#and given so many of these guys are arrested then let out then do it again ….legal system doesn’t protect women at all

[iwatcheditbegin]

The fact that Taylor has so many documented stalkers that she has restraining orders against is very scary , especially when you consider how hard it is to even obtain a restraining order regardless of how rich and famous you are. Someone has to have already done something for that to happen.

[beatrixstonehill2]

"Well..... my parents are calling me downstairs, they told me not to bother putting on any clothes. This is literally so embarrassing. I can't believe they signed me up for this! I'm seven months pregnant with triplets ffs. But I can't back out or I'd be arrested by the county for violating my arrangement with the state of North Carolina..... Then I'd just be put in a cell naked and used by the guards or whoever slips them some money, or be given 'community service' and I'm gonna let you guess what that means.....

I guess it's not the end of the world. The state fair is coming to town, and my parents signed me up to work in one of the kissing booths. I'm twenty, but since I'm not married my parents still own my rights and legal consent. So they choose what jobs I sign up for. The state fair will be in town the whole summer! And I got selected to be a kissing booth girl.... twelve hours a day, seven days a week. I hope my parents appreciate all the money I'll be making for them! Kissing booth girls basically sit in an open tent with curtains. You tap your card at my booth, walk in, and fuck me as long as you want, you get charged by the minute.

Do you have any idea how much sex that's going to be? How many cocks? I'm not a huge whore, I mean, I'll go out and take a guy home every few nights like a normal girl but nothing crazy like this. My poor pregnant body.... My poor boobs. These udders of mine are going to be black and blue all summer, I can see it now. Men are allowed to be as rough as they want with us, so my parents tell me I'll look like I got jumped most days when I get home. Great..... although I do kinda like the idea of men getting their aggression out on my body. I mean, I am really cute, I have big breasts, and a belly full of kids, so I'm perfect for it. I'm definitely going to encourage guys not to hold back and do whatever they want to me.

Well, my parents are getting impatient.... wish me luck guys. This'll be a summer I never forget. Assuming I survive it. 😅"

[devilmademewriteit]

Dark Paradise

part 3 of Salvatore

read part 1, Salvatore, here

read part 2, Playing Dangerous, here

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: left alone in javi’s bed, you go looking for distractions. finding them only leads you further into his world: a world of danger and violence, where no one can protect anyone.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, super SUPER light choking) so 18+ only content; pet names (cariño, hermosa, querida, sweetheart, baby) afab fem reader; reader is American; mentions of hair pulling; allusions to SA; attempted SA against reader (not by javi); violence against reader (hitting, slapping, manhandling); smoking; dubcon (power imbalance, trauma sex??).

word count: 7k+

no use of y/n in this fic

u guys. it is here. and the most exciting part is I can already promise u a part 4!! pls be mindful that this part is darker than the rest. it has many triggering themes, so many sure u read the warnings & stay on the safe side of things.

as always, love u all so effing much. feedback, reblogs, comments & asks are always appreciated, & don’t forget to join the taglist in my pinned post !

-em<3

—

No one compares to you. I’m scared that you won’t be waiting on the other side.

- Dark Paradise

“Girl, where did you go?”

You’re on the landline with Carrie, one of the few half-friends you'd made living in Medellín, thighs sore and bruised from the backseat-loving you’d received the night before. While Javi’s at work, you’re on (his words) 'house arrest,' and lounging alone in his apartment feels eerily quiet. The occasional car drives by—you try not to listen for the sound of scraping tires.

So, around 9:30, you’d decided to fill the silent space with a bit of vapid conversation, realizing that last night's antics (and your unexplained disappearance) may have caused a bit of confusion.

You start by filling Carrie in on the generalities: the guns, the car, and the rescue, at first planning to leave out the more… personal details.

Like the one you'd filed away under 'Riding a Cop to High Heaven in the Backseat of his Jeep.'

You also leave out the part where, afterwards, you’d kicked off your heels by his front door, let down your hair in a sloppy, half-drunk movement, made a beeline to the familiar crinkles and folds of his unmade bed, and swiftly passed out in his embrace.

Oh, to fall asleep between those arms for the rest of eternity.

Given your more cynical—okay, borderline self-denying—approach to life, you felt downright ashamed of how much you’d enjoyed it. How much you’d enjoyed him and all of his lasting touches.

And in the morning… Javi’s hardness biting into your hip was a more efficient wake-up-call than the trial nuke sirens back home; the soft kisses laid down the length of your neck and the long, lazy fingers creeping down your abdomen had you surging to consciousness with embarrassing speed. You’d shivered into wakefulness, flattened against his chest.

“Good morning, cariño.” His words were molasses, melted caramel, thick and damp with sleep.  

“Hmmmh,” was your only reply, sloping into your highest octaves as his hand sank to push aside your already-ruined underwear, dipping lower to toy with the switch only he knew how to turn on best. Arching into his spine, last night’s dress crumpled up above your waist, leaving him to feel more, more, more of you.  

“Thought it would take more convincing,” he breathed against your shoulder, a breeze of late august air.

“Wh’time z’it?”  

“We have time, cariño, we have time.”

When his digits pulled a moan from your lips, no other answers really mattered. He’d loosed that deep, guttural rumble of approval that made your chest swell with pride, your legs part in service and need.  

“Can you hold this leg up for me, baby? S’all you need to do.” He’d helped fold up your knee, and you’d turned to meet him with pleading, drooping eyes, dutifully contorting to mold into the shape of his body. “Perfect, baby, good job,” a rough kiss to your temple, “n’I can do the rest, hermosa—I’ll do the rest.”  

He slid in effortlessly, harmonizing to your sigh of relief with a “shit, s’wet,” and sheathing his cock between the folds of your morning slick. Brows furrowing, mouth falling open, you had every detail of your bliss etched on your expression, all for the beautiful man looming over you. “Always fuckin’ askin’ for it, huh, sweetheart?” He'd mused. “Woke me up moanin’ in your sleep, cariño—dreamin’ about last night?”  

An “mhmm,” was all you could muster. Javi’s hips rolled against your ass, and the resulting feeling of overwhelming fullness had you swearing you were still in reverie. When he paused, snaked his arms under your neck and around your waist, and pulled you flush against his chest, you remember it feeling like a dirty, desperate hug.  

“M’sore, Javi,” you’d whined at the stretch of your opening, the continued drag of Javi’s fingers against your aching, weary clit.  

“S’no excuse, baby,” he’d grumbled into the shell of your ear, pressing hard into that tender bundle of nerves. “Gotta get you used to it.”

A harrumph as he’d turned up the intensity, punishing you for your protests. “Y-you’re a mean-mean man, Javier Peña.”

Soft, gravelly laughter danced, twirled, traveled along the dip of your neck. “‘N you’re gonna come so hard for this mean, mean man.”  

He was right, bringing you to the brink of orgasm with the thick, rough pads of his fingertips, the tip of his cock sliding up and down, over and over, in and out of your guts.  

“Yeah—yes—m’gonna come for you, Javi,” you’d admitted.  

But he’d stolen his magical digits away, used them to turn your jaw, to square your face off with his own concentrated, lust-filled expression. “Show me cariño, yes—gonna be picturin’ that pretty lil’ face aaaaall fuckin’ day,” and you’d tumbled over the edge the moment he’d slid back down to the apex of your thighs, drowning in the darkness of his cinnamon-brown irises and the tantalizing circles—drawn from memory—against your clit.  

“J-javi—it feels—feels s-so good—”  

“I know, hermosa, s’just what you needed, fuck—”

He was already close enough, but your climaxing trembles and your whining, choked gasps had him wrapping his hand around your throat, pushing you further and further down the length of his tensing shaft.  

“Shit—you feel like heaven, baby, so good for me—”  

His release came fast and hard, leaking his hot spend into you, painting your insides like brushstrokes on canvas with his final thrust.  

He seemed to lay there for forever, softening between your walls as sweet slumber carried you off once more. “Go back to sleep, baby,” he’d advised against your shoulder (as if you’d needed any kind of encouragement), “Did such a good job; go back to sleep.”  

It was easy to accede to his command.  

You’d come to for a half-second as he’d placed, fully dressed, the clink of his belt and the crisp waft of his cologne rousing you to near-consciousness, a deliberate, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t answer the door for anyone else, okay, hermosa?”

“Huh? Oh—mhm.”

And you’d vaguely registered a low laugh. “Good to know you’re so well behaved when you’re half-asleep.” His finger traced your cheekbone, dragged down to pull teasingly at your bottom lip. “Means I’ll have to keep fuckin’ you to the point of exhaustion.”

“Mhm—please." Squished and mumbled, guttural and breathless.  

Another soft laugh, and then echoes of receding footsteps.  

Waking up a few hours later, you’d peeled your sticky thighs apart, confused at first by the mysterious pool of wetness between your legs.

You didn’t bother cleaning it up, already feeling the loss of your DEA officer. You somehow chose to dial Carrie's number to kill some time on your day off (or else, you feared, you’d have quickly found another use for your bored fingers).

Being alone in his room leaves you feeling very young. Lying in his bed, thinking about the past night’s events… you feel giddy, like a highschool girl after her first time, and anxious, on edge without Javier’s protection.

You just want to gush about it.

“Do you remember that DEA agent? The Texan?”

You barely have time to finish your thought before Carrie’s cutting your question short.

“Sexy Javi?”

She giggles. You snort indelicately into the receiver.

“I never called him that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she returns. “I deduced it from the amount of times you ranted to me about his… callers.”

You fiddle with the telephone chord, smiling artfully to yourself. “I’m in his bed right now.”

There’s a slap. No doubt the sound of a hand clapping over a set of slack lips. And then—

“I thought he lived outside the city?!”

It’s a strange reaction. You’d expected something a bit more on-topic, confused at your friend’s preoccupation with Peña’s living quarters when you’d just divulged such an out-of-character, personal detail.

Well, at least the enthusiasm is there.

“No, he lives right by the embassy.” You respond, rolling lazily onto your side. Opening the top drawer of his bedside table, you grimace to yourself, taking in (on top of the empty bottle of men’s cologne and an old, broken watch) a box of tissue paper, a pair of handcuffs (not regulation), a smatter of sex toys, and a few scattered, unopened condoms. “That new… fancy building on the corner,” you continue, swiping a few tissues between your legs, trying not to giggle at the teasing Javi was in for tonight, “Carrie—are you seriously not gonna ask how it was?”

There’s a pause. You hear a rustle in the background; the sound reminds you of students in class, whipping out pens and notebooks.

Is she taking notes?

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

That reaction felt more appropriate.

It all comes bursting out of you—the night out, Javi’s rescue, your backseat escapade. Carrie’s an ideal audience, gasping and ‘oooh’-ing and ‘girl!’-ing at all the right moments.

When you get to the end of your tale, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Carrie pries for more and more specifics, keeping you on the phone for close to an hour. You don't give her everything (did she really need an approximation of his size?) but you do make sure to remind her, often, that Javier Peña was an excellent fuck.

Finally, the conversation dies down. Sitting up, you realize just how desperately you’re in need of a shower. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, the smell of sex, tequila, and Javi’s day-old cologne clinging to your skin, but his place gets hot, and you hadn't anticipated the need to pack deodorant in your purse during last night's going-out prep.

Either way, Carrie's become distracted, the length between your words and her responses growing with every passing minute. You notice a Spanish conversation taking place in the background, no doubt the reason for her decreasing attentiveness.

You’re about to hang up, launching into a polite, “alright girl, I’ll let you go” when she goes back in for more.

“Is he home now?”

She blurts it out, and you're a bit taken aback. Frankly, the urgency of her tone feels a little jarring.

“Um, no,” you answer, uncertain, stretching out your vowels, “I think he went in early today.”

“Good.”

Her clipped tone continues to confuse you. It’s… not playful anymore. It’s administrative.

Commercial.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh,” a flutter of shrill laughter, “Just wanted to make sure he’s not listening in on our—”

There’s a knock at the door before she can finish. You call out just a sec! automatically, pulling on your rumpled clothes from the night before as the receiver tumbles onto the unmade bed.

It’s only once you’ve lumbered over, wiped the grogginess from your eyes, once you’ve unlocked the door and twisted the handle—it’s only once your head is covered with a thick, scratchy fabric, once the world’s gone dark and a cry of surprise is wrenched from your throat—that you recall Javi’s warning:

Don’t open the door for anyone else.  

Something else takes over. Something primal. Fight, fight, fight. Find the flesh and punish it, scramble for purchase into any detectable, softer areas. Squirm until your legs give out, 'till your knees hit the floor and the beginnings of bruises scatter across your burning skin in a plethora of vulnerable places.

But when you thrash around like that, make sure your head doesn’t hit the doorframe.

Because then? It’s lights out.

—

The first thing you notice is the smell.  

Weed and tobacco. Wet weed and tobacco. It’s not a smell you’re accustomed to (you worked for the DEA, for crying out loud). It makes your already-pounding head spin, so it takes a second before you remember that you’re not safe—you’re not at home, you’re not at Javi’s, and you’re not with Javi.

Instincts kick in. Your stomach aches with fear, lighting you up from the inside, energizing every inch of your body. You wrench, pull, struggle against the restraints suffocating your wrists, binding your hands around the back of a rickety, wooden chair. You can’t kick at anything, either. Your ankles are crossed, squished on top of each other and secured by a firm length of (what you assume to be) rope.

And then the canvas is unceremoniously yanked off of your head, taking a few hairs from your scalp along with it.

You squint, blinking into the dim light, slowly adjusting to your surroundings: some sort of musty basement with concrete walls and floors, decorated by nothing except a couple of small, rectangular windows near the too-high ceilings. It’s completely empty—save for your company.

One, two, three strangers. All men. All Cartel, by the looks of them.

And all positively leering.  

The one nearest you, holding the bag in his hands, speaks down to you. It’s quick and harsh, mocking and cruel. Spanish and unintelligible.

Your hatred towards the captor blinds you; it coaxes the animal out of its cage. You spit: “I don’t speak Spanish, motherfucker.”

(Even if you did, the adrenaline coursing through your veins wouldn’t allow you much room for comprehension).

From the shadows, another man appears. He lumbers over to you, and you notice the peculiarity of his European-looking hat as he squats down to level with you.

He clicks his tongue, dousing you with a look of disapproval. “That’s not very nice, hermosa.”

You shiver. Javi had called you that before, many times. And even though it sounded totally different coming from this foul man’s mouth, shrouded under the veil of a thick, Spanish accent, it sticks.

You hold your tongue, biting it to keep from sobbing. The glint in his eye, visible behind his glasses, moves from playfulness to exasperated ire.

He sighs, stands, and grabs your hair, tilting your head back harshly to look down at you. “You’re very hard to catch, you know that?” He muses, darkness trickling across his features. “But you’re alone now, Americana. No DEA—no Javier Peña to protect you.”

He makes a mockery of his name, oozing cockiness as it comes spitting out of his smirk. You glare up at him, simmering anger and bubbling fear claiming you. Would they go after Javi?

No. They wouldn’t dare.

Only an American like yourself—low-value, replaceable, unnoticeable—was expendable.

“What do you want from me?”

He smiles, releasing your head and taking a step back.

“You’re the assistant, aren’t you?” And that deceptively sweet tone is back, frightening you more than his rage. “We need directions, hermosa. You’ve been in all the government buildings—we know, we watched you. Why don’t you give us some assistance,” he pauses, leaning down towards you, “And tell us where your evidence against Pablo Escobar is filed.”

You snort, unimpressed, shocked, and a little humoured by his little monologue. This was what they were after?

This was why you'd been fearing for your life?

A fucking… map?

“Find someone else. I don’t know shit.”

It’s honestly true. The bastards could not be barking up a more wrong tree. For all their criminal genius, they hadn’t managed to catch the fact that you really, truly didn’t give a flying fuck about the particulars of your job.

But if this was about Escobar—the Pablo Escobar—then these were men from the Medellín cartel. The same Medellín cartel that left scores of expendable bodies in its wake, that bombed, assassinated, and tortured government workers like they were no more than rats in a science lab.

You weren’t the end-all, be-all of this operation.

No, you were just another lead.

A lead that (only you knew) led to jack-all. Unless they were scrambling to learn about the best places to go out dancing or the worst brands of moisturizer, you had very little to offer the thugs.

The one with the strange hat—the ringleader, you decide—shares a smile with his co-conspirators, and you begin to regret the arrogance of your statement.

“There are many ways we can do this,” he warns, voice sloping down to a dangerous hum. “It can be easy…” and he lowers a hand to his belt buckle, setting every cell in your body on fire, “Or hard.”

It‘s a plea to God more than a question for your captor, your desperate, self-pitying: “Why me?” It can't be above a whisper, but the asshole responds anyway.

“It’s more enjoyable when we get to work with something pretty.” A dark laugh. “Who’s going to come looking for you, hermosa? Your family? Your friends? Your… government?” He clicks his tongue again, looking down at you in mock concern. “Like I said, we’ve been watching. You have a habit of disappearing. Running away.”

Figures.

Figures that the reason you’d wound up with your life on the line, your body in danger, was because of you. Once again, it boiled down to the lack of attachments you’d curated over the years, passing from one thing to another, quick on your feet the second they hit solid ground. For God’s sake, the only reason you’d made it this long in Medellín was because it hadn’t managed to bore you yet.

Figures that the closest thing to stability you’d been able to find was in the crime capital of the world. It was poetically honest, laughably ironic.

Of course, the American government would assume you’d fucked off—just another ditzy contractor swept up in the thrill of a south-American life.

The other part held water, too—no one would come looking for you. Your boss might huff about ‘these flighty secretaries, can’t hold ‘em down for anything,’ but beyond that, your disappearance would cause less than a stir.  

Somehow, that thought comforted you. The lack of collateral, the lack of another’s suffering… very little harm would befall the world in the wake of your absence. Peace was beginning to crest upon your settling soul. And, either way, you’d worked in this line of work for long enough to know that your death warrant had been signed the very second they’d seen you as a target.

You give the bastards what they want? You die.

You hold off? You die.

All things considered, you resign yourself, making up your mind.

Still, your defiant voice quivers as you say it.

“Fuck you.”

The ringleader smiles, like a predator cornering its prey, taking that first bite into hard-earned flesh. Your brain responds, screaming warnings in big letters, in flashing red ink. He barks an order to his underlings in Spanish, and the other two men come forward, roughly undoing the holds along your ankles, your wrists.

“Get the fuck off of me!”  

But they don’t listen, yanking you upright and shoving you onto the ground. Your vision becomes hazy. Something takes over, a protective instinct, perhaps, barring you from your own body. Distantly, you observe yourself fighting, but really all you feel is beyond. The words ‘I am not here, this is not happening’ wash over you over and over again, like a cleansing, salt-water wave.

Hands on cement. Clothes torn, destroyed—the cold barrel of a gun to your head, a man barking orders, hitting, slapping—and right as the worst is about to happen, everything just…

Stops.

It’s like they’re spellbound, bugs frozen in amber.

You hear the cause of it well after your torturers do. Footsteps upstairs, and gunshots, screams followed by the definite sounds of a creeping squadron.

The men get messy. Scrambling around, they gather their options. In your dazed periphery, you watch their eyes latch onto one of those open windows, 8 or 9 feet up from the ground.

A hushed conversation ensues. You're familiar enough with the more violent side of the Spanish vocabulary to string together their meaning.

“Shoot her? — no, the noise, they’ll find us faster — kill her? — too long — take her? — too messy — we have to go, we have to go, we have to go.”

Your ruined shirt is shoved down your throat, and then you’re gagging on it, ankles bound once more, shaking and naked on the freezing concrete. The trio uses the little wooden chair to frantically sneak out of the window.

It would be downright comical if you weren’t so terrified.

Soon, you’re alone, choking on cotton and wriggling to flatten your back against the wall. Centuries pass before the movement upstairs graduates to the basement below.

Relief doesn’t grace you. Any man—DEA, cartel, or Colombian police—would likely perform the same violence as your previous captors had planned to. A naked girl, roughed up and completely unprotected, in a dark, hidden basement, totally at their mercy… Shit. You were basically an invitation. A free meal, offered up to a different, hungry crowd.

You just pray that this one might be gentler.

The stairs creak under the certain weight of bodies in motion.

Tears run down the side of your face, dripping down from your temple onto the ground below. You compress into a ball, making yourself as small as possible.

The echoes grow louder, closer and closer. At this point, you just hope they’ll assume you’re an enemy or get trigger-happy and give you a quick taste of lead. Put you out of your misery.

Giving up was well within your comfort zone.

Someone gasps when they see you, and a single name hurtles through the space.

An out-of-commission part of your mind recognizes it—the name—knows it as a comfort. Still, you only tremble, trying to disconnect yourself from what must be a wishful, crafted, deceitful version of reality.

Then someone else comes forward. Your eyes, weary of keeping you in the dark, fling open just in time to watch a tall, dark-haired man push through the crowd of soldiers. You watch his expression—shock to rage, rage to relief, and then rage all over again.

He rushes you, falling to his knees before your wrecked form.

His first move is to wrench the fabric from your mouth. You croak out the most desperate sob of relief, all those stifled, unvoiced expressions of terror tumbling out in great-big-heaves.

“Are you hurt?” He asks.

“No.” You respond.

“Did they…?”

“No.”

Javi tears his big doe-eyes, filled with worry, away from yours, twisting to impatiently address the frozen crowd of four or five behind him. “Can somebody take these fuckin’ ties off?”

Switchblades slice through twine. Someone brings you a blanket, and Javi bundles you up in it, gathering you and lifting you in his arms. You don’t resist, clinging around his neck and hiding in the comfort of his shoulder.

“Hermosa—”

You regret the way you flinch. “Please—please don’t call me that anymore.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t ask questions, sounding a little softer, a little more unsure when he presses on, muffling the desperate edge to his tone. “Did you see where they went?”

“The window. Out the window.”

Most of the rest take to that almost immediately, scattering to start on their chase. Javi delivers a set of orders in his native tongue.

Then, he grows silent, carrying you through the house with two soldiers in the lead. “Close your eyes, okay? You don’t wanna see this.” But now that they’re open, you can’t seem to shut them. You only glimpse flashes of the upstairs area. Tables covered in paper, glass contraptions and coke, so much coke, which is almost more impressive than the quantity of blood splattered against the peeling walls.

And Carrie.

Carrie with half her brains hanging out, long, dark, red-soaked hair fanning around her crown like a rotten halo, lounging on the couch, fingers splayed and palms to the sky as if she were ready to wrap them around a glass of white wine—as if she were ready to catch up on girl-talk.

What’s Carrie doing here?

Should I ask her?

She’s dead.  

No, she’s not. She’s right there. She was waiting for me to be done so we could catch up. That’s just how she always sits—it’s just the scoliosis.

That’s why she always showed up so late to the club. She… she couldn’t dance too long because of the scoliosis.

You’re still debating whether or not Carrie would be up for a bit of gossip, another debrief, when big, strong arms lower you into the passenger seat of a Jeep Cherokee.

Javier buckles you in.

“We can’t go to your place—that’s…” and you trail off weakly, throat burning with effort. “That’s where they took me.”

He nods, his face a complete mask of concentration.

But you know him.

He’s holding everything back. You appreciate him for that, never wanting to hear a man shout for the rest of your cursed time on Earth.

“Steve’s, then.”

It’s your turn to nod.

—

Javier drives in complete and total silence, only speaking the occasional clipped sentence into his radio. Despite your vulnerability, despite your overwhelming gratitude, you feel guilty for taking him away from his work, from his team. For forcing him to rescue you once again.

For sure, he’s angry. Would he have to move? Find a new place? Leave all his stuff at the old one? Would a better captive have paid better attention, taken note of the exact direction her kidnappers had taken off in after clearing the window?

Soon, you’re settled against a couch, the light from the opposing window breaking in and dancing across Javi’s face. A blonde woman—fiery, familiar, concerned—hands you a glass of water.

Javi watches you, eyebrows notched together, lips drawn into a thin line as you take a slow sip in silence. The liquid slides down your throat, cooling and soothing the rips and tears there.

And they both won’t stop staring. Truly, their joint study makes you self-conscious, watching on with unapologetic intent as you shiver under the scratchy blanket.

Finally (thankfully), Steve's wife—Connie, you recall—speaks.

“You can go, Javi. I'll take it from here.”

“No.”

She looks borderline offended at his line in the sand.

“I don’t think she’s in any shape to talk, Peña.” It’s authoritative, protective, clearly marked with harboured resentment.

She'd make a good mom.

He scoffs. “I’m not gonna make her talk, Connie. Just don’t wanna leave her like... this.”

Connie looks confused. They share a glance, and an eventual understanding passes over her expression. In fact, even in your distressed state, you’re almost certain you catch a hint of a smile.

“Well if you’re both staying, we’ll need food.”

Javi nods absentmindedly, lighting up a smoke. You look away, still feeling the weight of his eyes boring into your ducked head.

She clears her throat. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Remember to lock the door, Javi.”

Then, swinging her coat on, she traces an awkward line out of the apartment.

Silence flits across the room. The agent continues to study you from his seat at the counter across the room.

“Are you okay?”

You pick at your nails, internally asking yourself the same question.

“I’m just glad you were there,” you muster up, looking up at his softened, warm gaze. Concern etches a couple of fresh lines on his face.

Javi nods, taking a long drag. “Always, sweetheart. I’m glad I was there, too.”

You shiver at the thought of what could have happened if he and his team had showed up just a few minutes later. What shape he would have found you in, or if you’d ever permit yourself to feel the touch of a man again. Of anyone again.

“Why were you there?”

The question comes out of nowhere, bursting out the moment you realize that you hadn’t yet bothered to ask him how he’d pulled off yet another well-timed rescue.

It couldn’t have been in answer to your prayers—those had never worked for you before.

“Carillo’s been following Escobar’s cousin for a while. Zeroed in on the neighbourhood, but we spent all morning doing searches. Honestly,” he breaks off for a moment, rubbing at his temples, “It was just damn luck that we found you when we did. Wish I could say it wasn't, but it was. We were gettin’ ready to call it off. I had… no idea you weren’t at home.”

He blames himself for it. You can tell. In turn, you blame yourself for that—for his misguided, self-inflicted anger.

There’s more left unsaid.

“My friend—I called her this morning. From your place. She was there. She was… dead. I think.”

Javi doesn’t react, evidence of the years of gore, wreckage, and betrayal he'd witnessed.

You swallow, soldiering on.

“I told her. I told her where I was. Could she… could she have told them?”

Is she the reason this happened to me?

Slowly, lips pressed around his cigarette, Javi nods. “I’m sorry,” he barely mumbles.

Strangely enough, you’re not. That’s what you say: “I’m not.” And it’s true. “She was upstairs when it was all happening. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Now, he looks at you with a consideration that swells into a kind of respect. Not a respect, no not respect. A knowing. A new kind of understanding, of equal footing.

You meet him head-on with it, basking in your retribution, revelling in the immediate justice she'd been served. You’d mourn the person you thought she was when your wounds weren’t so open, so fresh.

"They wanted directions, Javi," you suddenly blurt out, voice hoarse, "Isn't that insane? They were gonna... they were gonna do that for directions. Not even the evidence, just fucking directions-"

Javi lifts his hands in the air, signalling for you to slow down. Normally, it would make you want to tear his arrogant head off. Now, however, you just do, although the silence isn't very comforting. After a moment, you can tell there's something Javi’s been avoiding, something he’s holding in. The agent clears his throat, finally calling it quits on his tiptoe-ing around the subject.

“Cariño," he begins, "I know you told me earlier, but I... I gotta be sure. Did they hurt you in… any way?”

God, he sounds so deeply wary, unable even to speak his fear into existence. You shake your head no, prompting his shoulders to relax.

“Okay. Good,” he breathes, crossing his arms and looking down at the rug. “Don’t think I could…”

Panic ripples through your frame.

'Doesn’t think he could' what? Bear to look at me, knowing the enemy had been where he’d been, done what he’d done? Touch me in the same grooves they'd left on my skin? Javi’s not that kind of man—is he?

“Don’t think I could forgive myself if anything were to happen to you under my watch.”

The rush of anxiety quickly dissipates, replaced by a stifling bloom of admiration and adoration across your chest. Like soft tendrils, warming your shivering body from within.

You smile self-consciously, scoff, and meet his eyes. “I wasn’t ‘under your watch,’ Javi. I opened the door. It was my fault.”

He raises his eyebrows, huffing a breath before ashing his dart, rising, carving a path towards the couch-cushion next to you and taking your glass of water from between your hands. It clinks as he sets it on the table. Taking your unsteady hands between his hardened palms, he coaxes you into meeting his golden eyes.

“It’s not your fault, herm—” a pause as he corrects himself, noticing your flinch, “—cariño. It’s not your fault.”

He waits for your nod of acknowledgement before pulling you into his arms. You let yourself go limp, dragged into the plushness of the couch and the firmness of his chest.

He lays a kiss to your forehead. He fidgets with your hair. He traces long, lazy lines up and down your spine.

How had you gone from that youthful giddiness this morning to this dark, anxious wreck in a matter of hours? It wasn’t even two o’clock yet.

The comfort your agent provides is good—will always be good—but you want more. Every inch of attention he gives you is just another step away from that cold basement, a foot towards freedom.

Time heals all wounds, and you want a distraction while you face those excruciating seconds. Something to move it along. Something to keep you busy, to keep the harrowing images at bay.

So you tilt your head up. Finding his lips, you press into him, shuddering when the rough hairs of his mustache tickle your top lip. When your body asks for more, when your tongue meets his and your hand drops to his thigh, Javi tenses, pulling back and breaking off the kiss.

“Sweetheart—you’re not in a good place,” he whispers, lovingly running his fingers through your hair.

You look up at him with eyes full of need, wordlessly begging him to give in. “I am now,” you assure him, tossing a leg over his hips and straddling his body. His expression darkens as you slowly chip away at his resolve, one touch at a time. “I’m with you.”

He smiles, plucking your hands from his chest. Every kiss he lays to your knuckles sends a ripple of electricity up and down your spine. “That right?” He muses between embraces. “That all you need?”

You nod, the pace of your shallow breaths picking up in anticipation. “When you touch me, Javi, it’s like you’re cleaning them off me,” you croon, leaning forward to brush your lips against his jaw.

“You’re in shock, baby,” but his hands defy his words, slipping down to circle your waist, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Slowly, deliberately, you lean back to stare directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

You feel him tense at that, his body hardening alongside the weight building underneath your thigh. He lets you go on, deft hands pooling onto your hips.

“Get rid of them for me,” you plead, grinding down onto his bulge.

“Make me all yours again.”  

That does it.

His hands shoot up to your face, firmly cupping your cheeks between their heat. Then, Javi’s kissing you harder than before, warming your desire up to a feverish level. You moan into him, turning to putty in his grasp.

He peppers kisses down your jaw and up your neck, allowing you to clumsily untuck his shirt and undo his belt. It’s frantic and needy—it’s pure business. You free his length from the confines of his clothes, heavy breaths mingling when you look down in tandem, hungrily watching your small, delicate hand pumping up and down his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, his dark crown of cropped curls falling back against the couch, “You make it fuckin’ hard to be a good guy.”

You smile, spreading the slick dribbling at his tip around the head of his cock.

God, the sight of him never gets old.

“Good guys listen, Javi,” you tease, managing to pull off an air of sultriness, “Not just to no—also to yes.”

A lazy, roguish grin spreads across his face. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?” and he knocks a squeal out of you when he cages you in his arms, flipping you over ‘till your back’s digging shapes into the worn-in cushions below. “Gettin’ mouthy already.”

You giggle up at him, but all of your noises dwindle when a few rough fingers push your torn, ruined underwear to the side. You grow especially wordless when one separates your folds and makes its way inside you.

Javi gives you his signature look of condescension, of mock pity.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He taunts, thumbing that aching bundle of nerves. “All the ways I’ve had my dick in you, just this—” he makes a point to curl his fingers towards himself, pressing against the most desire-stricken spot, “—‘n you can’t find your words?”

Your throat won’t open, choking around your own pleasure. Instead, you nod with enthusiasm, desperately clinging onto his forearm. “More.”

He quickly accedes, pushing another long and thick finger inside you. You shudder at the perfect sting—the stretch—as your opening hugs his knuckles. Javi mutters curses to himself, angry and lustful, supervising your writhing form.

“No one else gets to see you like this.” He speaks low, sitting up to work you with both hands. Your body responds without your permission; Javi clicks his tongue and shoves you back down when your hips buck up. “Don’t deserve it,” he continues voicing his thought as if no interruption had occurred, “I’d have to track ‘em down and kill ‘em.”

His tone goes beyond protectiveness, easily veering into the realm of the possessive. “I-I wouldn’t be good f-for them, Javi,” you manage, wanting to comfort him, to calm him, “Wouldn’t—wouldn’t listen.”

“Oh,” he smirks down at you, finally pulling his fingers from your soaked, ready cunt. “Like you listen to me?”

You spread your legs for him, shimmying down until he’s hovering right above you. He strokes himself, taking you in with hunger, playfulness and… something else.

Something like devotion.

A smile. You stroke his jaw. “You come harder when I misbehave.”

He shrugs and nods, a silent, ‘you got me there,' before lining himself up at your entrance.

You whimper, a pathetic, pleading sound, when the head of his cock finds your opening. “Then make sure to misbehave.”  

He rocks inside you, taking note of the way your jaw goes slack, hanging open, and the way your brow furrows, grateful eyes glazing over, showing high praise for that feeling of fullness.  

And he laughs to himself.

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he coos, settling into a comfortable rhythm. “Beggin’ for cock after bein’ kidnapped. I shouldn’t be feedin' into your crazy, cariño.”

It is crazy. But you don’t care, giggling along to his taunt.

“Just makes me feel so-so good, Javi,” you breathe.

“Yeah?” He coaxes, sitting back to tower over you, pressing your thighs to your calves; the new angle has bliss rippling through your centre, your back arching involuntarily. “What feels good?”

He shoves your hips down, lowering a finger back to your clit.

“Oh—God—y-yourcock—” he nods approvingly at you, beckoning you to go on, “your—your fingers, too.”

He slows his pace, pulling out fully before slamming back inside you.

“Look at it, cariño,” Javi instructs, steadying your hips once more. “Watch me fuck your pretty lil’ pussy.”

You struggle onto your elbows and obey, mouth slack and perpetually open. Pressure builds at your core as you watch every inch of his hard, dark length disappear, over and over, inside the shelter of your body. It’s so dirty, and somehow the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“M-made for you, Javi.”

And he moans, an animalistic sound you’d never heard from him before.

“S’right, baby, made just for me.” He flattens his fingers against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Can you come for me now?”

You nod, grateful for his permission as soon as you start to feel your thighs shake. The tension snaps within you, and you tumble over the edge of your climax with a high pitched whine.

“Good girl,” he praises, low, deep, and bristling with pleasure, “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You ride it out. Javi shows no mercy, squeezing your waist and bouncing your lower half against him. His biceps and shoulders strain against his shirt, the sight making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

After having him a few times, you were well aware of his impressive stamina—Javi wasn’t going to finish without giving you another one. Nonetheless, the overwhelming pleasure has you squirming away from his unrelenting grasp.

He pulls you back against him, steadying you between two forceful hands.

And he fucks you harder.  

“Still remember them, querida? ” He breathes.

You find your voice, using great effort to stammer out a “y-yes."

It's not the correct answer.

Javi growls, “Then I’m not fuckin’ done with you.”

His shirt grazes the insides of your thighs, and you're certain that every part of his form is working to set your skin on fire. A skilled hand wraps around your jaw, and Javi leans over you, lowering his lips to latch around a hard, peaked nipple.

Your whimpers do nothing to stop him. He just keeps rhythmically rocking into you, the head of his cock reaching impossible, beckoning depths.

An almost-sob wracks your lungs. “S’a lot, huh? Takin’ all this cock inside you…” Javi shushes you with feigned sympathy, nipping and suckling at the softest spots at his disposal. “S’okay, baby, s’okay.”

Then he makes his way to your lips, forces you to kiss him—deeply—as your lungs scream for oxygen. He locks your hands above your head in just one of his own, the pressure of his weight the only thing keeping your squirming limbs in place.

And then his mouth is sliding down your jaw, his breaths hot and heavy next to your ear.

“Fuck—can feel you gettin’ close, sweetheart, gonna come again?”

All you can do is nod.

He rolls into you—hard and deep—forcing tears to pull from the outer corners of your eyes.

“S-so good to me,” you manage, seeing pure white as your third orgasm of the day blooms from between your seizing legs.

He groans, freeing your hands (which immediately find stability in the firmness of his shoulders) to clumsily wipe the tears from under one dazed eye. Above you, he resembles a hungry, lustful angel, eyes darkened with unbridled need, affection, approval.  

“‘M’good to what’s mine, baby,” he whispers, pulling you into the crook of his neck as he chases both your highs. “Come, cariño—s’right, come for me.”

And you do, aching, ruined cunt squeezing and releasing, fluttering around Javi. He moans a downright sinful ‘fuck’ at the sensation, reaching his own peak almost in tandem with yours.

Only once his every last drop is spent, once his groan and your whines have stopped echoing around the unfamiliar, open space, does he pull back from your neck.

And when he looks at you… God. There’s something you’re both not saying.

“Only wanna see you cry like this, baby,” he tells you, laying a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Never gonna let them—let anyone—lay a finger on you again.”

Your breath hitches, the words thick and sticky in your throat. The both of you are dazed, breathless, and completely wrecked. “I’m… I’m glad we met. That you—that we’re doing this.”

He raises his eyebrows, crooning a soft ‘yeah?’ as he pushes your hair from your face.

You nod. “You make all of it worth it.”

He’s appreciative when leaning in for a kiss, slipping out of you and groaning against your lips. You tangle your fingers in his damp hair, leaning up into him with every aching muscle in your body, wanting nothing more than to become a part of his whole. When he pulls away, it's only to tuck his softening length back into his briefs. He focusses on you again, leaning over to affectionately stroke your knee.

“Is it just sex for you?”

His question comes as a bit of a surprise—you’d never heard him speak so openly, so innocent and vulnerable.

You cup his face. Despite the fact that he looks like the men from earlier, carries the same guns and ammo, knows what they know, even speaks their language, he’s never seemed so separate from them, an entirely different species.

“No—at first, maybe, but now… No. Not for me.”

He eases into a soft smile, wrapping you back into your blanket before laying back, manhandling you to rest against his still-unsteady chest.

Those masterful hands comfort you in a million different ways. He plays with your hair and traces the highest points of your cheekbone. He massages your knuckles, pulls you in for little kisses, dips into the curve of your waist.

“How about you?” The question is small, even though you anticipate the answer.

He takes a second before answering. When he does, his voice is low, quiet.

“Not at all, sweetheart.” He tilts your head up, his soft, caring gaze probing into every corner of your own. “Honestly, I think it’s been more than that since the first time you said ‘go fuck yourself, Peña.’” He whistles under his breath, exaggerating his approval. “Shit was hot.”

It makes you laugh, but it's also enough to make your heart soar. Settling in to the nook of his neck, you breathe in his familiar, earthly scent, until the exhaustion of the day eventually weighs on you.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, entertained by the fact that while you really should be a wreck, you feel perfectly at ease, wrapped in the arms of your favourite DEA agent. In fact, you can hardly remember what your kidnappers looked like—or sounded like, for that matter—succumbing to slumber, you only think of him.

—

Less than three hectic, hazy days later, you’re pulling a suitcase through the Medellín international airport. There was no sense risking it anymore—you'd have to be transferred to the States until the assholes were caught. Ambassador's orders.

Javi flanks your side, eyes peeled for any abnormalities in your surroundings.

Your heart breaks with every step you take. He comes all the way to the gate without saying a word, merely holding onto one of your bags (that he'd insisted he carry) in a white-knuckled fist.

You’re running behind. There’s not much time.

He doesn’t say he’ll call—knows he’s not that kind of man. You don’t say you’ll visit. You don’t say you’ll write.

No, all you do is lean up on your tippy toes to plant a tender, lingering kiss to his cheek. He returns the favour by cupping your face, leaning down and kissing you intently.

Too intently—as if he were memorizing the grooves in your lips.

Well, that’s what you’re doing, anyways.

Over the loudspeaker, your name is called.

“They’re paging you,” Javi translates, his breath hitting your top lip.

You pull away, doing your best not to cry.

“Thank you.”

It’s all you say—it’s all that needs to be said, really.

Thank you for showing me I matter. Thank you for teaching me patience. Thank you for saving my life three times. Thank you for wanting me. Thank you for making me wait for it. Thank you for giving me a reason to miss this place.  

Thank you for loving me. I think that's what this is.

He hears it all, stuffed and contained, overflowing from the two uttered words.

Then he smiles, that well-trained, protective cockiness spreading across his face.

“You’re welcome, cariño.”

You scoff a laugh, slowly dropping his hand and turning towards your gate.

“If I ever visit home…” he calls after you.

You pause, smiling down at the glistening floor, shaking your head. “You’ll never catch me in Texas, Peña,” you call across the traffic of rushing families and over-packed suitcases. He smiles knowingly, hands in his pockets, watching you leave. “Just lock the fuckers up so I can visit. The weather sucks back home.”

You slowly walk backwards towards the exit, ignoring a few flight-attendant-glares, not daring to break off the playful eye contact linking you to your agent.

“I’ll do it just for you, baby,” he calls, grinning like a fool.

Strange. You’d never noticed how the teasing, that snarky back and forth you’d developed together seemed to put him at ease—to relax him. All that time he'd spent, driving you to the brink of insanity... it comforted him.

And that realization was enough to make you beam.

You commit that final glimpse to memory. Javi—smiling, calm, alive, yours. It was rare enough that you felt sure it would stick.

When you finally turn to face the gate, to face your future, you don’t feel like crying anymore.

It was enough just to have met him.

Maybe—just maybe—he felt the same.

—

All my friends tell me I should move on

I'm lying in the ocean, singing your song

Ahh

That's how you sang it

Loving you forever can't be wrong

Even though you're not here, won't move on

Ahh

That's how we played it

And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody

It won't leave my head

Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine

But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

All my friends ask me why I stay strong

Tell 'em when you find true love, it lives on

Ahh

That's why I stay here

And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody

It won't leave my head

Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine

But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight

I don't want to wake up from this tonight

There's no relief, I see you in my sleep

And everybody's rushing me, but I can feel you touching me

There's no release, I feel you in my dreams

Telling me I'm fine

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight

I don't want to wake up from this tonight

—

TAGLIST WILL BE CONTINUED IN REBLOG.

Strike-through means I cannot tag.

TAGLIST:

@millllenniawrites @theicypiscean @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbees @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @caravelofthesun @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @buckysmainhxe @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @queer-poncho @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @expir3dl0v3 @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @dzaga890 @killerrxger @ayehomo @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @Eggnox07 @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @stxrgvsm @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @ophealiadrowning @kamcrazy123 @milly-louise @djarinsgirl @cowboychickenlittle

[jevilowo]

Not sure if ive already done this. But.

Predictions for COMIC 7

CHARLES DARLING WILL BE THE FINAL ENEMY besides Helen. Trust me on this one I swear they wouldn't have brought him in if they didn't have plans. ALSO the mother of the Mann triplets (Bette Mann neé Darling) was RELATED TO HIM HE'S RELEVANT. I'm so convinced he's the one Helen made a deal with and he's going to make a grab for Mann Co.

We'll get to see Bilious Hale in a flashback and find out what happened to him. Bilious Hale, oh guy who punched coal out of mines and sat on John Wilkes Booth while other people shot at him, my beloved. I hope they don't reveal he was a bad father or anything.

A woman is nice to Ms Pauling for once and she gets a smooch. She deserves it. Hopefully it won't be a smooch from Helen (DAMN YOU 4CHAN LEAKS), the old lady's had her hired since Pauling was in her mid teens.

WE GET HORSEMANN LORE! this is just wishful thinking on my part the Horsemann makes me insane. Shout out to Silas Mann fr. If he doesn't show up, I hope they at least acknowledge or reference him. I swear they had plans for him back in 2010. Which they then immediately abandoned in favour of developing Mann vs Machine.

Spydad reveal. Pretty much a given. No need to elaborate. I hope Scout’s mother shows up I love her.

Demo gets something important to do! He's only been there for comedic bits so far really, so I think he deserves some Serious Plot Stuff.

Build up to and cop out on Pyro face reveal. The whole thing of Pyro's character is the mystery, so I think the funniest way to go about a face reveal would be for us to only see the team's reactions and have them all react very differently e.g. Scout vomits, Demo gives them the thumbs up, Spy starts taking horrified notes, Engie looks vaguely lovestruck, Saxton Hale expresses annoyance that they aren't actually *insert obsucure species of something here* like he thought.

CONAGHER LORE!! By which I mean Engie shows up and has a chat with Fred about Radigan and immortality and whatnot. Fred has to have been spared from the bloodshed for a reason, right?

Classic Medic shows up! Or they confirm he is dead. Or they confirm he is Pyro which is a funny theory I read once but sincerely doubt. Maybe they'll pull a Bea and have him have been a girl the whole time.

I have a crackpot theory that Helen/Elizabeth is actually Bette Mann (again, mother of the Mann triplets), and while it's unlikely to be true, it would genuinely be so funny if I'm right so WATCH THIS SPACE. My main reasoning is Helen started her Australium search the year the triplets were born, aka the year Bette DIED, and also Bette is a nickname for Elizabeth. Also also it adds to my theory that she will team up with Charles Darling, who is, as I've already said, related to Bette.

Olivia gets to do something important also. Saying this bc she's mostly been a prop so far. I'm manifesting a sideplot where she summons the Horsemann to beat up Charles Darling for her.

Merasmus returns! Last we saw he was arrested, but Jay Pinkerton really likes his Soldier/Merasmus interactions so chances of him coming back are high.

There will be a joke like "geez it feels like it's been seven years since we beat grey mann" and a panel where everyone just lets that process before going back to plot stuff

Chances are, a new comic after so many years means there will be new writers, and the fandom has changed quite a bit since the last one. There will be SUBLIMINAL SPEEDING BULLET SHIPPING. There will be MORE FOCUS THAN IS REALLY NECESSARY on Scout. SOMEONE WILL THEY/THEM PYRO which sounds great actually you know what I forgot where I was going with this godspeed.

ZHANNASOLDIER WEDDING FINALE!!!

[aingeal98]

Something I enjoy a lot about Cass is that with a lot of heroes that don't kill it can easily veer into self righteousness. It happens with Bruce a fair amount and while it can make for a compelling character beat if done well, if done poorly it just kind of makes the reader annoyed lmao. Like why am I supposed to root for this guy when he's saying "If you shoot the man who killed your parents your soul will be forever ruined!" and acting like there's no difference between types of kill?

And the thing about Cass is that while her no kill rule is based on the experience of watching someone die and the horror she felt, and while she does project it into pretty much everyone she meets... It never comes across as unlikeably self righteous to me. Like for Cass every kill is a tragedy and while her no death rule is a moral statement it's also given more importance as an rule that gives us psychological insight into what governs and drives her. Even when she's wrong, even when the villain is so sympathetic and justified that there's no reason to root for her, the narrative always feels very self aware about it. Like when she let that father get arrested despite him just wanting his daughter back. The writer (Puckett of course) wasn't interested in convincing the reader that Cass's judgement was the morally correct choice. He was interested in what it said about her that it was the choice she chose.

And similarly when she approaches people to try and stop them from killing she always lacks the morally righteous air a lot of others carry. She's desperate and earnest and determined to get them to change but it's not because she thinks she's in any way better than them and has the right to pass judgement because of it. It's someone who genuinely believes that she's irredeemable manically trying to save everyone else because if these killers can do the right thing and turn over a new leaf then maybe... Just maybe... there's hope for her?

It's so compelling to me. The desperation and clear projection that happens when she goes out determined to enforce and/or promote her code to as many people possible. Every time she says someone can change she's speaking from experience. Because she views herself as irredeemable and beneath everyone but she's still out here trying to be good so maybe if others make the same choice it's proof that she's not doomed. That none of them are. She doesn't want the hitman to redeem himself by becoming a hero and helping his former victims. She just wants him to walk away, to start a peaceful and quiet new life. And when he fails to do that and they meet again she still won't give up on him. When she stands in front of the victims family she won't declare she knows better. She'll hopefully and uncertainty ask "But maybe... He can change?"

Like there's so much heart behind everything she does and every action she takes. Every time the topic of killing people comes up she's so earnest and clearly projecting her own issues and seeing herself in every murderer and it's so fun. It's so fascinating. I miss Batgirl 2000.

[bugs1nmybrain]

Bipolar!Shigaraki Tomura Headcanons

I'm writing it. Because I CAN

Before I start, I am writing these headcanons as someone who has been diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 for almost three years now. I frankly could not care less if people don't think he has Bipolar Disorder, I'm writing this for my comfort and that of others who either have Bipolar disorder or just resonate with the idea that Tomura does.

and I'm also very aware of Bipolar Disorder being stigmatized as something that affects "bad" people. I'm not trying to suggest this, but that Tomura is someone who is neglected of treatment.

Warning: Bipolar disorder as title suggests (Tomura's symptoms relate to type 1 more), talks of depression, mania, psychosis, suicidality, etc, angst?

Tomura has never been given a formal diagnosis and likely has no clue that he has bipolar disorder himself. He doesn't know much about it, either, other then the stereotype that people with general mood swings are "so bipolar."

The doctor knows, AFO does too, but for them, they see it as more ammo for their arsenal to make sure Tomura's life is nothing but agony. He's never been treated with medications or therapy. Nothing.

Because he isn't medicated, his episodes are pretty strong. His manic episodes sort of blend in with his everyday behavior to a lot of people.

It's during this time that he finds himself planning out grand operations against the heroes. Some of his ideas seem unrealistic and not well thought out. They're more just ideas thrown around, and he jumps to gather people and means to carry out his goal before actually having a calculated plan.

He's up all night doing this. But if he's not, he's likely gaming. He huddles up in his room with multiple cans of energy drinks (as if he didn't already have way too much energy).

(semi-canon) will text his comrades at godforsaken hours either asking, demanding, or just rambling about stuff. If he gets an answer, the recipient often finds themself confused because Tomura just talks and talks and talks, and when he's in the heat of some plan or project he doesn't really stop to compose his sentences or even take a damn breath.

He impulsively buys things, like copious amounts of in-game purchases. Or DoorDash. If he's feeling reeeaaal bold he'll go for a whole-ass gaming console if he can, even if his current one is perfectly fine. Or assembling as many thugs as he can and feeling generous enough to overpay them when they definitely don't need the amount of money he's giving them.

You can see how when AFO was arrested, his lifestyle shifted in this regard.

Tomura is already an irritable guy, and so his mania can make it worse. He gets very overstimulated with all of his sensations that little things, like accidentally stubbing his toe, can make him mad as fuck for a good thirty minutes.

He also gets very paranoid about others. When he talks to people, he's already convinced that they are tricking him somehow and he'll read every cue he can to confirm it, even if the proof isn't even there.

Even when he's out in public and by himself, he thinks everyone is mocking, judging, and looking at him. That also comes with being the most wanted villain around, but that's beside the point.

When something finally goes his way, he is HAPPY. Sometimes the League will catch Tomura smiling his face off for no apparent reason (odd for him), and will ask what's up, only for Tomura to CACKLE back with, "ehehAHAH NOTHING!! THAT's just IT!"

They look at each other like, but just let him go about his day. They'll later hear him giggling to himself in his room, and sometimes talking to himself. He'll deny and just tell them he was on chat (his devices are not open and he is standing in the middle of his room).

Because he's not medicated, his mania can trickle into psychotic symptoms. Especially if he's going through more stress than typical. He hears voices that tell him mean things. Sometimes they're the voices of his dead family.

And because he doesn't sleep much, he sees detailed shadows and things moving that aren't. It disturbs him, but he accepts it and tries to just push on. But sometimes if he hears voices more than he'd like, he gets sad and has to grip his head and whisper "shut up shut up shut up" to negate them.

He's delusional, too. AFO's grooming and constant monitoring of his whole life have definitely emphasized his distrust of everything around him. Sometimes he'll think that the people he's gaming with online are secret hero spies trying to get him to reveal himself. He also has a fear that someone is watching him in every location, and he'll think that even the silliest things are cameras or microphones, or that those around him are also spies. Later on, it becomes paranoia that his master is everywhere.

Then comes the doom of depression

For Tomura, he's technically always depressed. But when he goes into a depressive episode, he's pretty lifeless.

He's complacent about his goals. Sometimes he'll get a tiny idea that makes his brain go !, but then he thinks of all the planning behind it and immediately slouches down on any nearby furniture

He'll lay in bed for a long period of time doing nothing. Sometimes he'll try to play a game on his phone but he gets bored quick.

Tends to eat more during this time because it's the only joy he can get. And he gets bored. He is SO BORED

Anhedonia is a bitch

His brain dwells and rambles, yet his thoughts don't make sense to him? He's constantly thinking about how fucked up his life is, how better other villains are, and how much he hates All Might and heroes altogether. He tells himself that if it wasn't for all of that he wouldn't feel this way (relating to the depressive episode).

It overwhelms him and he tries to sleep it off, but he's somehow so depressed that he's UNCOMFORTABLE. His itching gets bad.

He is very suicidal during this time and hurts himself to try and subside it. If you asked him his reason for living, he'd tell you "to see this world crumble." But he's too busy crumbling in his bed.

Psychotic symptoms can occur during his depression, too. Especially if he hasn't slept.

His lack of medication usually causes him to swap back to mania somewhat soon (2 months or so). He definitely has rapid cycles.

Because his condition isn't managed, his brain is sort of in an in-an-out stance when it comes to his literal sanity. He has moments where he can definitely be level-headed (he gets rrly confident when he notices it) but when his anger and stress fuel him more than usual, he spirals and quite literally sees red. Sometimes he can't even tell if he's dreaming or not. Often mistakes the date and day of the week.

:(

I might write a fic of the reader comforting bipolar tomura. I don't think I've ever seen a fic like that for any character.

[caitlynxviolet]

"She's an enforcer to stop Jinx"

She's an enforcer to get to Jinx, and stop Sevika or literally anything else that has gone to shit.

Because a few of you said I didn't know the LoL lore, I'm going to talk about the lore. I read all of it. I know about it, probably more than you do, honestly. I've been playing the damn game since 2018.

Vi in LoL is just a cop. She grew up in Zaun as an orphan, became really good at fighting and was given an opportunity to work as an enforcer. Being an enforcer is her job, essentially, and the job looks like your typical cop job because it is. Was she hired to stop Jinx? No. She has to stop many bad guys and villains alongside Caitlyn. Jinx is just kinda there to mess with them. She frequently blows stuff up and is just a menace in general. Now, I don't know if they never arrest her because she's too smart for them and she escapes them, or if they just let her be. It's been a while since I read the lore, so I'm not sure about the details and it's also incomplete and from years ago (it's like 10+ years old). Vi doesn't remember her childhood because she was taken to an orphanage too young. If she knows Jinx is her sister, it's surface level information and it doesn't really affect their dynamic.

Basically, there's no depth in the LoL lore. The oppressive system of enforcers isn't addressed at all. Jinx being a nuisance is just a silly thing outside of Vi needing to do her job with Caitlyn. It's silly. It's goofy. We love it for that. Let it be that.

Arcane brings complex issues to a similar, albeit completely different, premise. From the literal start of the show, we see what enforcers are. They're there to enforce the rules. They kill people in front of children. Vi grows up with enforcers terrorizing Zaun. She has every reason not to trust them (she says so in the show) and not to become one of them. Outside of her existing views on enforcers, she knows her sister. She grew up with her. She was separated from her, when she was old enough to remember of course, and it haunts her. She loves her sister. She wants her back. Jinx is not just a silly troublemaker like in the LoL lore. She's traumatized. All she knows is violence. She's been brainwashed by Silco, someone who didn't exist at all in the lore, but he'd be like a big mafia type villain.

You can't look at her being an "enforcer" in Arcane and be like: "yup, she's an enforcer! it makes sense because she chose to be an enforcer in the lore". It makes no sense for her to choose to be an enforcer in Arcane with the way things are.

It'd make more sense if Caitlyn and Vi tried to abolish the enforcement system as it is by creating something new. A new defense force. Isn't that what we want? Someone still needs to fight off the Shimmer mutants and address the evil in both Zaun and Piltover. That's the solution they find out of necessity. Cait and Vi aren't rule makers, so I still think this part will be done by Jayce, Viktor and Mel if they're still alive, but that certainly changes everything.

Finding Jinx is a side quest in the grand scheme of things, but it's Vi's main quest. Always has been, always will be. It will be her main quest throughout season two, even if she's distracted by other things. So choosing to become an "enforcer" facilitates her way to Jinx and allows her to fight the bad guys. That's all.

[thisbuildinghasfeelings]

The Police Station Scene

Arguably the most important season 1 Tarlos scene (it won the poll, after all!), the police station scene in 1x03 is undoubtedly iconic. The sheer chemistry between these two becomes truly apparent, and the journey they take throughout the scene...I have no words. Or perhaps I have many words. Yes, I think it's that second one. Many words. Under the cut, my analysis of this excellent scene.

We start out with TK in a pretty miserable situation. On top of everything else he's going through, he just got arrested, and at this point, he's not sure if the guys he fought are going to be pressing charges. For all he knows, he could be ending up in a jail cell using his one phone call to get Owen to come bail him out, something that Owen will probably not be too happy about. Not only that, but he's bleeding and his face clearly hurts judging by the ice pack he's holding to it. He's having a very bad night.

Then, things suddenly get even worse. Because the police officer coming to deal with him is none other than the guy he hooked up with and then later stormed out on. The guy TK had started having such strong and unexpected feelings for that he had given in to the urge to flee. The guy who TK assumes probably already thinks terrible things about him because of the way things went down the last time they were together. So now not only is this an undesirable legal situation, but it's also an awkward and embarrassing social situation. And now this guy knows that "TK" stands for Tyler Kennedy. Ugh.

From Carlos' perspective, he met this guy who was smokin' hot who he felt an instant connection with...this guy who made him feel for the first time like maybe he wasn't actually broken and then gave him the best orgasm of his life. Said guy then stormed out on him for what appeared to Carlos to be no good reason. He couldn't even be bothered to sit and have a meal and a little conversation. And now? This guy is out getting in bar fights completely sober, putting himself in a dangerous situation where he could very well get himself killed. This guy who Carlos already cares about, and who has seemingly completely rejected him at the first sign of Carlos wanting to get to know him. Carlos is hurt but he's also angry. Most of all, Carlos is angry about the fact that TK is being so completely reckless with his own safety.

The guys from the bar fight don't want to press charges, so Carlos tells TK that he's free to go. But he can't stop from giving TK a little advice. He's not trying to be his boyfriend (lie) or even his friend if he's not into it (oh, Carlos) but he tells TK that he "should talk to someone about why you felt compelled to do something so suicidal." Carlos says this without knowing that TK was suicidal and acted on it not long ago.

TK appears to be affected by this but says nothing. It appears that maybe the fight has gone out of him...until Carlos lets him know that he has something on his face, giving him a box of tissues to take care of it. TK gets visibly frustrated when Carlos tells him he's trying to clean off the wrong side. But then Carlos does something that TK doesn't expect.

He says, "Stop, just...let me." And with a shaky hand, he uses a tissue to dab at the spot on TK's face.

This clearly isn't nothing to Carlos. The emotion in his eyes is undeniable. He cares. That simple act of caring is enough to break TK's walls down the tiniest bit. To allow him to show some vulnerability. TK wants to explain.

He apologizes for what happened between them and tells him that he just went through a really bad breakup, "like nuclear bad," and then he relapsed. Not, as Carlos assumes, with him, but with substances. TK is giving Carlos a piece of himself, trusting him in a way he has not trusted anyone else he's met in Texas, as much as he likes them and enjoys working with them.

Carlos recognizes the significance of this moment of vulnerability. But it's more than that. It gives him context for what happened. TK wasn't just being a jerk and storming out because he didn't care to get to know Carlos. He has serious things going on. And...the champagne! TK has issues with substances and Carlos had offered him champagne without even asking first!

Carlos, always quick to blame himself, apologizes, and in that moment, his walls come down a little too. He had been trying to play it stoic and tough and like he didn't care so, so much. (Of course he already gave himself away when he started gently wiping TK's face)

But TK doesn't stop there. He gives Carlos more of himself, explaining that, ever since he's gotten to Austin, it's just grey. And he feels numb all the time. To explain why he started the bar fight, TK says, "I guess I just--I wanted to feel something."

Carlos looks at him. The anger is gone. He has understanding in his eyes...and that look of caring is still there, too. He watches TK gather his things and stand up. Carlos could have said anything in this moment. He chooses to tease TK a little. TK said he started a fight because he just wanted to feel something, so Carlos tells him, "Judging by that lip, I'd say mission accomplished."

TK looks at him with annoyance. He kind of can't believe that THIS is Carlos' reaction to his vulnerability!

"You really busting my balls right now?"

But Carlos stands his ground as the corner of his mouth goes up slightly.

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

Carlos made the right choice here because TK smiles too.

They like each other so much.

I fully believe that everything that happens after wouldn't have happened without this scene. It's pivotal in their relationship. The journey they go through is incredible! From this:

To this:

Iconic and unmatched.

[mrsstan21]

Attention to Detail

GIF credit: @angel060563

Summary: Men rarely pay attention to the things women say, but that's not the case with Officer Tom Hanson.

Tom Hanson x Reader 

A/N: Just a quick Drabble!

Warnings: None! fluff!

Word Count: 958 :)

For the past three weeks me and Penhall were at a local high school making a bust on drug dealing. 

It was always fun when me and Doug were put on a case together, he always knew how to make these cases interesting.

After I got a gun pointed to my head by one of the suspects we made an arrest. 

I asked Jenko if I could have the day off and work at my desk. 

“Hey how you doing” Penhall asked pulling a chair next to me. 

“I’m fine…isn’t the first time I got a gun placed to my head”.  

“Hanson, Penhall, Y/L/N in my office” Jenko spoke. 

I took a seat next to Penhall on the couch while Hanson stood up.

“We got a new case apparently somebody is trying to relocate SouthCentral High School one room at a time. Last night was the fourth BE in the same amount of months. No forced entry, no busted windows”. Jenko informed.

“Doesn’t sound like much of a break in” I added. 

“Burglary says to smacks of an inside gig. Like one kid gets a set of master keys, the next thing, half the school’s drinking free sodas, and on top of that, some teachers getting free roses from so secret admirer” Jenko continued.

“Got any suspects?” Hanson asked. 

“Got a couple. My best bet is a guy named Jeffery Stone. Sells everything from hot records to tickets to the Boss’s concerts, third row”. 

“Sounds like a real sales man” I spoke. 

“well Hanson your on this case. Penhall will be your backup in case things go south. Y/N I want you here going over this Stone guys profile see if you can get anything off him” Jenko informed us.

“Not a problem I gotta help Ayoki study for his test anyway”.

The three of us group outside by Hansons desk. 

“So aside from the kid selling merchandise we also got a stalker creeping on a teacher and leaving her flowers” Penhall spoke grabbing a cup of coffee.

“At least she’s getting flowers” I mumbled sitting on Hanson’s desk. 

“Aw come on Y/N I bet you get flowers all the time” Penhall teased. 

I rolled my eyes. 

“What no one’s given you a bouquet of roses?” Hanson asked. 

I look at him. 

“I don’t even remember the last time I got a single flower let alone a whole bouquet. Besides roses are so clique every girl loves red roses. I on the other hand am very different...Would make my day if a guy got me a single white lily my favorite flower”.   

***

It was getting late, Ayoki and I had been doing practice questions for I don’t know how many hours. 

We decided to break for a while and I took it as an opportunity to rest my head on my desk. 

But ended up knocking out instead. 

The sound of a loud book hitting my desk made me shot up. 

“A felon cannot be issued a drivers license” I spoke still half asleep. 

I rubbed my eyes to see a smiling Hanson sitting on top of my desk. 

“Oh it’s just you Hanson” I yawed stretching. 

“What are you still doing here this late” he broke into a smirk.

“it’s not that late it’s only…midnight” I looked over at my watch.

“She was helping me study that is until she fell asleep two hours ago” Ayoki smiled passing by.

“God I am tiered” I rubbed my eyes again. 

“Why don’t you let me give you a ride I’m about to head out anyways” Hanson said. 

I took him up on his offer, and he drove me home. 

“Can I ask you something” he asked staring at the road in front of him.

“Shoot.”

“You know so much about cars yet you don’t own one?” He smirked.

I let out a small chuckle. 

“Yeah well I live about a twenty min walk from the chapel. 

And if I ever wanted a ride somewhere I don’t live that far away from Penhall so I could always ask him for a lift”. 

“From the time I’ve been here not once have I seen you and Penhall come in together”.

“Ok if I’m honest I prefer walking it helps clear my mind”.

“Sounds like a fair game” he glances over at me. 

When we arrived to the front of my apartment complex I thanked him for the ride. 

He stayed and made sure I got inside before taking off. 

Hanson was starting to rub off on me. 

***

The following day Hanson closed the case, and made an arrest turns out the janitor was the one setting up Stone. 

I was at my desk cleaning out my file drawer when I notice someone sit on my desk. 

Looking up I saw a smiling Hanson again.

“Hey Hanson congrats not screwing up your case” I smiled. 

“Thanks…hey I got something for you” he spoke nervously. 

I gave him a confused look before he pulled his hand from behind his back. 

There in my sight was a single white lily. 

“What’s this” I smiled. 

“Well you said  you didn’t remember the last time you got a flower so I took it upon myself to get you one” he smiled. 

“And you got me a white lily” I took the flower from him smelling it.

“What you didn’t think I was paying attention?”.

“Well Hanson no offense but most guys don’t usually pay attention to what comes out of my mouth. But in fact are paying more attention to…well you get the idea” I laughed. 

“Well I just thought you could use something nice to start your day” he smiled.

I got up and kissed him on his cheek. 

“Thank you Hanson” I whispered to him. 

He blushes.

[vendetta-if]

hey I know this is a loaded ask but hear me out.

So imagine the MC and their respective RO got kidnapped. Went through nullifing gas and are very good secured and tied up. Now the shit heads are trying to get information out of them and are beating the MC up while the RO has to watch and can’t do anything to stop it. The MC is all snarky and are signaling the RO to keep it shut even though they are getting severely hurt.

Who breaks and spills the beans and who is running a murder rampage as soon as they get saved?

On that note I would also ask how would Luka, Grandpa, Yvette and maybe Viktor (if he still was around) react first to the message that MC got kidnapped and second as soon as they are safe but see them severely injured?

I really love your blog, every new update is giving me life and so many feels. Thank you for everything that you do!

Thank you for the kind words! 🥰 And what an angsty ask 🥲 The answers will be super long and I’ll keep the second half of it under a cut. I hope you guys enjoy it; this took me a while to finish answering 😅

Ash

They really try to keep themself from spilling the information the way MC wants them to… But they can’t last long when MC gets hurt and beaten up in front of them. After minutes of struggling and thrashing in their bonds until their wrists are bloody, they’ll finally cave in and spill the beans.

But of course, once they’re saved, they’ll be on a murderous rampage, hunting down the kidnappers and killing them in the most painful way they can as retaliation for what they did to MC and next, they’ll hunt down the other people who know the information as well.

No loose ends.

Rin

They’ll be able to hold the information in, even though with great difficulty. Every punch, every scratch, every hit, it almost feels like it’s directed at them as well. Their mind will be racing to find what they can do to lessen MC’s pain while also not revealing the information.

What they might do is giving tidbits of not important enough information or mixed the truth and some lies here and there, making sure to make it as believable as possible so MC can at least get some reprieve from the torture.

But after they’re saved… Well, let’s just say they’ll have a lot of strings to pull and a lot of hit contracts to give out. Same with Ash, they want revenge and they want no loose ends.

Santana

They’ll be able to hold for maybe as long as Ash before they relent, spilling the information as long as MC won’t get hurt anymore. They’ll tell the barest minimum possible and still try to keep some important information.

After they’re saved, they’ll probably try to find the kidnappers and the perpetrators through the ECPD and judicial system, hopefully being able to get some sort of justice for what happened to MC.

Skylar

They’ll cave in quite quick. MC getting hurt in front of them while they can do nothing to help… No information is worth MC’s life and well-being and they’ll give it out with no problem if it means MC can be spared from more pain.

Once they’re saved… They don’t really know what to do. They really want to find the perpetrators and deal them some justice, making sure they get arrested and given proper jail time for what they did to MC. But they don’t really know where to start… Maybe MC or MC’s family know and can help.

But still, they feel a bit weird taking on this job because it’s certainly more personal than what their usual superhero jobs entail and this time, they’ll take a more proactive stance. Their superhero jobs are mostly more reactive where they deal with criminals and bad people they encounter during their patrol and they are certainly far from being personal. But still, those kidnappers should not get away freely like that. Not after what they did.

While, for the second part of the question.

Luka

When Luka first hears the news that his nephew/niece/nibling is kidnapped, he feels panic. He rarely feels it, only a few times in all his life and he prides himself in his ability to stay composed most of the time. But not for this case… He feels the familiar sense of dread and fear as he remembers what happened to his brother years ago.

He’ll immediately contact all of his allies and make use of his web of connections to try find MC as quickly as possible. Also, dispatch the members all over the city to help track down MC.

As soon as MC is successfully rescued, he’ll be so relieved. He’ll hug them before realizing MC’s state of injuries. It makes them angry and they swear this will not go unanswered and that those who kidnapped MC and the people behind it and their family are found and get rid off in the most terrible way possible.

Grandpa

Even though he might not look that much difference on the outside, he’s filled with cold dread and fear. Is this it? Is this when Death finally gets to his grandchild too? Have they not taken enough from him?

He tries not to panic and keeps a cool head, think systematically and plan the next step. He’ll definitely fly directly to Elysium City no matter what and bring a number of personnel from the New York branch to help in the search and rescue for MC.

When he finds MC alive, he’s so relieved, but he’ll refrain from hugging them, seeing the state of their injuries. Whoever did this… and whoever order this to be done… their days are numbered. There’ll be nowhere on this earth that they’ll be able to hide from his cold wrath.

Yvette

Her child? Missing?! No—Kidnapped?! Why? Who? How? She’ll be very stressed out and emotional and restless. She wants to help find MC but doesn’t really know where to start.

She thinks about reporting it to the ECPD… But she knows it might not help much and it may even unintentionally make the search harder. The ones who have the most success would be Luka and the Morozovs… She knows they hate her, but she’ll willingly contact Luka everyday to know more about the progress.

As soon as she hears that MC has been recovered alive, she’ll be so happy and she’ll drop everything to go visit MC. Her heart falls a bit, however, as she sees the injuries on her baby’s body. What kind of monsters did this? She may not be able to go after them… But for once, she really approves and cheers for the Morozovs to do it instead.

Viktor

MC?! His baby?! He’ll be panicked before forcing himself to calm down, at least calm enough to think of what to do.

He knows that his brother and father would hold nothing back to recover MC… But he can’t just stay here, sitting and doing nothing but fret and worry while his baby is out there, probably being tortured.

No… He has to join the hunt. It’s been years since he last put on his vigilante outfit and even longer since he last held his dual-pistols—gift from his father that he both loves but also hates at the same time. But now, he’s more thankful for them more than ever.

When MC is finally recovered, his reactions would be similar to Luka. He’ll immediately hug MC, relieved and he would not want to let go forever if only that’s possible. It’s then that he finally fully realized the full extent of MC’s injuries.

He seethes in anger. He likes to think that he’s a pretty kind and merciful man at times… but this… This cannot be forgiven… Those who did this deserve the same and even more. And truthfully, Viktor is really tempted to hunt them all down and torture them all back personally.

[yourtouchismidas]

reading what the new yorker has to say about george and how he radiates utter stillness (very hot) has given me so many ideas, like imagine him with someone who has the absolute shortest fuse ever. idk maybe while he believes in quiet, stoic intimidation, girlie (a foot shorter than him) just gets into a bar fight. maybe she sees a couple of much older men getting a bit too comfy with young girls just trying to have a fun night and she's ready to throw hands. firm believer that george has to actually pick her up and take her away so she doesn't get arrested. also a firm believer of the fact that he finds it insanely attractive and shows it to her quite generously

(the possibilities are endless 😌)

you're drunk. its fucking great and you're having an amazing time. the music is loud. everyone is dancing. you're grinding on some girl you havent ever met, dont even know, and your boyfriend and his bandmates are all at the bar, sipping beers and laughing at you. with the exception of matty who is right there on the dancefloor with you, jumping around and pumping his fist.

ugh george. you love him. you love his face. his cheek bones. his smile when he laughs at you. you give him a cute little wave and he winks at you, barely moving apart from that. then you go back to dancing. god life is good.

you've lost the girl you were dancing with before but you dance with matty for a bit, his curls bouncing, you whooping, egging him on, and him grabbing your hands and spinning you around. when he does, he takes a step back and accidentally nudges a girl behind him, and her and her friends turn to you both, you meeting their eyes as you finish you spin.

matty holds his hands up, "sorry, sorry,"

they glare at him. you pull matty away and start dancing again, saying sorry yourself. the girls turn away. they sip thier drinks. but they aren't moving. thier standing on the dance floor. not dancing. there is plenty of space over by the bar to stand, if they want. you wave at george again, who is standing in the space, like a good boy.

oh well. fuck them. you're having a good night. you just wish they would stop glaring at you, because they are again, in between the gaps matty's arms make. you spin him around so your back is to them instead, so they wont get upset with him again if he nudges them, because he might, because he is drunk too.

you dont know if your feet actually land on hers, you dont feel it, and okay they might have, but the girl yells out.

"erm. ow!" she says. you turn around.

"sorry," you say again, even though you're not even sure you touched her.

"you stood on my foot," she says.

"i'm sorry," you say again, not sure what she wants you to do.

"you should be a bit fucking more careful, you know."

you breathe in. you were being careful. but thats not the point. its a dance floor. in a club. it's one in the morning. and they are standing on it. you start to burn, in your chest, angry.

"you know there is plenty of space over there if you dont wanna dance," you say, pointing to the bar. george notices you point. his attention pricks. he looks over to where you are talking to a group of girls and one of them is giving you a dirty look.

"we can stand where we want thanks," she says. "just like you act like a twat wherever you are."

"woah, alright," matty says, stopping dancing.

"what's this guy's problem anyway?" the girl says, looking round at her friends.

"we don't have a problem," matty says.

"we might," you say, staring at her. george has put his beer down on the side. ross is already primed, ready to watch it, if needs be.

"no no, just go back to dancing," matty says, smiling big at the girls.

"go back to standing in everyone's fucking way you mean," you say.

"shut the fuck up," the girl says, stepping closer to you.

you're in it now, you can't back down, you cant let this girl win. you step towards her too.

"i'll do what i like, thanks though."

the girl shoves you. everyone around you moves. you're reaching out to shove her, and before you know it, george is in the crowd with you, hand on your shoulder and waist, firm, looking down at the girl that shoved you. she has to look up to see his face.

"everything okay here?" he says, mainly to the other girl.

she nods. but she's smirking. she looks back at her friends, smirking. you lunge, out of his protective grasp, towards her. she steps back, trips a little, spills her pink drink all down her white dress. you dont reach her. georges arms have got you again, but this time, he is lifting you into the air.

"come on," he says, "be the bigger person,"

"i dont want to," you say squirming. the girl is crying, looking down at her ruined dress while all the other girls flock around her and fawn over her.

"dont have to," george says, nudging you to look at her, sobbing. you smirk.

george turns to carry you out, but before he does, he turns back to the girls and says, almost monotone, "ladies, if you're not gonna dance, dont stand on the dancefloor. it's good advice"

and then you're both gone, into the night air, into your boyfriend's arms.

[roughentumble]

ok, logan joins the brotherhood AU. xmen2000 happens very similar, but logan and rogue are on magneto's side, and logan knows a lot more about his past without actually remembering any of it. the timeline is stretched out instead of condensed into a few days, because it gives everyone more time to bond and more time for Things to Happen. we're putting deadpool in there in his slightly more morally loose much more merc-y self as hired muscle, because i like him. charles invades logan's mind during a conflict to try and pursuade him to the "good side" as xavier sees it, uncovers old memories that logan had heard about but not remembered firsthand, he decides he hates that shit and never wants someone in his head again so magneto agrees to surgically implant the same metal/circuitry that's in his helmet directly on logan's skull. no psychic is ever gettin in fort knox again, logan's brain is his own. through their newfound bond, logan starts deradicalizing magneto against specifically human hatred-- not the need to fight back against injustice or the genuine war against mutants that's on the way, but the idea of mutants being evolutionarily superior. he's actually making headway, good for him. the plan to have rogue sacrifice herself is instead a plan for her to absorb magneto's AND WOLVERINE'S powers+lifeforce, so she will survive. the x-men still stop their plan, but not before half the summit gets mutated, because wade is there to fight them off. the majority of the brotherhood gets away, but magneto is arrested, and they dont know where he's held. during all these events, the brotherhood including marie, logan, and wade have become like a little polycule/family, so this is a massive hit to morale, but mystique still decides to work things from the inside disgused as a now-reformed mutant hating senator.

X2 happens. logan's been trying to keep the brotherhood together with erik gone and mystique busy playing someone else, but it's a pretty small group. instead of logan left at the manor, colossus is given the honor, and he gets as many kids out as he can when the mansion is invaded, while bobby and pyro escape by hotwiring a car and calling the x-men to let them know what's going on. obviously the magneto escape plan goes off as does in canon, with logan's feathers ruffled that he couldnt be a part of it on account of metal skeleton. in the scene where the two disparate groups meet, it's the x-men(ororo, jean, nightcrawler, bobby, pyro) meeting the fully reformed brotherhood(magneto, mystique, wolverine, rogue, deadpool). bit of sparks between jean and logan, but jean Fully does not like or trust the brotherhood and logan literally doesnt even know she's married so the "women marry good guys" "i could be a good guy" scene plays out much harsher, but also he's not cut /quite/ as deep because he doesnt know this woman. it just reaffirms to him his commitment to the brotherhood and their ideals and their family, because he doesnt feel rejected there, and his ideals arent under attack. he was always gonna feel that way tho so its not revolutionary. logan still splits off from the group when he sees stryker, because even though he thought he closed that chapter of his life he still does have questions about his past and he feels compelled. this means he's not around to talk magneto out of his plan to target humans instead of mutants, which is a major schism in the brotherhood when he finds out about it later. they do pass each other in the hall, though, as magneto and mystique make their way towards the helicopter and logan makes his way back inside. magneto says theyre leaving, and logan says he has to go back. "i'll leave with rogue and deadpool in the jet, you two get out of here." he says. magneto asks if he's sure, and logan says "most of the mutants in here are kids. i cant just leave them." and magneto watches him carefully for a moment, then claps him on the shoulder. tells him good luck, my friend. they nod. magneto and mystique leave in the jet, while logan rushes inside. the end plays out pretty similar, with logan not as devestated because he didn't have that relationship with jean, but it's still rough to see such blatant self-sacrifice from someone he did ostensibly respect despite being on different sides.

obviously when the x-men appear as a group to the president, logan and marie aren't there, but that active role in trying to influence politics for the better ends up being the unknowing laying of foundations for the eventual merging of the brotherhood and xavier's institute, its the first stone layed that the other side needed to see

[tezzbot]

congrats on finishing your essay! :))

Love your Sonic Underground au, btw! I need some lore drops on my boy, Manic, tho. It doesn't even have to be a long explanation. Something goofy like, how many times has he been arrested?

Also! Do the triplets eventually form a band? [side-eye]

Oh my goodness, hello!! I love your art so much it's all so cool!!!! Thank you lol!

Some stuff about Manic in the au lets see...

He was kidnapped as a baby after the triplets had been sent halfway across the continent for their own safety, whoops lol, he's quite charismatic, must always have been since he managed to endear himself to Ferral pretty much immediately lol, he grew up pretty much similarly to the canon of underground, getting by stealing where he has to bartering and stuff, he's part of his own found family within the city and they're all very close, a tight-knit little community of thiefs sfgdhj, though every so often one or two of them decide to spread out (though they stay in touch), which is actually the reason for Manic's being on the train alongside the others, he has family he misses! And he has some things to get to them! (little does he know he'll be meeting more family than he anticipated lol) Though he's never actually been out of the city he grew up in himself (despite what he may claim lol), uhh he is very technically minded he loves to tinker and making little thingamajigs and doohickeys that look like they wouldn't have any practical use but he usually finds a way lol, nothing, like, robotic like Tails does, he's more a manual guy fdsgfgdf, aaand just a random headcanon he's fairly dyslexic n has some trouble reading, he usually has someone help him. There's also gender happening to him :thumbsup:

As for how many times he's been arrested lol uhhhh I think that early on he was pulled up a few times, probably spent some time in juvie, but he hasn't actually been caught in quite a while, I don't imagine Manic gets caught all that often lol you know those videos of kids running from cops and the police just making absolute clowns of themselves trying to catch them? That's Manic JHGJFG

So wrt the band, I'm sort of playing around with ideas right now? The main idea that I'm running with is that, the medallions only react to them when the triplets are getting along, when there is harmony between them (eehh? geddit? lol) that's the only time that they are able to be activated. Which, given the rocky start that they all have with one another obviously takes time, with Sonic being reluctant to share pretty important info with them and generally keeping his distance from them, Sonia's frustration with him and her being Very mad at Manic for scamming her, not much harmony going on for a fair bit of the journey. Eventually the three of them do get along and discover the powers of the medallions and they do perform a few times throughout. Eventually Sonic does spill that they're family and after the reactions they come up with the idea to use their music to get their mothers attention, Sonic is hesitant etcetc. I DUNNO! I'm still futzing with it lol I'll decide on stuff eventually fdghfg

Oh and I do want Sonia and Manic to have their own powers like a lesser version of Sonic's speed but, again, still deciding LOL

Anyway! Sorry this got so long lol, I've thought a lot about this AU! Thank you for the qs!!

OH ALSO Manic uses "bro" and "brother" on Sonic just as a casual thing but the first few times Sonic is like .Does He Know... GJFHG OKAY I'M DONE

[onestepbackwards]

Streamer AU! So they did memes and established dabbing as part of history, but now comes the Jojo references! This time is unintentional, but nevertheless referencing Jojo!

So, the Streamer is just wandering around Husky with their Pokémon, chatting to the stream and hanging out their Pokémon when they witnessed a mean guy, not really Volo, just a random bad person, kicking a poor sweet and innocent baby Pokemon. Obviously this should be a job for the Streamer’s angered and protective Pokemon tk step in, right? Well, you’re half-right; Streamer steps forward and allows their Pokémon to care for the poor kicked Pokémon…before proceeding to beat up the Pokémon abuser.

Stream watches as the Streamer is beating up the Pokémon abuser with ease, kicking him Abacchio-style and unleashing the Jojo kick meme onto the abuser until he’s begging for mercy. Some of the chat are worried that the Streamer might get arrested for assault even if in defense when they return home. Others? Happily cheering on the Streamer!

You were hardened on your days alone in the wild. You hd taken olenty hits, and knew how to give them.

So just beating up a guy JoJo style is icing on the cake.

Thankfully, given that you were in Hisui, and not modern Sinnoh, modern law does not technically apply to you, since modern law did not exist, and most laws in settlements typically require you to be on specific land and in said settlements i Imagine.

You have plenty of Lawyers at least typing that up as we speak, ready to go to your defense.

Though it would probably be funny if your account got banned for the violence, only for it to be lifted 4 hours later with a public apology from the streaming service.

Too many people in powerful positions were not gonna let that slide, even if you beat a man near to death like in JJBA

You’ll happily do more JoJo memes though since the chat seemed to enjoy most of it.

…So long as you hopefully don’t have to beat up anyone in the future.

[moniquegruber]

OK but like what if....

2-D seeing Ace; this guy that Murdoc himself approved for the band to be the bassist in his absence and being more than distrusting of him.

2-D wanting nothing more than Murdoc to get out because yes; things with him aren't great. yes; he'll never be able to sleep at night again without remembering Plastic Beach. yes; Murdoc fucking terrifies him but at least he knows somewhere deep down in that blackened, bargained-away soul of Murdoc's 2-D is sure that there's just a little love and affection in there. that Murdoc's whole outburst and dumping him a month or so before his arrest was just another off phase to their on-off dynamic.

2-D doesn't know if the same can apply to Ace. Even after he wakes up one night with no recollection of how he got there other than a foggy memory of doing way too many lines and downing way too many shots at a party they'd all gone to; knowing nothing other than the fact that he is barely considered clothed, and in Ace's bed.

2-D realizing that even though Ace has a temper like Murdoc; even though this new bassist mirrors Murdoc in many ways; he's not the violent type that Murdoc is. at least not anymore.

2-D writing Humility about that unsettling newness in his mind; writing Tranz about the fragile sense of identity he's building without Murdoc being tied to it just to try and figure out how far he can press his implications before someone calls him out on it. letting something in the back of his mind bloom waiting for him to realize that now; without Murdoc in the way; he's allowed to want for himself. he's allowed to let his eyes linger on Ace for just a few moments too long; write that heavy bassline just to let Ace have some fun with it; pull out his guitar for that jam session that's just him and Ace so he can see the way Ace vibes along with the music and sync along with his presence and pretend just for a second that they're something more.

2-D falling into bed again with Ace one night; fully sober; just testing his limits. seeing if he crosses that line, will he get hit with drawback?

2-D waking up the next morning and writing Souk Eye about Murdoc.

2-D getting shitfaced and sobbing on Ace, letting everything pour out; and regretting his choice the second he sees Ace walk away and pull into himself; so worried he's cut off any chance at this something new between them.

2-D writing Fire Flies about it. Breaking down into into tears and running out of the recording booth in the middle of their first take because he met Ace's eyes for just a second too long and suddenly everything was too much.

2-D getting found by Ace half an hour later; flinching as he expects Ace to start smashing his zombie movies in outrage; pleasantly surprised as all Ace does is put one into the player and sit down next to 2-D on a beanbag to watch. not pressing, because he realizes 2-D needs the space to process his thoughts and calm down.

2-D kissing Ace and pleading with him not to disregard the start to something they'd had before; the only response he gets being a kiss to the inside of his wrist and a 'not until we've given it a proper go, Dee'.

2-D realizing just how much he needed to be without Murdoc to begin to heal.

[meadowmusing]

my thoughts before the PJO finale

overall? A good fun show but with some definite stumbling. Faithful in a "remake" sense, but as much as a "port" would be. Still a genuinely good time with a likeable cast, gorgeous visuals, and an engaging (mostly) interesting plot.

Beware spoilers for ep1-7!

My biggest gripes

Pacing. the first episode was horribly paced. Somehow both rushed, not well condensed, and yet also failed to effectively deliver tension in important scenes it was needed in. Scenes like the minotaur felt dragged out and lacked the urgency it deserved, and the fight/victory fell kind of flat. Pacing got better in later episodes thankfully.

Sally Jackson. Yeah I know, not a hot take. She's a more realistic depiction of a mother in that kind of situation but I didn't find her likeable outside of her first scene talking about the name Perseus. She's not necessarily a "Bad Character" per se, but she is not the Sally Jackson from the books. Frankly, I didn't find book Sally all that important, but seeing this version has definitely wised me up to importance of her kindness and patience. Sure she might have seemed like a "doormat" at the beginning, but the more u learnt about her, the more her inner strength and self sacrificial love for Percy was apparent. TV Sally just doesn't have that, it doesn't feel like she has that much affection for Percy, she seems more distant and less loving. TV Sally has far too many scenes of her raising her voice at Percy and being frustrated with him, it makes it seem more like she was randomly stuck with this child and while she loves him, she knows deep down she would have been happier without him. Again, understandable but not book Sally. I feel they've sort of played up Percy's fierce love for his mum (or maybe it just feels more so because its more present in his spoken lines), but it doesn't feel as justified. If anything, id believe a more messy wrought relationship between the two. Its not a bad thing she's not the exact same as her book counterpart, but I do think it was a bad decision when they went so hard on Percy being ride or die for her, when most of her longer scenes are her being just frustrated with Percy being a child.

Gabe. ok more of a hot take I guess but I seriously disagree with his re-characterization. I don't mean to downplay anyone's experiences with toxic or abusive partners, but Gabe is far too bland and inoffensive. At worst, he's kind of annoying and maybe lazy. But he is nothing like the human sht stain that was book Gabe. Book Gabe deserved petrification and a lot worse, TV Gabe does not. The guy deserves a break up, not murder. Me and my friend actually laughed at him, because he didn't give "beats his wife and emotionally abuses her and her child", he gave "dead beat crypto boyfriend". Maybe it was the casting as well, the actor was funny and just seemed more goofy than actively horrid. "what makes u think he hasn't hit sally?" have u met TV Sally?? are u kidding me? she would have that man arrested.

Hades. I don't actually dislike making Hades friendly and more sassy. Sure its not book accurate, but you could argue its a little more mythologically accurate (maybe). My real problem is that he lacks PRESCENCE. Yes he can be nicer ect in this, but he is still the GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD. He should still be able to command a room! His words, even if they're not malicious or intimidating, should hold a certain kind of weight. I don't blame the actor here, I think he does well with what he's given but pretty much everyone else dropped the ball here. If they had supported him, we could have had a friendly Hades that was still a fitting lord of the underworld. Writers, directors, lighting, sound, ect let him down.

Persassy. Percy was great in the beginning but I felt like he started to lose that as the show went on, to give more of his lines/sassy moments to the other members of the trio. Which wasn't a terrible idea, I just think they did it too much, especially with the Ares scenes. Percy is meant to have an epic beef with Ares so much it transcends magic amnesia, but I could not believe that with the current lack of sass. Even the upcoming battle doesn't feel as weighty or deserved as it should. Again, don't hate the idea of sharing the sass around, just don't think it should come at the cost of Percy being toned down so much.

Getting into the underworld / mattress scene WHAT WAS THAT. I can accept that Percy knows more about Greek mythology because of his mom and i feel generally from just current cultural zeitgeist, but WHY THE HELL WOULD HE KNOW WHO CRUSTY IS?? and why was it so quick? there was no quick desperate clever thinking, it was like bro had read the scene from the book and then SPEED RAN IT. Also the Charon scene was far more interesting imo and I don't like that they cut it in favour for Crusty, without even doing that scene well. God that was so poorly executed.

Anyway thanks for reading my rant. Its long so it may seem like I didn't like the series but im being truthful when I say I did. I pretty much liked the rest of it, even some of the changes. I thinks a good show and adaption with some flaws, thats all. Im excited to finish up the season and im so pumped for season 2 and hopefully the rest of the series :D