, you won’t be able to hold back when you walk into the inevitable shit show waiting for you at home. Shea and Donna hungover, probably having got into more of your sparse groceries, and amidst a brand new mess for you to tidy. You won’t not this time. 

You have a mission. Go to your room and don’t come out. 

As you enter your building, you find the elevator non-responsive. A tiny post-it is stuck to the doors. ‘Out of Order’. Couldn’t have made something a bit more legible? 

You take the stairs. The hallway smells like onion and dirty clothes. You take out your keys as you get to your door, ignoring the rabble coming from the apartment next to yours. Before you can get your key in the slot, the door opens. 

“Heyyyy, she’s back,” Shea greets. You blink at her in confusion. Is she already drunk again? 

“Starting already?” You ask as you try to get past her. 

“Hm, no,” she says tritely, “you have a guest.” 

You roll your eyes, “don’t be a bitch, alright?” 

“No, really,” she grins. You stop and look her up and down. She isn’t falling apart like usual after a Friday night. Her hair is done, her makeup too, and she’s not in her sweats.  

“Is it mom?” You whisper. 

She snorts, “you’re stupid. No, it’s your friend. Steve.” She backs up with a shimmy, “I think some people call him Captain.” 

You make a face. What? 

“Who...” 

“Ahem,” a figure appears by the corner of the kitchen counter, “I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

You crane to see over Shea’s shoulder. The man behind her is tall. And familiar. Steve Rogers. Your expression contorts as your lashes flutter in confusion. 

“Not at all, Stevie,” Shea spins, “I’ll give you two the room. So nice to meet you.” 

She squeezes by him and touches his forearm as she does. He doesn’t react. She giggles and flits off. Her door shuts but you can tell that the latch didn’t catch. She’s listening. 

“Should we go outside? Get some sun?” He asks. 

You glance at him again. You’re lost. 

“Do I know you?” You grimace. 

“After all day under fluorescent, you should really get out--” 

“I-- I’m sorry, can you slow down and explain--” 

“Outside. Privately,” he says. 

You peek past him then look into the hallway behind you. You search your mind for an explanation. The only place you know him from is the internet or a history book. 

“Like I said before, going outside can really help with mood issues.” 

You hesitate and your mouth falls open. It can’t be... 

“Was that you? Last night?” You shake your head. 

“How about I buy you a smoothie?” He offers. 

You snap your mouth shut. He can’t be serious. This can’t be real. 

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

thinking about Emma Frost again. let's imagine for a second X-Men matters and my opinion must be shared.

When I was a kid I really respected and liked Professor X. I thought his stances on issues were calm and reasonable and I thought his efforts were, while ultimately fruitless, the best ones in the fictional conversation about inclusivity and race and all that. this is a subtle reference to the fact I only watched the cartoon and the movies as a kid.

When I grew older and learned English I started engaging with the comics and realized that oh, turns out the adaptations are superficial at best and fladerizing at worst, and there's a lot more to Charles than Being Correct. He's actually in fact a scathing critique of control and flawed leaders of good faith ideals, and how you're supposed to grow over those who created the words you use to free yourself from tyranny. Professor X is a jerk, Magneto was right, all that.

But over time I realized how much that erases Emma Frost, villain turned voice of reason extraordinaire.

Emma starts her tenure in X-Men as Claremont's personification of everything that is bad with high society, accosted by Sebastian Shaw, which is that but male. Emma is genuinely awful when Claremont writes her; a GOOD awful, on purpose, but she's not supposed to be relatable. She has her own mutant school, her own team of mutants, her own answer to Cerebro. She's the most genuine Evil Xavier we get for a full two decades. and she's great at it! Even if the hellfire club almost always truces with the X-Men for the sake of fighting a more important battle, there's no question that you're not supposed to root for Emma.

And then in the 90s something changes, Claremont goes away for a second, other people approach the character, and the question becomes, why are we treating her like evil Xavier? She's building community. She's giving a voice to the disenfranchised. She's training them and she's caring for them and at no point is she asking of them things they actively disagree with, which can't be said of Charles. And so starts the process most every X-Men villain goes through: humanization, complexity, redemption. And fuck does Emma redeem herself.

Ten years into not being a caricature of high class, Emma has accrued a tragic backstory, several positive projects in canon, renown as a genius, positive relationships to several characters, and a main team spot in a highly acclaimed, influential run as of New X-Men. A whole new generation of readers introduced to Emma, new powers, new MO, new everything. Other characters are changing drastically, usually backwards, to accompany the movie's success -- Magneto is evil again, Jean goes back to being the Phoenix, Charles is a lot more like Captain Picard. But Emma? Emma gets to keep going. She changes things wherever she goes.

She hooks up with Cyclops, her daughters become their new Cerebro, she becomes the new heavy-hitter, the Hellfire Club becomes more Shaw and Shinobi's deal than hers... obviously, this isn't consistent. She's got low points and moments that don't agree to her new character. But this woman, who started as commentary on how the rich will destroy you for fun, is now a key positive portion of the world because at some point in time, she had a point -- Charles *isn't* the end-all-be-all of the matter of teaching young mutants, Erik *isn't* the best way forward as far as mutant armadas go, there *is* nuance to their dualistic conversation, the dichotomy is only enforced because they're loud, but she can be louder, she can be louder than any of them--

And then Krakoa hits. Yes, there's a full ten years of bad X-Men stories, many of them including Emma, at least one of them including Emma genociding a few Inhumans. But then Krakoa hits, and every character gets a new project.

Cyclops? Seeing the world move on in ways he might not approve of. Wolverine? Being happy, and realizing he means to fight to keep it going. Erik? Charles? Apocalypse?? Seeing how strong their "dreams" are when they compromise, and realizing oh, I am willing to do *anything* to keep this going, quite literally anything, there is no crime predicted by man or god that would be beyond my reach if it meant paradise would not be lost.

Emma? Emma keeps doing what she's been doing from the word go. Keep it fabulous. Keep the children safe. Don't fall for the lies. At some point someone will invade your privacy and try to take everything away from you. Your job is not to simply destroy them. Your job is to showcase to them how this too was accounted for.

Emma, alongside her planning, her alliances, her leading of the resistance, her unfathomable internal strength and her willingness to see the world for what it is, won the war for Krakoa. Charles wanted things to stay the way they were, Erik wanted things to be the way he dreamed they could be, Apocalypse wanted things to impress him.

Emma wanted them to be safe and sound. Emma wanted the children to be safe. And when Krakoa rose and left, now fully developed and having outgrown her as well, she picked herself back up and went to train a new generation.

There's always children to keep safe. There's always a new generation. The work is never finished.

Yes, the O5 have their own version of Xavier's dream fulfilled, but Emma is the only one who managed to keep herself genuine while evolving. In a room with religious zealots, war criminals, villains and ancients evils, Emma could always look at Kitty Pryde and think to herself, look at what we're doing, my friend. Look at what we have to work with. We're not saving them from themselves, we're saving everyone they're willing to sacrifice.

I wish those adaptations would make Emma Frost sound like she does to me. She's not just a third option to the Professor X-Magneto dichotomy. She's a person asking why is this a dichotomy in the first place. She's too busy actually caring about people to bother with the bickering.

For the children, they said when they wanted her to join their little utopia. For the children, she sighed back, realizing that if she didn't say it, quite literally no one else would.

[windvexer]

On what I'm going to call "peer positioning" in witchcraft, and the scary empowerment it can bring you

I think a lot of people who get into witchcraft have a problem with being able to see themselves as peers & equals to the powers they cultivate around them.

I see this most often discussed when it comes to gods. "Just because your god asks you for something doesn't mean you need to do it!" Etc. I think we've all heard that.

But today my thoughts are on the tarot, and how some people seem to treat tarot readings as "the truth" or "the answer" that then must be followed, even if they (the living, breathing, human practitioner) don't really agree or don't really want to do that.

I'm really big on the analogy of a witch as a monarch, and the concept of various powers (like gods, spirits, tools, and spells) being counselors in the throne room.

In this context, it's easier to adopt the mindset that all of these powers have their own personalities, abilities, and goals - and that they can & will provide conflicting information when you ask for advice. (Especially ancestors - so opinionated!)

Imagine Captain Picard sitting in the meeting room with Geordi, Riker, and the rest of the space nerds.

Captain Picard is like, "the power core is failing and the away team is stranded on the planet. I think we should use the nebula to hide until the Gromflomites stop searching for us." And then Geordi is like, "but Captain, the engines would never make it! We have to go rescue the away team immediately!" And Captain Picard is like, "damn... Wow. I really wanted to go to the nebula, I thought it was the best choice :/ but if you're saying we literally don't have to worry about the Gromflomites..." Then Riker is like, "Captain, no. Geordi isn't saying the Gromflomites aren't a problem, he's just expressing his top concerns as Chief Engineer." And then Picard is all, "oh, so... this is conflicting information? Did that mean I did a bad reading on Geordi, or that negative spirits are stopping me from being able to communicate? Is Riker possibly a trickster?"

If you're captain of the ship, monarch of the kingdom, (etc.), then it might be important to ask yourself:

Am asking for input from my counsel of allied powers, and then making choices for myself?

Or, have I inadvertently signed over my decision-making process to these powers?

And I think it all kind of comes back to "peer positioning," or, witches being able to develop a spiritual framework within which they are equals to the powers around them.

Since beginning practicing witchcraft in earnest, I have often demanded a course of direction. Instead of asking, "how do I accomplish this?" I would ask, "what do I do?"

And the answer was the same every time, deeply infuriating, but also very scary: "Do whatever you think is best."

I think that's the problem of being the captain of the ship. Once your counselors are done giving their input, you are the one who has to make the final call.

Lately I've really been on a kick about witchcraft as a path of empowerment, and I think that viewing spiritual input as just that - input - is a vital part of the process.

Even if you are a true-blue believer in the magical power of tarot, tarot is still just one counselor sitting in your throne room.

Even if you have tutelary spirits, guardians and guides, gods and angels, providing blessings and support - they are not sitting at the head of the table.

You are.

I think that a framework of allied powers as peers and equals is relatively basic, and does have its flaws. But I also think it can be helpful in a variety of ways:

It can provide a system of understanding why allied powers can give conflicting advice, or even seemingly bad advice that doesn't align with our personal desires.

It can provide a tool for processing spiritual input.

It helps restore a sense of personal authority to a practitioner.

It can help a practitioner reclaim control of a path that's grown a mind of its own.

It aids in practicing that most oppressive of skills - liberated autonomy.

I just think it's something to consider. At the end of the day, most of us have probably got to make our own calls.

[I'm making this post because in the past few months I've been helping witches consult the tarot, and they've been giving feedback like, "so this is what I should do, right?" or, "what is it telling me to do?"

I can basically see the huge reblogs where people are explaining that a period of time where they signed complete personal autonomy over to their god was the most empowering and spiritually electric time in their lives,

and I want you to know, I'm not speaking about vows and oaths made to entities that gives them control over your life. I'm talking about situations where witches put down their autonomy so they can have both hands free to shuffle tarot.]

[phantomdialogue]

˗ˏˋ. ݁₊ ✶ ˖ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 - 𝟒/𝟓 ☆ . ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗

off-campus series book 1

premise: garrett graham has failed his philosophy midterm and his future with the hockey team is in jeopardy if he can't get his grade back up. lucky for him, he catches a glimpse at the bright red A on the top of hannah wells' paper and decides he desperately needs her help. lucky for hannah, she needs help getting the attention of the guy she's had a crush on all semester and dating, or rather fake-dating, the captain of the hockey team would really help with that. when they strike up a deal, they might both get what they want, or find they wanted something different from the beginning.

couple: garrett graham and hannah wells

tropes: fake dating, college romance, sports romance, ice hockey player x music student, enemies to lovers (ish)

CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS BEFORE READING!! - includes themes such as physical and verbal abuse (familial), sexual assault, and more.

available on kindle unlimited

review below!

review:

i will stand by the thought that this is what icebreaker wanted to be but just isn't. this book has its flaws. don't get me wrong. but do i still love it? hell yeah. i think it's such a fun book and yet it still has a tone of seriousness to it that doesn't feel out of place. you smile through a lot of it, blush through the smut, and get sad in the darker parts.

garrett graham... i understand the hype. he is the most perfect example of a golden retriever douchebag that isn't actually a douchebag. he's hilarious and so sweet when he needs to be. the scene of him with hannah in the bar made me smile so much (before things went downhill of course) and his backstory is just so sad. i want to wrap him up in a blanket and just keep him warm.

hannah wells, oh i love you. hannah is such a fun character because she's a pushover until she reaches her limit and you get to read how she slowly becomes less and less of a pushover and it's so great. i also love that she isn't completely controlled by her trauma. it obviously still effects her and for good reason but it's not the singular defining trait of her character like a lot of other characters with that trauma can be written as.

this book checks a lot of boxes that could be a bit more cliche and overdone but it does it in such a fun way with such good characters that you don't mind it. the plot isn't entirely special and unique and the writing isn't my favorite but the characters and the banter and the relationships between everyone really makes it such a fun easy read that i look forward to continuing the series.

q & a:

are they endgame? - i adore this couple. i really do. i think they are really good at reading each other, garrett especially with hannah, and it's clear that they have an easy time opening up to one another. with that in mind, they still do have some little flaws in their communication that would need to be ironed out for them to last but i think they can 100% figure that out and stay together in the long run. they have a very sweet companionship with each other that is really a key part of their lives and they are understanding of each other's priorities and schedules that that wouldn't become a problem.

did i cringe? - yes. BUT i think it's more so just from the style of writing. a lot of the reason that this got knocked down to 4 stars is because the style of writing just isn't my favorite. there is a lot of modern slang and almost kind of "gen z" voice to the story that i think can feel out of place at times but i did still thoroughly enjoy the book and really adored all the characters we were introduced to (minus a few of the bad ones of course).

favorite part? - like i said above, the characters really stole the show for me. garrett and hannah are both really interesting characters with complex backgrounds and their stories are shared with each other in a very heartwarming way. even the side characters (who will later get their own books) all had little elements about them that were so endearing and shined through the page. i really fell in love with the characters and that's what made me love the book as much as i did.

least favorite part? - the pacing felt really off. i almost arguably wish that it was longer but only for the last 40% of the book. i wish that some of the angst had been dragged out more than immediately being resolved and i wish that we got a bit more of garrett's perspective during the final conflict because i think it would have been really fun as a reader to know about what he was doing rather than find out at the same time as hannah. but it wasn't the worst pacing. i really did enjoy the book still and it didn't entirely take away from the book.

favorite quotes (some spoilers here, of course, but minimal):

“I kiss each of my biceps and then point to the ceiling and thank the big man upstairs for creating such a perfect male specimen.”

It’s like that pond I skated on when I was a kid—from a distance, the ice looked so shiny and smooth, until you got close enough to it, and suddenly all the uneven edges and crisscrossed skate marks became visible. That’s me, I guess. Covered with skate marks that nobody ever seems to notice.

“I want to murder him in his sleep, A. No, I want to murder him when he’s awake so he can see the joy on my face when I do it.”

“Anything. I don’t care.” I’m startled by the intensity in his voice, the emotion now glittering in his gray eyes. “I just need to hear you sing again.”

I suddenly wonder how I ever made it through life without Hannah Wells’s sarcastic barbs and annoyed grumbles.

“Hey, come on, don’t cry,” he begs. “It breaks my fucking heart to hear you cry.”

But right now, all I want is for this girl to smile at me again.

I’m not a fragile piece of china to him. I’m just… me.

Sometimes people sneak up on you and suddenly you don’t know how you ever lived without them. How you went about your day and hung out with your friends and fucked other people without having this one important person in your life.

“How did I go so long without noticing you, damn it? Why did it take seeing a stupid A on your midterm to make me notice?”

“Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored.” Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.

I didn’t let a single person in, not even my closest friends, and then you came along and I realized just how fucking lonely I’ve been.

I feel like I can drop my guard completely and not have to worry about getting hurt or taken advantage of or being afraid, because Garrett Graham will always be there to love and protect me.

I don’t look back these days. I only look forward.

[darklinaforever]

I think this kind of person really doesn't understand the Star Wars community to compare to this kind of other case... Star Wars is a huge franchise that is being inspected from all sides by a bunch of sick people. Also, if this person thinks that there are racists who haven't watched The Acolyte, it's really because they don't know this community. We all know that there are tons of sexists and racists who consume Star Wars, including the latest Disney shows. This person greatly underestimates the self-destructive side of certain people in fandoms... And comparing The Acolyte's hate campaign to Captain Marvel will always make me laugh. Fans have been asking for several years for her to finally be treated properly and get her own movie. We're talking about a fictional character established for many years who has finally had the right to an adaptation (not crazy but not ultra bad either). The Acolyte was a completely new product with new characters in an already established franchise and was almost revered as a bible by some fans. It's not the same context at all, nor the same type of community. Not to mention the pathetic second campaign trying to prove that no one wants a renewal of The Acolyte which... actually proves the opposite. And I think once again that kind of person doesn't really understand the Acolyte community. I haven't seen any fans of the show so far claiming that it was great. The show has undeniable flaws. But he has very good potential. Shit.

[moiteneia]

Federation Report: Experiment 0010.

The two guinea pigs, 0001 and 0010, have shown themselves to be very promising. Being twins, we were able to closely observe the changes in their bodies upon contact with Perfection. However, they still demonstrate serious personality flaws.

01 is an intelligent and calm girl, observing her surroundings before making any decision and can distinguish puzzles from false riddles. However, it shows weakness with animals and is aggressive towards physical experiments.

As for her brother, 10, he is an unsociable and protective boy, showing high levels of anger when we approach his sister. He demonstrates the same level of intelligence as his sister, spending hours on our puzzles to deliver them perfectly solved.

Given their levels of aggression, we decided to separate them, promising each other that if they obeyed, the other would not be being attacked.

From there, we were able to move on to the ARENA experiment.

There, we put the best cobals we collected to face each other in pairs. By uniting 10 and q!Bbh, one of our oldest guinea pigs, we achieved spectacular results.

This was the first time the experiment was given a "name". q!Bbh seems to have become fond of the child and named him "Dapper".

0010 doesn't seem to show the exact feeling of affection or protection for q!Bbh, just being understanding and calm. The two seem to get along well and q!Bbh managed to use 10's aggression to capture and kill his opponents more easily. This seems to have made the child crueler than Perfection would have liked.

The Federation then determined that 0010 would be sent to the prison where we send the rest of our failed experiments, while we will erase part of q!Bbh's memories so that he does not remember the experiments accurately and hinder our efforts to achieve the perfection.

0010 in prison demonstrated irrationality. Having had contact with cruelty, he became manipulative and used fear to obtain protection and what interests him. So much so that he used a fake cell phone to attract and win over gangs who, interested in contact with outsiders, approached him.

This cell phone gave him a new nickname, "Cell". The Federation has not yet decided whether names are bad aspects for our experiment, but momentarily it seems that this will not affect our experiments.

However, two failed test subjects managed to manipulate 0010. Although he managed to escape from our prison, he demonstrated confusion numerous times and his irrationality, along with the intensity and impulsiveness of his actions, blinded him.

Last time we saw him, the duo, along with a third individual, they had arrested him in a type of cave on a small island. He only had in his possession a gun with a single bullet.

Fearing that we would lose one of our most promising results, the agents rushed to rescue him. However, upon arriving on the island, he had somehow escaped.

The Federation determined that we must get it back immediately before we lost everything we had gained in years of experimentation. The agents have been thinking about using 0010's sister to lure him, as we did to keep him obedient, however, we don't know exactly through which channels we could do this.

For now, our main mission is to continue the experiments with the other test subjects and track where "Cell" or 0010 could be.

xXx

Report Update: Arrival of Brazilians and "q!Cellbit/0010".

We managed to track down the location of experiment 0010. He was on his way to Australia on a boat with the prison duo and two other test subjects.

We immediately tried to attract the ship with our mechanisms, however, we were surprised. Subject 0001 managed to reach communication and sent a message to the ship's captain, trying to warn them to stay away from the island, as they were heading towards danger.

It appears that 0001 has been following the investigation for the past few years, looking for her brother and a way to join him by escaping. Luckily, we managed to find out before she arrived to meet her brother. We immediately erase all her memories involving him and will keep her locked up until further notice.

Now, we need to revisit the experiments of 0010, or q!Cellbit, as he appears to have given himself, and find out how far he is from his latest progress while still in our domain.

We also need to know if it is still of use to the Federation so that we can achieve Perfection.

[bbcghostsliamrip]

Essay/Rant on why the captian is good repensentation which is now in one part not two because it was character limit per block of text so I just put spaces.

Hello, I have seen a few diffrent opinions on him in regards to repensentation most of it is good but some people don't like it which is perfectly fine but sometimes when I see complaints about him as a queer character it's missing something very important a key word which is context,I see the point that he never says he's gay outloud and the coming out scene is not explicit coming out I suppose which yes if he was not a very repressed man who was living during a war in a time when it was illegal to be a gay man and he died tragically in a way he is ashamed of that is also connected to his military position which is also very important to him and of course his love his gay, illegal love who he died trying to see, then yes that is a great point but in this context I think it was done very well like everything I just said there is traumatic and he is extremely repressed it's not going to be a big party with flags everywhere it's not him it's not where he's at right now, and yes a very repressed queer perosn who only comes out at the end of the show and has a tragic love story is a commonly used thing in the wrong way because of censorship and things if the captain lived now as a character in a TV show set now where he is alive and well now then he would not be very good repensentation but like I said context is so so important, I also think while he's not the ideal because as some points get made his coming out scene was not really explicitly coming out it was at the end of the show and he's played by a straight man (as far as Im aware), it's important to have repensentation of all queer people those who are loud and proud and those who are not there yet or can't be because of things like safety it's also important to represent people in history, queer history, the war was real and there would have been queer people in it we have always existed we always have been here and there could have been a man just like him who was scared and repressed and lost his love and that story deserves to be told too. Aside from the context points I think his journey with his identity was good subtle but good he trusts the ghosts enough with it now and that took A lot to get there, you can see it in the show I don't think the character development in ghosts is bad in general but I don't think it's amazing it's flawed it has huge mistakes but that's for another time the captian dose have character growth and he dose become more comfortable one detail I love is how after he comes out he then dose not try to hide that he is attracted to the weather man like he did try to hide before he acts just like all the other ghosts do about something like that and that shows that he is more comfortable now and all like that detail, speaking of details another thing that went into his character is details what was it he said some beach a quuer sort of beach I don't know you know what I'm talking about though all like references they have to "gay things" gay culture? Maybe idk what to call it, but not in a stereotypical for the straight audience to laugh at way but in a way that it's showing he's gay showing that it's an important part of who he is it's part of him you know and the queer audience will catch all that and it's ment to be like that it feels like they had this character becuase they wanted queer people to see themselves in it to feel included and represented not just to have a gay character who they can make puns about,

stereotype heavily and use for the straight cis audience to laugh AT work was put into him to make him a queer character for queer people to see and to see themselves and there community and to love but at the same time as this they don't make it his whole identity his whole character he's not just a sterotype with a "perfect coming out story" he is a real person he is a complete complicated character like we all are who had struggles who has a story a personality his coming out story can not be perfect because it never is being queer can be really hard with the world we are in especially in that time his story is complicated and not perfect to you because it's not the situation is not he is not it was not a good situation but he has a new family now and they are all amazing and love eachother, he is a real character not a template for writing the perfect coming out queer storyline, another point now this one is absolutely fair enough (they all are you ofc can have your opinion I'm sorry if it sounds rude here it's currently 2 am and I tired) is that he is played by a straight guy (which just a question do we know that Ben is not lgbt because just cause he has dose not mean he can not be queer it's Lgbtqia+ yk, should not be assuming someone is anything) which I understand some people don't like this they want our community repensented by our community but if there is a straight actor to play queer roles Ben is a great one for it he obviously takes so much care and love with the characters to do there gay justice. Ok that's it I'm so tired but I'll defend my lovely ghosts any time please don't get annoyed at me I just want to put my points out there you can disagree all you like 

Also just to clarify I am queer also trans and not sure of sexuality but it's not straight gay or bi I think just in case you though I was a cis straight person giving such strong opinions on repensentation which ig they can do and no one ever has to tell you there identity on a tumbler post that's not your business but in this case I prefer to put that as a note 

[twothpaste]

wellll i gotta ask about our boy Bronson wiiith 12, 21, 25??

YEAAA BRONSON!!!! (Putting answers below a readmore because they're long 🕺)

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

I assure y'all I'm very normal and not at all unwell regarding All The Shit I Made Up About Bronson. The blundering apocalyptic naval admiral who accidentally got his own fleet destroyed, defected like a coward, and never faced the consequences. Who tried to make amends by serving as the White Ship's captain, but never washed his hands of blood. Dude who has no clue how to navigate grief, 'cause he couldn't face it himself when folks who trusted him died on his watch. So wracked with subconscious guilt he just wants to stuff his head in an amnesiac hole and spend the rest of his days as a humble bumfuck Nowhere blacksmith. Again, normal about Bronson. Nothing to see here.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I love making him lowkey pathetic when push comes to shove. He's a capable leader if things are running according to plan, an easygoing and sensible person generally, people do respect him, etc. But when faced with truly difficult dilemmas, he ends up floundering uselessly. Falls back on old habits, like feigning control over the situation, trying & failing to order people around, throwing up his hands and hoping everything works itself out. There's several situations in TSS where Bronson, despite all his barking bravado, is clearly the least effective team player - and it cracks me up! (Deep down, after a lifetime of shit flyin' disastrously off the handle despite his best efforts, he's painfully aware of how little control he really has… 🥲)

I'm having a hard time thinking of anything I don't like about writing him. He comes off a little stiff & stagnant sometimes I guess (granted I've been writing him at the grizzled & curmudgeonly age of 61 dfgdfhg). Not certain I've managed to convincingly convey the value he brings to his community, since he's often bumbling about, or giving lukewarm advice. In TSS I wanted him as a sort of linchpin, holding the whole operation together with his steady & familiar presence, even though he goofs up a lot? I've def had a lot of moments with him where it's been hard to thread that line, and I'm not sure I pulled it off. But even still, Bronson's never been unfun to handle as a character ❤️

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

When I first played Mother 3 as a clueless little 17 or 18 year old, Bronson was one of the few Tazmilians who really stuck out in my mind. He leaves a pretty strong impression in Chapter 1, huh! Still in high school, I was embarrassingly bad at relating to or connecting with adult characters. But even back then - and definitely now - I think what I liked about him was how flawed he is, how human his writing felt. Dude tries so hard to help find Hinawa, ends up too late, and absolutely blunders like a jackass when it comes time to relay the news. He fucks up royally by throwing Flint in jail, too, but you can tell by the way he talks to Flint that he bears no ill will or animosity. Puts up no protest against the Pigmasks & Tazmily's industrialization, but he's one of the few villagers who remains neighborly as ever toward Lucas. He's really just some guy tryin' his best to do right by his community, handling shit in the only ways he knows how. His failures are so honest, I can't really bring myself to blame him too harshly. Throughout the game he always somehow feels like a trustworthy ally, even when he's just lounging on the beach while the world goes to hell. The most lovably ineffectual Real One ever.

[wildwinterlunas]

OP, as an Ana support main, I'm loving your headcanons and theories/thesis. Can we discuss her skins and voicelines? I'm extremely fond of 'Captain Amari' and 'Sniper' skins. More importantly the way her biotic rifle looks in every one of them.

Alright, I've been meaning to update my Analysis on Ana.

Ana is such an interesting character to me because of how flawed she is, combined with the fact that she's one of the only character who self corrects and admits to her mistakes.

I have made it obvious that I think the fandom tends to forget about Ana's flaws and the mistakes she made in the past. There is a reason we never see any pictures of Ana with a teenage/young adult Pharah, there is also the note that she is very much a parallel to Sojiro;

She knows from experience.

Ana is a very flawed character, but she's one of the few of the old guard to fully realize where she messed up. Though it isn't without pushing from both Cassidy and Jack, she meets up with Pharah, in person, and makes amends with her. She indirectly apologizes to Cassidy about how he was treated, how his life turned out. She acknowledges that she has caused damage both to the people around her and the world at large.

We see in a lot of voicelines and interactions that a lot of character look up to Ana and I think that was the main cause of a lot of her mistakes, she needed to be the example, the person to follow and that lead her to having a very bad work-life balance. Not only that but we see that her reluctance to let Pharah follow her dreams not only effected her relationship with Pharah, but with Cole as well;

This interaction to me depicts a distance between Cassidy and Ana. I think people forget that both Cassidy and Pharah are in the same boat of only recently rekindling their relationship with Ana. Something we are seeing Ana struggle to do because, out of Ana, Jack and Gabe, Jack is probably the most in touch with emotion and people. While Ana tends to isolate herself.

But I think what's important about this aspect of Ana's character is again, the fact that she is willing to change;

She openly acknowledges when and how she messed up, not only that but she wants to make up for lost time, she just can't at the moment (because Talon are being bitches).

Now as for skins I can't really do anything in depth because I don't have the skins but;

I do really like both skins but I do have a nit pick for the Ana skin. From what I've seen of it there are no notches in the gun counting how many people she's killed, which is something she canonically did, again this is a nit pick but I wish this skin had that. Other than that I just like how the skin looks, specifically the outfit itself, it's practical, it fits Ana's personality and the set out of the colours is nice!

As for the sniper skin this is essentially the pre-Overwatch skin for Ana. Like with that Captain Amari skin, it's very practical, more so since it camouflages with the environment of Egypt. It does a good job of communicating what Ana was doing before Overwatch!

Sorry this took so long to answer, needed a lot more time then I realized to put this together.

[fizz-pop-thwip]

I do agree with some of your points. However, I think something you are missing here is, characters have flaws. And those flaws are important to who they are and what they stand for, excusing them is doing a character no service. Tony IS guilty of several of these listed but that doesn't make him a terrible character it just makes him an complex one. (that's the opinion I hold anyway, clearly not others.)

Some of these arguments are just petty ones made at Tony because of an unreasonable hatred but some DO have some genuine base behind them that I'd like to note myself.

1- Misogyny

I do NOT think its nitpicking whatsoever to say his misogynistic jokes are bad. I agree that it doesn't make him overall a terrible person and is rather a reflection of the time he grew up in. Part of me feels like it would almost be unrealistic for him to not make a joke like that every now and again, considering his playboy persona. We also know based on the plenty of screen time he has, that he would never act on something like that or even something close again though, hardly nitpicking and really is a genuine critique.

2- Peter Parker

Now, I will make you laugh. Even if they were joking around, it was still very much a dangerous battle. Sure, nobody was trying to seriously harm each other because of their history and respect for each other, yet a man still lost his ability to walk. Accidents happen. (I'll come back to that later.)

Tony did manipulate Peter into the fight. Not maliciously I suppose but very much still did. I don't think peter WANTED to say no, to Tony. Based on the info he was given I think he very much wanted to help his idol but Tony showing up to his home and not telling peter about the real reasoning behind the fight and what was really going on, is a VERY dirty play.

He didn't LIE about the information sure but he very clearly withholds the full story, its obvious that peter doesn't have a full understanding. Peter wouldn't have helped him if he really knew what the accords were about and that on its own is text book manipulation. E.g. Cambridge Dictionary: "controlling someone or something to your own advantage, often unfairly or dishonestly"

"Steve Rogers: Look kid. There's a lot going on here that you don't understand. Peter Parker: Mr. Stark said you'd say that. Wow. He also said to go for your legs. Steve Rogers: Stark tell you anything else? Peter Parker: That you're wrong. You think you're right. That makes you dangerous."

He only has been told about how to fight, and vaguely why hes fighting through the lens of Tony alone. He wasn't provided with the accords to read though himself, hes just helping his idol take down 'insane captain America' like tony frames it.

Again, Tony did have Peter in mind, he didn't want him to get hurt, he put him on the bench when it got to much but it wasn't okay to take a - 14 year old, by the way, not 16- kid to Germany, lie to his guardian and put him in danger even if he thinks he can handle it. Although I will say, he did a much better job of trying to keep peter safe in homecoming, even if he lacked communication.

3- Sokovia accords

It doesn't seem like you support his choice to support the accords but I have heard this argument before from other people so I'll note-

Steve fought for his right to fight for good. That's why he took the serum, that's why hes Captain America, that's why he joined the Avengers. Because it puts him in the position to be able to help as many people as possible, the best he can. Tony wants to sign the accords to protect the team (and his own sudden guilt complex), Steve doesn't because it stops his ability to help as best he can and most likely be forced to do bad things under the governments. Steve is not, and will never be compliant in something like that. I understand Tony's motivations, I do, but I cannot find justification in signing up to government control because you have the realization that there have been casualties.

Having repercussions to things like Ultron (which even if it was an accident, Tony did create.) or having MUCH more intense training before letting people on the field is important, but the government - the very same one who tried to nuke NYC- is not the right people to do so. ESPECIALLY not Ross

4- Steve disabling Rhodey?

Steve was only forced to 'escalate' since, Tony was trying to- for lack of a better word- oppress, on command of Ross, sure but still willingly done. His goal was to get Steve to comply to the accords and bring in Bucky who would have been shoved in some kind of mental facility and prison for the rest of his days. You think Steve's going to roll over, show his belly? He fights when necessary, this was necessary.

Everyone (minus peter) was there of their own volition and understanding of whats happening. There are 2 sides to a fight, the both fought willingly. And then to say Rhodey is Steve's fault is MAD considering it wasn't even someone on his team who shot him, it was Vision who was too worried about his boyfriend to pay attention.

Anyway, all love no hate. Thats all I have to cover, I would say some of the arguments you debunked are so ridiculous they seem made up but I understand how it feels to have someone shit all over your character with unrealistic claims 💔

So I wanted to point out the usual nonsenses coming from Tony Stark antis and luckily enough, one of them made a post quoting pretty much most of their popular "arguments" (if I can refer to them as such), so let's take a look at this user’s main points and see how solid they are.

"Let's talk about the horrible shit Tony has done in the MCU"

Please keep in mind the "horrible shit" term all along during your reading.

"MCU Tony has mortared a city full of civilians"

Okay so first point and it literally never happened. USA's government did that to Wanda and Pietro's town, not Tony so I hope it wasn't too painful to pull this nonsense out of your ass.

"Been a complete dick to all of his teammates"

Oh no... he was mean to Steve and his coworkers during their first movie ? What a complete tragedy, what a heartless monster. Please stop the violins, otherwise I might weep.

"Made multiple misogynistic comments about women mainly Natasha (looking at you prima nocta scene)"

Okay so you gave only one example to back this up and it's when he was obviously joking with his friends. Even if that joke may be in very bad taste, that doesn't make him a horrible person like you tried to demonstrate, you're just nitpicking.

"Manipulated a 16 year old into getting into a war with his former teammates"

A) "a war" please don't make me laugh. For most of the only fight Peter take part in, both sides were joking with the other while fighting and weren't even fighting seriously, they were just trying to incapacitate each other. Things only get messy after Tony ordered Peter to step back.

B) Tony didn't manipulate shit. He hid no vital informations to Peter and while bringing a 16 year old to an arrest was indeed a stupid decision, he knew Steve wouldn't harm him and that Peter was strong, competent and equipped enough to deal with him.

"Thought he was completely justified for trying to kill Bucky for something Bucky did unwillingly cuz he was fucking brainwashed"

Why the fuck are you lying ? At no point Tony justified himself for this. He tried during the whole Civil War plot to ease things with Steve and this even after his best friend got disabled for life because Steve escalated the situation at the airport, only to learn then that his friend lied to him all along about his parents' death.

At this point Tony just didn't care anymore and while he was obviously wrong for trying to kill Bucky, it's not like he had no understandable reasons to go after him. Brainwashed or not, most people would try to obliterate their parents' murderer if he stood right in front of them.

"Repeatedly mocked Bruce Banner who was filled with self loathing and even tried to kill himself because of how much he hated being The Hulk"

Firstly he joked with him, not about him. Secondly, Tony was the only one who respected Bruce from the start and never treated him like some ticking bomb ready to explode.

"Created most of the villains in the MCU (Mysterio and Co., Vulture, Aldrich Killian, The Maximoff Twins, Justin Hammer, The Flag-Smashers etc)"

Okay, where do I even begin on that.

Quentin Beck was a narcissistic asshole who got mad because his boss called his invention "B.A.R.F", that and Tony tossing it aside because this tech was way too expansive for its very limited applications. So not Tony's fault if Beck had an ego more fragile than a soap bubble.

Hammer tried to destroy Tony's image and Stark Industries first, so Tony defended himself by revealing he crippled a man by trying to replicate his tech. Hammer fucked around and found out, not Tony's fault if he's an hypocritical idiot.

Concerning the Flag Smashers, the reason they became terrorists wasn't caused by Tony bringing back half of the universe, it was due to the Global Repatriation Council's disastrous resources management.

About Toomes, Tony had no prior knowledge of the contract he signed with NY and even if he did, leaving dangerous alien tech in the hands of random people is quite a moronic idea, as evidenced by what they did with this tech for years. Not Tony's fault if Toomes is delusional and sucks at his job.

Aldrich Killian ? Be fucking real, he became a super-villain just because Tony ignored him, an archetypal greasy-haired nerd who literally drools as he talks, for a pretty chick on New Year's Eve.

Like obviously, when a serial killer stab someone to death, the most logical reaction is to blame those who assemble knives at the factory rather than the murderer himself, makes perfect sense to me.

The Maximoff Twins, my god this argument again... Yeah let's blame the guy who designed and sold weapons to his government rather than, oh I don't know, the fucking guys who used them against civilians ??

"Which also means he's also had some hand in the deaths caused by all these characters"

Literally none of the characters you quoted became super-villains because of him.

"Created Ultron"

He intended to create a security system against other alien invasions and it resulted in a genocidal robot, which only happened because Wanda mindraped him some hours before. Tony is responsible for Ultron's creation, Wanda for what he became.

And I don't want to see anybody whining in my mentions that he already planned to design Ultron prior to her mindraping him, not when she had this fucking grin after seeing Tony taking the Mind Stone with him.

Let alone when she threw this line, later in the movie : I saw Stark’s fear. I knew it would control him, make him self destruct.

She knew letting him take the Stone would cause something awful that might also kill him and she used her powers to make him even more paranoid. She's responsible for Ultron going from "A suit of armor around the world" to "Genocidal Murder Bot", not Tony.

"Thought it was a good idea to have a newly created AI be exposed to The Mind Stone which caused Ultron to kill JARVIS and go rogue

A) Which again wouldn't have happened if Wanda hadn't mindraped him the same day.

B) He didn't consciously exposed Ultron to it, the Mind Stone corrupted the AI on its own, something Tony and Bruce had no way to predict.

C) Still not his fault anyway. Ultron is sentient, he takes his own decisions. Tony being his "father" doesn't change anything to this state of fact.

"Profited off of war by making weapons of mass destruction and selling them"

Something he's spent over a decade to make amend for, notably by closing his weapons division and dedicating his life and resources to helping people and saving the world.

"Bought illegally obtained vibranium stolen directly from Wakanda by Klaue"

False too. All we know is that they met each other at the time Tony was still designing weapons ; and that Klaue told him he was looking for something new. At no point was it implied Tony illegally bought vibranium from him.

"Technically responsible for more vibranium being stolen from Wakanda by Klaue due to Ultron"

This vibranium was already stolen by Klaue when Ultron met him.

"Being responsible for everyone who died in Sokovia's death because he made Ultron"

So following your reasoning, I guess Jeffrey Dahmer's parents are responsible for every murder their son committed from his own free-will ? Did I get that right ?

"Being unwilling to help Steve and the others fix the Blip cuz muh daughter"

My god, how dare he... being against playing with time and rather trying to accept what happened while taking care of his family.

And this when we know screwing up with time can cause world-ending events.

Truly a proof of how horrible of a human being he is, indeed.

Btw I like how you ignored that Tony changed his mind and helped them afterwards.

"Supported The Sokovia Accords which need I remind you all Tony is technically responsible for The Accords being made because A. he's the one who killed Wanda's parents (blah blah blah, a lot of false attributions later...) causing her to kill Crossbones and a building full of people"

Still isn't him who dropped those mortar shells on her house. Just like it's not him who pushed Crossbones to go suicide-bombers, wrote the Sokovia Accords and incited 119 countries to sign them.

"and B. he is literally responsible for what happened to Sokovia BECAUSE HE MADE ULTRON"

Already answered to this shit, let's continue.

"Referring to Wanda as "a weapon of mass destruction" in Civil War"

Lmao because she isn't ? No one forced Wanda to join a terrorist organization, pal. Just like no one pushed her to act as a weapon of mass destruction, by using her powers to send Hulk on a rampage across Johannesburg or by enslaving Westview.

"meanwhile HE is the REASON SHE has her powers in the first place"

Sure, Tony whispered in her ear every night to go serve as a guinea pig for Nazis in order to get her revenge on him. I forgot this part of Wanda's backstory, silly me.

"Falsely imprisoning the heroes that didn't sign The Accords because he's a cunt"

Tony don't have any power or authority to imprison people, and the heroes he stopped got incarcerated because they indeed broke the law, you jackass.

"Being technically responsible for all the deaths caused by Wanda in Wandavision and DSATMOM because if he didn't kill her parents with his mortar..."

I don't think you know what "technically" means.

"then her and Pietro wouldn't have went to Hydra thus not getting their powers from The Mind Stone"

You know what would have actually prevented all the deaths Wanda caused ? Her not willingly joining Nazis to get her powers and going on a murder spree.

"And you are probably thinking "But he sacrificed himself at the end of Endgame !""

To save the whole universe indeed. That and quite a few other things, such as :

Outright refusing to help terrorists and getting tortured as a result.

Risking his life to save Yinsen.

Saving Afghans villagers from terrorists.

Saving Pepper and SHIELD's agents from Obadiah Stane.

Actively saving people on a daily basis, and this for a decade.

Developing a shit ton of armors to protect people more efficiently.

Saving New York and the world overall from Chitauris.

Stopping Killian from taking over the USA.

Curing Pepper from the Extremis treatment.

Designing Veronica with Bruce.

Fighting Hulk to protect Johannesburg.

Saving the world once again, alongside the Avengers.

Awarding promising students with the funds to develop their own projects and inventions.

Granting his tech to Peter and designing for him two suits that allowed him to save many lives.

Saving Stephen's life from Ebony Maw.

Helping the Avengers to travel in other timelines.

"Let me ask you this : If Strange had hold Tony that the only way to defeat Thanos is if Tony sacrificed himself would Tony do it"

It's literally what happened during Endgame, you fucking bozo. What do you think was the meaning of this scene ?

And it's not like it was something new, he was always ready to die for others' sake, right from the start, did you even watched the first Avengers movie ?

No wait, even better : Have you at least watched the beginning of his first solo movie ?

I wasn't expecting anything from Tony antis but sucking that hard at watching a movie is quite impressive ngl.

"Bottom line is MCU Wanda sucks and Tony Stark sucks"

Yeah no shit, that's pretty easy to say when you're making up lies to support your hate boner.

So in conclusion, this dude has no idea of what he's talking about and neither does Tony antis in general for using these bs as arguments.

[percontaion-points]

Gate Crashers chapters 29 & 30

Click here for the rest of the series!

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 29

Commander Gruber sat alone in Magellan’s conference room, although alone was a relative term. Telepresent at the table were holos of Captain Tiberius aboard the Bucephalus and Captain Ridgeway, still on the surface of Solonis B. Floating above the middle of the table was footage from inside the Cave of the Creators. 

I swear, it’s like the author has zero sense what it is that people actually want to read in his book. 

Like I swear that there is a plot here… Somewhere. Buried under all of this padding. 

“Eventually, we gave up and went back to the shuttle for a boring laser—” 

Maximus’s ghost cut her off. “Boring? I always thought lasers are pretty exciting, myself.” 

[Image description: A screenshot from the cartoon Futurama. In it, Dr. Zoidberg, Dr. Farnsworth, and Hermes sit at some sort of formal event. Dr. Zoidberg has his claws cupped around his mouth, clearly booing at the person on stage. It is captioned with “Your joke is bad and you should feel bad.” End description.]

“Their annual celebrations have a somewhat … deleterious effect on the male population. Women outnumber the adult men almost three to one.”

 “There must be a lot of lonely single ladies floating around, then,” Maximus observed while managing not to lick his lips.

Dude, this is seriously up there with pedophilia and general grooming. These people think that you’re gods who fell from the heavens. Don’t.

“There must be a lot of lonely single ladies floating around, then,” Maximus observed while managing not to lick his lips. 

“Not really. Their marriage customs are polygamous, to account for the dearth of males,” Allison said. 

“Hmm. Never held with polygamy.”

 “Really?” Allison could barely conceal her surprise. “I thought building a harem was the alpha male ideal.”

 “Well, it would certainly have benefits, but strategically, I just can’t see wanting to be outnumbered in every fight. Nope, I’m a one-woman man.”

 “One at a time, you mean.”

 “Well, yeah. Why, what did I say?”

I don’t know… I kind of feel like this says a lot about the author. The idea that he thinks that this is supposed to be FUNNY. 

His attention then turned to the world they’d just departed. The earthlings almost certainly had another designation for the planet, but the civilized galaxy knew it as Culpus-Alam, set aside many generations ago to observe humans in a controlled setting. 

The experiment had run unattended for many cycles as the tribes of humans developed distinct cultures. The next step was to facilitate contact between the tribes and observe their interactions. The hope was to learn enough to better predict humanity’s eventual integration into the galactic community.

And you think that this is a GOOD sample size? That it’s up to date? 

“Very well.” Noric straightened his spine and stood at his full height. “Hedfer-Vel, you may begin the operation.”

Chapter 29 summary: Rather than to continue to follow the ground-team as they break into the room, we instead jump to people watching this unfold on the ship orbiting the planet. The only consolation is that at least we jump in after they’ve already broken in. 

What they find in there is what Allison describes as a “bird blind”: it’s being used to observe the locals from a distance, and without interaction. However, they also found these creepy androids, which they think will be used to raise up children without any sort of interaction. 

Eventually, the other captain tells Allison that they have marching orders, and it’s not to play anthropologist on a primitive, backwater planet. 

At the end of the chapter, we jump over to the evil aliens who have been following them. He tells the readers that the planet that the two advanced humans left was an experiment started to see how humans would react when they were introduced to the aliens. However, as I said, it’s a flawed experiment simply because it’s so out of date. At the end of the chapter, he implies that it’s time to end the experiment… via killing all of the people. 

Chapter 30

D’armic sat cross-legged on the floor of his small quarters, sipping yelic root tea to try to excite his nerves.

[Image description: 10 stop signs grouped close together on a grassy embankment. End description.]

As the high-space portal opened ahead, he resolved to ask them. Personally.

Chapter 30 summary: We’re back over with D’armic. There were a lot of pages in this chapter, but the only thing of actual value was him discovering the smouldering remains of what once was the primitive planet the humans recently left. All of the life down there was wiped out, leaving the planet more or less in-tact… Although obviously uninhabitable for probably a millenia. 

D’armic does some magic voodoo and looks backwards in time. He somehow comes to the conclusion that the humans are the ones who did this, and vows to find them and demand answers. 

[joejoeba]

Aight bet-

Spill your thoughts on p.4. I need to know your thoughts on the characters, opinion on the story, literally a n y t h i n g to brainrot with you over pls

Here is my thoughts on the part itself bc Josuke and Okuyasu need a whole post to themselves lol also THANK YOU for enabling me also this is very long and rambly

Thoughts on part 4 Diamonds Don't Break Baby:

What i like the most about the part is how minor the conflict should feel, but doesn't, and how it keeps that feeling til the end.

Ok so part 1, we have Dio the super evil Vampire and his huge army of minions, and only super sunlight powers can stop him.

Part 2, super EXTRA evil MegaVampires that will dominate the world, sunlight powers aren't enough, only hypergenius Joseph can stop them.

Part 3 oh fuck it's DIO again but capitalized now, and he's even stronger now and there's Stands involved and only Jotaro with his Star Plat- you get it. High stakes throughout, every villain needs to be a worldender to challenge our incredibly strong protagonists!

Part 4 is... a serial killer in a single town, targeting only young women with nice hands. Comparatively, it doesn't matter on the same grand scale; it'd be tragic for the families if women kept disappearing, but it hasn't garnered specific attention thus far, and it's not as bad as Dio murdering infants or what have you. Should be boring!

But it's not, BECAUSE;

Part 4 is way more slice-of-life than the other parts and it really works in their favour (though it deeeeefinitely has pacing issues). Yeah it IS only this one specific small town that's at risk by Kira, but we get to SEE the town through the episodes and get to know it more as a community. I don't want bad things to happen to this small town because its very charming and I like the people that live there and the fun adventures they have. I couldn't care less about the Island in part 2 (Air Supplena?) or Jotaros home town, but Morioh becomes sort of dear to me throughout part 4.

The risk is also a lot more relatable, because I can't imagine an immortal world stopping vampire taking over my town, but I CAN imagine my best friend disappearing because some creep decided to stake a claim on her. It's "less important" than The Actual World, but not to *me* in this hypothetical scenario.

It's like if parts 1-3 were Avengers movies with respective protagonists (captain America, Iron Man, the Hulk is what comes to mind for the first 3 Jojos lol), part 4 is a Spiderman story. The first three are the Thanoses up to no good and it's very action oriented and less emphasis on downtime and character interactions, and part 4 is Spiderman and his best friends try to keep this one part of the city safe from a single elusive murderer.

The huge grand stakes Avengers movies aren't BAD, but I just can't get into them when i can't relate to the stakes as much (they were BARELY even friends dont get me started). I feel much more imvested watching Spiderman try to juggle homework and chores for his mom while he tries to defend innocents.

WHICH BRINGS ME TO;

THE PROTAGONISTS Josuke my beloved etc

I don't know what more to say really; Spiderman type hero! The previous Jojos (and some later ones) felt a lot like power fantasies, with how much stronger and smarter they are than their obstacles. Josuke is much less so (he doesn't even have authority over his bank account!). He gets to be goofy and have skewed priorities, and he gets a lot of help from his friends along the way. Being a flawed helps him be way more human (he gets it from his daddy, Joseph gets to be a loser too sometimes) and getting help lets us know other characters and root for them via Josuke.

Josuke also isn't, like, the lazer focus of his part, everyone gets a bit of spotlight! Knowing more characters properly makes the stakes a lot higher imo -like, I like Caesar, and Avdol and Kakyoin, but we BARELY got to know them as characters, terribly under-utilized, and therefore their deaths didn't hit as hard- what hit much harder was the reaction to their deaths. I started out hating Rohan, but when he sploded (unbeknownst to anyone) i was UPSET, because, i mean.... he's a part of the town!

It also helps when Josuke cares so much himself. His mom? Obviously loves her, in 4ad he lists her as a specific reason for his grudge against the protag-antag. Koichi? That's his friend! Josuke helps him with girl problems and has it out for Yukako for a while for how she acted towards him. Old man Joseph? Heck Josuke is probably pissed as hell, but from the first time they meet he STILL cares about his shitty new dad. Okuyasu? Well....you already KNOW-

Okay so another favourite part of DiU is Josuke and Okuyasu and their friendship, i mean OBVIOUSLY, i don't shut up about it lol. But lemme just-

Okuyasu follows a pretty standard Jobro script at first. He's evil, gets beat by Jojo, not evil anymore also they're friends. The difference to me is that after their initial meeting, nothing reqlly keeps them together except the fact that they enjoy each other's company. That's it! No trip to foreign lands or training together, just two dudes who genuinely like each other and want to spend time together. We don't really get to see that with most other duos, except Johnny and Gyro in a way (and Johnathan and Speedwagon? Mostly just Speedwagon lol). So in true jobro fashion, Okuyasu was going to die to further his Jojo in some way, which he did. EXCEPT, this is part 4, its Morioh! This is the season where we get to have nice things and hope pays off and love takes you higher and whatnot! This time we get a little miracle and Okuyasu gets to help save the day and be happy (and so does Rohan, and Koichi etc etc!), and THAT'S how I think the part sticks the landing. You invest yourself in the characters and the town and DiU in general, and it pays off and you get a feel-good happy ending. Part 4 was NEEDED for some levity, especially in between part 3 and part 5 (part 5 being a veritable fuckin tragedy). All the other endings (part 2 is debatable) are pyrrhic victory, but part 4 feels like you REALLY won and it's all worth it.

And during the final fight -bear with me this is corny as hell- it kind of feels like you're one of the background characters, part of the town? I wanted Kira to go down!! And when he DID go down it was thanks to group effort (and, eventually, it was a small part of the town that killed him! Fittingly!) Woo yeah, we did it! Kira's dead and you get to feel the joy of it, and I love the final shot of the boys squatting outside a konbini because I was so glad they got to return to their funky daily lives. What a bizarre summer!

It just hits a good spot of being like, relatable, not as bleak as Jojo can sometimes be, mundane (but not), and kinda nostalgic of being a teenager doing crazy shit.

Also the Great Days OP is just ACES

LET THE VOICE OF LOVE

TAKE YOU HIIIGHEEEER

[xostrawberry-milkyox]

Hello, I was wondering if you could do a quick thing on some of the popular Gintama men and why they would get broken up with based off of actual bad traits they have in the anime. Like Hijikata would probably get broken up with cause of his dedication to his job. Just why you think they’d get broken up not a headcannon or anything. Came to the realization that Gintama has no decent datable men 😅

I'd actually argue the gintama men aren't 'undateable' but just difficult when it comes to dating. It's only a slight difference and why I constantly say in hc's that they require a special kind of lover.

This also just further proves on why I think Sorachi-sensei never intended to make a canon couple. He created such flawed characters (both men and women), it's no wonder they're all single. It takes a lot to be with these men.

But anyway since they're difficult, here's why someone might break up with them.

(some reasons overlap due to characters having similar experiences/lifestyles).

Breaking Up w/Gintama Boys

• laziness - there are very few people who would put up with laziness. even the people close to gintoki run out of patience at times with how lazy he is.

• gambling - gintoki has multiple unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with his trauma. gambling is one of them. while gintama uses gintoki's gambling addiction for humor purposes, the sad truth is it's considered a disorder.

as well as something veterans and those with substance abuse being more prone to. this is also behavior that requires a lot of patience to handle. some may find it exhausting in a romantic setting.

• alcoholism - another unhealthy coping mechanism. I cannot stress enough that a relationship with gintoki requires an incredible amount of patience. dealing with these addictions can be very stressful, for everyone.

• trauma - he snaps at others easily, he still has nightmares, he has a hard time expressing his emotions, ect. trauma does a lot to a person.

• sadistic - sadism is all fun and games in the bedroom. but gintoki still has his sadistic tendencies outside of the bedroom as well. he says pretty harsh things at times. if his partner ends up being emotionally sensitive, they won't be able to handle gintoki's sadistic nature.

• trauma - we may not have seen how the joui war affected him. but it'd be no surprise that losing friends in battle, never being able to wield a sword again, and finding gintoki and the devastating impact of losing shōyō had on him, katsura, and takasugi would haunt sakamoto. we at least know he's always reminded by the physical scar on his hand.

• stupidity - at first glance as a merchant, one would think sakamoto is really smart. but as we got to know him, we know that's not true. even those close to him get annoyed at having to correct his errors. especially when he makes pretty massive ones (renho arc for example).

trauma is a heavy weight to carry and can be overwhelming when someone doesn't know how to help.

• irresponsible - mutsu. mutsu is constantly annoyed by his behavior. he's always going off to host clubs and ignoring his duties as captain.

• dangerous lifestyle - he's a literal terrorist. it's one thing to be prepared to be with a terrorist. it's another to actually be in the relationship. if a partner cannot handle katsura always putting himself in danger, but also putting themselves in danger just by being with him, it won't work.

• most likely to cheat - sorry sakamoto stans, this goes in line with his addiction to host clubs. it's become routine at this point. he has to be head over heels madly in love with his partner for me to see him stay loyal. otherwise if he eventually gets bored, he'll fall back into old habits.

• trauma - katsura's nickname on the battlefield was 'runaway kotarō'. so you can probably guess how he handles his trauma. this means lack of communication in terms of this topic by deflection.

if a s/o feels that they’re distance to katsura by not knowing him, it could lead to a break up. though really some unwanted topics should be respected. this only applies to a nosy s/o who doesn't respect privacy (just saying I'm not going to act like a s/o is always innocent, everyone has their negative traits).

• dangerous lifestyle - again, a literal terrorist. one that's even worse than katsura. he's even willing to go off by himself as a means to not be hesitant in his actions by those close to him.

• stupidity - similar to sakamoto. having to constantly solve issues that really shouldn't be problems at all can be tiring. katsura lacks common sense at times, it takes some patience to deal with.

• smoking - someone can get into a relationship knowing their partner smokes. but it's another thing when you're actually in the relationship (like the terrorism). he'll blow smoke in his partner's face because he finds their reaction funny. second hand smoking is a thing, and smoke stinks.

people have broken up with others due to smoking, so this one's not really a surprise.

• workaholic - it's as you mentioned, he's always busy with work. he'd have little time for dates or even things like dinner together since he comes home late. not only does he work so much, but he won't talk about it (I'll get into later).

• trauma - takasugi handles his trauma in the worst possible way. violence. I'm not saying I think he'd be violent towards his partner. but imagine seeing someone constantly killing others for revenge purposes. if his partner isn't already desensitized to violence, they'll never survive being with him.

• smoking - same thing as takasugi. either his s/o smokes themselves or can handle him smoking for it to work.

• dangerous lifestyle - hijikata gave up on the woman he loved because he was going into a dangerous job. it'll take a lot for him to feel comfortable enough to be in a relationship tbh. considering this, he's also likely to never talk about work.

• sadistic - think of gintoki, but worse. even if his partner can handle harsh words, sōgo has a bad habit of bringing s&m outside the bedroom. not everyone is into public humiliation. his s&m fantasies may be overwhelming.

never, he doesn't want his s/o worrying about the dangers he's in. so if they don't feel comfortable accepting this, the relationship will eventually fail.

• dangerous lifestyle - he doesn't talk about work like hijikata. mostly because it just doesn't interest him. the most his s/o can get out of him is 'what do you think? you want me to tell you I killed someone? that's pretty sadistic of you.'

• dangerous lifestyle - he's constantly on the lookout to get stronger. constantly seeking to fight new opponents to gain more fighting experience. he's a yato, abuto can handle it because it's literally in his blood to feel comfortable on the battlefield.

his condescending attitude could be a turn off and something a s/o doesn't want to deal with.

but say he's with a s/o who doesn't come from a fighting clan. they can be strong but if their love for fighting isn't as strong, a burn out could end the relationship.

• ungrateful - if someone doesn't live up to kamui's strength standard, he will consider them weak. the moment a s/o falls behind he's not going to wait for them, he'll leave them in the dust. mock them and say things like 'if you can't keep up, you must be weak. 😊'

it's harsh and if his s/o doesn't have a competitive spirit, they may just leave.

[frozenambiguity]

Perhaps words are unnecessary for the captain to feel what troubles the redhead. Kaeya feels it in his soul, that hint of surprise that blossoms on pale features, although the shift is almost imperceptible.

“I don't need your protection” because I am strong enough to walk alongside you. Fight alongside you. Carry the weight of the world and the truth alongside you. Love alongside you.

That is what he had meant to say. For once, his words had been as direct as they could be, not carrying a double meaning. Perhaps Diluc is not accustomed to having the truth be delivered on a silver platter, always searching, always digging for a hidden message amidst that which seems superficial.

Have a liar constantly lie and when they finally tell the truth, no one will believe them — is that how the saying went?

Perhaps that is what is happening.

But, from the knight's perspective, the true meaning of his words is being twisted to fulfill the redhead's narrative. It is not that if Diluc pulls him by his hand, Kaeya will not follow him. He still eagerly will. He is always searching for the redhead's comforting guidance. It only means that, sometimes, Kaeya wants to be the one pulling him by the hand, too. Away from the darkness that entices, away from spiraling thoughts. He is not fit to be a savior, he knows that much. But if Diluc can find a safe haven in anyone, let it be in him.

Is that too much to ask for?

The seed of doubt is planted. What can he say — what can he do — for Diluc to truly understand what he means? Understand him? When did they become so bad at this? Twisting each other's words without even realizing it, being too careful around each other to the point it immediately backfires and pulls them away? The distance is suffocating. How come those two children used to read each other's minds without a single word being shared, and now these two desperate adults keep interpreting the supposed truth as they see fit, through their own lenses?

As Kaeya dwells over it, the redhead appears to have a sudden change in spirit. Almost abruptly so, as if forgetting how miserable he had been just a few moments ago. The vulnerability is no longer there. Kaeya cannot help but feel like he has helped raise that bridge, almost as if he had been the one giving the orders. No longer does he have access to that rawness, that unfiltered truth, no matter how small of a sample it had been. It is taken away from his hands, without notice. Just like sand — the tighter he clings to it, the faster it falls.

He fights, he desperately fights, to control his expression. There is surprise, confusion, and frustration, despite the kiss on his palm and cheek. Swiftly, Diluc releases himself from Kaeya's grasp, ready to put his mind and spirit in... whatever else.

«... ... ...»

Kaeya simply stands there, immobile as he digests what has happened. His brow is furrowed, hands tightly pulling at the couch's material as he watches the other turn his back and walk away. From him. From whatever they had shared just now.

What kind of dramatic, dark comedy is this?

If Kaeya is serious, his words are interpreted differently.

If he is playful, his joke is taken seriously.

Surely, this dramatic, dark comedy is not one he finds pleasure in participating in. But... Is that not something he has learned, recently? That, if you do not like the play, you change the script?

He silently listens to what the redhead has to say. Of course, he says the right thing. Unlike Kaeya, most of the time. That only makes him feel more guilty. No. Do not justify yourself to him like that, Diluc. He knows that. He really, really knows that. And he understands what you mean. But how come you do not understand him? Or, if you truly do, how come they keep having flaws in their communication?

Don't turn away. Don't run away. From me.

Once Diluc is up the stairs and nowhere to be seen, Kaeya throws his head back, supporting his neck on the couch, staring at the ceiling. A deep sigh — deeper than the ones he has released in a long while — escapes him. Only then does he allow his eyes to rest for a bit, closing them so that he may focus on a solution.

They cannot keep carrying on like this.

So much sweetness and reassurance had been shared between the two these last few months — year —, but what did it matter if at important times such as these it fell flat?

«... ... ...»

It is time to change strategies. Swiftly, the captain is up. He grabs some paper and a pen to quickly write his note. He does not bother giving too many details. His focus is clearly elsewhere, on someone else. Sorry, Jean. But just for today...

When he senses Diluc's presence, he follows, putting on some shoes before going out the door, letter neatly rolled in hand. There, he is greeted by a gentle scene. A small smile appears, though his heart is so heavy that it quickly dissipates. One step after another and the captain is standing next to the vigilante, side by side. There is a distant look in his eye as he hands Diluc the note, waiting for him to retrieve it and give it to Ava.

Ava... A companion he had used to make a joke earlier, who now he even refuses to directly acknowledge. There will not be a teasing remark about how much Diluc loves her, or how she seems to be in a good mood now that they have reunited. Nothing.

Instead, Kaeya will simply stare at Diluc, waiting for him to finish the task he obviously thinks has priority over their conversation from earlier. After Diluc is done, Kaeya will stare at him some more, with an unfamiliar seriousness to his gaze. He wants to keep Diluc grounded with his stare, keep him present, focused. If he needs a few moments of silence to do that while staring at each other, he will.

And when the time is right, he will question:

«When did we become so bad at this?»

No more running.

"I don't need your protection."

Although logically Diluc knew he meant that Kaeya wasn't a child any longer and didn't need him to coddle him like one, the straight rejection surprised him and hurt him equally. He knows it isn't a means to tell the redhead he isn't needed anymore; as if proving his doubt unnecessary, Kaeya touched him tenderly and kept him comfortable on his lap, brushing his hair away to clear his face and said as much in words. There's a kiss on his forehead, one that eases the pain a little. But he wonders how to convey his thoughts.

Maybe, he wasn't using enough words after all.

He thinks about what he could say to get his thoughts across, eyes trailing down and staring into space, unfocused and closing as he tries to find his words. He couldn't start if he was uncertain himself. Their definition of protecting might differ slightly, though it was partly due to Diluc's loaded statement. He didn't mean to feel as if he was hovering.

Were his feelings a burden?

... ...

...Ah.

He was in such a bad mental state.

Before he could continue with his line of thought, he heard Kaeya speak again. It takes a moment for him to bring himself back to the present, hearing Jean's name and the mention of Ava. There's an immediate denial at the tip of his tongue, but when he gives it a thought, he swallows it and rubs his cheek further into his hand. Any other day, he would tell the man not to skip work when Diluc could easily stand on his feet and see him again at night.

Diluc decides to let himself be pampered for the day as Kaeya insisted. Long fingers pinch at his lover's sleeve, taking his wrist, and pulling his hand over his face to kiss his palm.

A walk with Kaeya sounds nice. A leisurely stroll down the river, or a hike to a hill. If only his mare was still around, he would have loved to go riding with him a bit far out, where there wouldn't be as many people during noon, and enjoy the warm sun. But his daydreams can only go on for so long when the other keeps talking, and this time Diluc blinks his eyes open, red irises dark in the other's towering shadow, but sharp nonetheless, staring at him.

Hmm...

Diluc takes it as his cue to sit up, already missing the body heat that made the cold morning feel like a fever dream. But he doesn't want to leave Jean without a quartermaster who disappeared out of nowhere, and he knows the maids are about to arrive soon.

"Naming sense aside," he teases, a little smile on his lips, cupping his face and leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I'd like it if you stayed." Diluc stands, patting down the creases on his shirt. "Use any paper you'd like over there while I get my gloves." And he's already walking towards the stairs, taking three steps up before he stops, turning to the other. An honesty-themed day...

"Kaeya," he calls, catching his attention.

"I know you don't need protecting," it lingered in his mind, and he wanted this to be clearly understood. "But even if you ask me not to, I will continue to do it." A breath, holding tightly onto the railing. "Whether from enemies, when you need help with something. If you need a shoulder to lean on or want to talk. I hope you know you can rely on me, the same way you let me lean on you." As you're doing now. His heart speeds up, fingers drawing along the railing. "Because you are important to me, I want to protect and take care of you. If you're suffering, I couldn't leave you alone." It was how he said 'I love you'.

Without waiting for an answer, he quickly climbs up to his room and looks for his gloves, putting them on and taking his time tightening the belt on it. He put the back of his hand against his cheek, making sure he wasn't too warm or blushing, letting out a soft breath. Taking a small bell tied to a soft blue ribbon, he goes back down and takes a glance at Kaeya before he walks out the door, assuming he'll follow once he's done writing his note.

Standing further out, he raises his fingers to his mouth to blow a loud, clear whistle. It only takes a few seconds for the loud sound of flapping and a cry in response, lifting his arm and letting her perch on him.

"Good morning. Looks like you went hunting already." Smiling softly, he gives a few scratches in places she usually likes as a prize for listening to his command. "Good girl." He lifts the bell he brought with his other hand, giving it a few jingles, the soothing sound making his bird shift. "You know where to find Jean. She'll have treats for you when you get there."