#and probably would have survived because of it

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering ��sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[popcornpoppypop]

Broken Smile

Summary: You are one of PTMC's best ER residents, but it's your day off. You head to Pittfest. Robby and Abbot have to pick up the pieces. Reader x platonic!Abbot and Robby

Warnings: Blood, Death, injury, vomit, trauma, Gore

A/N: This was a request from an anon, I hope this is what you were looking for. Please let me know if I missed any warnings.

“How in the hell did you manage to get a half-shift?” Samira asked you in disbelief.

“I know how to flatter the right people. It’s a gift.” You smiled, nonchalantly shrugging your shoulders.

“You better get me something or I’ll never forgive you for leaving me.” Samira scoffed as she typed at her computer.

“I’ll think about it.” You chuckled as you started to gather your things.

“Y/N will you do me a favor?” Robby waltzed up to the desk. “Just keep an eye out for Jake while you're there.” He asked, his shoulders tense.

“Yeah, of course. We were meeting up for one of the bands anyway.” You nodded, slinging your backpack on your shoulder. “I’m out of here, don’t call me if you need me.” You smiled and pranced out the door.

Pittfest was in full swing when you arrived. Everyone of age was mostly drunk or high as you made your way through the crowd. You had stopped at home to change, a pair of jean shorts and a black tank top. The sun was already blistering your skin, but it felt nice even if you knew it would hurt tomorrow. It was a rare good day, you thought to yourself.

“Jake!” You ran up to the teen, his arm hung around his girlfriend.

“Y/N! Hey! Leah, this is one of Robby’s coworkers. She’s one of the cool ones.” He laughed.

“I think you mean the coolest.” You corrected.

“Nice to meet you! Jake, we should call him and thank him.” Leah suggested. She seemed sweet, it was probably because you were there. She looked like she could cause mischief, you liked her.

Jake pulled out his phone, facetiming Robby. The music was blasting, you knew there was no way that old man heard a thing they were saying.

“Y/N made it too!” Jake moved the phone to put you in shot.

“Don’t worry boss, I’m making sure they keep room for Jesus!” you winked at Jake who started to blush.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite resident.” Robby chuckled.

The day went on easy. You had a beer, enjoyed the music, ate terrible fried food and watched Jake fall completely in love. It was sweet. They looked good together, you thought. You were glad he had a nice girl for his first love. Even if the odds of it lasting past college were slim to none.

You were at one of the food trucks fueling up on beer and fries for the rest of the evening when there were a few pops. They sounded like fireworks from where you were, until they were accompanied by screams.  A chill ran up your spine, palms sweating as you moved to investigate. More shots. Someone screamed that there was a shooter.

“Oh shit.” You felt yourself start to shake. Your first thought was get to Jake.

You ran through the crowd, trying to see where he was. You tried calling, he wasn’t answering. You stopped to help up a few people who had fallen, when you saw the blood-soaked grass. Something in your brain clicked, your training taking over. Fear mostly forgotten, something you knew was part of your brain trying to get you to survive.

You took off toward the first aid tent. You needed supplies, they wouldn’t have enough, but it was a place to start.

“I’m Dr. L/N, I need gloves and anything you can spare!” You shouted as you ran behind the table, gathering everything you could into a spare bag. You ran back out into the crowd, shots echoed overhead.

You worked to stabilize everyone you encountered, instructing other concertgoers to take them to safety as you ran from person to person.

“Hey! Here, I brought out all the food trucks first aid kits! Not much but it’s something!” You recognized one of the cooks as he came running up to you.

“Thank you so much, now get the hell out of here.” You barked.

“Oh hell yeah.” He smiled. He smiled at you. Then he wasn’t. His smile, replaced by a gaping wound. You felt warmth dripping down your face. You were confused for a moment. Something on your forehead stung. You raised your hand to the spot, pulling away to see blood. A bullet fragment grazed your forehead you thought. A fragment from the one that went through that kind man’s smile. The realization crashed down on you as you watched him crumple to the ground, lifeless. The air was knocked from your lungs, you couldn’t move. You wanted to run, vomit, scream, but none of it happened. You just stood there. Frozen.

“Help! Please!” The screams echoed, bouncing around your skull. You had to move. You had to help. You finally felt you could move your legs and ran to help the next person, wiping the blood and brain matter from your face.  Another shot echoed and you felt something burning your thigh, you fell to the ground.

A bullet was lodged in your left thigh. You felt the panic fill your throat. You tried to push it down, you had to asses and treat. The bullet hadn’t hit the femoral, it wasn’t in too deep. You’d be in pain but you’d survive. You gathered yourself to your feet and limped your way to the next patient.

This went on for hours. Scrambling to get to each patient, never having enough time to help everyone. People were screaming for you, grabbing at your body to get you to help them or someone they loved. You couldn’t move fast enough. You weren’t fast enough.

“Y/N!” You heard Jake’s voice, something in your chest broke. You felt the tears rolling down your cheeks but ignored them.

“You got shot!” You yelled looking over his leg.

“I’m fine! Leah, you gotta help Leah!” He cried. You looked at the girl, her face pale and the wound on her chest oozing blood from between Jake’s fingers where he was holding pressure.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try.” You said, your voice shaking. You took his hands away. She wasn’t going to make it. You knew she wouldn’t, but did your best to get her stable enough to make it to a truck.

“You need help getting out of here!?” A small group of men ran up to you.

“Get these two to PTMC as soon as you can, do not stop for anything!” You yelled as they gathered Leah up into their arms.

“Jake, keep pressure on her wound! Don’t stop!” You yelled as they took him away.

You ran around the fairgrounds, blood soaking through your jeans, the bullet was grinding into you thigh more and more. You sat down and dug through your bag of supplies, finding a pair of forceps. You had no medications, no lidocaine cream, just hand sanitizer to clean them. You took a deep breath and dug them into your thigh. White hot pain surged through your body, you screamed out as you dug the bullet from your thigh. Your hands were shaking as you lifted it to your eye level. It looked intact, no fragments. You put it in your pocket and did your best to wrap your leg.

You were out of gloves. Your hands were stained red. You kept going. You didn’t know how you kept going, but you did. The ground was soft and wet, each step forcing blood to puddle up from the grass. You pronounced too many people dead. You worked on teenagers and elderly, holding hands with them as they took their last breath. You tried to do cpr for every one of them. Even the ones you knew were a lost cause.

“Dr. L/N?” You heard a voice that was vaguely familiar from behind you. You were stood in the middle of the fairground, bodies surrounding you.

“Doc, they’re gone. There isn’t anyone else to save.” The voice said. You turned and saw one of the medics that frequented PTMC.

“Huh?” You mumbled.

“Doc, let’s get you checked out.”  They walked up to you slowly, as if you were a stray dog.

“I tried…” You mumbled.

“You’re okay. Let’s get you out of here.” They said, wrapping an arm around you. You didn’t remember the ride to the hospital. You didn’t remember the medics trying to clean your wounds only for you to flinch and push them away. You didn’t remember them asking if you wanted help out of the truck. You saw the ambulance bay doors and walked in like you did everyday.

The chaos was dying down; the ER was in the process of cleaning up from the mass casualties. There were still signs of what happened: gloves thrown on the floor, blood smeared across the tiles. You wandered in, your feet dragging as you looked around confused.

“Oh my god!” You heard Dana’s voice as she took in the sight of you. You looked like you’d walked through hell. Your clothes were covered in blood and dirt, your once white shoes now a dark burgundy. Even your hair was sticky with blood.

“Y/N!?” Dr. Abbot came running over to you, putting his hands on your face, examining your forehead.

“Get a gurney, now!” Robby barked. You stood still. Your whole body was shaking as the adrenaline started to leave.

“I tried to help…” Your voice was small. You looked around and saw the ER had come to a standstill at the sight of you. Everyone looking at you in horrified sympathy.

“You did, kid. You helped a hell of a lot of people.” Dr. Abbot said as he guided you onto the gurney. They wheeled you into a trauma bay, which you thought was too much.

“Where’s all the blood coming from?” You heard one of the nurses ask.

“It’s not mine. It’s not…they kept grabbing me to help.” You said, the tears starting to fall.

“Bullet graze to the forehead, looks like a bullet wound to the left anterior thigh.” Abbot rattled off.

“I took it out.” You mumbled.

“What?” Robby and Abbot looked up, shocked. You pulled the bullet from your pocket.

“I couldn’t keep going with it in, I took it out.” You said, dropping the bullet onto the tray next to you.

“Jesus Christ.” Robby gasped.

“Okay, let’s get her in line for head CT. Get her a fluid bolus to help with shock and get me a closure kit.” Abbot ordered.

“Is Jake okay?” You mumbled, grabbing onto Robby.

“Yeah, yeah. He’ll be okay.” You saw something break in him. “Said you helped him. Said you helped everyone.” He held your hand.

“Did Leah make it?” Your breath hitching in your chest, knowing the answer.

“We’re giving you some morphine for the pain, Kid. You might fall asleep, let yourself.” Abbot interrupted, shooting Robby a look.

“I should have gone with her. It would have been better, she would have made it.” The sobs took over your body.

“No, it wouldn’t have. You did everything you could for her. We did everything we could. There was no more anyone could have done.” Abbot’s voice was firm but gentle.

“I wasn’t fast enough! I couldn’t move fast enough! I should have saved them! I couldn’t Save them!” Your voice cracking, breaking everyone in the rooms heart. Robby turned away to hide the tears. Abbot clenched his fists and shook his head.

“Let’s get propofol on board. Kid, I’m going to sedate you for this. You need it.” Abbot said, clearing his throat.

“I wasn’t good enough! I failed! I failed them, I failed all of them!” You were in hysterics. Abbot held you down by the shoulders as Princess came in and administered the propofol with red, glassy eyes.

“Don’t fight it, Kid! Don’t fight it.” Abbot pleaded. Robby’s hand never left yours. You sobbed yourself into sedation. Finally, able to rest.

“What are we going to do with her?” Robby sighed.

“We take care of her. We make sure she’s safe from herself.” Abbot said as he worked to close the wound.

“She’ll need to be put on leave. There’s no way she can treat patients after this.” Robby shook his head.

“We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting this break her. She’s too good for that, she deserves better.” Abbot clenched his jaw.

Your head was pounding as you started to regain consciousness. The lights were too bright, sending shock waves through your skull as you tried to open your eyes. Your leg was throbbing in time with your heartbeat, it was irritating. All of your muscles were sore; you felt like you’d been steamrolled. Then the memories came flooding back. The blood, the mud, the screams.

“Easy, you’re okay.” You heard Robby’s voice. “You’re safe, you’re in the hospital.” He said, a hand on your shoulder.

“too bright.” You mumbled. Robby got up and turned the lights down.

“You have a concussion, but nothing serious.” He said sitting next to you.

“What time is it?” You robbed at your eyes.

“It’s a little after midnight.” Robby looked at his watch.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You said, your throat dry and spit thick in your mouth.

“We’re taking shifts. Abbot will be here in a bit, I’ll go sleep. You don’t need to worry about it.” He told her, leaning on the guard rails.

“When can I go home?”

“In a few hours. With a follow-up appointment with psych tomorrow.” He told her.

“I don’t want-”

“Not negotiable. You’re getting evaluated, it’s protocol after what you’ve been through. You’re also on medical leave for the next three weeks.” He said, knowing you were going to fight him.

“That’s a bit excessive. I can still do desk work with my leg.” You argued, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“You need to heal more than that leg. We all do. But you saw things, did things, none of us had to. It’s going to stick to you for a while. We need to make sure that you’re okay before bringing you back in.” He offered you a tissue. You pushed it away.

“Sitting at home, with my thoughts isn’t going to heal anything.” You snapped.

“Neither is putting your head down and pushing yourself beyond your limits.”

“I just want to go home.” You said, bottom lip trembling.

“I know.” Robby sighed, squeezing shut his eyes in frustration. “You’re going to stay with Abbot for a week.” He knew you’d hate the idea.

“What? No! I can go home!” You shouted, tears streaming down your face. The door opened and in walked Abbot.

“You told her then.” He said as he sat across from you.

“I don’t need a babysitter! I’m fine!” you yelled.

“You aren’t. You aren’t fine. It’s okay to be not okay. But we aren’t letting you fall through the cracks. You will let us take care of you, it’s not a choice. You saw things, Kid, that you won’t be able to forget. The human brain is not equipped for the things you had to do today. It’s going to take time to figure out how to deal with all of this. If anyone here is qualified to tell you that it’s me.” Abbot said, putting a hand on your arm.

“I don’t want to be this…pathetic thing, everyone is going to look at me different.” You tried to stop the crying but failed.

“You aren’t pathetic. No one thinks that. If anything, everyone here looks at you and sees the strength that they don’t have.” Robby said.

“Kid, you’ll get through this. It’ll be a bitch, but you will. We aren’t going anywhere. Besides, I’m not that bad to live with.” Abbot shrugged.

“It’s asking too much.” You shook your head.

“Well, we weren’t asking so no, it’s not.” Abbot smirked.

“You deserve a chance to get better. That’s all we’re doing, giving you that chance.” Robby said.

You wanted to fight it. Something in you not able to accept such kindness after what you had just witnessed. But you didn’t. You kept quiet as they told you their plans and nodded along when they asked if you understood. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be okay, but at least you knew they’d be looking out for you. They’d catch you if you fell.   

[infiniteglitterfall]

Above all else, like all the disinformation being put out there, it's meant to appeal to people who have big feelings about a particular issue but don't know much about it.

If someone cares deeply about indigenous people, you tell them that the Arab culture of the region is the indigenous one.

Because they probably don't know about Arab colonialism, or the existence of the indigenous Negev Bedouin, or the existence of Jews as another indigenous group there.

If someone cares deeply about racism, you tell them that Palestinians are "brown" and that Jews are "European."

Because they probably don't know that Jews are one of white supremacists' favorite targets. Or that the Jewish and Palestinian populations are both a diverse mix of Middle Eastern skin tones.

If someone cares deeply about Nazis, you tell them that Zionists are Nazis.

Because they probably don't know exactly what the Nazis did, besides "killed a lot of people." Or that the Nazis were characterized by hating Jews.

If someone cares deeply about colonialism, you tell them that Jews colonized Palestine.

Because they probably don't know that Jews have had a continuous presence there for thousands of years. Or that when the Jewish diaspora really started returning, the region was under the Ottoman Empire. Or that colonialism is when a rich and powerful country claims another land in its own name and steals its resources.

If someone cares deeply about the environment or the climate crisis, you tell them that bombing Gaza, or flying military supplies to Israel, is killing the planet.

Because they're not going to look it up. So they won't find out that this study hadn't been peer-reviewed when it was reported, over a year ago. They won't know that Hamas has bombed Israel an average of 6 times per day for the past 24 years. Or that Hamas's technology uses a ton of gasoline and water in the creation and launch of its rockets.

None of which anyone has analyzed for environmental impact, any more than they did an environmental impact report before undermining the unstable, sandy dirt of the entire Strip with tunnels.

They especially won't know that Hamas has wanted to violently destroy Israel and take over the land since it was founded in 1987.

Or that it's run Gaza as a brutal dictatorship for 18 years, making life absolute hell for everyone there. And twice imprisoning and torturing thousands of them for daring to protest Hamas.

Or that Hamas is run by people who hate Jews an absolutely unhinged amount. Hamas's famous children's show, Tomorrow's Pioneers, is full of especially blatant examples.

Or that Hamas has publicly pledged to repeat October 7 over and over until Israel has been violently destroyed. And held a convention a couple of years ago to determine what to do with the surviving Jews once it had won: which ones to kill, which ones to imprison, which ones could leave, and which ones it would allow to be free as long as they did not try to flee the country.

Unreviewed claims about carbon emissions in the middle of a war in which Gazans are fighting both for peace, and for their freedom from Hamas's brutal rule, are just another massive red herring meant to win over the uninformed.

[ddlydevotion]

PEARL NECKLACE

nsfw remmick headcanons

a/n: this wasn’t written with solely white audiences in mind, I know a lot of people have been worried about that when it comes to Sinners fanfiction. I’m Afro-Latina so you don’t have to worry about that here lol. Mentions of stretch marks.

Okay, don't hit me when I say this but I know for a fact that this man doesn't shave. I can't imagine him being all bare down there, are you kidding me? He definitely trims himself when the time calls for it but doesn't do anything more aside from that.

He couldn't care less if you're rocking a full bush. He'd probably smile out of how silly the situation is. Here's a man who feeds on the blood of the living in order to survive and you think he cares about some hair.

I forgot who said it first so if you know their @ please drop it in the comments, but I fully agree on the sentiment that Remmick would be completely desperate when it comes to you. He'd balance a bottle of Jack on his head if it meant you'd let him taste you. He'll paw at your thighs and look up at you with pleading, furrowed brows when you stop his attempt at lifting your skirt up.

He drools on your pussy.

His cock almost slips out of your pussy because of how wet you are, his thick drool mixing with your leaking wetness. He grabs the base of his cock, running it up your slit before slapping it on your swollen, fat clit, the impact leaving a wet plap! ring in the air.

" Shhh it's okay theree ya go, sweetheart, let me put it back in for you. Ya gonna take it for me?" he presses his forehead onto yours before whispering "ya promise?" against your flushed lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

He prefers to cum inside of you rather than anywhere else on your body. It's not about him wanting to avoid making a mess because this man gets fucking nasty. He just loves knowing that you're filled with him, that he's leaking from your swollen pussy. When he's about to cum he settles his hips flush against yours, his head finding a home in the crook of your neck. You swear you hear him whine as he moves his hips in tight circles, savoring the feeling of your gummy walls around his pulsing cock, his cum leaking from where the two of you are joined & down onto the bed.

he spreads you open with his thumbs, your throbbing clit and glistening pussy greeting him, and he has his very own way of greeting 'her' back.

Remmick definitely has a habit of talking to your pussy and referring to it as she and her. "Look at all that, baby. She missed me, huh? Look'a me, ya know you can't lie to me."

"Oh sweetheart, look at you. Gonna milk my cock? Thereee she is, there you go."

He'd definitely want you to sit on his face. His strong hands grip the globes of your ass in an attempt to bury his face even further in your pussy. If he notices you're holding back on him, he'll look you right in the eyes before saying, "sit. I told'ya to sit.", his words being slightly muffled by your plush thighs.

The two of you hardly leave the bedroom when you're on your period. He nearly drools at the sight of your tender tits, the stretch marks lining them appearing to be even more prominent. The sight of his lips covered in blood as he peaks at you from in between your thighs is enough to make you mewl, your eyes glazing over.

I'd say his aftercare mainly consists of pillow talk. He'll tuck you into his side and sling his defined arm over your shoulder. He'll look down at you with a small smile painting his face while checking in on you but not without letting out a teasing remark or two. "That wasn't too much, was it? I dunno, thought you were gonna pass out on me" (this part was inspired by @spikedfearn)

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

What Is this Feeling? (Part 1)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have feelings for each other—that much was true. But insecurities have a funny way of ruining things.

Warnings: Idiots in love. Yearning. Some angst. A bit campy, I think. Insecurities. Anxieties. Mention of John Walker and Valentina. Mentions of human experiments. Spelling and punctuation mistakes. Whatever else I failed to mention.

Author’s Note: I just saw Thunderbolts* and I really enjoyed it! I’ll probably be bouncing back and forth between Bob and Bucky, but I’m more than open to writing other MCU characters—be sure to let me know who you want me to write about!

I don’t own the MCU or Marvel Comics in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owners. Similarly, I don’t own any of the gifs or pictures I use for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.

Word Count: 630

Masterlist

It was painfully obvious that Bob liked you. Just hearing your name was enough to turn him into a flustered mess—his words would tumble out in a rush, his weight shifting nervously from foot to foot as he fidgeted with his fingers or the hem of his sweater. The team had endured more than his fair share of his dreamy stares and awkward, lovesick behavior. They’d even witnessed him nearly faint whenever you so much as glanced his way.

But the worst part?

You were completely oblivious to it all.

You never acknowledged Bob’s doe-eyed, lovesick puppy antics. You seemed entirely unfazed, brushing it off as nothing more than Bob being Bob. And it was driving the team up the wall.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Yelena asked, a faint trace of curiosity in her voice. She was helping you prepare dinner—Alexei’s idea, of course. He was convinced that mandatory team meals would somehow boost morale.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, tossing your chopped vegetables in with the cooking meat.

“Bob,” she said plainly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

You furrowed your brows, glancing at the blonde with a puzzled look. “I don’t see…Bob?” you asked, uncertainty lacing your words.

Yelena hummed thoughtfully. “The way he is around you,” she said. “You can’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

You hesitated. Of course you’d noticed—the shy glances, the way he stumbled over his words, the flush that colored his cheeks whenever you were near. You knew. Truth was, you felt the same. How could you not? Everything about Bob just felt right. His voice, his smile, the way his hair sometimes fell over his eyes, and that quiet, steady presence—he made you feel a kind of happiness you hadn’t known before.

But that voice in your head was hard to silence—constantly whispering that you weren’t enough. Too broken. After everything your parents did to you—all the experiments, only to discard you when you didn’t meet their expectations. And the things you’d done just to survive…everything Valentina forced you to become. You’d hurt too many people, taken too many lives. You weren’t a hero. You were a monster, a burden—unworthy of love.

Yelena turned to face you, halting her movements as she studied you closely. “You do know,” she stated, her tone firm and matter-of-fact.

You nodded. “I do,” you confirmed, feeling your face warm. “It’s hard not to notice.”

“You feel the same?” Yelena asked. You nodded. “Then what’s the problem? He likes you, and it’s obvious that you like him, too.”

You shook your head. “I can’t.”

Yelena’s brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“You know what I’ve done, what my parents did to me, what Valentina made me do. Bob deserves someone—”

“What—normal?” Yelena snorted, shaking her head. “There’s no such thing as normal anymore.”

“I know, I just—” You let out a heavy sigh. “He deserves someone normal. Someone who can give him a simple, peaceful life. Not—” You gestured to yourself.

“Don’t say that.” Yelena set down her spatula, a deep frown on her face and a look of disapproval in her eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true. He likes you. A lot. Stop overthinking and give him a chance.” She returned to finishing her task. “Besides, the rest of us are tired of seeing those looks he gives you.”

You offered the faintest smile. “I think those looks are cute,” you murmured.

“To you, maybe. But to the rest of us, it’s sickening. And I’m tired of hearing John complain about it later. He’s so annoying.”

A laugh escaped your lips. “He really is.” You paused for a moment. “And I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Good,” Yelena tutted. “It’s about time.”

You gave a soft chuckle.

[district-thirteen-intern]

Katniss Everdeen says Peeta wanted kids. I say Katniss Everdeen is a dirty little liar who spent three books projecting baby fever onto the softest man alive while denying it so hard she almost gaslit herself.

And because I'm tired of arguing that Peeta didn't force Katniss to have kids, here's my probable version of what went down:

baby fever, but make it apocalyptic — everlark

it starts when delly has a baby

and katniss gets to hold it and it squeaks

her uterus literally tingles

cue immediate panic

she hands it back like it burned her

and then she immediately goes outside to shoot at squirrels until the feeling goes away

except—

(it doesn't really go away)

the next two weeks are a torture

"not everyone deserves to be a parent"

"what if they cry a lot"

"what if they're angry like me"

"what if they're allergic to bread"

"what if our child hates me"

"what if our child hates peeta"

no

no one can hate peeta

"but what if—"

it's exhausting

she steers clear of delly and her spawn the next few days

it doesn't work

her nightmares take a strange turn

she sees herself carrying a baby through the woods as she hunts

the baby giggles

another baby sits on the kitchen counter

with peeta's eyes and peeta's face

in matching aprons as peeta

and ugh—

she almost misses the mutts

anyway, she reorganizes the pantry

alphabetizes the herbs

knits something she insists is a herb pouch

but it's suspiciously baby-sized

eventually, it gets too much

and peeta is not helping

he's holding delly's baby when she visits him at the bakery

the baby is laughing

well, fuck

her whole resolve crumbles

he's making bread

she blurts, "your forearms are nice"

"thanks?"

"mm, they would be good for carrying things"

peeta raises a brow

"heavy things— like... sacks"

"sacks."

"or— like, baskets."

katniss is embarassed

peeta is visibly confused

and haymitch—

haymitch is dying of laughter

"did you know babies can't see color for weeks?"

"katniss."

"i just wanted to share a fact."

"katniss."

"it didn't mean anything. shut up."

and then she starts knitting a tiny hat

“is that for delly’s baby?”

"no."

"a friend’s baby?”

"no.”

"...katniss.”

peeta has suspicions

and they're confirmed when he finds her journal open to a page

titled: NAMES FOR HYPOTHETICAL BABY

Ember

Rue Rue ❤

Bread Jr.

NOT GALE

it ends like this—

Peeta, eventually: “Do you want to have ki—”

“YES”

“i didn’t even finish the word”

"i mean... i will if I have to, if you want too much... i mean i want to if you want to, i mean— because i love you so much."

“are you sure?”

“are you sure?”

"uh huh”

oh.

katniss blinks

"wait— that's it?"

"katniss, i've been waiting for you to stop glitching long enough to bring it up.”

she punches his arm

he laughs

haymitch starts prepping a baby-proof survival kit

no one dares ask what's in it

nine months later—

the baby is just as beautiful as she imagined

good thing peeta convinced her to have babies, really

i know it's exaggerated for comedy purposes but this is really not that far from the course of events i imagine happened— katniss is an expert at gaslighting herself after all— and I hope you liked it.

please don't forget to like, comment, and reblog if you liked it. and lmk if you'd be interested in being added to a tag list.

[ooooo-mcyt]

There is probably something to be said for how the Life Series winners have (or haven't) died.

Grian who threw himself off a cliff in grief vs Scott who was directly /killed before he could choose for himself vs Pearl who died automatically upon winning by nature of the game mechanics vs Scar who continued to live vs Cleo and Joel who both chose their own deaths. Martyn is the only weird one because his video says he ran out of time but I think he was technically /killed, so that one's actually debatable?

I think Cleo and Joel's victories were both very kind to them. They won, and then they, while celebrating, got to choose their own ending. They both got to end it on their own terms, and they were happy for it. I don't have much to say on them, I'm happy for them.

Grian, I categorize differently to Cleo and Joel. Partially because the tone was different- he was grief stricken and dazed, not celebrating- but also because I think it's debatable how much choice he had in the ending of Third Life. From the moment it was just him and Scar left, Grian seemed to be following what he thought the spectators wanted, not what he wanted. Technically he 'chose' how his season ended, but it didn't seem to feel like one to him, and that is important.

The tone of Scar's ending is highly dependent on whether you see his survival on Secret Life as a curse or a choice. I've seen fanart of him miserably pushing a button over and over begging for his win, or curled up and alone. But personally, I think Scar chose to stay, and I see it as an act of agency and maybe defiance (in large part because why wouldn't he just jump off a cliff if he wanted out? why wouldn't grian just /kill him? but also because thematically i think this makes more sense with the character.)

Then there's Pearl. She had the choice taken from her. I've seen Scott faulted for this, people saying he selfishly killed them both to spite Pearl or something, but I think that's misattributing the real problem, which is the game mechanic itself. No matter how Pearl won, whether by Scott killing himself or Pearl killing him, Pearl still would have died in the same moment, because she was tied to another person without any choice, and she literally physically was not allowed to live without him (nor would he have been allowed to live without her). Double Life's very core game mechanic was one that limited agency. (i do think it would have been good of scott to let pearl choose anyways, but pearl didn't seem to mind- she was very explicitly touched by the 'sacrifice'- and i think the real issue of the soul link would have been the main issue regardless of how they died)

I'd say Scott is the main player who was unarguably primarily limited by another person. Grian /killed him. Scott got to the end of his season, and before he could choose how to end it himself, Grian used commands to take that choice and kill Scott himself. Which I doubt was malicious, I'd say Grian was probably not thinking about it- after all, Grian seemed to view his own victory as belonging to the will of the spectators even as it made him miserable, he clearly didn't see the winner as someone with any real agency, so why would he think it was important to let Scott have any choice either- but regardless there was an unfairness to it, for Scott to be denied in victory, the choice, not even by the mechanics of the game, but by another person.

Martyn, as I said before, is a question mark for me, because I don't know whether he canonically ran out of time or was /killed (i think both are correct so choose your favorite i guess), but I'm not sure it matters too much, because whether he was denied agency by the game or by the will of the dead, he still wasn't allowed to choose his own ending, which is painfully ironic in a very cruel way considering Martyn's whole victory was about doing things his way instead of by tradition, morality, or how others think he should do it. Everything I said in Pearl or Scott's sections can apply here too depending on how exactly you think Martyn died.

And I just think it's fascinating, the differences in how exactly each winner died (or didn't) and what that implies regarding their victory and character arc as a whole.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter nine, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe and y/n spending a day together, violence, blood, hunting, them also figuring out the rose thorns in the arena are a paralytic, first sponsor gift bc lowkey i forgot those exist LOL, capitol loves them sm ik it

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the fire crackles in front of you, but it’s the only sound that doesn’t make your skin crawl.

your fingers rub up and down your arm. you don’t even realize you’re doing it at first because your eyes are locked somewhere on the ground. your mind is far, far away.

the bruises are already there. you don’t feel them, not really. not yet. you just remember how tight rafe had gripped you. you know it wasn’t out of anger, never that, but out of desperation, or panic, or survival. he saved your life.

you try not to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t come running, it that thing had chosen you instead of topper. your jaw tenses, throat burning as the memory flashes again behind your eyes—topper’s hand slipping from yours, the blood, the sound, the screaming.

your stomach twists.

you don’t even have your backpack. or your blanket. or your water. all of it is back wherever kie and jj are. or were.

earlier, you and rafe had searched, not too far, not too deep into the woods. every step further away from the cliff made your heart pound louder in your chest, your ears tuned to the smallest noise like the crunch of leaves, the snap of a twig, the awful clicking you now associate with death. but there was nothing. not even a whisper. not a sign of your allies. not a sign of the mutt either, which was somehow worse. so you gave up, just for the night.

rafe found the spot where the cliff bent in slightly, like a broken edge in the wall, where the fire wouldn’t be seen unless someone was really looking. he said it was as good a place as any. and you didn’t argue. you just nodded and sat down.

now, he’s sitting a few feet away, hunched over the small creature he must’ve caught sometime after sunset. it’s long and lean, probably some kind of hare the capitol thought would be a ‘humble’ meal source for tributes. you can hear the soft snk-snk of his knife as he skins it, his hands sure and quiet, knuckles scratched and drying with blood.

he hasn’t said much. neither have you.

your knees pull tighter toward your chest. like the thing is that you’re not mourning topper, not in the way you probably should. you feel sorry, you feel sick, you even feel guilty. but you’re not crying. you’re not lost in grief.

you’ve seen people die before. it’s the games. it’s expected. you’ve always told yourself you’d be fine. you knew death wasn’t going to shake you.

but you weren’t prepared for that.

you remember the way the mutt moved, its eyes, how fast it tore topper apart like he was made of paper and meat, and how real it was when it wanted to tear you apart next. you breathe slowly through your nose, but it doesn’t comfort you.

rafe shifts slightly. you glance toward him and watch as he pauses what he’s doing, adjusting the meat like he’s mentally figuring out how to suspend it over the fire. his brows are furrowed, jaw clenched.

you think maybe he’s trying not to break down or show any emotion. not unless it’s snark, maybe. you go back to rubbing your arm, slow, distracted. at least there’s no screaming now. at least there’s no clicking.

“you should eat,” rafe says finally after a while. you don’t even move. he leans forward, still hovering the piece of meat on the makeshift stick he’s cooking it on. it’s not much. rabbit’s a little paler, probably undercooked, uneven. but it’s warm. and it’s food.

you stare at it for a second too long before answering, “i’m not hungry. i’ll eat in the morning.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, more quietly this time. “you gotta eat now.”

you swallow hard, eyes flicking away from the fire to the trees again. “you think it’s still out there?” you ask after a long pause, not looking at him.

“probably.”

you nod once, like you already knew the answer. he doesn’t say anything else for a while, and neither do you. then, after another minute of silence, “you did good,” rafe says suddenly.

you blink, turning your head toward him slowly. “what?”

“back there,” he nods, barely. “you didn’t freeze. you held onto him as long as you could.”

“yeah, whatever,” you murmur with a shake of your head, a faint smile on your face to call his bullshit. “i let him go, and he died.”

“you would’ve died if you didn’t.”

your lip twitches. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, blinking fast. “yeah, but i mean that’s the game, right?” you mutter. “some of us die. the rest of us . . . eat half-cooked rabbit and pretend we’re not next.”

he doesn’t respond. you think he wants to, but the words don’t come. instead, he just watches you.

“you ever seen something like that before?” you ask after a moment.

rafe doesn’t answer right away. “no,” he admits. “not like that.”

you nod again, swallowing, “it’s different when you’re not watching from a screen.”

“yeah.”

he stares at the rabbit like he's not really seeing it for a second, just holding it near the fire. his mouth twitches, jaw flexing like he’s turning something over in his mind. then, without saying a word, he pulls one of the legs off and reaches it toward you.

“just you ‘n me for right now, huh?”

you look down at his hand first, then you look up at him, catching the way his eyes meet yours. you guess he’s right. it is just you and him. kie and jj are gone. maybe not forever, but for now, yeah. it’s just the two of you.

you don’t say anything, just take the piece from his hand. your fingers brush his knuckles for a second, and you feel how warm he still is.

your teeth sink into the meat anyway. it’s dry and tough and probably cooked more by accident than skill, but your stomach grumbles the second it hits your tongue.

you keep chewing, blankly staring at the fire.

rafe pulls the other leg off for himself and sits back with a grunt, picking at it with his fingers, ripping a strip off the bone with a smug kind of smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“greatest thing you’ve ever eaten?” he says, watching you.

you pause mid-chew, blink at him like you can’t even believe he’s trying to be funny right now. “you’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter, food still in your mouth.

“wow,” he says, pretending to look offended. “a simple ‘thank you, rafe, for saving my life and cooking me a gourmet meal’ would’ve been nice.”

you roll your eyes, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “you nearly dislocated my arm dragging me through the trees.”

“yeah, well. you weren’t exactly moving on your own.”

“i was in shock.”

“you were crawling like a drunk baby deer.”

you let out a breath through your nose, half-exasperated, half like you actually want to laugh but don’t have the energy. you shake your head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re welcome, by the way,” he says again, softer this time, like he means it for real now. like he’s not just teasing.

you pause, still chewing. your gaze flicks toward the fire, then back to him. and when your eyes meet his, it kind of settles there in the space between you, so you murmur, quiet and almost too low to hear over the fire crackling, “thanks.”

and you hold his gaze, just for a beat. long enough that he knows you mean it. you’re not brushing it off, not pretending it didn’t matter. because it did. he did save your life.

rafe’s expression shifts. not all smug and cocky like before, just something softer, more real. he smiles, and for the first time since all of this, it actually reaches his eyes. the firelight flickers just enough that you see it. there’s faint dimples on either side of his mouth that clearly only show up when he’s not trying too hard.

your lips twitch before you can stop them. just a small, quick smile. there and gone.

then you both go quiet again. but it’s not tense.

you take another bite, slower this time. he eats too, not looking at you but still kind of aware you’re there. then you tuck your feet closer beneath you, exhale quietly through your nose.

the next morning, your hand brushes against the damp forest floor as you wake, fingers threading through the moss and scattered leaves that make up your bed. it’s still early. beside you, rafe’s already awake, sitting upright with his arms resting over his knees. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances over once he feels you stir. it’s like he’s been waiting for you to wake up.

you press your palm into the dirt and push yourself up, back aching from the way you slept, but you move quietly.

“i think the coast is clear,” he mutters, eyes scanning the woods ahead. “that thing, whatever the hell it was, it's probably gone now.”

you nod once, just enough to show him you’re listening.

“we should try to find kie and jj. there weren’t any cannons last night, so . . . they’re probably still good.”

your response is silent, but he gets it. you both rise, weapons in hand, neither of you saying much more. the walk stretches into an hour, maybe longer. your legs eventually ache and your throat’s dry.

conversation stays light, if it even happens. just the occasional comment about direction, maybe a weak joke from rafe when a squirrel startles out of a tree and makes you jump. the forest somehow looks familiar now, even though every tree is just like the last.

you stop by the stream again, the same one from yesterday, kneeling to drink as your reflection ripples beneath you. the water’s cold, a little metallic on your tongue, but it works. you wipe your mouth with your sleeve and glance over at rafe just as something sharp pierces the silence.

a yelp.

you both freeze. your head snaps up like a deer hearing the first crack of a branch behind it. your instinct screams to move, to run and find out what it is, but your feet stay planted, waiting, searching.

rafe’s already scanning the trees, his body still but tense like he’s ready to lunge. you both start forward, slow at first, stepping through bushes and uneven terrain. it’s hard to see where the noise came from. your eyes dart around, expecting someone, or something, to burst out from behind the trees, but all you see is green. trees, roses, more trees. nothing.

until something catches your eye near the base of a tree trunk. it’s a rabbit. it’s small, lying still in the grass. not in a way that says it’s sleeping, but like something happened to it. its body is stiff, unmoving, but its eyes are wide open.

you glance up at rafe. he looks back at you with the same cautious confusion, then crouches beside the rabbit. his hand hovers over it like he’s expecting it to snap or vanish. nothing happens. he inspects it, quiet, then slowly lifts his gaze to sweep the woods around you both. his fingers twitch toward the mace strapped to his back.

you get the hint. your hand slowly reaches for one of your daggers, your gaze scanning the trees again.

but nothing moves. no sounds. no twigs snapping under footsteps. the rabbit’s just there. like an offering. a meal.

rafe doesn’t hesitate long. he snatches it up, holding it by the legs, and gives you a look that says he’s not about to question free food.

but there’s a noise.

you don’t notice any at first because you’re too focused on the rabbit, your stomach already reacting to the thought of food. but rafe freezes, and that’s enough. your gaze snaps to the side a beat after his. a branch. like someone stepped on a fucking branch.

your jaw tenses. of course it was a trap, you both think immediately.

your gaze flicks across the trees, and then you see them, two tributes.

they’re standing not far off. the second they spot you and rafe, they go stiff. one of them grabs for something at their side while the other tightens their jaw. they don’t speak. their eyes harden.

you stare at them, straight through them, your breathing slowing like your body’s gearing up for something it already knows how to do. you need to kill them. rafe’s standing beside you still, and for a second, neither of you move. it’s silent.

then one of them takes a step back.

you almost smile. it’s not a real smile, it’s the idea of one. just the hint of amusement pulling in your chest. because it’s been too long since it’s felt like this. the rush. the clarity.

rafe drops the rabbit to the forest floor without a word, the body landing with a thud in the dirt. his hand swings back, fingers curling around the handle of his mace.

you’re already moving.

you vanish into the bushes like a shadow. your body stays low but your eyes stay up, locked on the two tributes even as leaves brush against your cheek. they can’t see you anymore, only rafe, and that's the point. they’ll be so focused on the obvious threat that they’ll forget about the one hiding in the dark.

he doesn’t call after you, doesn’t check to make sure you’re in position. he just knows. that’s the difference between you and them. you’re not clumsy. you don’t break branches.

guess the show’s back on, rafe thinks as he steps forward, the weight of his mace dragging through the air. and just like that, he makes his way over. you don’t wait long to follow either.

rafe barrels toward them like a force let loose. he doesn’t hold his mace back, lets it swing wild in the open air, not to strike just yet, just to warn.

one of the tributes lunges first, the boy. he’s taller than he looked from a distance, quick-footed too. he ducks low, swiping at rafe’s legs with something dull and rusted, a sickle maybe, cut down from a farming blade. it makes a sharp whoosh in the air, and rafe barely steps back in time, the weapon missing his knee by an inch.

rafe exhales hard and pivots, twisting his body with the motion of his mace and slamming it toward the guy’s ribs. the boy blocks it with his shoulder. it’s a bad idea, because the sound it makes is disgusting, bone and muscle crunching under steel, but it works. it slows rafe down. enough for the other tribute to rush him from the side.

the girl, older than you, faster.

rafe’s not fast enough to avoid her punch. it hits his jaw hard enough to rock his head to the side. they’re good. they’re actually good.

he fights both of them like it’s a dance and a slaughter, parrying one while dodging the other. but they’re working together, pushing him back, closing in . . . until you strike.

you explode out of the brush with no warning, boots crashing over the forest floor as you launch yourself at the girl’s back. she hears the snap of leaves too late. she spins, but not enough. you slam into her with the weight of your full body, driving your shoulder into her stomach and taking her to the ground.

the two of you crash hard into the dirt, her elbow slamming against your ribs in the fall. you grit your teeth and roll first, pinning her under you. she twists her body, trying to buck you off, clawing at your arms. you grab for your dagger, but it slips in your grasp, sliding a few feet away in the scuffle. you hiss and reach again, but she elbows you in the jaw.

your head rings, but you don’t move. your knee presses harder into her stomach as your hands close around her wrists. she growls and kicks, wild like she’s dying already, and you feel your lip split as her head knocks yours. pain. blood fills your mouth. you’re holding steady, but you’re not giving her the chance.

meanwhile rafe’s still fighting the boy, both of them panting now, exchanging blows that don’t always land. the boy’s relentless, and even though his shoulder’s broken, or close to it, he still comes at rafe like he’s possessed. rafe gets shoved back, his boots skidding on the dirt, and the boy tackles him.

they hit the ground with a loud thud. his blade catches rafe in the side, and rafe’s face twists in pain. his free hand comes up hard, cracking into the boy’s jaw. it barely fazes him. he’s not just fighting to win. he’s fighting not to die.

you hear the hit, the bodies slamming together, and it drives you harder. you snarl through your teeth and drive your elbow into the girl’s throat, just enough to make her choke, just enough to get her hands to weaken, and you shove her off you, dragging yourself toward your fallen dagger.

you grab it and turn. she’s already on her feet. but so are you, and rafe’s still fighting to his last breath just a few feet away.

your vision blurs for a second when the girl throws a punch that clips your cheekbone, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you duck her next swing, grab her arm, and shove her backward with everything you’ve got. she stumbles, hits the tree behind her with a sharp, solid thud that makes the whole trunk vibrate. you don’t stop. you grab the front of her shirt, grip it hard like it’s a lifeline, and throw her to the ground again.

she hits the ground awkwardly, the back of her head catching something behind it. it’s not a loud crack, more like a sudden stop. a soft thump. and then nothing.

you stand over her, chest heaving, face raw and sticky with blood, your own or hers or both. her eyes are open, glassy almost, wide, staring up at you. your grip tightens around your dagger, ready to lunge, to finish it, but she doesn’t move. like not even a twitch.

you hesitate, blinking. what? your blade hangs heavy in your hand, not yet stained. she’s just . . . staring. not really struggling, and not grabbing for her weapon. she’s just lying there. your breath catches. for a second, you think—did it end that fast?

you crouch beside her, slow, and grip her collar again and pull her up by it, trying to see if she’s playing dead. her body’s slack, but not lifeless. her arms dangle, her chest barely rising.

but that’s when you see it.

beneath her neck, a thorn is lodged deep under the skin. a thick one, twisted red. she’s still shaking faintly from the force of her fall. your gaze drops to the ground behind her. there’s a rose. it’s flattened now, crushed by the weight of her body, petals scattered, one’s stuck in her hair.

you look back at her face. she’s still staring. it’s almost worse than death.

you don’t think she can blink or even move. her lips are parted just slightly, but there’s no breath pushing through. the thorn—it must’ve been poisoned. paralytic, you think immediately, like some sick trick of the arena. so the rabbit wasn’t a trap most likely, it must’ve just gotten caught with a thorn like this girl did.

there’s a cannon behind you that makes you blink out of it. rafe killed. so should you. you don’t wait for anything more.

your dagger moves before you even register the decision. you aim clean, right into her chest, right where the heart is. it sinks in deep and quick, and her whole body jolts with the force before it slumps completely. her eyes don’t close. but the light goes out, like someone hit a switch and turned her off. cannon.

you don’t look at her again, but you spit the blood pooling in your mouth onto the dirt beside her body and stand up slow, wiping your blade on your pants. your chest still rises and falls, and your cheek throbs from where she hit you.

when you look up, rafe is already watching you. he’s waiting by the other tribute’s body, one foot pressed against the boy’s back like a hunter posing over his kill. his knuckles are split, mace sticky with blood. but his expression is calm now, like he’s already processed it and moved on. he doesn’t say anything when he holds out his hand.

you take it without a word, and he pulls you to your feet. you wobble just for a second, boots skidding on the dirt, but you find your balance. his eyes lift to scan the trees again, quiet, thinking, his brow tightening just slightly. there’s no celebration. just calculation, like figuring out what your next steps should be.

you wipe your nose on your sleeve again, smearing blood across the fabric, then step over the bodies without hesitation. your eyes scan the ground for weapons, supplies, anything useful. there’s a smaller blade and a matchbook. you pocket both. the girl’s pack is torn but intact, so you unzip it, digging through with one hand as you sling it over your shoulder, then your fingers catch on something small and metal.

a locket.

you pull it free and it dangles in your palm, swinging slightly as you flip it open. inside, there’s a photo. a family, her family. the photo is blurry, probably printed just for this. her arms are around two little boys, maybe brothers. maybe cousins. you don’t know.

your gaze drifts back down to her body, still sprawled on the forest floor. her eyes are still open. the rose beneath her is crushed into the dirt, red petals stuck to her cheek.

you’re not upset. not really. maybe a little. but it had to be them. it was them or you, you and rafe.

“c’mon,” you hear him call for you.

you sigh, slow and sharp through your nose, and toss the locket back beside her body, then you walk away.

you make your way back to the little camp you claimed by the water. you glance over at rafe, at the red streaked across his hands and his knuckles, the corner of his jaw dark with it. there’s a cut on his cheekbone, dried blood where it dripped from his nose. some of it’s splattered up near his eye. it’s mixing now, sweat and dirt and blood, all dried together.

you grimace at the sight. “let me clean you up.”

he glances at you once, silent. no smirk, no smug response. he turns and drops the rabbit beside your things, its neck already twisted at an odd angle. he must’ve done it quietly on the way over, like he said he would. didn’t want to waste the paralytic, didn’t want it running off after all of that.

but he doesn’t argue or shrug you off. he just walks toward you and stands still.

you step toward the stream’s edge and lower yourself into a crouch. the water’s cold. you dip your arm in, just halfway up to the elbow. your sleeve soaks heavy almost immediately. when you pull it back out, water runs down to your fingers and drips off the edge, but it’s the best you’ve got.

you take the edge of your sleeve and hold it between your thumb and fingers, palm cupped beneath it, and step back over to him. he doesn’t move when you reach up.

you drag the wet fabric across his cheek, the water instantly mixing with the dried blood, turning it a little pink before it runs down across his jaw. some of it drips to the ground. that’s fine. better out than dried up and stiff on his skin. you sweep across his cheekbone, over his brow, then down the side of his nose. his eyes close once, just briefly, like it stings.

you make your way to his jawline and just as you reach the curve of it, he flinches.

your hand pulls back by an inch. your eyes scan his face. “sorry,” you murmur.

he doesn’t answer. he’s watching you now, eyes flicking from your hands to your face, unreadable. that must’ve been where the girl hit him.

you move a little slower after that, more careful. your fingers adjust and you press the soaked cloth to a spot just under his eye where there’s a faint trail of red. he hisses again, not loud, but enough to let you know he feels it.

you glance up at him. “you’ve got more cuts than i thought.”

he breathes through his nose, lips parting slightly. “they’ll close.”

you don’t argue. you keep wiping. your sleeve’s half drenched and streaked with red by the time you finish, but his face is mostly clean now.

you reach for his hands next, but rafe pulls them back before you can touch them, his mouth tight as he crouches down near the water, like as if to say that he’s got it. he leans forward and dips his hands in deep, blood loosening off his knuckles and swirling away into the pond.

you crouch down beside him. your legs burn from the motion but you ignore it, your hands reaching for the edge of your soaked sleeve, wringing the blood out into the pond with a twist of your wrist. it turns the water red all over again. you dip the fabric in to clean it. maybe you’ll use it on yourself next, wipe down the parts you can reach. your mouth still tastes like blood, your nose is stinging, and you know you’re probably just as much of a mess.

rafe brings both hands up to splash cold water over his face, rubbing it over the parts you already wiped, like he’s making sure there’s nothing left. you hear his breath hitch a little from the shock of it, but he just wipes the water away with his palm and shakes his head slightly.

and then you feel it. there’s a sudden shift beside you. rafe flinches forward like he’s just remembered something, like something sparked in his head and now he can’t sit still.

“lemme get you,” he says, voice low, already reaching for your arm.

you blink at him, caught off guard, and for a second, you almost ask why, but then you don’t. instead, you pull your sleeve back in, wring it out one more time, and turn toward him.

he dips his own sleeve into the pond and soaks the fabric until it drips between his fingers like you’d done. he reaches out slowly, using his free hand to brush your hair gently out of your face, tucking it behind your ear to see you better.

he doesn’t say anything. he just starts dabbing the wet cloth gently along your cheek, across your jaw, under your eye, just like you did. his movements are careful, maybe softer than you were. you stare at him the whole time, trying not to shift or tense, but your chest feels a little tight.

his eyes stay on your face, focused in a way that makes it feel like you’re the only thing in the world right now. and maybe to him, you are.

you’re his only ally at the end of the day. kie and jj are cool, and topper was useful for the time he was still here, but when it really comes down to it, he knows you’re the only one he can rely on in here. and you know it too.

his gaze flicks up and meets yours, and something about the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. there’s something quiet behind his eyes, something vulnerable.

you stare right back, your lashes wet, your face damp from his sleeve. but he doesn’t break the eye contact. he just keeps cleaning you off, like he’s in no rush at all . . . until something comes.

the beeping starts off faint, almost ignorable, but there’s something about the pattern of it that makes your head snap up. you pause mid-motion, eyes lifting toward the sky. it’s not the kind of beep that belongs to something broken or distant. no, this one moves. it’s getting louder as it gets closer.

you scan the open air beyond the trees. at first, there's nothing. then, in a flicker of motion, you catch the metallic glint of something small descending, slow, swaying slightly as it comes down beneath a small, thin parachute. the beeping is coming from that.

your eyes drop briefly to rafe. he's already watching it too. it’s sponsor gift. has to be.

you stand, cautiously stepping forward to track its float path, watching the way it drifts in the light breeze. it’s soft, almost mocking, the way it takes its time like the capitol wants you to want it. you can’t even imagine how many times tributes in here have been angry just watching it come down while being dehydrated, hungry, or in pain.

the beeping fades with each sway, then spikes again as it shifts direction. it gets lower. lower. almost close enough that you jump. fingers snatch the container mid-air, and you drag it down into your hands. the beeping cuts off.

it’s small in your palm, steel-like and matte gray with a faint latch on the side. you glance down at rafe again as you walk back toward him, but he still hasn’t said anything. he’s watching you now, watching the box.

you try to lift the lid, but it doesn’t budge, locked tight. you frown and twist instead, the seal popping with a quiet hiss as the lid loosens and unscrews in your hands.

a piece of card is folded on top, right on cue. it’s nothing handwritten, just a clear, printed message in bold black type:

BLOOD IN THE WATER ISN’T THE WORST THING YOU’LL TASTE.

STAY SMART.

ENOBARIA

your brows furrow. you flip the card over. nothing on the back. vague. warning? encouragement? enobaria was a career victor. she was brutal and clever. maybe this means something you’re not necessarily getting right now. you tuck the card into your palm and check what was underneath.

nestled into a foam base are two slim vials. clean, unmarked at first glance except for the slightest tint of color. one is a deep navy blue, the other being a darker green.

you lean in, squinting to catch the fine print near the bottom of each vial. it’s almost microscopic but it’s there:

acetafrexan-hydrothrexate. a long name, but your mind sorts it quickly. painkiller. potent and fast. just two capsules inside.

chloralis-wrhydrin compound. it’s a water purifying agent. breaks down bacteria, neutralizes acidity. you’ve seen it used in training. it works.

your pulse kicks a little faster. it’s useful, necessary.

you run your fingers along the vials, thoughtful. two capsules for one dose, as far as the painkillers go. that's how these usually work.

but still, is it for you? or meant to be split between the two of you? there's no label saying ‘district two’ or ‘y/n’ or ‘rafe,’ no names, no confirmation. for all you know, someone up in the stands just liked the blood on your sleeve.

“come here?” you say quietly, reading over the card again. it’s still clutched between your fingers, a little smudged at the corner from your damp sleeve. you let your gaze lift to rafe, who straightens from where he’s crouched by the pond. he meets your eyes and moves.

you walk over to him to meet in the middle, tucking the card into your back pocket with one hand and then pulling out the painkiller vial. you hold it out toward him. he doesn’t take it right away. he hesitates, blinking once, then reaches for it slowly, brows knitting slightly.

“need to figure out the water purifier,” you mutter to yourself, stepping to turn away, already mentally sorting the capsules and what to do next. but his voice stops you before your foot even fully lifts from the ground.

“y/n,” rafe calls. you look back over your shoulder. “these are yours.”

you blink at him. “there wasn’t a name on the sponsor, rafe. it could’ve been either of ours.” he opens his mouth but you keep going, your voice a little too quick, like you’re trying to outrun the argument you know is coming. “you took more of the blows, so just . . . take them. two pills is for one person.”

you’re waving it off. but before you can get another step away, his hand is around your wrist, fingers wrapping gently but firmly, grounding you. you look down at where he holds you, then up at him.

he’s not being rough. not even stern, really. it’s just him.

“one for you, one for me,” he says, calm. “yours hurt too. i know it.”

you open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. your jaw shifts. your teeth grind just barely. of course they hurt. your ribs, your shoulder, the side of your face that caught the girl’s elbow. you feel every inch of it, but you’d rather he have the full dose, because that’s what logic says is smarter. because that’s how you survive: by giving someone else what they need more.

but rafe’s looking at you like he sees right through it. through you.

and then it hits you that the cameras are probably still watching all of it. the sponsor gift, your hesitation, his insistence.

it’s probably better for the viewers too, this stubborn little compromise. two halves of one dose. it might be dramatic, tender. they’d eat this up.

you swallow hard, then look down at his hand still holding yours. you don’t pull away. you just nod once.

rafe shifts, turning the vial and twisting the cap open with a faint pop. he tilts it and catches the two capsules in his palm. he holds one out to you, and you take it.

he’s quick with his, actually swallows his dry without a blink, then shakes his head a little.

you hesitate again as you look at the pill in your hand, then rafe, then back again. finally, you tip your head back and force it down. it sticks a little in your throat, dry and bitter. you cough once, then breathe through it.

there’s a weird aftertaste to it that almost pisses you off. you will never understand the capitol and what chemicals it must take to make something as fast-acting as these are supposed to be. the aftertaste is all you’ll need to worry about, if anything.

rafe watches you, just for a second longer, then you both shift back into yourselves. you head toward the edge of the pond again with the green vial in hand, fingers already twitching to open it and check the contents. your eyes flick briefly to the rabbit’s limp body where he left it.

“you should start on lunch,” you say, barely turning your head as you speak.

behind you, you hear rafe huff softly through his nose.

at least now you know the capitol’s watching.

let them.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[echodoctor]

AU where Siffrin was with the King prior to canon, but genuinely had no idea about the whole "freeze Vauguard in time forever" plan and was not happy when they found out about it.

Yes, they knew he was working on something big with wish craft, that he'd talked about making sure Vauguard would never suffer the fate of their home- but he thought that this was about using wish craft to find out what happened to the Island, maybe bring it back! You know, like a sane person! Not this.

They were away for a couple weeks- out on another odd job they'd picked up, because someone has to bring in rent money around here! Hiding away in your room researching lost forms of craft rituals might be the key to saving their home and letting them return someday, but it doesn't exactly pay the bills. They always supported him.

They come back to find Corbeaux beginning to freeze, and rush to find him, thinking that it all must have gone horribly wrong, that whatever ritual he used must have backfired in some catastrophic way.

And then they find him... triumphant. Happy.

First they beg him to stop. Then they try to stop him. Then they try to survive him.

(The dangers of trying to solo the final boss before you've even gone out and level grinded your way up to endgame!)

The King seems very regretful about what happened, when Siffrin regains consciousness.

Not that it's going to stop him, oh no, of course not. But he doesn't want to freeze them in time yet, not until they've had a chance to recover. He loves them, after all! He wants to make sure they're preserved forever in perfect condition, so his beloved will never fade.

So they can just rest and heal up here, in this nice safe locked-from-the-outside room in the House of Change he's taken over, and then once they've made a full recovery they can get all dressed up in their best outfit and he'll take them somewhere nice and scenic, so they can spend eternity somewhere pretty, looking their best.

Won't that be lovely? :) See, he really does care about you so much!

Siffrin waits until the exact second they're recovered enough to stand up again, and then immediately breaks themself out of the House and runs for it.

The sensible thing to do would probably be to attempt to flee the country! As evidenced by their taste in men, Siffrin is not entirely sensible. They're going to level grind, and then come back for round two and a fucking divorce.

Maybe this "chosen of the Change God" they keep hearing rumors about could be helpful with that...

[finnlongman]

Some people nowadays have a spiritual connection to figures like Cú Chulainn, but there's no (surviving) evidence that he was considered to be a religious figure historically. He does interact with other figures who probably were, in some form we can't discern through our surviving sources, but that all becomes speculative and tenuous quite quickly. The classification of any medieval Irish literature as "mythology" is a somewhat contentious one -- some scholars agree with it, some disagree, some only agree based on a very specific definition of myth, etc.* He does show up as a folkloric figure, too, although this text itself doesn't fall into that category, so I don't think it would be rude to put him there, but I agree that can be a tricky call to make when you're not familiar with the topic in question.

I think in a text as late as this he would be solidly considered a literary character, perhaps with (pseudo-)historical import if not historical himself. (This text is however deeply obscure and there is no reliable or full English translation of it, including no translation of this poem, so this is not something I would expect somebody randomly coming across my academic shitposts to know, haha. I simply enjoyed the challenge of "but where would I put this, actually".)

What I like about the Library of Congress classification here is that by placing it under Celtic Languages and Literatures it's really only making a judgment about what language that text is in, and not the purposes for which it was written, which makes it somewhat less contentious for those texts that sit awkwardly across the myth/literature/history/folklore boundaries. In the library I used to work in that used LoC, we had Fingal Rónáin at PB1383, Kinsella's translation of Táin Bó Cúailnge and Meyer's Fianaigecht at PB1397, Dooley and Roe's Tales of the Elders of Ireland at PB1423, and also Old Irish Paradigms & Glosses at PB1247 (yes, I did double the size of the medieval Irish section during the time I worked there). This made it a better classification system for a library that had materials in a lot of languages, but not huge amounts of material in any single one of those languages.

The other academic library I worked in, by contrast, used its own in-house classification system which had been suited to the library's needs about 50-70 years ago but no longer met the needs of the collection at all. Every single new acquisition was a struggle to classify -- especially as we weren't experts in the subject area and sometimes couldn't understand much of the blurb! I deeply missed being able to plug things into Class Web or similar and let it make the decisions for me.

*Tbh, titles like Celtic Myths and Legends are very often red flags re: the reliability of the books in question, both for the use of myth and the use of Celtic -- grouping disparate literary and possibly-mythological traditions together because they belong to the same language family is not without problems, as they are definitely not interchangeable and while there are connections, they are often more specific and limited than these sorts of books acknowledge. Though occasionally scholars lean into these kinds of titles for marketing reasons and then spend the whole first chapter talking about why they're problematic -- see the intro to Mark Williams' The Celtic Myths That Shape The Way We Think for a cogent example of this and a good summary of the challenge of approaching medieval Celtic literatures as mythology.

Learn the days of the week with Cú Chulainn, featuring: murder.

[sunderwight]

So, with the latest developments in To Be Hero X, I'm starting to develop a theory about trust/belief value and how it works.

On the surface, it seems like the amount of believers creates more powerful results. We see Lin Ling get physically stronger during the livestream of Nice holding up Firm Man's statue, which sort of backs this idea up. It also makes sense. Number go up = power go up, number go down = power go down.

But, Yang Cheng managed to develop superpowers and beat up two bad guys just based on one believer. Considering that most people have a non-zero number of believers, usually consisting of their immediate family, it seems unlikely that such a low number of believers would typically correspond to just developing lightning powers and shit.

I think there are two obvious possible explanations for it here, not mutually exclusive, but I think the second option gained a bit more credence with the latest episode.

Option one is that people do tend to have natural superpowers, and having believers just amplifies or helps unlock what's already there in some way. High stress survival situations may also contribute. So Yang Cheng's fight to rescue Little Pomelo would have been a perfect cocktail of events, as he simultaneously unlocked his superpowers in a life-or-death brawl and gained a follower capable of boosting said powers.

Option two, however, is that the nature of belief is even more vital than the amount of it. This is already somewhat confirmed in how the nature of belief impacts a hero's downsides and limits, and the kind of abilities they have, but what's less clear is how the strength of individual belief compares to the number of believers. Little Pomelo did not just believe in Yang Cheng, he believed in Yang Chang as a manifestation of E-Soul. He believed that Yang Cheng could do what E-Soul, the image of a hero that exists in the public consciousness, could do in that situation.

So it's probable that the potency of Yang Cheng's abilities came from the potency of E-Soul's image and mythology. It's not just people believing in him, it's people believing in him as E-Soul, which gives him equivalent power to E-Soul.

It's like, if you believe someone you love can ace that test they're struggling with, you might count as their believer, but your belief is not going to give them superpowers. At most it will just help them find the resolve to study, or perhaps remember important facts at the right time. If a lot of people believe that someone can ace a test, it might rewire their brain to be better at test-taking, which is spooky, but still not necessarily awarding them superpowers. It would also depend on the conviction of your belief. Do you really 100% believe without a doubt that they're going to pass, or are you just optimistic about their prospects?

If you believe, sincerely, that someone can shoot lightning out of their hands, then your belief will give them the power to shoot lightning out of their hands. Even if you're the only person who believes that about them.

I think this second theory gained more credence due to the nature of E-Soul Prime's PR team freak-out about Yang Cheng, and specifically their accusations that Yang Cheng was infringing because his power could not and would not exist without him impersonating E-Soul, and that without infringing he wouldn't be able to produce the level of power he's demonstrated.

But the more interesting prospect is of course, combining the ideas. Yang Cheng could have just hit a perfect storm of being a good actor who chose to impersonate a hero whose skills his own hidden abilities would emulate very well. Contrast this with Lin Ling and Nice, where if Lin Ling really has precognition/visions/etc as his power, then his Nice-related powers were ONLY awarded to him via the belief system. Which is why they failed pretty spectacularly the minute he dropped that image. Whereas Yang Cheng could lose believers down to the single digits, but as long as someone like Little Pomelo still believed in him, he'd still be able to lightning punch a guy.

[existence-is-a-pain87]

can I have a request of the self aware! Toons x reader interactions if you were in the game please

Ima use the AU for the Self-Aware AU where MC died and got isekaid into being a Toon in Dandy's World. However, MC wasn't a Toon who was put on the show and was instead scrapped. But the Toon's obsession with them carried over. (It's an AU of an AU. So it's an AU AU.)

Lemme just show ya real quick, hehe.

Talking to You

Yandere!Dandy's World x Toon!Reader

Warnings: Obsession and other general yandere behaviors

--☆☆☆☆☆--

When you were reincarnated as a Toon in Dandy's World and saved from the horror show that was the self-aware game, you thought it was an ironic blessing.

You thought that blessing was even more ironic when you literally had to struggle to keep remembering your life as a human. And when you were never put on the show and instead kept in the depths, before being used for things like manual labor.

You weren't upset. Sure, you wish you could at least see the sun, but being a Scrapped Toon wasn't as much of a hell as obsession was.

Then you met the other Toons. And they began to get clingy.

And it got so much worse when the Ichor Operation occured and you went missing.

But when you came back? They found you again and pulled you out of your isolation?

Their obsession was so much worse.

Then you realized this was no godsend.

Whatever being did this to you, it was for their sick entertainment.

Because they were as obsessed with you as they were when they were self-aware.

--☆☆☆--

Astro

Astro: Hello starshine...

[Name]: ...

Astro: I... saw your dreams. Are you doing okay?

[Name]: Astro, do I look like I'm okay?

Astro: ...

[Name]: Please just... leave me alone.

Astro: You can talk to me whenever you need.

[Name]: ...okay.

---

Astro: Do you want to take a nap together after this, starshine?

[Name]: Astro, I'm not tired.

Astro: Won't you be by the time we're done?

[Name]: I mean, probably? But I'd rather not take a nap.

[Name]: At least with you.

Astro: Why not?

[Name]: Because last time we did that it took me an hour to scrub all the lipstick stains off my face.

[Name]: Since when did you even start wearing lipstick?

Astro: ...nevermind.

--☆☆☆--

Bassie: Blossom, do you need anything? I have some useful items!

Bassie

[Name]: No thanks, I'm good. Save your items.

Bassie: B- but...

[Name]: Trust me, I can survive without some items. I promise I'll be fine.

Bassie: Of course, hahAHA!

[Name]: ...

---

Bassie: Blossom, what do you think of Cocoa..?

[Name]: Oh, she's nice enough-

Bassie: ...

[Name]: -But I like you more.

Bassie: ...Really?

[Name]: Yeah. Why?

Bassie: -!

Bassie: No reason- hahaHAHAHAH!

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Bobette: You're always welcome to hide with me in my gift box in any emergencies, angel!

Bobette

[Name]: Bobette, there's no need.

Bobette: You sure?

[Name]: Yeah, I'm pretty fast.

Bobette: I mean-

[Name]: And I can probably beat a Twisted into a pulp with Blåhaj.

Bobette: Your giant shark plushie?

[Name]: Yeah. Hehe.

---

Bobette: How are you doing after last night?

[Name]: I don't know how my legs are functioning...

Bobette: Yeah...

[Name]: ...Why are the others looking at us weirdly?

Bobette: I dunno. Coal just sat on your lap last night.

[Name]: Yeah.

[Name]: ...Wait.

[Name]: Oh god, they're dirty-minded!

Bobette: Wha-?

--☆☆☆--

Boxten

Boxten: You're really good at machines, you know that?

[Name]: Eh, I'm okay at them. Not that great at skill checks, though.

Boxten: What do you mean?

[Name]: I basically never get them.

Boxten: Oh yeah...

Boxten: I'm constantly terrified a machine will explode whenever I do that...

[Name]: ...I'll help you out on the next floor with any machines, m'kay?

Boxten: Oh-! Thanks!

--☆☆☆--

Brightney

Brightney: What's on your mind?

[Name]: A lot of things. Most of them aren't good.

Brightney: Would book club help get them off your mind?

[Name]: Probably. Depends on the book.

Brightney: Cheesy romance novels, perhaps?

[Name]: We're gonna be allowed to read those at book club?

Brightney: Of course! If it'll make you happy, I can lift the band for the day.

[Name]: Aw, thanks Brightney!

--☆☆☆--

Coal

[Name]: Hi Coal.

Coal: Bworf.

[Name]: Please don't sit on my lap again, Coal.

Coal: ...Bwoof.

[Name]: Please Coal. I like having functioning legs, Coal.

Coal: Bork...

[Name]: ...Okay, yeah, maybe it'll be unfair if Pebs gets to keep sitting on my lap...

Coal: ...

[Name]: ...But Coal, please-

Coal: Grrrr...

--☆☆☆--

Cocoa

Cocoa: Hi, choco kiss! Do you need anything?

[Name]: There's no need.

Cocoa: Are you sure? I can always help you-!

[Name]: No, Cocoa. Trust me, I'll be okay.

Cocoa: Are you sure?

[Name]: Yeah. How about I help you instead?

Cocoa: Oh really? Of course! Thank you!

--☆☆☆--

Connie

Connie: Yo.

[Name]: ...

Connie: ...

[Name]: Stop stalking me.

Connie: Haha, no.

--☆☆☆--

Cosmo

Cosmo: I made you some baked good, sweetheart!

[Name]: There's no need...

Cosmo: No, no. Please, just take them.

[Name]: I'm not hungry...

Cosmo: If you don't take the treats from me, Sprout's gonna make you take them.

[Name]: I don't want to eat...

Cosmo: ...

Cosmo: You WILL take and eat the food.

[Name]: ...yessir.

--☆☆☆--

Eggson: Hello there, dearie.

Eggson

[Name]: Hiya, peepaw Eggson...

Eggson: How about you and I go look for some eggs after this?

[Name]: Oh... I dunno... Where are we going to find eggs?

Eggson: Hoho, just trust me, dear!

[Name]: There's really no need, though.

Eggson: Even if you want to isolate yourself from anyone, at least let someone like me stay in your life, okay?

[Name]: ...okay...

--☆☆☆--

Finn

Finn: Always a joy to sea you, angelfish!

[Name]: Hi Finn. Fish puns again?

Finn: Always! Hehe!

[Name]: ...Thanks, they manage to put a smile on my face.

Finn: That's the goal! Everyone can have a gill-ty pleasure, hehe!

[Name]: Yeah... haha...

--☆☆☆--

Flutter

Flutter: ..!

[Name]: Hi, Flutter.

Flutter: ..?

[Name]: Oh, really?

Flutter: ...

[Name]: Cool.

Flutter: ..?

[Name]: Sorry-! I'm just... tired...

Flutter: !!!

[Name]: ...Don't worry, I'll be okay.

Flutter: ...

--☆☆☆--

Flyte

[Name]: Hi, Flyte.

Flyte: Oh- uh- hi, [Name]!

[Name]: ...Is something wrong?

Flyte: It's just... Flutter's worrying about you, y'know?

[Name]: ...I'm fine.

Flyte: Are you sure? We all just care and wanna support you-

[Name]: I'm. Fine.

Flyte: ...

[Name]: ...sorry...

Flyte: Don't worry about it, it's okay.

--☆☆☆--

Gigi

Gigi: Mwehe, heyyy girlie.

[Name]: ...Back away, Gigi.

Gigi: Aw, c'mon! It's not like the others will lemme keep you...

[Name]: I'm not letting you try stuffing me in your head again, Gigi.

Gigi: I wasn't gonna do that! I was gonna give ya something.

[Name]: I don't trust you, Gigi. Back off.

Gigi: You're boring sometimes, girlie.

--☆☆☆--

Ginger

Ginger: Snickerdoodle, Cosmo and Sprout are worrying about you...

[Name]: They are?

Ginger: Yeah... apparently, it's been three days since you last ate?

[Name]: Almost four by now.

Ginger: ...Please eat something...

[Name]: ...Fine, but only if it's not made by them.

[Name]: You and I could make something together after this, if you'd like.

Ginger: I'd like that. Thank you, snickerdoodle.

[Name]: ...of course, gingersnap.

--☆☆☆--

Glisten

Glisten: Darling, your makeup's smudged.

[Name]: I told you not to put it on me because I'd mess it up...

Glisten: Darling, darling. You're already almost as perfect as me. Makeup merely helps you look the part a tiny bit more.

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Glisten: You're perfectly beautiful as is, yes, but still.

[Name]: ...

Glisten: I love you, darling. Do remember that.

[Name]: Yeah, I know... love you too...

Glisten: ...

Goob

Looey

Goob: Hiya sib!

[Name]: Goob... you know I'm not your sibling, right?

Goob: Why do you keep acting like you aren't? Oh! Do you need a hug?

[Name]: I dunno if now is a great time for a hug, Goob...

Goob: Every time is a great time for a hug!

[Name]: ...I don't know if I'm in the mood for a hug, Goob...

Goob: C'mon, please?

[Name]: ...fine. But only one.

--☆☆☆--

Pebble

Looey: You've been pretty sad lately. Need something to cheer you up?

[Name]: There's no need, Looey...

Looey: Jester, you know I'm always happy to cheer you up...

[Name]: I know...

[Name]: ...maybe after this.

Looey: Of course! How do you feel about juggling?

[Name]: That works great, thank you.

--☆☆☆--

Poppy

Pebble: Arf!

[Name]: Hi Pebs.

Pebble: Arf bark!

[Name]: Yeah, you can sleep in my bed tonight. I'm fine with that.

Pebble: Woof?

[Name]: No, Dandy may not join us.

[Name]: I know Dandy sent you to ask me, but c'mon little buddy...

Pebble: Bark...

[Name]: It's okay, don't worry.

---

Pebble: Woof! Arf!

[Name]: Pebs, I'm honestly feeling a bit lonely with how everyone obsesses over me...

Pebble: Woof...

[Name]: Maybe I should get myself a pet rock... or what would be the equivalent of a pet cat...

Pebble: Grrr... BARK BARK!

[Name]: ...

Pebble: Woof! Grrr...

[Name]: Pebs, you're as obsessed with me as everyone else. At least give me the chance to have a pet that won't be obsessed.

Pebble: (Whine).

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Razzle & Dazzle

Poppy: You'd look great with a bow!

[Name]: Like a bowtie?

Poppy: Or one on your head! Then we'd be matching!

[Name]: Wouldn't the others get jealous if you and I were matching?

Poppy: Probably!

[Name]: ...fine, but I get to pick the color.

Poppy: Yippee!

--☆☆☆--

R&D: Little actor! (Razzle, they're taller than us...)

[Name]: Yeah?

R&D: We're working on a new play! (We've been spending a lot of time on it...)

[Name]: Oh, neat! What kinda play?

R&D: A romance! (It's going to be emotional too...)

[Name]: ...Do you want me to be one of the leads?

R&D: Naturally! (If you want...)

[Name]: ...It depends, I'll consider it.

R&D: Hehe, thanks! (Thank you...)

--☆☆☆--

Rodger

Rodger: Toodles wants to play house after this.

[Name]: Does she want me to play too?

Rodger: Of course. She wants both of her parents to be there.

[Name]: Rodger... I'm more like an aunt or uncle figure to Toodles.

Rodger: Nonsense! She views you as a parent.

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Scraps

Rudie

Rudie: Merry Christmas!

[Name]: Rudie... none of us know what time of the year it is.

Rudie: Well I do! And it's Christmas!

[Name]: What if it isn't?

Rudie: Silly gift, it's definitely Christmas! I feel it in my antlers!

[Name]: ...

Rudie: Don't you like Christmas?

[Name]: I like Halloween more.

Rudie: ...oh.

--☆☆☆--

Shelly

[Name]: Scraps.

Scraps: Yeah, sib?

[Name]: I'm not your and Goob's sibling. Why do you two keep thinking that?

Scraps: Because you are our sibling, silly! Why do you keep denying it?

[Name]: ...

Scraps: Look, I know you're a bit upset. But we can fix that!

[Name]: ...

Scraps: Let's go do an art project after this! How does that sound?

[Name]: ...fine.

Scraps: Great!

--☆☆☆--

Shrimpo

[Name]: Hey, Shelly?

Shelly: Yeah? What's wrong?

[Name]: Can I hide in your room after we're done with this run..?

Shelly: Of course you can! Why my room though?

[Name]: ...

Shelly: Compy..?

[Name]: ...Dandy found my loft...

Shelly: ...Oh. Oh god. Stay in my room as long as you want!

[Name]: Thank you...

---

Shelly: Compy! I found some dinosaur documentaries!

[Name]: Really?

Shelly: Yeah! We haven't watched these ones either!

[Name]: Are they going to be inaccurate to the information we have nowadays?

Shelly: Oh, absolutely!

[Name]: Woo! We can sit down and correct dinosaur documentaries together again!

Shelly: Yay!

--☆☆☆--

Shrimpo: I HATE THE OTHERS HORDING YOUR ATTENTION!

[Name]: C'mon, Shrimpy Boy, they aren't hording my attention.

Shrimpo: I HATE IT WHEN YOU DENY WHAT I SAY!

[Name]: You hate everything, Shrimpy Boy.

Shrimpo: I HATE WHEN YOU SAY I HATE YOU!! I HATE HATING YOU!!

[Name]: Y'know, the word is love, right?

Shrimpo: I HATE BEING HONEST AND VULNERABLE WITH MY EMOTIONS!!!

Teagan

--☆☆☆--

Sprout

Sprout: Honey, I'm worried.

[Name]: ...

Sprout: You haven't been eating enough. In fact, I haven't seen you eating at all recently.

[Name]: ...

Sprout: You need to eat more-

[Name]: I'm not eating anything you make me. Not anymore.

Sprout: Honey-

[Name]: Not after what you did...

Sprout: ...

---

Sprout: I made you cupcakes.

[Name]: I don't want them...

Sprout: ...

[Name]: I'll make myself something to eat, okay? Just... leave me alone.

Sprout: Take the cupcakes first, and I'll consider it.

[Name]: No-

Sprout: Honey. Take. The. Cupcakes.

[Name]: ...got it...

--☆☆☆--

Tisha

Teagan: Dear, you seem quite stressed recently. What's wrong?

[Name]: A lot of things, honestly...

Teagan: ...Would you like me to throw a private tea party for you and me?

[Name]: I think I'd love that. Thank you, Teagan.

Teagan: Of course, dear. I'll make sure to get some snacks too.

[Name]: I-

Teagan: Not from Cosmo or Sprout. I know you've been uncomfortable around them lately. I'll ask Ginger.

[Name]: Thank you so much...

--☆☆☆--

[Name]: Hey Tisha, do you mind if I borrow a broom?

Tisha: Of course! Is your room in need of cleaning?

[Name]: Yep.

Tisha: If you told me where your room was, you know I'd be happy to clean it, right?

[Name]: Well, you clean everything. You need a break. Plus, my room's my only real spot of privacy. ...usually, at least.

Tisha: Huh?

[Name]: Nothing, nothing! It's just I like some privacy, and that's my room.

Tisha: Well, okay then. If you need anything else, let me know!

[Name]: Thanks, Tisha.

--☆☆☆--

Vee

Toodles

[Name]: Hey Toodles, is Rodger still telling you I'm basically a parent to you?

Toodles: Yeah! And you are!

[Name]: Toodles, I'm really not...

Toodles: You help fix my toys whenever they break and take me on adventures! That's a parent thing to do!

[Name]: ...How about our next adventure is something like "[Name] is more like a sibling"?

Toodles: Aw...

[Name]: ...or something else.

Toodles: Yay!

--☆☆☆--

[Name]: Vee, stop stalking me.

Vee: ...

[Name]: I know you're using the cameras to watch me. Stop it.

Vee: You know I won't no matter how much you ask, right?

[Name]: ...I'd rather try asking you.

Vee: My dear contestant, sometimes your naivety astounds me. And I already know practically everything about you.

[Name]: ...at least you're better than Dandy...

Vee: Say that again, will you?

[Name]: Yeah, no.

---

Vee: Have you been taking care of yourself?

Vee: I know you haven't been eating.

[Name]: I've been taking care of myself enough.

[Name]: ...If you leave me alone, I promise to eat something.

Vee: I'd rather be around to verify if you eat or not.

[Name]: ...I think you know that even if you aren't around you'll be able to know if I eat or not.

Vee: Hm... you're not as stupid as you often appear to be, my dear contestant.

[Name]: ...That's one of your most sweet compliments, Vee.

Vee: I am well aware.

--☆☆☆--

And, even if there's no canon interactions between Dandy and any Toon in game, I wanna try doing a couple Dandy interactions, hehe.

Yatta

Yatta: I HAVE BROUGHT YOU CANDY!!

[Name]: Jeez! Yatta, you gave me a mild heart attack-

Yatta: Well, must have been a HEART ATTACK OF JOY!!

[Name]: No, I think it was one of being startled.

Yatta: Well, candy WILL DEFINITELY cure a heart attack.

[Name]: I don't think so, but thanks anyways. I'd love some candy.

Yatta: HAHAHAHHA! YAY!!

[Name]: You're so lucky I have a sweet tooth, heh.

--☆☆☆--

--☆☆☆--

Dandy

Dandy: Need anything, dewdrop?

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well?

[Name]: I'm good, Dandy.

Dandy: ...

[Name]: Go away, please.

Dandy: ...Sometimes you infuriate me, dewdrop.

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well, I probably should go now. See you soon!

---

Dandy: Do you need a bandage, dewdrop? You seem bruised...

[Name]: I'm fine. I can't afford one anyways.

Dandy: You could always pay in other ways.

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well? You could even pay me back later~

[Name]: I'll pass...

Dandy: ...oh. How... unfortunate.

---

[Name]: Dandy... stay away from my room.

Dandy: ...

[Name]: Please...

Dandy: I'd rather not, dewdrop. It was awfully hard to find it after all.

[Name]: Dandy. I don't want to wake up to you standing there. Or worse...

Dandy: ...

Dandy: I'll consider it if you give me some tapes or... something else.

[Name]: ...okay...

--☆☆☆--

THE LAG I GOT WHEN WORKING ON THIS IS KILLING ME.

Oh well, though. This is fine.

[sightseertrespasser]

i think my favorite part is kind of just how it.... unfolds? it feels so natural. little bits and pieces accumulating into misunderstandings and understandings. people talking to eachother, just about whatever happens to come up. it very rarely to never feels like exposition, just a part of the world, and they are in it. the character interactions all feel in character and authentic, the way things have changed in this AU make so much sense, and all the little touches that add up together for the perfect blend of culture shock and misunderstanding. i LOVE crossover, outsider POV, isekai/transmigration, any kind of "this is not how its supposed to be, what is going on?" type stories but most fail to really properly draw out the premise. things are revealed too soon, or it feels too hamfisted how quickly or how long it takes, the flow isnt natural. the story either closes its eyes to drag it out, or skips over the shock entirely. this does neither. prowl has NO reference for jazz, and jazz has no reference for cybertronians. he is incredibly stressed, physically and mentally, and now that its come in the reality is terrifying and unsustainable, and he has to hope, he has to HOPE that this outwardly cold and calculating person he has just met will care enough, not just to keep him alive but keep him living. prowl will now have to deal with holding jazz life in his hands in a way so much different and yet so much more intimate than almost anyone else he has ever handled, and it will be work, constant, unending work.

i end up in a rereading rabbit hole because i think about the scene before that led to this scene, and the scene before, and the scene before, and each one is so satisfying alone but i go :DDD thinking about how we got there.

honestly, i know odds of survival cant continue forever, but damn if i dont wish it could

Man, that’s all just amazing to me. I’m so happy you like all the little hints and build up that goes into the big moments because that’s some of my favorite stuff to do.

Usually when I write, I’ll have the elements involved in the Big Moment already in mind and then work backwards to seed the clues throughout the lead up to have a greater payoff.

For one mini example, Prowl grumbling about his therapist which helped lay the groundwork for Rungs appearance in the story.

Additionally, it’s really, really fun looking at situations from different perspectives depending on the character and working out what they would and wouldn’t think of. For another example, Prowl is very quick to think that Jazz could be crashing, because he frequently experiences crashes.

Similarly, writing misunderstandings is a ton of fun when there’s legitimate reasons for two characters to have wildly different perspectives on something. There’s a saying that goes “you’re characters don’t know what genre they’re in.” And I want to write characters that are genuinely acting intelligently with the information they have available.

(Which is also why I had to give Jazz a concussion because otherwise he probably would’ve been waaay less complacent about a practical stranger leading him into unknown locations.”)

Jazz and Prowl dancing around their misunderstanding of each other was pretty difficult, as I personally hold that Prowl can solve any puzzle given enough time and that Jazz can make his own solution to any puzzle given enough time.

They’re both smart as hell, so as the writer I basically had to narratively trap them like rats in a maze to get the confrontation I wanted at the right moment.

Fun times and I’m glad it paid off!

[chimerafeathers]

#MIRAAAAAAAA #Mira #Siffrin #augh. She's so #she's so important in so many ways #hey op do you have any thoughts on how Mirabelle's first response to Sif knowing what her papers are is GRABBING HER SWORD #because that stunned me the first time it happened #and something about it pings as related to me here but I'm not quite sure what yet (via @cellar-whales)

YES ACTUALLY i was thinking about this scene too while i was writing!! just didn't have a great place to bring it up. but. i think it's an extension of her instinctual reactions (negative, aggressive, defensive) versus her needing to consciously choose to be trusting and interpret people's actions as friendly. in combination with her feelings about being teased, it was making me wonder if she's been directly bullied in the past (and how badly?), or if she's just always on edge about that being what's happening because she has trouble telling sometimes, and that's not her natural way of connecting with people.

she's gotten more comfortable with it lately! she even teases back and plays up the drama—i think a lot of her instances of being gently patronizing (ex. "Siffrin, you're so talented! You know so many things! Congrats, Siffrin!" during the tutorial, "It feels like we tamed a wild animal, doesn't it?" at the dictionary) aren't so totally sincere and more her way of getting in on the joke, since everyone else is comfortable with teasing each other in similar ways. she's trying to be playful—Siffrin realizes this in repeat tutorials, actually!

but when it's aimed at her, it's...uncomfortable. Don't tease me, Siffrin. she KNOWS (reassures herself, again and again) that this is friendly behavior, it's affectionate, it's not mean or hurtful (but what if it is)

so Siffrin is poking at these papers that she's really, existentially, long-term stressed about, on a day where she is really, short-term existentially stressed about possibly not having a future to worry about at all, and how the FUCK did he know what these papers are, actually, did they invade her privacy and snoop in her things somehow??? (yes, in fact, sorry about that Mira) how did they know? is he going to mock her for this?????

and then. Siffrin says something that implies that they don't REALLY know as much as she thought they did, so maybe he just caught sight of them while she was lost in thought looking at them here and made some assumptions, and is really sincerely offering to help her out because he cares about her, and mayyyyybe it WOULD be nice to get someone else's opinion since she's so lost here, and Siffrin is so worldly and experienced so they MUST know more than she does about this, right? (well. about that.)

my friend pointed out that she got really anxious in the tutorial situation about fighting Sadnesses, but didn't hesitate to pull her sword on a human being who's also her friend. he suggested that in the Sadness situation, the confrontation hadn't actually started yet and she was anxious in anticipation of it, while in the papers situation she felt like she was already IN the "combat" part of the interaction. i think it's also that...she probably hasn't had a lifetime of constantly fighting Sadnesses, which as far as I recall did exist pre-King, but not nearly as pervasively. but she has likely had a lifetime of specifically human conflicts and anxieties, and all the knee-jerk defensiveness and fear that come with that.

so maybe her recent months of constantly being in survival mode in a very physical, combat-oriented sense, plus her instinctual "THIS PERSON IS BEING MEAN TO ME AND I NEED TO PROTECT MYSELF FROM THAT" reaction, combine to having a combative defense response to interpersonal conflict. and since she's SO stressed, all that happens before she has a chance to talk herself down. end result.....drawing a weapon on a friend! oops!

i really love how intensely Mirabelle reacts to act 5 Siffrin botched friendquest.

Isabeau is mostly operating out of concern and, eventually, hurt. he already knows something’s up before Siffrin gets to him. he knows something truly awful must be wrong for Siffrin to be lashing out like they are, and as soon as he can’t handle the situation anymore, he leaves and asks (with strained cheer) for time apart to cool off.

most of Bonnie’s anger comes from being upset and afraid that Siffrin would willingly put themself in danger for no reason, when that’s exactly why they’ve been so unsettled since the eye incident. they hate that Siffrin values their own life so little, they hate that they’re the cause of any pain or loss for him, and here he is, putting himself in that situation AGAIN. on purpose. it’s loud and explosive, but it’s familiar, too, being “hated” by Bonnie for this reason.

Odile pushes, and keeps pushing, until her concern overwhelms Siffrin and they strike where they know she’s most vulnerable. she gets physical, just for a moment, grabbing his collar before controlling herself and letting go. her fury shuts down into cold detachment, and she walks away.

but Mirabelle—dear, sweet, gentle, loving Mirabelle, “the most wonderful being on earth,” with her secret “ruthless side” that largely involves lightly badmouthing people behind their backs and then apologizing—slaps them. immediately.

and then COMPLETELY RENOUNCES THEIR FRIENDSHIP.

not just “we’re not friends anymore,” but “we were never friends in the first place.”

that’s!!! pretty extreme!!!!

of course, she ALSO starts by asking what’s wrong. something must have happened for him to act like this. but as soon as Siffrin brushes her off, she jumps past that line of questioning and dives headfirst into re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about them as a a person.

if he could say something like that to her and not see anything wrong with it, then she was wrong to treat him as a friend, wrong to read camaraderie into his teasing, wrong to think they must care about them all under their aloof demeanor.

that’s how Mirabelle phrases it—“I was wrong about you”—but i think that there’s a hidden layer of I was right about you, too.

she talks about the way they tease her like she had to convince herself that he was doing it in a friendly way. she says they talk like they “know better than her” like that’s a thought she’s had for a LONG time.

“Always soooo mysterious, Siffrin, always talking as if you're better than me! As if you know me!!! But you don't, Siffrin!!! You're just as lost and useless as I am!!! So stop!!! Talking!!! As if you know me!!!!!!”

none of this comes across as a new, sudden way to view Siffrin for her. it doesn’t shock or confuse her. it makes her angry, defensive, almost like she was waiting for something like this to happen at some point. the feeling of resentment, frustration, jealousy, being patronized and condescended to—this is something she’s been actively pushing down and rejecting this entire time, but they’ve given her ample reason for it all to boil to the surface. violently.

Mirabelle’s kindness is not inherent or easy. it’s a choice she’s making. she treats Siffrin warmly because she gives him the benefit of the doubt—refusing to act based on anxiety-fueled, cynical speculation, and reassuring herself that his actions are driven by care and friendship even if she can’t quite see it.

“I was wrong about you” doesn’t mean she always and without question believed them to be a fundamentally kind, caring person from the beginning—it’s that her first, colder instincts were right, and she was wrong to convince herself otherwise.

never mind that she asked what was wrong at first. she barely gives them time to speak in their own defense, to explain what they really meant by what they said. all of her suppressed doubts and frustrations are getting aired out now, now that all the trust she’d so deliberately placed in him has been betrayed. her pain feels bigger than this singular moment, so when she hurts him back, she makes sure it extends back through the entirety of their relationship for him, too.

“You're awful. You're not my friend, not my ally, not anything. You never were.”

like the others, she goes back to the clocktower and tells Siffrin not to come back until later. but there’s a finality to the way she ends this confrontation that isn’t quite there with the others. Isabeau and Odile reach their breaking point and remove themselves from the situation, asking for space to cool off but still somewhat leaving the door open for Siffrin to tell them what’s really going on at some point. Mirabelle is the only one who tries to fully cut ties—after everything else she says, her “I don’t want to see you until tonight” reads to me somewhat as “I don’t want to see you anymore unless I have to.”

I can’t wait to never see you again.

even back at the clocktower, Mirabelle doesn’t really defend Siffrin’s place in the party when Odile suggests leaving them behind out of concern for their trustworthiness on the most important day of the journey. Isabeau and Bonnie protest out of sentimentality and faith in Siffrin’s abilities and connection to them, and Mirabelle agrees, but…

“I agree, but... B-But would he even agree to come with us, still? Maybe they won't even come back tonight...”

she doesn’t say much outside of that. maybe the stutter and hesitation here are signs of regret about how things happened, but she lacks Isabeau and Bonnie’s confidence that Siffrin even wants to come back to them in the first place. she doesn’t trust that their bond was real anymore. maybe it never was in the first place, or maybe she broke whatever was there herself.

and she’s still mad when they finally catch up to Siffrin at the King! and she makes sure Siffrin knows that—after saving them, assuring him that he no longer needs to fight, that they’re all there for him. she still cares, of course she still cares—she’s still hurt, too, but they can figure that part out once there’s less world-ending stuff going on.

she’s the first to say that they all reserve the right to still be angry at Siffrin later—and that they’ve already forgiven him.

she’s also the first to say we want to stay with you, too. it’s not just you.

she was wrong! she thought they didn’t care but they care so much, it’s overwhelming, it’s world-ending.

i think she’s gonna be wallowing in guilt post-canon the moment she remembers what she said and did TO SIFFRIN and not just what Siffrin said to her. especially now that she knows Siffrin’s exact hangups, and especially especially if she figures out what Siffrin was trying to say.

they put themself through hell out of loneliness and fear that none of the others cared about him the way he cared about them, he was going insane from repetition and exhaustion and hunger and trying to keep them all safe and together, and all they did in the midst of all that was say something kind of mean to her one time (that turned out to not even be MEANT to be mean it was supposed to be HELPFUL they just SAID IT ALL WRONG) and she SLAPPED THEM? and told him that they WEREN’T FRIENDS AT ALL??? how could she!!! she should have known better!! what they said hurt a lot but still!!!

so when they eventually manage to try to talk about it, they end up almost in, like, a guilt competition.

Mirabelle apologizing for how she reacted, that she shouldn’t have yelled or hit him, that she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts that way out of anger and she’s sorry that she made Siffrin expect that reaction from her, she should have known better and believed in him more and they only messed up like that because they were losing their mind in a time loop but what’s HER excuse—

and Siffrin going nononono stop I deserved it—(HUH DON’T SAY THAT NO YOU DIDN’T)—and that he should never have said such awful things to her, ever, and she was under so much pressure already with the weight of the country and everyone’s lives and futures and her religion and their whole party counting on her to do this impossible task because she’s the only one who can, all this unbearable expectation and hope crushing her, and they KNEW that but they thought they could skip to the ending as though her feelings didn’t matter at all, like helping her wasn’t as important as saving a little time—

until they’re just. in tears together, apologizing for all the horrible things they did in between complimenting each other’s strength and kindness and resilience and how much they admire each other and saying that no, everything you did was completely understandable, actually, the only one who sucks here is me. which neither of them will accept coming from the other!!

they’re so similar, in ways they couldn’t really understand, before.

warm, affectionate, perfect Mirabelle, the resolute hero, a beacon of compassion and hope for all those around her, who wears her heart on her sleeve, her fear making her courage shine all the brighter—nothing like the insignificant, forgettable Siffrin, too terrified to be known, too fragile to touch, too selfish and disgusting to bear letting go.

cool, mysterious, unflappable Siffrin, the worldly traveler, as charming and silly as they are confident and skilled, who brushed off losing an eye like it was nothing, accepting the risks of this journey with barely more than a shrug—nothing like the anxious, stagnant, underserving Mirabelle, a fraud and a nobody crumbling under the weight of a mission too important to be entrusted to someone like her, doubting herself, doubting her friends, doubting her mentor, doubting her faith, too weak and brittle to bend and change the way the world needs her to without breaking.

not worth bothering others with their problems. they should be able to handle this alone. stay positive, stay calm. breathe in, and out.

they’ll struggle with it, still—the hiding, the minimizing—but now, they understand each other a little better. they can hold each other accountable for what they leave unsaid.

it’ll get easier, eventually. they have plenty of time.

[orangepeelknives]

good morning willmack nation now that the szn is over i think it is time to revisit the "who would you take in a zombie apocalypse" tiktok it is soooooo important to me for characterization.

nearly everybody saying theyre taking will with them is sooo...

does he have any particularly useful survival skills? no. would he be helpful in any way? also no. would he actively make things worse?? extremely likely. but everyyyyybody and their MOM wants princess diana with them. sharks personality hire as FUCK! extremely reaffirming to my belief that will is friends with the whole team and universally adored and the only reason mack ever hangs out with ANY of them is because they invite will and he's like okay :)))) mack and i will be there in 20 just gotta go pick him up rq :)))))) and theyre just like......ok sure. you do that. you bring mack.

also reaffirming to my belief that mack is a BITCH to be around without will also around. this is lowkey completely canon it's so obvious from sooooo many different sources (aka the tiktok awards media, aka the iihf media, aka mack literally flagging will down on the bench for him to solve his crashouts for him) but still this is important reaffirmation here. will is the bratlin celebrini WRANGLER and everybody knows it. and he's socializing mack one team hangout at a time.

ALSO also, will is quicker to tak about just him and mack. hanging out just him and mack. in his brodie interview, him saying mack and him are the young guys on the team. ect. MACK is always bringing up hanging out in GROUPS, groups with unspecified mystery people. """the guys""". mack went to college when he was 17, he was the best player on the team by FAR no competition. the only person he really knew going in was his older brother, who he is leagues ahead of. im not saying that they arent close but if u are aiden celebrini you do NAWTTT wanna spend every waking moment with your 17 year old special boy little brother with the social skills of a feral cat who is also outpacing you completely in the most important part of your life. first overall pick, youngest hobey baker winner, second coming of crosby....yeah theres resentment there when it's questionable if you even wouldve gotten DRAFTED if not for your familial connections. also, we knowwwww how mack is on the bench with no WSH to wrangle him. a DIVA. a BRAT. getting into it with your fifth year senior captain at the age of 17????? mack was NAWT being best friended by the BU hockey team i can tell you that much.

i am of the opinion that mack spent a lotttt of time On The Outside. before college, in college, ect. a lawtttt of time not being invited to parties or hangouts or playdates or whatever. he's better than everybody and he knows it. timeline wise he was ahead of everybody too. and he doesnt have the social skills of one WSH. he's not locker room darling. this is gonna make anybody insecure but especiallyyyyy somebody who already probably has a fucked up attachment style. IMO, this is a pretty big insecurity for mack, which is why he is always emohasizing the group thing. he probably is also a little aware of the fact that will is the Favorite, therefore bringing it up more in interviews, ect. will, not insecure about his position in a group at all, always the It Boy, always in the in crowd, universally adored and doted on and mothered, doesnt even really think about this, its a given that he's always on the guest list. therefore it's not gonna be something he ever feels the need to emphasize.

anyways. thank you zombie apocalypse tiktok. thank you shradmin.

[iluminatka16]

"From beyond the stars" Chapter 3

Chapter 2 [Chapter List]

Summary: Why it's not worth insulting the Emperor and a conversation with the main culprit of the whole Heresy, Horus.

Tags: isekai, ending up in a fictional universe, primarchxf!oc, found family trope, emperor and horus make an apperance

Warnings: mention of failed suicide attempt, cursing, typical canon violence, mention of child abuse

Word count: 2773 Edit: FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHIG THAT IS HOLY AND UNHOLY, I ACCIDENTALY PUT FEW WRONG TAGS, AND TUMBLR ISN'T ALLOWING ME TO DELETE THEM (*screams of despair*). no, this isn't emperor x reader fic

Unfortunately, she was not given peace of mind this time either. Before either brother had time to answer her, heavy rhythmic footsteps sounded behind them. Yelena turned toward the sound and sighed quietly. It seemed that Custodian had returned to his post. But since he was walking towards them, it meant that either they were in trouble for talking to her, or the Neoth wanted something from her.

“The Emperor is expecting you.” briefly without explanation. Of course, she could have tried to inquire, but she knew perfectly well that it would have accomplished nothing. The bodyguard of the most powerful man in the galaxy probably didn't know himself what exactly was going on. Because why share his plans with anyone? What could have gone wrong? Let's think. Ah well! All this mystery led to a fucking heresy and Neoth looking like a zombie from The Walking Dead.

“Looks like I'm in trouble. Farawell gentlemen, if I survive then I definitely need to have a chat with you.” Yelena extended her finger in front of her and moved it to none other than the primarch, after whom the aforementioned heresy was named. “Especially with you Horus.”

“Horus? I thought most baseline humans call me My Lord.”

Yelena only smiled.

The road through the golden corridors was a torture. Lack of sleep, hunger, anxiety. All this made her think she was going crazy. She had barely been here, and she had managed to insult the fucking Emperor himself and break his ban. Three times! She was not supposed to talk to the primarchs, and she talked to three of them. And also with Curz. It's a good thing the Heresy of Horus hadn't happened yet, because if she had met that version of Konrad… well, she still remembered the passage in the book about him, where he decided to murder almost the entire crew of the ship and torture the only survivor. On top of that, there was still that fucking Custodian. Not only did he not react when the Night Haunter followed her footsteps into the garden, even though the primarchs were also forbidden to go near her, but he also walked away from the site of his post-

Wait a moment.

Custodian is no ordinary soldier who simply runs away from his post to go play cards. Even if his family was dying in front of him, he wouldn't move unless the Emperor himself gave the order… THAT BASTARD.

The door to the spacious study closed behind her, and Yelena was left alone with Neoth. The man was staring at a holographic map projector of some planetary system in front of him, not even raising his eyes to look at her.

“You set me up.” Yelena didn't care about the titles at this point, feeling her rage boiling inside her. She thought that she was indeed going mad from lack of sleep.

“You said they could be saved. Testing your words was the only option. Admittedly, my plans for your first confrontation looked a bit different, but you handled everything yourself by running out into the garden. It was a matter of time before Curze followed you. From what I noticed, you are like a magnet for my sons. I was honestly surprised that none of them broke my prohibition and entered the chamber I assigned to you. But I must admit that you have done remarkably well.”

“Talking to him was "doing remarkably well"? He didn't take anything from my words, an-”

“Konrad spent the whole night talking to you.” The Emperor interrupted her, finally lifting his gaze from above the map. “That's more than his brothers accomplished in their years of Crusade together. And you managed to get him interested in just a dozen minutes of discussion together.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Since you were able to get to Konrad, it should go easily with the other primarchs. You know their mentality, past and future. You know what awaits them.”

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Yelena slowly approached the table. She didn't even think about her next words.

“Let's say I'll stop the heresy, which might be difficult, because there's a chance I'll accidentally make things worse. Great, you have your generals, you're not trapped in a golden chair, undergoing torture for ten thousand years. You've conquered the entire cosmos. What's next? Are you going to get rid of them like you got rid of the Thunder Warriors?”

Neoth slowly straightened up. Probably it was the action of his power, but Yelena felt an unpleasant shudder run through her body under his gaze. She felt so small, so insignificant. Like a bug that he could trample with his shoe. Well, and here his was a mistake. She was so familiar to this feeling, that it only fueled her rage.

“Careful…”

“Because what? Are you going to kill me?” Yelena hissed, clenching her hands into fists. “Just like you killed those who opposed you? Because so far I am the only one who knows the exact course of events of the heresy. You don't know them, otherwise you wouldn't have ended up the way you ended up in the books with the whole Imperium going to shit.”

“Don't overestimate yourself. You are not as important as you think. The fact that you're still alive is due solely to my grace. One more word and you'll end up in a cell, where I'll extract this information from you with torture.”

“Even knowing the exact course of the heresy, you wouldn't be able to stop it. Do you know why? Because you are an bad father who sees, men who blindly obey you, as tools in your Great Fucking Plan.”

After that, there was only pain. Yelena felt like her body went up in flames. Blood gushed from her nose and filled her throat, running down her chin. Suddenly standing became too painful and before she knew it, she was collapsed onto the floor, convulsing in pain. She had no idea what was happening, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. It was hard to tell how long it lasted, but suddenly everything went quiet. She was still on the floor, choking on her own blood, and standing over her was none other than Neoth.

“Maybe the world you were born into is much softer and merciful, but there are different rules here. I have killed for lesser offenses than loudly insulting me. You are weak. You are a nobody. And killing you will be like squashing an ant with a shoe.”

As if to confirm her words, Yelena felt his boot resting on her head. She wasn't stupid. She knew that he could easily split her skull, mix bones and brain. One push. That was all it took. The fact that he hadn't done it yet meant that he was giving her a chance to apologize. For her to beg for mercy.

The problem was that she felt no fear. Only rage. It was as if she was again a child being beaten by her father using his belt, trying to break her. If he wasn't able to do it, she'd sooner die than let a fucking fictional character do this. Even if she was going to die for it.

“And you're an arrogant prick whose own personality made all the perpetuals run away from him, then his sons, who loved him above life, betrayed him, and his Great Plan went to shit.”

Yelena was panting like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her eyes were wide open, and although her view was partially obscured by the man's boot, she stared ahead with almost burning gaze. Her bloody face was contorted in a grimace that she had worn more than once when dealing with bad fathers.

“I can kill you at any second, and yet you are not afraid. All I can sense from you is rage. You are filled with hatred. You say I am arrogant, yet look at yourself. Too proud to yield even in the face of death.”

Yelena did not answer him. She merely clenched her jaw, waiting for a push to fix what should have happened when she jumped off that bridge. But to her surprise, no, shock, instead she felt the pressure on her head disappear and a strong hand grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. Oh fuck, how painful it was. Her muscles forced to move ignited, drawing a broken whimper from her mouth.

“The pain will go away soon.”

Easy to fucking say. Yelena had no idea what was going on until someone pushed her to sit on a armchair, clearly made for the measurements of primarchs, and a silk handkerchief was placed in her hand.

“Get yourself in order.” The Emperor muttered, resting his hands on the beautifully decorated table. “You mentioned two times that… how did you put it? The Imperium went to shit. What is the fate of humanity after my sons betrayed me?”

Yelena thought for a moment about telling him to fuck off after the way he treated her, but decided she didn't feel like testing her luck any further. “Ten thousand years have passed, you are immobilized on the Golden Throne, the Imperium is attacked from all sides. It is ruled by corrupt fanatics and the Inquisition… ah yes, the Inquisition are also corrupt fanatics.” With a quick movement, she wiped the blood from under her nose and moved her handkerchief to her chin. “Chaos is attacking with new power, on top of that new enemies have appeared - Tau, Necrons, Tyranids. You almost became the fifth god of chaos, and ten thousand years of constant torture probably destroyed your psyche to the point that you were probably no longer yourself. And also they made you into a god in whose name they kill others or even themselves.”

Fucking Lorgar.

Neoth nodded slowly. “What do you expect in return for your help?”

“Excuse me?"

“You don't want to help me kill potential traitors, so I expect you to help me stop them from descending into chaos. Death threats don't work on you, so I'm asking what you want from me in exchange for your help.”

Yelena thought for a second. “First of all, nothing will succeed without your help. Be their father, even if you don't see them as your sons. Teach them about the threat from the chaos gods, explain Warp to Magnus, help Konrad with his madness. Just… take care of them. Second - when the Great Crusade is over, don't kill them. Let them live in peace, in the way they choose. Third… if you decide to kill me after all this is over, I ask that you do it quickly. Don't send me to the Astra Militarum to die there, just kill me in my sleep. So that I don't have to suffer.”

“You're not going to beg for your life? You know that I am able to make you a lord of some rich pleasure planet, or give you a place in one of my offices. Why don't you beg for it?”

Yelena shrugged her shoulders. “You will do what you think is right. I only ask that if you decide you want to kill me, that you spare me the suffering.”

“It's a deal then. I will change my attitude toward my sons, and your death will not be painful. You have my word.”

She had no idea if he was lying. He had done it many times in the books, so she could expect pretty much anything. This time, however, she did not question him. If, after what she told him, he still decided, to be stubborn, there was nothing she could do. They talked for a good hour, where she briefly had to explain to him what tyranids and tau were, but in the end, perhaps seeing that she was actually barely keeping her eyes due to the exhaustion, he took pity on her, ordering the Custodian to escort her to her chamber. Unfortunately, she couldn't have a moment of peace here either, as she was caught on the way by none other than Horus. Primarch, of course, demanded an explanation, which she refused to give him until they were both in her chamber.

“Can you explain why you insist so much that we talk in private? You run like a rabbit from me.” Horus began, watching as Yelena sat down on the bed

“Because if anyone were to hear that you were responsible for the heresy named after you, which almost killed your father, placing his almost corpse on the golden throne and led to the death of most of the primarchs, one of us would be in a lot of trouble.” The girl fixed her green eyes on him, silently hissing in pain as she moved her aching body a little deeper into the bed.

“Oh”

“Oh, definitely. The corruption wasn't necessarily your fault, but what happened next… well. The death of trillions of people, with the Imperium in shambles. Also you killed Sanguinius.”

Horus stared at her in silence. She wasn't sure if it was due to disbelief in her words, or if he simply ran out of words.

“How do I know you're telling the truth? That sounds absurd. Even leaving aside my loyalty to my father, I would never hurt my closest friend.”

“The gods of chaos make mush out of your mind. And why would I lie? It was your father who first tried to boil my blood alive and then almost smashed my head with his shoe. All because I called him out and refused to give him your name, among other things, as a potential traitor.”

Silent footsteps sounded and after a moment the mattress next to her depressed downwards under Horus' weight.

“Why did you risk so much? And if it's true… what made me turn my back on my family?”

“Well… I think each of you has a chance to avoid this fate.” Yelena took one strand of hair between her fingers, trying to brush away the dried blood that was on the tip. “Your fall to chaos was the fault of Erebus and Lorgar. You were seriously wounded in battle and a ritual was performed on your dying body. Erebus appeared to you as someone you trusted, unfortunately I don't remember the name, and showed you a vision that after the Great Crusade was successful, the Emperor would rule as a god and kill the primarchs as soon as they were no longer useful. You believed this vision, and then after talking to Erebus, you joined the chaos gods.”

“Lorgar? How long has he been a traitor? Has he already become one?”

“Has the Monarchia been destroyed?”

“No.”

“So he hasn't become one yet. I have no idea exactly where in the timeline we are, but incydent in Monarchia was actually the beginning of what I know as the Horus Heresy. Erebus, on the other hand… well, he's been a pawn of the chaos gods basically since he was a child and is currently manipulating Lorgar.”

Another moment of silence from Horus. “We need to get rid of him, but we can't openly kill him without evidence. I'm guessing that father prefers that your… origins remain a secret, so I can't use your words as evidence. I also can't attack and kill him without reason, after all he is an acolyte of Lorgar.”

“We need to talk to your brother. And actually with all the brothers. If the original heresy can be stopped, there is a chance that another of its variants will happen. From what you said, Lion is already furious with your father for giving me so much freedom.”

“Don't worry about Lion, I'll talk to him.” Horus got out of bed and walked toward the door. “You'll have a chance to talk to the other brothers, because they're all coming together for the great feast father is throwing to celebrate the tremendous victories during the Great Crusade. I, Sangunius, Lion and Curze arrived first, but from what I've heard, Magnus, Guilliman, Vulkan and Perturabo should show up in a few days. The rest will show up within a month.”

“Oh Lord…” Bonus: The collage I created for Yelena. Yes, she was a singer and performed in the theater.

Author's note: I would like to apologize for going so long without a chapter and for this one being so short. A lot has happened in my life, and college has done to me what Vulcan did to Konrad using his teleporter, which was also a hammer. In addition, the writer's block is still biting me in the ass. The plot begins to slowly unfold, and I guarantee that not every primarch will be so friendly (calling Perturapo a “manchild”? what could go wrong). Tag list: @beckyninja @athenaremo @justfreakynothingelse @lukarus @synfiction @thatnightlamp @pirateshippers-first-mate @amoelcafe12345 @zyra-7 @walking-natural-disaster @vithralith @ihasnopen @mooniequeen @kit-williams @roxygobyebye