#and they are working on their communication and their trauma

[plutosunshine]

What trauma can become your power? Chiron in the houses

Chiron in the 1st house

Chiron in the first house signifies a deep inner wound related to personal identity, self-esteem, and the sense of self. This may stem from trauma experienced in early life when a person felt inadequate, rejected, or misunderstood in their unique expressions. Individuals with this placement often struggle to justify their existence, prove their worth, or meet others’ expectations to earn love and recognition.

However, this wound can become a source of incredible strength. Over time, individual learns to accept themselves as they are, with all their imperfections, vulnerabilities, and unique traits. This journey of self-discovery and acceptance not only helps heal their wound but also inspires others who face similar inner conflicts. Chiron in the first house makes a person highly sensitive to issues of individuality and self-expression, and their personal struggle with these themes becomes a powerful tool for helping others.

Chiron in the 2nd house

Chiron in the second house often indicates a wound related to self-worth, self-esteem, and material security. People with this placement may experience feelings of inadequacy, inner shame, or fear from an early age, believing they are undeserving of abundance or stability. They might have faced situations where their value was questioned by others, or they struggled to identify what makes them unique and worthy.

However, this wound carries the potential for profound transformation. As individual begins to work on recognizing their true worth, they can develop a powerful sense of inner resilience and learn to view the material world as a tool for growth rather than a source of fear. By overcoming self-doubt, they can become an inspiring example for others, demonstrating that a person’s value is not determined by external circumstances but emerges from inner confidence and self-acceptance.

Chiron in the second house has the power to transform this wound into a source of strength, helping the individual not only to build their self-esteem but also to guide others in discovering their true worth. Such a person may develop a unique gift for healing issues related to money, abundance, and self-worth, both in their own life and in the lives of those around them.

Chiron in the 3rd house

Chiron’s wound in the third house is associated with themes of communication, learning, self-expression, and interactions with the immediate environment, including siblings, neighbors, and close acquaintances. This placement may point to painful experiences related to the inability to be heard or understood, fear of saying the wrong thing, feelings of intellectual inadequacy, or traumas in relationships with relatives. A person with this placement often struggles with internal conflicts around expressing their thoughts and ideas, feeling that their voice does not matter or that their words are not taken seriously.

However, this wound can become a source of strength when the individual finds ways to overcome their inner fears and begins to see their experience as a unique gift. This transformative process often involves recognizing the value of their own voice and the power of words. Such individuals are capable of developing exceptional communication skills and becoming sources of support and inspiration for others. They may excel as teachers, writers, counselors, or lecturers, helping others overcome fears and learn self-expression. Their early pain teaches them to be attentive listeners and empathetic conversationalists, sensitive to the subtleties of communication and able to create a space for meaningful dialogue.

Chiron in the 4th house

Chiron’s wound in the fourth house is associated with matters of home, family, roots, and emotional security. This can manifest as a sense of lacking warmth, acceptance, or support during childhood, feeling alienated from one’s relatives, or an inability to find a place that feels like “home.” A person with this placement may experience an internal conflict between the desire to put down roots and the fear of being rejected or emotionally vulnerable.

However, the potential for transformation arises through working with this wound. By overcoming these inner fears and learning to create a sense of home within themselves, the individual can become a source of support for others, particularly for those who face similar challenges. They learn to transform pain into strength, developing a deep understanding of emotional needs and creating a space where others feel safe and accepted.

This wound becomes a source of strength when the individual recognizes that their ability to be empathetic, caring, and supportive has grown out of their own pain. This experience helps them build strong connections with others, grounded in genuine emotional depth and sincerity. A person with Chiron in the fourth house can become a symbol of healing energy within the context of family and emotional relationships.

Chiron in the 5th house

Chiron in the fifth house is often associated with a deep wound related to self-expression, creativity, love, and inner joy. People with this placement may feel unworthy of being in the spotlight, fear rejection for their talents, or struggle with insecurity in matters of personal fulfillment. This can manifest as a sense that their creativity is not valuable enough or as painful experiences connected to romantic relationships.

However, this wound, when worked through, can become a source of incredible strength. Those with Chiron in the fifth house have the potential to gain profound insight into how to help others embrace their uniqueness, support them in finding joy, and express their creativity. They can become mentors, inspiring others to overcome their fears and be true to themselves. This transformation not only makes them stronger but also more empathetic to the suffering of others, allowing them to use their wounds as a tool for healing, both for themselves and for those around them.

Chiron in the 6th house

Chiron’s wound in the sixth house is associated with a sense of inadequacy in daily life, service to others, and care for one’s body and health. People with this placement may experience inner conflicts stemming from feelings that they are not good enough in their work, that their efforts are undervalued, or that they are unable to care for themselves or others in the way they desire. This can manifest as chronic anxiety, difficulties establishing a healthy routine, or a tendency toward perfectionism that drains their energy.

However, this wound can become a powerful source of strength. A person with Chiron in the sixth house has the ability to transform their struggles into profound wisdom and an understanding of how to navigate daily challenges. They can become excellent mentors, healers, or specialists who help others organize their lives, overcome work-related difficulties, or improve their health. This experience teaches them to embrace imperfection in themselves and others and use it as a foundation for growth.

The core strength here lies in approaching oneself and others with compassion, recognizing the value of even the smallest efforts, and helping others find harmony in their everyday lives. Such individuals become a source of inspiration, demonstrating that wounds do not define us but can serve as a foundation for meaningful service that brings joy and purpose.

Chiron in the 7th house

Chiron’s wound in the seventh house is often associated with painful experiences in relationships and challenges related to finding a balance between oneself and a partner. This can manifest as feelings of rejection, disappointment in love, fear of intimacy, or a constant need to please others at the expense of one’s own needs.

However, like any Chiron wound, this trauma carries immense potential for healing and transformation. By recognizing their fears, failures, and behavioral patterns, individuals with this placement can develop deep empathy, wisdom, and the ability to support others through emotional and personal crises. This wound becomes a source of strength when they learn to harmonize with themselves, find a balance between independence and closeness, and build healthy relationships based on respect and mutual understanding. In doing so, they become an example for others, inspiring deeper and more conscious connections.

Chiron in the 8th house

Chiron in the eighth house often indicates deep emotional wounds related to themes of loss, transformation, intimacy, or matters of life and death. This can manifest through painful experiences such as betrayal, fear of losing control, or difficulties trusting others in close relationships. However, these very wounds can become a source of incredible strength and inner growth if the person is willing to recognize their significance and transform their experience.

Healing pain in the eighth house is possible through embracing vulnerability and exploring the power of transformation. This process can turn the fear of change into an ability not only to accept transitions but also to help others navigate through periods of crisis. People with Chiron in the eighth house can become remarkable mentors or healers, possessing a unique ability to understand others’ pain on a deep level and show them paths to healing. Their strength is born from the realization that true transformation begins with accepting the darker aspects of oneself, ultimately leading to inner freedom and empowerment.

Chiron in the 9th house

Chiron’s wound in the ninth house is associated with deep scars in the realms of higher education, philosophy, faith, the search for meaning, and travel. A person may feel an inner conflict or insecurity in their beliefs, doubt their own knowledge, or experience the pain of being unable to find their place within a worldview system. This wound often manifests as a sense of rejection of their ideas or beliefs or as a feeling of losing connection with something greater—be it cultural, spiritual, or intellectual belonging.

However, it is precisely through working with this wound that a person can gain immense strength. Chiron teaches us to heal our pain by sharing our experiences with others. The wound of the ninth house can become a source of wisdom if one recognizes that their unique journey, even if it has been full of doubt and searching, can inspire and guide others. They may become a teacher, philosopher, or guide, helping others find meaning in life and expand the boundaries of their worldview. By accepting their wound, the person becomes open to a diversity of perspectives, which makes them incredibly wise and tolerant. Thus, Chiron’s wound in the ninth house transforms into a source of strength, helping not only the individual but also those around them, building bridges between different cultures, religions, or philosophical systems.

Chiron in the 10th house

Chiron in the 10th house indicates wounds related to social status, career, achievements, and attitudes toward authority. This may manifest as a feeling of inability to achieve success or fear of responsibility. Such individuals often face criticism from society or loved ones, which can lead to self-doubt and uncertainty about their professional abilities. However, this vulnerability can become their strength if they recognize their fears and transform them into wisdom.

By overcoming the inner conflict tied to self-esteem and societal recognition, a person with Chiron in the tenth house can become a mentor to others, helping them overcome their own professional and personal barriers. This wound can provide a deep understanding of the nature of leadership, teach the balance between ambition and emotional needs, and show how to maintain resilience in challenging circumstances. Thus, Chiron in the tenth house has the potential to transform the pain into a source of inspiration and support for others.

Chiron in the 11th house

Chiron in the eleventh house indicates a wound related to themes of friendship, acceptance in groups, social ideals, and a sense of belonging to a community. A person with this placement may feel isolated or misunderstood within a collective, face betrayal by friends, or experience the sense that their uniqueness prevents them from being part of something larger. However, this wound can become a source of growth and strength. By working through their experiences, the individual learns to value their individuality and use it to build harmonious connections with others.

Chiron in this house grants the ability to mentor or inspire others, particularly those who feel “different” or out of place. The trauma associated with rejection can transform into the gift of creating communities where mutual understanding, respect, and support flourish. Thus, personal experiences of pain become the foundation for helping others find their place in the world.

Chiron in the 12th house

Chiron in the twelfth house often indicates a profound emotional wound connected to feelings of loneliness, separation from the world, or the suppression of emotions. This may stem from experiences of loss, hidden fears, or repressed traumas that a person carries within themselves, often without fully realizing it. The wound of Chiron here is tied to the subconscious, to what is hidden from the external world, and sometimes the person may feel lost, not understanding where their pain and anxiety originate.

However, this very wound can become an incredible source of strength and transformation. If a person becomes aware of their inner fears and wounds, they can learn to work with them, transforming them into compassion and wisdom. Chiron in the twelfth house offers the potential for deep healing—not only of oneself but also of others. Such a person can become a guide for those who are suffering, possessing a unique gift for delving into the hidden corners of the soul and helping others understand and embrace their shadows.

The key to turning the wound into strength is accepting one’s vulnerability and exploring the inner world through meditation, psychological work, or spiritual practices. Chiron in this house teaches that weakness can become a powerful resource for inner growth, and through serving and helping others, a person can find profound meaning and personal healing.

[starbylers]

Confession I kind of don’t like the suggestion that the way in which they will show Mike liking Will is having him constantly worry over him/be desperate to save him from something. The reason Mike & Will work and would be better together than Mike & El is because of their friendship, I don’t want Mleven 2.0 where the only reason people perceive them as in love is because of the life and death dramatics. I want emotional support and strong communication and teamwork between them (I also want flirting like in 4x04 but that’s besides the point). In s3 Mike fusses so much over El making her own choices about using her powers that it suffocates her, she literally has to tell him to stop it and to “trust [her]”. And aside from that all he does 24/7 is worry she’s going to die and/or abandon him, it’s nauseatingly repetitive and says nothing about their actual romantic relationship. I don’t want that for Byler. I want Will to tell Mike “I need to do X” (X being risky/dangerous thing) and for Mike to say “okay, talk to me. tell me how I can help. how are we going to do this?”. Maybe we’ll get it both ways depending on if Will tries to do something really stupid like sacrifice himself, and obviously Mike being a bit on edge in general because of Will likely being Vecna’s main target makes sense, but I just want their relationship to be mostly focused on showcasing their actual bond and why it’s so special instead of forcing this state of panic onto Mike that is too reminiscent of his trauma-induced dynamic with El which is half of why I need that ship to be over in the first place

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Your ask made me remember the request I was going to send it to you but forgot

hard to pick one to ask out of my drafts (very tempted to ask a PriceGhost omegaverse thought) BUT I decided to go with this cliché ask:

During a mission it snowed in, trapping Price and Nikolai in the safehouse, maybe one of them is experiencing hypothermia and needed to be warm up...in one way or another ( ͡º ꒳ ͡º) you can decide if they go 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 or not!! I'll eat up anything you write either way

love yo stuff, stay hydrated! also manifesting max grains and zero pain for ya gym days 💪

Nik has to save Price from hypothermia, but with their bodies pressed so close, they can't resist each other.

cw: omegaverse, alpha Nik, omega Price, dubious consent in the sense Price is embarrassed by his body's reaction, clearly has some trauma, and it's kinda a stressful situation, and Nik gentles him? But they're into each other. Uncertain/open ending as Price clearly has a lot to work through. Sorry, Gomz, this got a whole 7k away from me...

The snow had come in so quickly. That was the problem with operating this far north; the weather was unpredictable, and when it turned it took no prisoners. Nik had managed to get them to an old house he knew about just on the outskirts of a small town. One of many old estates once owned by a soviet officer, its wine cellar, opulent decorations, and sprawling grounds all that remained of the bloated symbol of hypocrisy. It had long since been abandoned by the locals; too much trouble to repair, and everything of immediate value had been gutted.

While Nik had tried to get one of the old radios they found to work, John had been shovelling snow around the generators in an effort to get close enough to crank them up, but the storm had eventually defeated him and driven him back inside. Not even the legendary Bravo Six could overcome nature when she dug her heels in. 

Nik wasn't immediately worried when John stepped into the study where they'd set up a temporary camp, shaking the snow from his carrier vest and coat like a dog clearing its fur. He was walking normally, placing his rifle down against the wall as he shut out the howling wind. Nik had loaded a fire in the hearth and found a heap of animal furs and blankets in one of the bedrooms upstairs to supplement their sleeping bags, so the room was warm enough to shed their coats and hang them to dry. He sat hunched over the desk by the window, one side of the headset pressed to his ear as he adjusted the antennae. 

The radio whirred and buzzed, but there was too much interference from the storm and all he could coax out of it was white noise and whining. "There is only static," Nik said. "It is working, but we will only get a communication through when the snow eases. For now, we must wait."

"Thas'good," John said, and then proceeded to knock into a dusty coffee table, his boots clumping heavily as he tried to steady himself.

Nik paused, his hand stilling on the dials. "Captain?" He looked over his shoulder, picking John's shape out in the gloom as his eyes adjusted to the dim light created by the fire. A sharp contrast to the almost radioactive yellow of the dials. He could see John slouched over by the door, his hand against the wall.

"Nik, I fink... Fink 'm..." 

Nik abandoned the radio in the next breath and was there to catch John when he staggered, his body falling heavily into Nik's arms. There was no mistaking the signs of hypothermia; John looked confused, his eyes dilated, and when Nik yanked his glove off with his teeth and shoved his hand just on the inside of John's collar where he should be warm and dry, his skin was cold and clammy.

"Nik, 'm... S'somethin'..." 

Nik dragged John towards the fire, his boots scuffing on the old wood panel floor as he struggled to find his footing. John's clothes were wet, inside and out; a combination of relentless snow melting through and the sweat from exertion meant that much of his gear's insulation had been rendered useless. Exposed for too long in adverse conditions, even the most expensive military kit couldn't keep up. 

Nik peeled John out of them, tearing off velcro and unclipping buckles, swift and efficient. His palms passed over pale skin spotted with freckles, blue in some places where it should be flushed and pink. Despite its pallor, John's body was truly beautiful; strong and athletic, with its defined musculature dusted by downy body hair. If the situation wasn't so desperate, Nik might have lingered to admire every new inch he revealed. He had fantasised about it long enough in private moments, his eyes closed and his hand inside his underwear.

John tried to help. Even dazed and shivering, he knew what was wrong. Knew what the process was. But his clumsy hands only slowed Nik down, numb fingers unable to grip or feel their way over the fastenings. "Let me. I have you," Nik said gently, pushing John's hands away from his belt. He was naked for barely a handful of seconds before Nik was wrapping him in a sleeping bag, laying him down on top of the pile of furs before the fire. 

There were warm packs in their Bergens and Nik cracked a few of these as he kicked off his own clothes. Sleeping bags needed actual body heat to work well, and that was something John was lacking; on their own, the heat packs wouldn't work quickly enough. This wasn't how Nik had wanted to hold John for the first time, not what he had dreamed about in those quiet hours before dawn, his hand clutched around his knot, but he didn't have time to lament fate.

Nik shivered as he grabbed the last of the blankets, a little musty, but a maid had clearly laundered them before storing them away for the final time. He draped them over in layers before sliding into the sleeping bag at John's back, large arms encircling his quivering chest and drawing him close, John's freezing body fully ensconced in life-saving warmth.

Only in the stillness that followed did Nik realise his own heart was hammering in his chest, his ears muffled by the pulse of his blood as he allowed himself the momentary grace to feel fear. What if John had stayed out only five minutes longer and collapsed in the snow? What if Nik had searched for him, his body already covered over, and hadn't found him until the morning? Frozen solid, his beautiful eyes empty of life. It could have happened. Fate had been close to stealing John away. Too close. 

John's laboured panting evened out and Nik felt his body go slack as he slipped in and out of unconsciousness. It was fine, as long as he was warming, breathing, his body relaxing out of its tense alarm, then Nik could stop his useless panicking.

 Nik swallowed, tilting his nose down into John's hair to inhale a lungful of him, seeking comfort from the soft scent of a mature, fertile omega; a guilty pleasure, but one he allowed himself to calm his fear. 

He had never been this close to John. Brief embraces, shoulder to shoulder in the back of a Hercules, sharing a drink and whispering conspiratorially in a bar, passing a cigar back and forth in the back of Nik's Black Hawk. So many intimate moments where Nik had fallen slowly, irrevocably in love with this fierce, bad-tempered, feral man with scruffy facial hair and cunningly intelligent blue eyes. But none like this. None where he could taste John's musky, soft smell in the back of his throat, feel the pulse of his heart as if it were beating under his own skin.

Nik knew he was torturing himself. John’s scent curled through him like rich cigar smoke in an expensive bar, winding down his spine until it coiled in his belly and stoked at his instincts.  Nik was so very aware of the firm line of John's body in his arms; the plush curves of his full arse, the strong muscles of his thighs and the quiet strength boasted by his broad shoulders. How soft and inviting his body hair was, how kissable the freckles, scars and moles across his skin, like constellations mapping a lifetime over John's body. The thought of spreading John's legs, sinking into his tight heat and making that gravelly voice break with pleasure was driving him insane.

"Blyat..." Nik muttered, the heat coiling in his hips, his cock twitching. Nik flattened his palm against John's chest and felt the strong, valiant thrum of his heart, defiant in the face of the cold. He used it to ground himself. He had to stay calm. For John's sake. While Nik could forgive his body its natural urges around such a handsome omega, he could not forgive any loss of control because of them.

Nik stayed vigilant as the minutes ticked into hours. He tried to remember his training about the different levels of hypothermia and their recovery times, but all his damn mind could latch onto was the scent and feel of the omega in his arms. Nik ached in a way he never had before; a deep, humming discontent at his very core. It was a combination of desire and terror; the cold had nearly snatched John away, and now here he was, so close, so vulnerable, and yet he had never been so off limits. Nik burned with need and it mocked him.

Nik held John a little tighter and closed his eyes. As long as he could feel the slow rise and fall of John's chest, feel the flutter of his breath over his bicep, he knew John was still… here. Alive, and safe. If Nik stayed still, taking each minute as it came, he would not slip. Not allow himself to indulge in his weakness.

Nik must have dozed off to the lullaby of John's heartbeat, his face tucked into his hair, because seemingly in the next moment John was writhing in his arms, his arse bumping back against the hard length of Nik's cock, which had only stiffened further as Nik had grounded himself in the strength of John's body. A poor method of quietening his libido, as it turned out, with John's scent now fogging every breath, melting into his hot skin like settling snow.

Nik loosened his embrace a little and John rolled over, the cold tip of his nose pressing between the mounds of Nik's tits. Nik felt the bristles of John's beard and then the soft vibration of a contented hum, followed by the softest roll of a pleased purr; the noise of a receptive omega looking to mate. It gripped in Nik’s chest like a closing fist and he drew in a stuttering breath. Nik stroked a palm down the curve of John's spine to settle at the small of his back, and John's hips pushed forward, teasing himself against the thick bulge in Nik's boxers. Nik did nothing to stop him, paralysed by the noise he never thought he'd hear John make.

One of those strong legs lifted to drape over Nik's hip, drawing him closer until Nik could feel John's wet slit dampening the cotton over his cock. John  was reacting favourably to his scent, judging him worthy as he flexed against his strength, instinctually reaching for him. Nik's entire body ached with desire and sordid lust, his teeth on edge, as the man he yearned for offered himself up in a poisoned chalice. To take advantage now would be beyond redemption.

 "John?" Nik croaked. 

John's lashes fluttered against Nik's skin and he pulled back a little, a stitch between his brows. "Nik, I..."

"How do you feel?" Nik bit out, intimately aware that he could feel the throbbing heat between John's legs pressed against the length of his cock.

John's cheeks reddened and Nik felt his weathered hands press to his chest. "Fine... Good, I... Sorry, 'm... I didn' mean..." 

"Is ok," Nik said softly. "It is warm. Your body is reacting naturally." 

John swallowed and Nik felt a deep breath shudder the length of his back. Noticeably, John didn't draw his hips away; he tensed and then relaxed, like he was fighting an internal battle, his body warming further in Nik's arms as his hips squirmed, rubbing the swollen bud of his cock against Nik's with a soft gasp of surprised pleasure. His skin was warm, flushed, the first beads of sweat gathering across his shoulder blades, slick between their bellies and chests. The miasma of pheromones and arousal made Nik dizzy, and beneath it he could smell the telltale sweetness of heat. 

John wasn't due, he knew that much. The captain organised his heats fastidiously. His body had been thrown off kilter by the cold, perhaps, or even the proximity and availability of someone his subconscious deemed a worthy mate to protect it while vulnerable; a virile, strong alpha.  The thought that John's primal self would offer him for mating, assured that Nik would be strong enough to protect him while he recovered, and the resulting pups from their union, stirred something feral and possessive in Nik's gut. He pushed it down, shoulders bunching.

John growled low in his throat, flashing his sharp canines, his fists bunching against Nik's chest, perhaps sensing the shift in Nik body. "Don't know wos fuckin' wrong with me," he snarled, and Nik felt the graze of those teeth against his clavicle. 

Nik knew John fought his biology. He chafed at it, saw it as a failing. Nik could only imagine what had been done to him in the past to make him feel that way. Like any omega, John was more than capable of tearing him to pieces if he felt threatened, but there was something so rawly vulnerable about John now as he clenched and growled, fighting something that he should view as a nuisance more than a crippling inadequacy. 

"Nothing," Nik said. "There is nothing wrong with you. You are... velikolepnyy." 

"Fuck, Nik..." John's fingers splayed over his chest again, the cool tip of his nose warming in the hollow of Nik's throat. "Haa, hnn, I think.. ahh, I think ‘m..."

"Da, I can... smell it in your sweat."

"Fuck, fuck..." John snarled, letting out another soft gasp as his body cramped for the first time.

"It is ok. You are safe. We can manage it until help arrives."

John shoved his face into Nik's chest and groaned, pained. “Yer so fuckin’ hard, Nik.”

Nik swallowed. That didn't sound like anger or disgust. But desperation and desire. “Da, you… smell very good,” Nik said, somewhat lamely. “It is ok. I can… I am in control.”

“Oh, fu–” John tensed in Nik’s arms, and Nik heard his jaw creak as he clenched his teeth through another spasm of discomfort. “Need t’ get out of here or I won't be… ha-ah.” 

“Nyet, you… John, you must stay in the warm.’

“All the bloody blankets smell of you. S’only gonna… get worse. Fuck, why fuckin’... now?”

Nik swallowed and slid a hand from John's back to his hip. “A panic response. You were in danger–this is not your fault.”

John said nothing. He faded into silence, his body wound tight in Nik’s arms. His previously calm, deep breaths that had inhaled lungfuls of Nik’s scent, soothing his heat into a deeper lull, now hitched in short, sharp pants, trying to avoid the lure of comfort and surrender. Nik wished they were home, in John's bed, or even the snug bunk he used in his office when he couldn't be bothered to drive back to his flat. At least there, surrounded by familiarity, John might have felt safe enough to tentatively explore the desire sinking its hooks in.

But then, Nik thought with only a hint of bitterness, it was the sheer desperation of the environment around them that had panicked his body enough to shake up the clock. Without it, John would have always remained in absolute control of himself to the point of guarded repression. He would have never fallen into Nik's embrace.

“God, fuck,” John growled, his body rigid, like if he moved even an inch he might lose some invisible battle. Ground lost to an encroaching enemy. Nik wished he could roll him into his back and scent him until he relaxed. Every instinct sparking in his brain roared with distress at the discomfort of the omega in his arms, demanding he do something, anything. He laid there uselessly, as frozen as the fish in the ponds outside, caught in the storm of competing needs; to satiate John, and to respect him. It hurt that the two things were in opposition when they should be one and the same.

John shifted, his broad shoulders rolling a little, his head tilting back. Nik could practically hear the cogs whirring in John's mind. When he finally lifted his chin far enough for their eyes to meet, John's were red and watery from stress, pupils dilated. Nik could see a deep sadness, a kind of resignation; bright blue dampened to a faded grey. “I, uh… would ya help me, Nik?”

Nik’s mouth opened and closed, each breath drawing more of John’s deep, saccharine scent to the back of his tongue. His body was tense in Nik’s arms still, occasionally shuddering as another muscle spasm worked its way through his core, a grunt snorting through his nose as he swallowed down his groan of pain. Nik couldn't find his words. “I…”

“C’mon, know you want it, can feel ya between my legs,” John said, huffing softly with amusement, face crinkling in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Would jus’ be, mm… quick, y’know? So they don't find me in a state. I'd make it up t’ ya, on my word.”

“You would offer me something I have wanted for years as if it is a burden,” Nik said, trying to keep the edge of sadness from his voice but failing rather miserably. “This is not how I… hoped it to be.”

John swallowed, his eyes dropped, expression hazy. It wasn't how Nik had hoped his confession would be either. He had pictured an expensive dinner, perhaps a trip to Duxford so he could look at the planes and John could look at the tanks, and then Nik would have told him as they strolled through the countryside towards a pint, wrapped in scarves and heavy coats. Warm, safe. Comfortable in each other’s presence as they had always been. Like this, John would feel under duress, vulnerable and like he needed to be on the defence.

Another shudder, another pant of breath, the soft gasp not quite bitten back in time. “Please, Nik… can’t let them see me like this, I… I'll be good.. ahh, for ya. No funny business.”

“Funny business?”

“Yeah, not gonna bite, or… mm, won't… won't fight ya.”

“John…” Nik said, his chest pulling tight; his teeth ached at the back of his mouth and a miserable knot formed in his throat. “I am not a rapist.”

“I know, I know… Nik, 'm… ahh, ‘m not thinkin’, didn't mean it like that, I…” John's face dropped to Nik's chest for a moment as he gathered himself. “Jus’... Don't bite me, don't mark me, no’... no’ ready. I… no’ like this.”

“I promise I won't,” Nik said. It hurt that John couldn't meet his eyes. Someone had hurt him badly in the past. Nik had always assumed as such, but that was all the confirmation he needed. The harm was so deep, still raw, that John couldn't even trust a man that had served him loyally for so many years.

Nik lifted the hand from John's hip and cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. Those blue eyes flickered and John tilted into his palm, the softest purr breaking through the tightness of his jaw, so low, like a glass marble rolling across an old oak table. Nik couldn't be sure John wasn't forcing it for his benefit, but it had the desired effect either way; the alpha part of his biology ruffled happily, and he responded with a soft chuff, pressing his lips to John's forehead. "Ya tebya obozhayu."

Nik couldn't resist any longer. If he was gentle, if he took his time, then that apprehension he could see in John's eyes, the tense fear rigid down his back, would melt away. John was watching him, sad blue eyes glistening, part in shame, part in barely disguised fear, and Nik wanted to hold him until all he felt was comfort and pleasure. 

Their first kiss was tentative, as tender as Nik could be as his hands shook. John's mouth yielded to his tongue, soft, chapped lips parting with a low moan as John's body arched against his once again. Nik slid his palm beneath John’s thigh to lift it further over his hip, grinding his hard cock against the wet heat between his legs, slow and leisurely. Even the soft material of his boxers would begin to feel coarse against John's heat sensitive skin, so they needed to go.

When Nik pulled away, he sucked gently on John's lower lip, before pressing another kiss to his forehead creased with tense lines. He wriggled away enough to shove his boxers off his hips and down his thighs until they passed his knees. When John pressed back against him, soft skin of his inner thigh sliding over the outside of Nik's, Nik's cock head slid through his wet folds, bumping up against the swell of his cock. 

“Oh fuck, Nik… yer so fuckin’ thick…” John bit out, grinding himself against the underside of Nik's cock, slick and precum making filthy, wet noises as John groaned into Nik's chest, hands clutching at the meat of Nik's body as he took his pleasure. Nik let him, mouth hanging open, the soft, wet slit of John’s cunt hot and perfect around the underside of his shaft. 

He cupped John's arse with one hand, spreading it open a little so his fingers could dip towards the fluttering muscles of John's holes. The softest brush of his fingertips appeared to be enough because John’s moans hit a peak after only two passes, his body seizing, pushing hard against Nik's cock. “Oh, fuck, Nik, Nik… ha-ah.”

John tucked his face away as if ashamed at his eagerness, pressing his nose into the centre of Nik's chest as his orgasm rattled through him. He was on a hair trigger, sensitivity heightened, receptive to a potential mate’s touch. The thought made something warm and heavy curl in Nik’s belly, and he allowed himself a fleeting moment of excitement. Nik nuzzled a kiss in his hair and chuffed softly, stroking his hands up and down John's back before lifting John higher against him, his cock flicking free of the press of John's body. 

It was awkward like this, wrapped tightly in the blankets with John half draped over him, and Nik didn't want to risk rolling on top of John and panicking him. There was a risk instinct would overcome reason in the haze of heat and John's fear, and those sharp teeth would rip through his jugular in seconds. Perhaps later, when he had realised Nik wasn't about to hurt him, Nik would drape over his back and appease the deep need in his gut to blanket his omega as they mated, to fully encompass his powerful body as it presented and guard it with his own. Instead, Nik reached beneath John's thigh, hitching it a little higher, to steady his cock just long enough to sink the head inside.

John gasped, his back arching, his walls still tingling from his orgasm bore down, spasming in renewed pleasure as Nik slowly thrust inside. He couldn't quite get fully seated, not at this angle, but it was enough. His eyes flickered shut at the sweet, soft heat sucking around his shaft as he drew back, thrusting back in with a slow roll of the hips, feeling John press against him with a strangled grunt of shock.

“John…” Nik kept hold of John’s thigh but the other hand slid up his back into his hair, urging his face away from where it had buried against his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, dull, and there was a crease of concentration doen his face. Nik's heart ached. “I am sorry… you are… tight.”

“S’ok,” John croaked. “Don' be, s’fine, feels good… please, move… ‘m–haa.”

Nik kissed him gently on the lips, no more than a brief brush, before rolling to ease him on top. As John slid down Nik's full length, his knees splaying over the blankets, he choked out a soft gasp. “Nik, fuck, so much… haa, mmm, n-no, give me a moment, need a moment…” 

John was so tight, bearing down on the thick girth pressing him open, resisting, anxious. Nik had a slight height advantage, and he used it to press gentle kisses to John's face; over his brow, against a flushed cheek and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He chuffed, stroking warm palms up and down John's broad back as it flexed and quivered.

With each caress, John relaxed, sinking down against the plush warmth of Nik's body; the give of his belly, the cushion of his chest, the downy black hair of his torso that trapped the scent of his sweat and pheromones, rubbing both into John's skin. 

John tucked his nose beneath Nik's chin and purred, rough and craggy, like someone had rubbed sandpaper down his throat. Not the silky trill of a young omega, but the worn, tired purr of a mature one that has torn his way through life with his bare hands, snarling and growling, so used to roaring with fury that gentler noises were unwieldy. And yet, it was the most beautiful sound Nik had ever heard.

Nik responded with soft huffs and murmurs of his own, hands sliding down to John's thighs as he slowly rocked his hips up, dragging his thick cock out until only his crown stayed notched inside, the slick dripping down his shaft, soaking his balls, further assurance that John was finding pleasure in their mating. When John tilted his head and started to lick at Nik’s chin and neck, his tongue rasping over Nik’s stubble in long, indulgent laps, Nik tilted his back to submit himself to his omega’s affectionate grooming. I trust you, please trust me.

His. His omega. John was his. Handsome, fierce, strong. Every inch of him wrapped in corded muscle, with a soft layer over his belly and tits, his slim waist and the dip of his back perfectly shaped for Nik’s hands, the firm curves of his arse and thighs, built for explosive strength, agility, for riding an alpha’s cock and taking their pleasure. If only someone had nurtured John's confidence rather than destroy it. 

Nik pushed his heels and upper back into the floor, and bounced John’s hips against his, fucking him down onto his cock with increasing pace.

“Oh, Nik, Nik… mmm, yeah, tha’--ah, ah, fuck,” John panted, breath hot against the wetness he had left on the underside of Nik's chin.

“You are perfect, John. Tell me, tell me what… mm, tell me what you want…”

“Ahh, ahh, I nee’, ah, Nik, yeah…”

“That's it, solnyshko, take what you… ahh, take what you need. I am yours.”

 Nik could feel John taking agency, tentatively, his hips moving without guidance. He slid his hands down the back of John's thighs and held him behind the knees, giving him something to brace against as he began to grind and roll with increasing urgency, chasing the pleasure coiling in his hips, tensing in his thighs and his lower back.

“Ahh, yer… ahh, yer gettin’ harder… feel, ahh, feel bigger, mm… ahh, yer knot, fuck!”

Nik's knot was beginning to swell, popping in and out of John's hole, gaping him wide with each pass. His back arched, hips thrusting up to meet John, a firm platform for him to slam himself down and grind against. Under the cover of the blanket, the sweat eased the glide of their bodies together, intensifying the scent of heat and arousal in Nik's nostrils. His balls pulled tight as John's desperate noises, broken and gravelly, hit a new, urgent note, and his knot swelled, grinding into John's hole until it locked them together. 

Nik released John's shaking legs as his body responded with a deep, overwhelming orgasm that milked Nik’s knot, and Nik grabbed John's face, arching him back to lick the sweat up the curve of his throat. So close to his scent glands, it was saturated in heat pheromones and Nik sucked desperately at the soft, vulnerable skin just above the hollow of his throat as his prick filled John with his seed.

 Those strong thighs clamped around his hips, shuddering and weak from exertion, and Nik whispered gentle praise until John went limp against him, melting into the cradle of Nik's body and relaxing around the bulge of his knot. 

Nik had never felt satisfaction like it. A soft, comfortable calm settled deep in his bones. His omega smelled satiated, content, the heave of his shoulders calming as his heart settled into an even rhythm. Neither of them spoke. Nik thought perhaps they were both listening to each other's bodies. Nik could feel John's heartbeat; against his chest, wrapped around his cock. Defiant, strong. And Nik wondered whether John could feel his, beating deep inside him, whether it made him feel content, whether the intimacy made him feel as content as it did Nik. Nik kissed John's neck and received a soft rumble in response.

They dozed. Nik's knot went down and he eased John into the softness of the blankets, kissing his chest, his throat, his mouth. Desperate to taste him, to please and comfort him. He was sucking a pebbled nipple when John tugged at him again, gladly spreading his legs for Nik to climb between them. Nik gathered John's hands and pressed them above his head, their fingers wound together, and watched his eyes, kissed his lips, made love to him as gently as he could.

 Muscular thighs spread wide as Nik ground deep inside John's eager cunt, alternating between agile rolls and circles of his hips and deeper thrusts that let John feel the heavy balls ready to breed him. The second knot was as intense as the first, and Nik fucked his spend deep into John's body, his tongue in his mouth, their lips locked together. John pushed himself up into it, legs wide in wanton and beautiful submission. 

The ebb and flow of John's heat stretched through the night, the storm howling relentlessly outside. They slept between bouts of sex, with John curled into the safety of Nik's arms. After his first turn on top, he was too weak to take the lead again; drained by his brush with the cold, exhausted by the anxiety of an unplanned heat, he relaxed into Nik's care because he had little choice. Nik cradled him, kept them wrapped in the blankets, now rich with the miasma of their mating, their bodies slick and pliant. Every time John demanded, Nik provided. 

When he left the impromptu nest - for that is what it had become, soaked in the scent of their mating - it was only to check the radio, feed the fire and arrange John's clothes before it to dry. Each time he returned, John curled back into his embrace with a contented purr, drawing Nik back between his legs.

As dawn creeped closer, John's scent changed, so full of Nik now that he was ready to be claimed. John rolled onto his front, too exhausted to fight his natural desires, and tilted his hips up. Nik writhed between the blankets to taste between his legs, warm tongue lapping slowly over John's puffy, sore cunt, so sensitive and wet, giving into his own instincts to taste the fertility and readiness of his omega. 

It was dizzying, intoxicating; Nik pressed his tongue inside and felt John squeeze around him, heard him sigh softly in pleasure, and ground his hard cock against the furs in excitement. He had done this. He had satisfied this strong, indomitable omega to the point he would relax, present, accept a deep and thorough breeding. Nik had been deemed worthy once again.

Nik licked John until his jaw ached, his face soaked in slick, reaching to play with John's engorged cock, squeezing and rubbing until John’s hips were rocking, his moans low and filthy. Eventually, John squirmed, a softer orgasm making his walls flutter in search of a knot as his fingers snagged in the furs. His heat would break in the next few hours; this was their final coupling. 

Nik draped over his back, up on his hands and toes with John's hips tilted up. John swallowed him so easily, snug heat sucking Nik’s cock down until Nik’s heavy balls were flush to his body. Nik groaned, the silky soft wetness somehow more divine than it had been the first time, and John echoed him, pressing back, demanding his alpha.

“Nik…”

It was the first word John had said in hours. He had been mostly moans, gasps and growls, completely delirious. That was it, wasn't it? The tension, the resistance, it had melted away, John wanted him, wanted to feel his knot, to take his seed. 

“Da, solnyshko. I am here…”

John twisted, arching back, and they kissed, John licking into Nik's mouth. No hiding his face, no delirious submission, but seeking affection as Nik slowly rocked into him. Nik's chest ached in a different way; relief, love, a deep need to protect, to serve his omega's every whim. The soft noises John made through their kiss as Nik dragged every inch of his prick in and out of his body made Nik want to stay there forever, trapped in this moment of bliss. So in tune with John, their heartbeats in tandem, bodies joined as one. 

When John broke the kiss, he turned to press his chest into the furs and lift into Nik's thrusts. “Breed me proper, Nik… fuck, I need it… need yer knot, mmm, please, please… harder, wanna feel ya in my damn womb.”

Nik's nostrils flared, his lips rolling back to show his teeth. He dropped to his elbows and tucked his arms beneath John's chest, pressing his own into the sweaty plain of John's back, and began to rut into him harder, faster. The blankets fell away with the pace of Nik's movements, but the fire was stacked high, the room warm enough that it didn't matter. John moaned and gasped, slick hole bearing down on the relentless pump of Nik’s prick into it, hands kneading at the furs.

 It was instinctual to lean down and mouth the gland at John's neck, rolling it between his teeth, the sweet taste of unmated omega soaking his tongue. John moaned, more slick dripping down his thighs, his mind unthinking in a soft haze of instinct and heat. He didn't resist, didn't fight. 

It would be so easy to claim him at that moment. They would be bonded for life. This beautiful omega would be Nik's and Nik’s alone. Every heat, his body would call for Nik, and Nik’s rut would answer. The intensity of their mating would leave them both sated, and Nik would have a lifetime to show John how much he deserved to be loved. Perhaps even a pup or two, with John's beautiful blue eyes and round cheeks and lopsided smile–

Nik moaned, teeth tightening, as his hips pistoned harder, cock throbbing, so close to release. John's body was so open, so wet, the noises filling the room alongside their moans completely obscene. The filthy pleasure of it roiled in Nik's gut, the thought of pumping another load deep inside his omega, of it quickening as his teeth rended through freckled skin to claim what was already his by fucking birth right, and John had said no, but what if–

He growled low in his chest and forced his jaw apart, pressing his open mouth to John's shoulder, as his knot popped and his balls emptied in powerful pulses. 

He didn't bite down. 

Wouldn't. 

Couldn't. 

John had said no and Nik's love for the man was greater than his desire for the omega, even in the heat of the moment. A well of self disgust formed in Nik's chest as he pressed his face to John's back, the fevered, possessive internal rant fading into an echo in the back of his mind.

John moaned and flopped into the furs, his hips shifting only with the occasional stutter of Nik's as he ground his spend as deep as he could. Nik relaxed some of his weight onto John's back and felt him vibrate with the depth of his contentment; a low, croaky purr, only stoked a little louder when Nik lapped at the sweat on his neck, his biceps, and nuzzled into his hair and beard. “Am I too heavy?” he asked, his voice soft beneath the crackle and pop of the fire.

“Naw, feels like yer crushin’ my soul back into my body,” John murmured, his muscles squeezing a little around the swell of Nik's knot. “Feels… good.”

Safe, Nik thought. 

The way John was relaxing into the furs, his scent sweet and doughy, blue eyes drooping closed. Nik continued to groom him while they were knotted, licking at the rough at the edge of his grey-speckled beard, nipping his ears and kissing the slopes of his shoulders. 

When Nik’s knot faded, he sat back on his heels and watched his cock pull free of John's body with a filthy little slurp. He pressed his thumbs into John's thighs to spread them, admiring the glisten of slick and cum dripping out of John's used hole. Something primal wanted to push it all back in, to make sure not a single drop was wasted. With John so relaxed, Nik gave in to the desire. When Nik slid two fingers in slowly, watching John's soft cunt swallow them so easily, he groaned. It was enough to make his cock twitch with interest again, despite the ache in his lower back and thighs.

“Nik…” John whispered, his hips lifting. “‘m knackered, c’mon… oh, fuck.”

“You are just so perfect… krasivyy. I want to make you feel good. Just once more.” Nik slid his other hand beneath John's body, two fingers rubbing back and forth over the lovely swell of his eager cock, matching the pace of the two thrusting into his cunt.

“Oh, ah, Nik… it's… too much, ‘m too… ah.”

Nik curled his fingers, finding the sweet spot that made John's back arch, and it was so breathtaking the way his muscles bunched, rolling beneath sweat slick-skin, following each pulse of pleasure as it passed up his spine. John's knees spread out, agile hips grinding his cock against the rough pads of Nik's fingers. Even exhausted, wrung out, John’s body sang like a finely tuned instrument under Nik's touch. Like they were meant to be, even without the chemical bond of a mating mark.

John came with a broken moan, his thighs shaking as his cunt clenched around Nik's fingers, slick and cum soaking Nik's palms. The alpha in Nik rumbled with pride and he pulled his hands away to watch John flop, powerful body twitching in the aftershocks. 

Nik drew the blankets over their backs and bedded down at John's side, pressing his lips to the back of John's shoulder. In the soft afterglow of their mating, Nik made the silent promise to wait as long as it took for John to be ready. Even if their bonding was his final act as he drew his last breath.

Nik woke some hours later to a crackling voice through the radio. This is Bravo 7. Come in, Yankee 7. He dragged himself out from beneath the blankets and stumbled over to the headset. “This is Yankee 7. It is… good to hear your voice, Lieutenant.”

Copy. And yours. Sitrep?

“We are secure. The captain requires… medical assistance, but it is non-urgent. Hypothermic but stabilised.”

Roger. Location? Over.

“Figures,” Nik yanked his notepad towards him and read out the coordinates.

Rog. Hostiles? Over.

“Just the storm.”

ETA two hours. Sit tight. Out.

Pulling John from the nest felt cruel. Omegas needed time to recover from a heat, and prepare for the next stage. A stage that John would not get to experience, Nik realised, with no small pang of disappointment. They had little time to talk, focusing on packing up camp and covering evidence of their presence.

John's clothes were rough where they had dried before the fire, and Nik held him as he climbed awkwardly back into them. By the time they were making their way towards the drumming blades of a helicopter, Nik's arms around John's back to help him across the uneven ground, they smelled more of woodsmoke and musty damp than sex. 

Ghost’s eyes lingered on John when he snapped at the attempt to help him into the Heli. A recently mated omega was aggressive to any alpha that wasn't theirs, and the lieutenant knew something existed between his captain and the pilot that arrived to snatch him from frying pans and fires across the world. Nik dipped his chin once when Ghost glanced at him, and that was enough for the lieutenant.

They gave John his space on the flight home, listening to him growl over the Comms, updating Laswell and Mac on the relative success of the mission. They had secured the intel they needed, even if the storm had nearly scuppered them. 

Rog. Ye broken?

“Naw, caught a cold, nuffin’ a rest won't fix.”

Copy. See ye when ye land. Oout. 

Nik watched John chuck the radio down and drop his face into his hands, and had to grip his own knees hard to stop from moving over to comfort him. All he felt for the entire journey was a burning desire to blanket and scent the love of his life until he could sleep peacefully. John dozed fitfully the rest of the way, startling awake where he felt unsafe, unguarded. 

The base nurses kept him in for a night for monitoring after Nik had accurately relayed John's symptoms, omitting the heat when John had cast him a stern look. So it wasn't until the next day that Nik had a chance to speak to him without prying eyes and ears encroaching on their privacy. Nik caught him just as he was heading into his office.

“John.” Nik felt a stab of pain as John’s shoulders lifted with tension. He couldn't help but reach for him, fingertips stroking the inside of his elbow. 

“You olrigh’, Nik?”

“Da,” Nik said, his hand dropping away under John's scrutiny. “Did… did they clear you?”

“Yeah, they said… uh, ya saved my life. Again. Quick thinkin'.”

Nik swallowed, his palm pressing to the door by John's head, desperate to touch him. “And yet, you cannot look at me.”

John’s breath hitched. “I, uh… what you saw… I had no right t’ demand that of ya, Nik. I was arrogant t' think I didn't need spare suppressants for a quick jaunt. Fuckin' irresponsible. Won't 'appen again.”

“You demanded nothing I was not willing to give.”

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. John drew in a stuttering breath and tilted his head away, like Nik's scent, even dull beneath shower gel and cologne, was too much. “Yeah, I… thanks fer no’ bitin’ me. I woulda let ya… at the end.”

Nik felt a prickling at the backs of his eyes, a tight knot in his throat. “I do not wish to be thanked for common decency.”

John huffed. It was a sad, resigned noise from deep inside his chest. “Not as common as ya think, mate. Listen, I need time t’ process… come back tomorra?”

“John, I…”

“I need bloody space, Nik,” John snapped, and Nik heard an edge in his voice usually reserved for people stupid enough to try clawing their way under John's skin. “Tomorra, olrigh’?”

Nik blinked quickly, drawing back and inhaling a deep breath. It only served to carry the scent of distressed omega to the back of his tongue, and he wanted nothing more than to curl around John until he smelled just as content as he had in their makeshift nest. “Da. Tomorrow then.”

John pushed down the handle beneath his hand and disappeared inside his office, leaving Nik in the corridor to stare forlornly at the door. 

He would wait, he reminded himself. Wait for John to be ready. Even if it took ‘til his dying breath. Nik placed his palm gently on the door before he departed, heading for the familiar comfort of his Black Hawk and her myriad of mechanical issues to occupy his mind.

If Nik had pushed the boundary, he would have found John Price, Captain, peerless leader of the 141, the indomitable Bravo Six, curled up on the floor on the other side of the door, his face buried in his knees as the tears fell and his shoulders shook. He had said he needed space to process, but the truth was, he had no idea where to even start.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Arcane Fandom drinking game.

tw: racism, misogyny, classism, ableism.

tw: fandoms in general, ig?

Take a shot if:

Sevika is reduced to this exoticised, hypersexualized, sub human caricature with no exploration into her motivations, her family, her issues as a disabled woman or her experiences as a working class person who grew up in a literal slum - and instead serves as a sex toy with body heat, who exists solely to get the reader off.

Take two shots of she is neutered instead of oversexualized, and reduced to the Mammy stereotype wherein her only purpose is to roll her eyes and provide commentary on the (white) characters/readers' antics, the latter of which drive the plot.

Take a shot if:

Mel Medarda is reduced to a living example of the Jezebel stereotype: oversexualized in the most dehumanizing and demeaning language possible, made a literal receptacle for other characters' desires with no attempt to engage with her motivations as a politician or her feelings as a woman, or else blamed for every single problem in the show, because apparently an ambitious woman is synonymous with 'The face of pure evil,' a woman who has sex and uses it to express agency is an insatiable slut, and a black woman is literally the devil incarnate.

Take two shots if she's taken the other extreme, and her ambitions, flaws, and sexuality have been wiped away completely, leaving only a hyperperfect husk of a character behind, for us to rally around with empty cries of 'Yaas Queen!' and no attempt to critically examine a) the problematic nature of the praise and b) the essence of what makes her human, and what drives her forward, in the first place.

Take a shot if:

Ekko is reduced to his crush on Powder/Jinx, with no attempt to engage with the complexity of the fact that his best friend warped into a monster, nor the ways in which he himself is a product of Zaun's poverty and his relationship with his community, the impact of trauma on children, his complex relationship with violence and his own moral compass, nor the fact that he is an activist, a freedom fighter, an artist, and an engineer, all at age eighteen.

Take a double shot if the characterization veers the other way, and he is portrayed as 'Forever Alone' because black men cannot have healthy relationships, do not deserve to have a full range of complex emotions, and should be punished by having their most deeply held wishes, friendships, and loves crushed to dust before their eyes, for daring to dream of a better life and a world that loves them.

Take a shot if:

Jayce Talis is not even acknowledged in fanworks as a mixed race man, nor as a person of color, with no attempt to engage with the complexity inherent in his experience of privilege, and the ways in which he is a product of his upbringing, and where these factors intersect with class commentary. Take a half shot if the character is whitewashed, and turned into the kind of bland, boring, vanilla caricature that we're used to seeing in media in perpetuity, who exists as a foil to the villains, a symbol of virtue, and a blank slate on which the viewer is meant to project themselves and their own beliefs.

Take a full shot if the character is the epitome of the white savior trope: a smug, paternalistic, know-it-all white man, whose self-assurance in his own superiority allows him to walk in and take over a conflict, then tell people what to do.

Take two shots if characterization veers the other extreme and he's just a sweet, dumb, himbo puppyboy with no personality, no goals, no desires, and no motivations of his own, save for making Viktor happy and doing his best to be a good boy.

Take three shots if Mel is the one leading him by the nose, because nothing says 'nuance' like making a black woman the villain for the sin of having agency and not existing solely for vilification.

Drink the whole bottle if:

Caitlyn, an Enforcer and a Councilor's daughter, is portrayed as a sympathetic sweetheart angelcake, without being forced to confront the actions of the state and the institution of which she is a part, without being forced to face the consequences of her complicity in the system that oppresses others, nor without being forced to recognize the fact that her actions and her words are not, in and of themselves, inherently just, and the fact that her privilege does not automatically grant her moral authority.

Drink another if she is portrayed as a damsel, an innocent, a child who needs to be protected and cared for, rather than a full person with agency and a complex emotional landscape of her own.

Drink again if the characterization leans the other way and she is turned into a classist caricature, an entitled bitch who doesn't even realize she's the bad guy, or gets turned into a literal Nazi because, once again, folks cannot engage with complex topics such as classism, racism, ableism, etc. and instead resort to infantilizing, simplistic, and reductive portrayals.

Stop drinking and switch to cyanide if her characterization hinges on her relationship with Vi, within which Caitlyn is the dominant top here to 'tame' this feral subhuman, with no understanding of the uncomfortable and undeniably harmful implications of such a power dynamic.

Drink the rest of the alcohol stash if:

Vi, an adult, a former convict and a street savvy survivor, is reduced to an angsty, moody, petulant puppydog off her leash, unable to take responsibility for her own actions, and her trauma is treated as an excuse for her behavior.

Drink another bottle if she is portrayed as a hypermasculine, toxic, violent, and Cait is the one forced to tame her, make her behave, and bring her into line, and her relationship with Vi is portrayed as inherently parent-child, or worse, caretaker-charge, without any regard for Vi's autonomy and right to be flawed as a human being.

Drink a fifth if Vi is portrayed as a hypersexualized aggressor for the audience's titillation, with no attempt to engage with the fact that butch lesbian women have more complex emotions than 'sex starved nymphomaniac', nor the ways in which Vi's abuse, abandonment, and trauma have impacted her relationship with intimacy and sexuality. Drink another if the characterization shifts the other way and Vi becomes a sexless robot who has no personality or wants, nor is given room to grieve for her family, her home, or her own trauma, and is instead expected to bounce back, get over it, and move on as nothing more than Caitlyn' Brave Buff Gf (tm).

Drink the entire bar if:

Viktor, a disabled man, is depicted as a neurotic, fragile, jittery wreck. Take two bottles if his disability is treated as a punchline, or the defining characteristic of his existence, and the only time we're meant to consider his body or his physical pain is when he's having an episode and collapsing, or having a coughing fit, and it's treated as a joke, rather than something which affects him and his ability to function.

Take three bottles if he's taken the other extreme and he is twinkified and babygirlified, and his sexuality and his love life are the only thing we're meant to care about, and his romantic relationship with Jayce is the only thing he's allowed to have, lest the audience think too hard about the ways in which he and his work might benefit Zaun, or how the Council might respond to a disabled person from an underprivileged background.

Take a fourth if the characterization shifts and he's reduced to a hypersexualized toy: a broken doll to be pitied and fetishized and cared for, and Jayce is his Daddy, his owner, his caregiver, his knight in shining armor, all in one.

Take a fifth if, in the midst of all this, his relationship with his disability, and the ways in which it has impacted his life and his choices, is completely glossed over.

Take six if his relationship with his disability is not even acknowledged.

Switch to cocaine if:

Jinx, one of the most complex characters in the show, and the only one with any sort of internal consistency, is reduced to a whiny helpless brat who just wants a hug and an explanation for her widdle feewings from a big strong grownup.

Take an eightball if her relationship with her sister, her trauma, and her mental health is reduced to the 'Hot Psycho' trope: an excuse to play up the 'cool' aspect of her personality while completely ignoring the trauma at the heart of her actions/behavior. Take another if the characterization swings the other way, and she's reduced to a one-dimensional villainess, a demon, an amoral monster, and the only motivation for her actions is the fact that she is a crazy bitch, and the only reason for her existence is to serve as a foil for Vi's goodness and the audience's own hangups re: mental illness and critically engaging with the more unpalatable aspects of human behavior.

Switch to crack if her relationship with Silco or Vi is not even mentioned.

Pour a glass of absinthe if:

Silco, a single parent, a survivor of violence at the hands of a loved one, a victim of systemic abuse, and a revolutionary, is portrayed as the ultimate villain, and his desire to fight for a better life for his community is somehow worse than the Council's decision to literally silence everyone in the undercity via chemical runoff, political neglect and police brutality.

Pour two if he is a cartoonish, hamfisted boogeyman, with no sense of his humanity, nor the ways in which he is a product of the same systems that hurt every undercity character, and the ways his actions replicate the cycle of abuse and hurt the ones he seeks to save in turn.

Pour a third if he becomes an unrepentant sadist, a child abuser and a sexual predator, and there is nothing loving or fatherly about his relationship with Jinx.

Pour four if the character is taken to the other extreme and he's sanctified as a literal martyr and hero, and all his wrongdoing is glossed over because he's just a ~victim~, and everything he does is justified, no matter how terrible, because he had a traumatic childhood or his abusive ex didn't die soon enough. Eat the sugarcube if his bond with Jinx is suddenly a wholesome Disneyfied gag-fest wherein he calls her "Pumpkin" and babies her like a toddler, and their relationship has zero codependent overtones, and she's suddenly a sweet innocent who doesn't have blood on her hands, same way he's not the one who sanctioned it.

Eat the bottle of absinthe if Silco is given the tumblr sexyman treatment, and suddenly he's just a walking Daddy Kink, with no regard for the ways in which he is a complex person, nor the ways in which he and other characters might actually interact, or his history or his trauma or the way it impacts his life.

Drink the whole liquor cabinet if:

Zaun is portrayed as a dystopian hellscape rather than a robust, vibrant, diverse community, with a wide range of experiences and a deep and nuanced relationship with authority, power, and violence. Break into the cellar if, instead, it's just a shitty stereotypical ghetto, full of criminals, addicts, and victims.

Light a cigarette if Piltover, a technological juggernaut that also has a diverse immigrant population, and a vibrant and rich cultural identity, is reduced to a bland, generic, vanilla utopia, and is full of pompous blowhards who have never engaged with the undercity outside the scope of the narrative.

Light a molotov cocktail if it swings the opposite direction and Piltover is turned into an neoliberal nightmare, a soulless, shiny, hollow, plastic, faceless wasteland, populated only by vapid, shallow, self absorbed stooges and shills who have no depth or personality of their own.

Throw the molotov and light the house on fire if:

'Piltover and Zaun' is not even mentioned, and there is no acknowledgement of the way these two cities shape the cast of characters who reside within these systems, much less a mention of the ways in which the characters might not be fully representative of the communities they are a part of, and the fact that they are still very much human beings with individual experiences.

If you didn't get alcohol poisoning, a whopping hangover, or a charge of arson: congratulations.

You win.

[thewistlingbadger]

Me? A Silco sympathizer? Well, yes. Yes actually I am because the more I think about the more I think I have to be.

Silco was a young man who grew up with so much pain and suffering around him. All he ever knew was hardship, but despite it all he managed to live the best life he could have possibly managed for himself. He had community, family, and friendship. He had respect for others and the respect of others. He had a dream, people worth fighting for, people that loved him and people he in return loved. And he lost everything. He lost the very people he was fighting for, the ones that cared about him. He lost his humanity at the hands of Vander, his own brother who brutally betrayed him. Vander seemingly blindsided Silco at the river. He blamed him for something that was nowhere near his fault. He gave up on their dream, their home, at the first sign of trouble. He seemingly got Silco's peers and neighbors to turn on him and see him as nothing more than a monster. Can you imagine the confusion and hurt Silco must have felt in that moment? Or even the years afterwards? From Silco's perspective, he has no idea why Vander did what he did, and Vander never made any attempt to try to make amends. Vander was going to kill him that night. How do you think Silco felt, raising a knife against his kin just to save his own life? How do you think Silco felt looking the mirror every day after, knowing that a person he loved so deeply had became a monster and turned Silco into a literal monster? How do you think Silco felt when he walked the streets of Zaun and saw the way people recoiled away from him, because of his eye and reputation?

Silco was a good person. He had hopes and desires and a capacity to be kind. And all that, everything that made him him, everything that made him a human in his own eyes and the eyes of society was ripped away from him. He lost it all and he had to do it alone. Silco seemingly had no one outside of Vander and Felicia and he lost both of them. How do you think Silco reconciled that? Do you think he blamed himself for everything? Did he search his memories trying to find the exact moment where things went wrong? Did he think it was his fault that Vander betrayed him, that he deserved it in some way? Or did he know that he didn't deserve it, did he know that night was all on Vander? Did Silco hate himself for Felicia's death? Did he see himself responsible for her the same way Silco did? Did he ever wonder what became of her body, of her children? Or could he not bear the thought?

Silco had zero tools to help himself process his trauma and he didn't have a single person to comfort him. So what did Silco do? He accepted what happened to him in the only way he knew how. He completely abandoned the man he used to be, the man that knew love and affection and paid the price for it. He became the monster Vander saw him as. He dedicated his existence to the cause Felicia died for, the cause Vander was willing to kill him for. He didn't care about the costs and consequences and why should he have? Everything, literally everything he had and cared about was gone. The only thing Silco had left to lose was his own life, so he may as well try his hardest to get independence for his city, for his people, for himself, for Felicia's memory. And in the process he completely damned himself to a miserable and bitter life without humanity. And despite it all, despite how much he tried to put things in the past, to completely reinvent himself, he couldn't do it. The pain was still there. The man he used to be lived, even if it was in the smallest way.

There are a few moments where you can see his vulnerability. For example, the scene where he and Vander talk for the first time since the betrayal. Despite everything that Vander did to him, Silco still wanted Vander to work with him. He still saw Vander as his brother, and he still loved him. "I trusted you...and you betrayed me." You can see the pain in his eye when he says those words, how much he wishes things were different. We see how lonely he is, how he has no one except Jinx and Sevika, how he's isolated himself from any possible connection. We see how stressed he is all the time, how he's so tired of it all.

But the clearest way to see Silco's humanity is with Jinx. We can see a clear switch in him when he comes across Jinx as a child. He has no reason to take her in, to comfort her, and yet he does it anyway. He holds her with all the gentleness he has and whispers words of solidarity and understanding. Silco is always at his weakest when he's with Jinx, because Jinx makes him human again. Jinx makes him loving and warm and himself again. Jinx is healing him and he cares so much for her. He's so afraid to lose her, so afraid that she'll leave him like Vander did. His manipulation comes from a place of insecurity and fear. He tells her things that aren't true because he wants them to be true so desperately. He wants to be Jinx's family. He wants Jinx to stay with him. Jinx is the only person that is able to do this to him, to show him this softness he hasn't had in so long. Only with her does he talk softly. Only with her does he open up and share his own struggles. She's the only person who he fully trusts. She's the only person he ever engages in affection with and she's the only person he accepts affection from. And when he does touch her, it's always like she's delicate. Like she's something to be treated with care and the utmost preciousness. By having a trauma similar to his own she gives him someone to relate and confide him. Jinx is the only person who can possibly understand Silco and look past his actions to see the real him. A man who was hurt and abandoned so long ago that now all he knows is that hurt. A man who forgot what it was like to have family, to have people that care about you and want you around. Silco let's Jinx hurt him all the time, physically and emotionally, because he's terrified of the idea of being alone again. As long as she doesn't leave him he's fine with the pain, he can take it. He just doesn't want to go back to the way his life was before her. He wants it so much he willingly gives up his goal for it, he willingly DIES for it. Even when she does the thing that traumatized him, even when she kills him in cold blood and seemingly betrays him, he still loves her. He still can't find it in himself to hate her for all the pain she's caused him. She means so much to him that he uses his final breath, his last words, on her. To comfort her, like he's not the one with bullets in his chest. It's so important to him that she knows he loved her with everything he possibly had to offer.

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Professor Widogast!

This week we have professor Widowgast! Check below the cut for eight fics that feature Caleb as a teacher, and don't forget to kudos and comment if you like them

Professor Widogast as Observed By His Third Year Transmutation Class by GoringWriting (25490, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Exactly what the new Professor of transmutation is like is a mystery. Until now.

Reccer says: Cute!

Joie de Vivre by RhythmicCicada (3710, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb Widogast's desk in his office at the Academy is good for more than paperwork and sometimes a nice nap. a.k.a Essek wears lingerie and Caleb fucks him on his own desk.

Reccer says: Very interesting subject, and, of course, Hot!

We are not alone in the dark with our demons by CanaryCry (140032, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

After the epilogue there is still a lot of clean up to do. Fixing the scourger program, moving on and finding love and relationships.

Reccer says: The set up with surviving trauma, moving on, Caleb and Beau, Caleb and Essek, Yasha, it's all so good, honestly what's not to like?

I think of all the education that I’ve missed (but then my homework was never quite like this) by MarsBar2019 (15118, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek shows up to one of Caleb's classes in disguise and ends up receiving a more private instruction

Reccer says: Caleb is just so perfect as a teacher and it shines through so well here!

hold me down, hold me true by Lakrisrot (enheduane) (12600, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek teleports into Caleb's home whilst Caleb is out.

Reccer says: Very soft and well-written

a sort of beacon where there used to be a dull roar by wordonawing (8781, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek starts living with Caleb after he sustains an injury on the run. Caleb lives in Rexxentrum and works at Soltryce, where some of this fic takes place.

Reccer says: Feels cosy, the shadowgast is very cute

Judgement & Justice by BurdensOfTomorrow (57477, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

All rise for the trial of Trent Ikithon, former Archmage of Civil Influence. Caleb is a professor at The Soltryst Academy and is also active in the trial against Trent Ikithon

Reccer says: This can get pretty heavy but I really like it! It mostly focuses on Caleb and the trial of Trent. I really enjoyed how different it was from most other stories I have read. I thought the author did a great job of getting into the mind of someone going through a major trauma.

lover, you were made for this by aplusjaybirdie (gemstone_wings) (989, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Essek and Caleb have public sex in a park - near Caleb's coworkers

Reccer says: I liked it!

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring the eighth edition of WIP fics. Any fic that is a work in progress counts, no matter how long ago it was updated! Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[thechthonicherbalist]

My humble Altar

Before I put it away for the winter holidays and local solstice celebrations, here's my little pop-up altar, complete with offerings. Sharing in response to my friend @jehan-the-necromancer who has been curious for a while now and the lovely @chthoniclakewitch who asked about it.🥰 (I thought I might as well put the pics in a post, I hope you two don't mind being tagged. 🙈)

Mostly I'm working with Apollo and Aphrodite, Gods of Love, Sexuality, Queerness, Healing, Muse, Poetry, Inspiration and Beauty! The reason is mostly my own queer gender identity and sexuality, as well as a life-long love for art, music and writing.

But also my experiences with CSA, depression and hurt are relevant in regards to many of these topics, as well as the struggles that come as a result. Apollo and Aphrodite give me security, capacity to practice self-love and consider the love others have for me, when anxiety threatens to lie to my heart and make me doubt it. They are also who I turn to for comfort and where I seek refuge when these things get hurt or when it's difficult to navigate them. And they are the ones I pray to, when I want to extend my love to others or when I hope to see people I carry in my heart protected, healing and cared for. Especially in situations where I directly help a person with these things... Aphrodite helps me learn how to think, act, speak and connect with deep love and care for the human essence. Apollo helps me learn how to see the light and beauty of things and how to tap into my healing potential through creative expression. Both these things are life long journeys.

I also pray to Ares and Hecate. Ares because I am a very sensitive person who experiences others and their own emotions very deeply and easily gets very deeply impacted by them. It can be like I absorb the emotions of others and then have to work through them and understand them in all detail myself, even if they don't even fathom that or don't have to do that themselves. So I often carry lots of fear, sadness and hurt in my heart, or need to untangle the anger of others or sometimes also myself, because it mostly servers as a protective response. Simultaneously I have a profound inability to take in and hold the emotion of anger very well, due to complex childhood trauma where people with unresolved anger issues would lash out in life- and safety-threatening ways due to their lack of self-control and and cause both physical and emotional damage. Therefore it was equally life-threatening in this environment to express anger or any other emotion or to protect myself by removing myself from situations that overwhelmed me. To this day, there is nothing more terrifying to me than a person who cannot control their anger, who cannot communicate an issue, fear or a hurt in other ways than by lashing out. It still feels life-threatening, it gives me mortal anxiety and I can't process and react to that in real time. I will always shut down and struggle to comprehend even my own thoughts and memories in this moment. I am reduced to pure fear and survival instincts at this point. And it took me many years to learn from Ares that I am allowed to protect myself, guard my peace and well-being by taking breaks when this become too much, especially when I'm under intentional attack.

Ares reminds me that it is okay to feel and express my own anger, but also that I do not want to follow examples of toxic, unhealed anger expression, by reminding me of the warrior's honor. He reminds me that unfiltered emotion equals war and destruction. And in collaboration with Aphrodite and Apollo, that such things have no place in healthy, loving connections. That there is always a hurt or a fear underneath such strong and violent emotions, that seek to be protected. And that it is important to step back, to process my anger, yes, but to write it down, over and over until I am calm and understand the essence of what I want to express, without hurting the ones I love. And that others are equally responsible to do moderate their own emotions and that I don't have to expose myself if they have not been responsible enough to put in the work and effort it takes to learn how. Ares is also who teaches me to enforce boundaries. That I am worthy of divine and earthly protection and justice. That it is okay to fight injustice and mistreatment, instead of quietly tolerating it. That my well-being, my rights and my existence are worth fighting for. That my life and I am worth fighting for. Worth defending. That if nobody stands up for me, it is okay if I do that. That peace is fought for, negotiated over, not merely tolerated. He and Apollo are who I pray to, for strength and endurance in my battle against depression, chronic illness and now cancer. He is the first god I ever prayed to, who I ever recognized as a god, when I was a child.

And Hecate is... Hecate. The mother, the maiden and the crone. The witch goddess. Protector of the crossroads. Those who know her, know her. Those who do not... fear her. I pray to her for protection, for guidance. And to help me heal the witch-wound. The wound all people carry who have been othered or unjustly accused and punished out of fear for their knowledge and powers, rather than being honoured, heard and understood. She is also known as the goddess of Boundaries, the Underworld, Plants and Herbalism as well as the Moon. I'd like to say that my connection with her is much more... obscure and yet personal than with any of the other gods. I refer to her as mother, when I pray.

[lightdancingwords]

Come Find Me - Part Seven

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader

Series Summary: You are a new arrival to Big Sky, Montana, and found gainful employment with the local insurance department next door to the sheriff’s department. A whole new life with your past haunting you, while Beau is still dealing with the entanglements with his ex-wife. Can either of you succeed in overcoming your ghosts?

Word Count: 5,052

Tags/Warnings: SO MUCH FLUFF, mentions domestic violence/intimate partner violence, mentions police work, a little bit of angst, communication problems, profanity

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Please see this post regarding future story posts.

Divider: credit to @tsunami-of-tears

Chapter Seven: Aftermath

In the weeks that followed, you went through the motions. You got up, went to work, had a quiet lunch with Doris, then went home. After Mark’s death, Beau decided it was safe for you to go back to the rental home. Though honestly, after everything, you knew you wanted to move. The sacred safety of your rental home had been violated. It would never be restored.

Your landlord was thankfully understanding. Even better, they had another property that they were willing to transfer the lease to, and cooperated in arranging the move.

You stayed busy. You finally took the self-defense classes with Jenny. You went to therapy. You did all the official meetings that a victim of a crime was required to do.

Just endless motion. You knew you were feeling the shock, the trauma. There were moments when the feelings came and you thought you’d never be able to stop crying. The memory of the gun, of seeing Mark killed in front of you, it was all so terrible.

What made it worse was that Beau had seemingly distanced himself. He did his job, took the reports, ensured you were safe in your home and then he… just… left. It hurt. Every time he looked at you, it was though you were a stranger.

For whatever reason, you didn’t tell Doris. Or ask her. You kept it to yourself. You didn’t even text him… and Beau never reached out to you.

When the first snow hit, it had been a Saturday. You saw the flurries come down through your kitchen window and found yourself longing for peace and solitude. For the snow to cover you so you could be pure and pristine again. Innocent. Without the taint of abuse. Without the stain of seeing a man killed in front of you.

The memory of that, the flashback, had you dropping dishes in the sink. The sound of the gunshot. The sight of Mark’s head exploding—

You collapsed into yourself and sank to the floor, hands sopping wet. You hated this. You hated the tears that came. You couldn’t decide if you were relieved he was dead or grief-stricken. Or both.

The sobs that caught at your throat were the worse. You’d struggle to breathe and remember the feel of his hand at your throat. God. The bruises were healing, but the memories were forever.

Your new therapist was absolutely understanding. They heard you out, provided a huge box of tissue, and never judged you for your conflicting emotions.

The only advice they could give you was the most profound: “You have to understand, Y/N, it’s not my place nor anyone’s place to tell you what you’re feeling is right or wrong. They’re your feelings. You have to be absolutely free to feel them all. It’s going to take time for you to decide what you feel about it all. And whatever you feel is yours and yours alone.”

While that helped with the mess with Mark, you still didn’t know what to do about Beau. His sudden withdrawal hurt. You missed the way he called you “darlin’”. You missed his accent. You missed his scent. You missed him.

As you sat there on your kitchen floor, the tears finally stopping, it occurred to you that instead of just waiting for Beau to come to you… maybe you should go to him. Because by God, you were never going to know unless you did something.

You stood up, dusted off your behind, and decided to do something for once in your life. You grabbed your car keys and headed out to Beau’s trailer.

Just as you arrived to the trailer, Beau came out, puzzled. “Y/N?”

That he didn’t use the endearment hurt. “I want to know why,” you said, closing the driver’s door as you got out of your car.

His head pulled back, confused. His breath wafted in the air. “Why what?”

“Why have you been avoiding me? Ever since Mark… you haven’t looked at me. You haven’t talked to me. My God, Beau, you… you’re like a stranger now.”

“I haven’t—”

“Bullshit,” you snapped heatedly, storming up to him. “It’s been weeks, Beau, and you keep acting like I’m some stranger!”

Beau’s jaw clenched and let out a huff of air through his nose. “I thought… to give you some space.”

“A few days makes sense, but weeks?! I felt like a goddamned pariah, Beau!” You hated how your voice cracked, but the pain was too obvious now. He still couldn’t look at you….

“Well, hell, I just—” He cut himself off, raking his fingers through his hair. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“What?” You breathed the one worded question with absolute disbelief.

“I killed a man, Y/N.” The flurries dusted his hair, like diamonds on a beach. “I don’t regret it one bit, not since it meant I saved you. But you saw it… and that changes people.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “Did… did you think I wouldn’t be able to look at you after that?”

He nodded, swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“Oh my God, Beau…” You felt tears well up in your eyes, emotions thickening your voice. “You’re the one I’d always want to see. W-when I look at you, I don’t see Mark. I see you.”

”Darlin’—”

“Say that again.” Your heart soared at hearing that endearment. It meant everything to you to hear it just now and you so desperately wanted him to say it again.

He finally looked at you, really looked at you. “Darlin’,” he repeated, this time slower, more meaningful.

“You have no idea how much I miss hearing you say that,” you said, and quickly wiped away a tear with a shaky hand.

Much to your surprise, he closed the distance between you. Gently, he laid his hands on your shoulders. “It’s been killin’ me for weeks to not be able to say it,” he confessed in a soft voice.

“Were you really pulling away because you thought I wouldn’t be able to look at you?” you asked, amazed by that thought.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing a snow flurry out of your hair. “I didn’t want to make it worse for ya, darlin’. After all… I failed ya.”

“You what?” Startled, you framed his face with your hands. “Beau, you did not fail me. You saved me. You… God, you rescued me. Mark had every intention of killing me and you stopped him. All I had were some scrapes and bruises. I’m alive because of you.”

Beau met and held your gaze. His eyes were so inscrutable, so dark in that moment. You had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. Only that he stood there in silence, your hands cupping his face.

“You’re too good to me, darlin’,” he said at last. “I’m not sure I can look at it that way.”

“How do you look at it?”

Very slowly, he ran his hands up your arms, never once pulling out of your gentle touch. “I couldn’t find him before he kidnapped ya. I can’t find your missin’ photos. And I couldn’t stop him from taking you away.”

“And you found me,” you said insistently. “You followed me and saved me. You didn’t fail me, Beau.”

“Darlin’, I—”

“No, let me finish. Please.” Beau fell silent and you continued. “The whole time he had me, I kept praying for you to find me. To save my life. And by God, you did, like a—a cowboy in shining hat.”

He quirked a smile at the description.

“You found me, Beau. I would never avoid you. H-how can I?” In that moment, you decided to take the giant step you’d been waiting for. “I’m… I have feelings for you. If I avoid you, I’ll never know what they’ll turn out to be.”

His gaze flickered up to you, surprise flitting across his face. Then his expression softened and an intensity grew in his green-eyed gaze. Tenderly, he covered your hands on his face and squeezed them.

“Darlin’… God. I’m rock headed and mule stubborn. Ya don’t wanna be with me.”

You quirked a smile as he used a similar description that Carla—via Emily—had used to describe him. “I don’t know about that… I kind of like being around you.”

His smile flashed to life and you felt your heart swell as the warmth bloomed in his gaze. “I feel like I should be askin’ ya on a date.”

Playfully, you lifted your brows at him and said, “I’m waiting.”

He grinned, squeezed your hands and brought them down off his face down to be held between the two of you. “How does dinner sound? We do it right—proper restaurant, music, the whole nine yards.”

“That’s how you ask a woman on a date, Beau? God, no wonder you’ve been single this long,” you said, teasing.

He laughed. “Nah, darlin’… just needed the right woman.”

Your heart skipped a beat, then took off racing when he continued.

“I think I found her,” he added, reaching up to caress your cheek. “Let me take you out to dinner, Y/N.”

“I’d love to,” you breathed, your voice stolen away by this man, this Texan.

“Good. Meet you tonight? Say 6 o’clock?”

You nodded. “D-do I meet you there?” Your voice shook with your pulse. He had set it off running and you didn’t think it would ever settle again.

He pulled a pained expression. “Christ, darlin’, are you trying to make me look bad?”

You had to laugh. “What? Why? What’d I do?”

“You insulted me,” he said dramatically, clutching at his chest. “A proper gentleman picks his date up from her home and brings her back.”

You knew you shouldn’t, but God, bantering like this with Beau brightened your heart. “Oh. A proper gentleman? Do you see one around here? I mean…”

“Oh, now ya’ve done it,” he said with a laugh and scooped you into his arms. You yelped clutching onto him, his move unexpected.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, breathless with laughter and surprise.

He bounced you in his arms and it was all you could do to hold on. “Showin’ ya I’m a gentleman.”

“By carting me around in your arms?” You looked at Beau and couldn’t stop smiling. To be this close to him after weeks of so little with him…. To have that whiff of earth and musk and whatever it was that made him him. To hear his voice. To just be with him.

“Yep.” He grinned at you, his eyes sparkling. He began doing a stroll around his yard with you in his arms, carried princess style.

“That’s your idea of being a gentleman?” The laughter bubbled up in your throat. He was being impossible. Hilariously, adorably impossible.

“Yep.”

“You going to say anything besides ‘yep’?” you asked playfully.

“Yep.”

You laughed again, your arm around his neck. You needed this. God, you really did. Something so absurd, so ridiculous and playful. You hadn’t realized you said it out loud when Beau slanted a look at you, the humor fading from his expression.

“God, darlin’, I’m s—”

“So help me, Beau, you apologize, and I’ll find a way to take you over my knee and spank you,” you said, surprised at the vehemence you felt and heard in your voice.

He stopped and stared at you, clearly taken aback by the way you responded. Then, slowly, he quirked a grin and said, “You promise?”

You tried to maintain a stern expression. You really did. The way he grinned at you made a giggle bubble up your throat and you gave in, laughing once more. “You’re impossible, you know that? God,” you said with a breathy sigh. “I’m really glad I came to Big Sky.”

“Me too, darlin’,” he said as he finally set you back down on your feet. “My life might’ve been more borin’, but my heart would’ve been empty.”

Your breath caught and your heart skipped a beat. In the weeks you’d come to Big Sky and met Beau Arlen, you were constantly doubting yourself, wondered if you imagined the chemistry between the two of you. That Beau plainly and clearly stated that his life would’ve been empty without you…. “Oh damn it, that was perfect,” you managed, your heart swelling with emotion.

He half-smiled. “It’d been years since my last perfect line. I figured I was due.”

You chuckled, breathy and tinged with tears. “That was a good one.”

“Good enough to make ya cry,” he murmured, gently tilting your chin up. He studied your face in wonder. “I didn’t mean to make ya cry, darlin’.”

“It’s not you,” you assured him, sniffling. “I’d never—”

“You never had a man talk to you before like that, huh?” His interruption was gentle, thoughtful. You couldn’t help the tear that fell down your cheek. He saw it and tenderly brushed his thumb over your cheek, wiping it away.

“No,” you admitted. That particular knowledge stung. You hated that your romantic history was rife with issues, with bad men. Oh, they said the pretty words, but the moment they had you in their romantic trap, that all went away. You had the impression Beau meant every word and would never change that.

“I promise ya, darlin’,” he said softly, “I’m gonna keep doin’ it until you beg me to stop.”

“Let’s get the date first before you start making sweet promises,” you said with a slow smile.

“We could count this as a date?” he suggested, and there was something in his tone that had you thinking he meant it all as a joke, a playful tease.

“No!” You laughed and he grinned, confirming your suspicion. “You promised the whole nine yards, Beau Arlen. I expect it all.”

He checked his watch and his brows lifted. “Given the hour, darlin’, I’d say you best get goin’ so you can dress up.”

Your own brows raised as well. “Dress up?”

“Yep.” He smiled, a touch smug. “I intend to go all fancy, darlin’.”

Beau.

In a tux.

In that moment, it was all you could do not to swoon then and there. God, did that man know what kind of an effect he had on you?

“Then I expect you at my house at 6 sharp, Mr. Arlen,” you said, your smile and tone flirtatious.

“That’s a promise, darlin’.”

—

The sight of Beau Arlen in a tux was one you’d never forget. He was tall—absurdly, Doris’s statement that he was bony came to mind and nearly wrecked your composure—and the tuxedo was definitely one specially made as it did everything to emphasize his lean stature. He was strikingly handsome, as usual, but this time, he had his hair combed back and styled. His beard—oh my God, he actually neatened up his beard.

The double-take Beau did of you reassured you that, despite the last minute attempt to find something remotely suitable for a fancy restaurant, you succeeded. You went classic—Little Black Dress, with a thin white cardigan and a lovely little clutch.

“I’d ask if you’d be cold in that little coat of yours, darlin’, but I’m feelin’ a bit hot under the collar myself,” he drawled.

You chuckled, did a little spin in the entryway of your rental house. “I pass, then? Especially given your very last-minute date.”

“Oh, you definitely pass,” he said with an appreciative look. You felt his gaze scan over you, and your body warmed under such intense scrutiny. “And it wasn’t last minute.”

“Excuse me? You asked me out just a few hours ago!”

He smiled. “I made the reservation a week after the first time you slept over.”

You felt your heart stutter and you froze momentarily. “You… Beau, that was weeks ago. How could you have known I’d say yes?”

Gently, he took your hand in his, intertwined your fingers. “I took a chance, darlin’. I’m kickin’ myself for waitin’ this long, and I apologize for that, but the look of you that mornin’….” Absurdly, you remembered the way he slanted a look at you. “You were beautiful. All sleep-mussed, the sun lighting you up.”

“Beau…” You breathed his name like a benediction. He drew closer, close enough for you to get whiff of his cologne, subtle and sweet.

“I’m sorry I waited ‘til you came over and told me what for, darlin’.” His green eyes met yours and your heart somersaulted. “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’d like to wine and dine you as I always wanted to.”

“When you put it that way, Mr. Arlen,” you said with a slow, sweet smile, “how can I say ‘no’?”

“Good. Let me get you in the truck before ya freeze to death.” As he escorted and assisted you into the truck, he paused and blatantly looked over your legs. “By the way… darlin’? You got some damned killer legs.”

You laughed, your cheeks heating up. “Beau!”

—

He took you to Big Sky’s sole fine dining, a delicious Italian restaurant amusingly called Ciao Bella. You stared at the name of the restaurant and turned a baffled look on Beau. He grinned in amusement. “Don’t ask, darlin’. You work at The Big Guy. You really wanna judge?”

You laughed and conceded he had a point.

Beau definitely did everything he could to make the experience a beautiful one. He escorted you to the table, held out the chair for you. He asked the waiter for a recommendation for the entree, one that you ended up picking, and went all out in ensuring the white wine paired with it was to your liking. Once the server received the orders and left, his focus on you had you feeling as though you were dining at home, not in an exquisite restaurant.

“How do you do that?” you asked, amazed.

“Do what, darlin’?”

“Make me feel like I’m the only one here. The only one who has your attention.”

“Because you do and you are,” he said, leaning forward to take your hand in his.

“Another perfect line. You’re on a roll, Arlen,” you teased, softening at the way his thumb caressed the back of your hand.

“Yeah? Two in a day? Damn. I’d say I should buy a lottery ticket after this…” He brought your hand up to his lips and lightly kissed your knuckles. “But I already won.”

Your breath caught at the sweet gesture. “That’s three,” you said in a low, soft voice.

He winked. “I know.”

“You weren’t kidding about wining and dining me, Mr. Arlen,” you mused, amazed at your luck. What had started as a difficult day was ending on such a glorious note, you never wanted it to end. Who knew finding your voice at last would lead to a date with Beau at Big Sky’s fanciest restaurant?

“I’m only just gettin’ started.”

Your smile was warm, a touch playful. “You’re setting a high bar for future dates.”

“You think it’ll happen?”

“What? A second date?” He nodded and you pretended to think about it, long enough for him to do a warning of “Darlin’”. “Yes. A second date. Quite possibly earned a third with this wine. It’s delicious. How on earth did you ever learn about wine?”

“Don’t look so shocked, darlin’,” he said in amusement. “I know stuff.”

“Says the man who said ‘stuff’ in the most exaggerated Texan drawl I’ve ever heard,” you said, your voice bubbling with laughter.

He grinned. “I get what you mean, darlin’. For me, the best date would be a beer around my campfire.”

You paused, then asked carefully, “The night I came over… was that—”

“A date?” You nodded, not minding the interruption. He swirled the white wine in his glass, thoughtful. “I wanted it to be.”

“Beau…”

“The only reason it wasn’t, darlin’, was because you needed a friend that night more than you needed a boyfriend,” he said gently.

“What if I wanted it to be?” He lifted his brows questioningly. “What if… I want that to be our first date? And this… our second?”

He smiled slowly. “I’d say I’m a damned lucky man to get two dates with you.”

“You keep swearing,” you teased.

“Don’t tell Emily.”

You laughed, low and soft. His grin widened. You loved that you could go back to old conversations, bring them forward in beautiful reminders. Much like the threat to spank one another, though God, you never knew such a joke would become regular thing between the two of you.

The entree, spinach and ricotta gnudi with tomato-butter sauce, was so delicious, rich in flavor. You ended up letting Beau have a few forkfuls while you stole some of his braised chicken all'arrabbiata, which turned out to be spicier than you expected.

“Beau, this was delicious,” you said as you dabbed your lips.

“You’ve got to stop sounding so surprised, darlin’,” he said with a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I know I sound like some redneck hick, but I’m a learned man. You keep this up, I’m gonna start gettin’ offended.”

“It’s not your accent,” you said with a defensive laugh.

“Then what?” He leaned forward, caught your gaze and held it. “What is it about me that keeps surprisin’ you?”

You were quiet for a moment. “Because I haven’t had anything this nice in years,” you finally admitted in a low voice.

He gave a start. He’d forgotten. You could tell, by the way he reacted. Beau had forgotten, and you weren’t sure if you should be relieved or worried. Relieved, because you didn’t want to be handled with kid gloves. Worried, because he also had to remember that certain topics, certain discussions, could be potentially upsetting.

“Do you mind, darlin’, if I ask?” he ventured carefully.

You knew what he wanted to ask and shook your head. “Go ahead.”

“When was the last time M—your ex took you somewhere nicer than an Olive Garden?”

You thought on that for a long moment as you took a sip of the white wine. It really was a delicious choice. You found yourself itching to find out what kind of white wine it was… and how much it cost. Then you realized you were distracting yourself from the unpleasant memory and changed mental course.

“My birthday,” you finally answered. “It was my first birthday while we were dating, and he—” you decided you weren’t going to use your ex-boyfriend’s name— “decided to take me to this rather nice French restaurant. He butchered every pronunciation in the book, but claimed he was just trying to impress me.”

“How long was that?”

You frowned in thought. “Five… maybe six years ago?”

His brows drew together. “Darlin’… I’m not a rich man—”

“I never asked—”

He shook his head and continued despite your attempt to defend yourself. “I’m not a rich man,” he said firmly, “but if I were, darlin’, I’d take you here every night. Hell, every day if I could.”

You sat on that for a moment, and couldn’t suss out what he truly meant behind that. “I’m not sure how I should take that.”

“Then I’ll be honest. It’s real crappy your ex didn’t spoil you. You deserve to be spoiled. You deserve all the good things in the world.”

You quirked a brow at him. “Do you think I’m that… greedy? O-or a gold digger?”

“What? Oh shit. No, darlin’.” He rubbed his forehead. “God. See? Three perfect lines and there goes my damned luck.”

You managed a faint smile, though you were still well and thoroughly confused by what Beau was trying to say.

“I’m not sayin’ you’re a gold digger, darlin’. I’m just sayin’…” He took a breath, and you could almost see him reorganize his thoughts. “I’m sayin’ you should’ve been treated better. I know I made it sound like you should get fancy restaurants and expensive wine. I only meant… you deserved better. Kind gestures should be a part of the norm, not nice surprises.”

You tilted your head as you weighed everything you knew of Beau against one horribly made declaration. Beau seemed to know he went off on an awful take, one that slandered your character, and was trying hard to make amends.

“‘Kind gestures should be a part of the norm, not nice surprises’. I think you got your fourth perfect line,” you said at last with a gentle smile.

“I was sweatin’ bullets there, darlin’,” he said with a huff. “Am I soaked? I feel like I should be soaked.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. Beau smiled and reached over to take your hand in his. “I wasn’t tryin’ to imply you’re a gold digger, darlin’,” he added. “Just that… I may not be a rich man in the bank, but by God, you make me feel wealthy.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

“Yeah? You think it makes number five?”

“You’re definitely on a roll there, Beau,” you said with a warm smile.

“Don’t tempt me, darlin’,” he said, his voice taking on a husky tinge. You felt a thrill down your spine, and sensed he meant more than just perfect lines.

“How do you mean?” You decided to press, wanting to know what he was thinking.

He glanced down at your joined hands on the table, at the gentle way he kept rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand. “Darlin’… there’s a part of me that really wants to take you to my home and have my way with you.”

Your heart stopped, then thudded painfully against your chest. You couldn’t tell if it was out of fear or out of desire, out of hearing him voice that wish of his.

“And that’s the reason why I won’t,” he said with a nod to you. “That look that just passed over your eyes.”

“Beau, I—I—”

“Don’t, darlin’. I ain’t offended. You’re not ready. I can wait.”

You sat there for a long, quiet moment as you took all that in. How rare a man was he that he’d wait until you were ready for him to take you to bed? Especially one who saved your life, one who knew a portion of the darkness you’d been through?

“It’s…”

“Darlin’, you don’t have to explain.”

“I feel I need to. Because part of it is such a stupid, vain reason.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. You had suspicion he knew exactly what you were going to say and was mildly offended already. Before you could continue, he spoke up. “Do you know what goes into a file, darlin’? It’s not just written complaints, documentation of calls and meetings. When it comes to acts of violence, we need to see photographs. Sometimes videos. Audio recordings.”

You froze, your breath hitching. You actually heard a small simmering of anger in his voice, and almost cringed in your seat. You definitely offended him and instantly regretted your statement of vanity. God, why did you have to be so stupid?

His gaze searched your face and he shook his head. “I ain’t mad at you, darlin’,” he said, and you wondered if he read your mind. “I’m mad at him. He got ya to think that I’d care you have a scar. That I’d want you to have some model perfect body to be worthy of me.”

“So you…” He said photographs. Dimly, you recalled your stay at the hospital, how they had some officers come over and ask to take photographs of your lower abdomen for evidence. You’d forgotten. “Oh my God. So you know.”

“Not everythin’, darlin’, but that one, yeah, I do.”

“A-and you don’t… it doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it, darlin’?” He seemed honestly puzzled. “It’s a scar. It’s a badge of honor for ya. You survived that sick son of a bitch, and not only that, ya fought back.”

“Do… do you have any scars?”

He flashed a grin at you, designed to soften the intense moment. “I’d be glad to show it to you sometime.”

Absurdly, you blushed as you laughed. “If it’s on your rear—”

“Nope.” He smirked and winked at you. “Wrong side.”

“Beau!”

The night was winding down when he escorted you back home, to your front door. Sometime during the dinner, the snow came back in force. Beau’s truck thankfully handled it and he was able to pull up as close as he could to the front door.

“So much for dancin’,” he said ruefully.

“Where did you have in mind?” you asked as he walked you the last few steps.

“Right here. Maybe some nice oldie playin’ on the radio.”

You smiled. “That sounds very romantic. I expect you to follow through when it’s springtime, Mr. Arlen.”

“Since when did ya start and keep callin’ me that anyway?” he asked, lightly brushing back a strand of your hair.

“I was kind of copying Pride and Prejudice,” you said, lightly teasing him.

He smiled. “Am I Mr. Darcy then?”

“I’d say ‘yes’, but there’s one small problem.”

“What’s that?” He drew closer to you, so close you could feel his breath dance over your lips.

“They don’t kiss in Pride and Prejudice,” you murmured, your gaze flickering from his green eyes to his lips.

“Guess we’ll rewrite the book,” he whispered, and brought his lips to yours, capturing you in a sweet, tender kiss. He lingered in the embrace, slipping his arms around your waist and pulled you closer. You let out a soft sigh, and he deepened it, a slow heat that spread throughout your body. You no longer felt the snow, the chill. All you felt was him.

When he slowly broke the kiss, you felt dazed. He brushed back your hair again, his gaze deep and dark. “Have a good night, darlin’,” he whispered.

“You too, Beau.”

He waited until you were safe inside before he headed back to his truck. When he pulled away, you realized that, yes, this was definitely not going to be the only date you ever have with him.

Tag List: @spxideyver @deadlymistletoe @bitchykittenconnoisseur @aarpfashionvictim

[aspecpplarebeautiful]

Sometimes, I feel like I’m hiding behind the asexual label because I’m traumatized by intimacy. I do often feel attraction, and sometimes have a high libido, which I’ve read disqualifies me from being “actually” asexual. I also have periods of severe repulsion, with crippling physical symptoms.

I recently learned the term “aegosexual,” which is the closest I’ve come to feeling like my asexuality is “justified.” It’s so disheartening when people (even aces) define asexuality as “zero attraction” with no nuance. I feel attraction, but I am scared. My sexuality does not feel normal. Is it stupid to use this label due to emotional barriers, rather than definite inability?

Thank you for running this blog. It has been so helpful in finding a voice for my identity.

Yeah, I feel like the 'no attraction' definition became popular because it was useful for community outreach and clearly explaining the concept to non-asexuals who'd never heard of asexuality before. But as a definition to use within the community, it's completely inadequate. Sexual identity is made up not just from attraction but also sex drive, desire, repulsion, etc. Anyone who experiences any part of sexual identity in a way allosexual people don't falls under the asexual spectrum and can identify as asexual.

So yeah that's a long paragraph to say your experience count as actually asexual, Anon. And people shouldn't be gatekeeping based off a not-great definition that isn't even used by the whole community. (Or really gatekeeping at all.)

For identifying as ace because of trauma, you can do that too. It can definitely get complicated when it comes to trauma, because trauma and recovery from trauma are both hard to predict, but even if trauma is the reason why the asexual and aegosexual labels resonate with you, the point is that they do still resonate and you do still find them useful.

Sometimes with trauma too it can be really hard to tell what part of your identity comes from the trauma, and what is how you might be naturally, and sometimes it never does become clear, no matter how much you heal. So that's another important reason why it tends to work better to base your labels on if they resonate, if they're useful, etc. And so long as that remains true, you can keep using them.

All the best, Anon!

[rev-draws]

Call of Duty OC : Xochitl "Pidge" Magdalena Ortiz

Fiercely loyal, resourceful, and compassionate but also deeply guarded due to her traumatic past, Pidge carries a quiet strength, expressing herself more through action than words. Rescued by Captain Price as a teen, Pidge considers him a primary figure in her life and credits him, alongside Alejandro Vargas, for shaping her into the soldier she is today, making her a formidable addition to taskforce 141.

General:

Name: Xochitl Magdalena Ortiz

Alias: "Pidge" (given to her by Captain Price)

Date of Birth: September 16, 1994

Age: 28

Height: 5'6"

Weight: 210 lbs

Blood Type: AB

Race/Ethnicity: Latina

Country of Origin: Mexico

Affiliation: Mexican Special Forces (Fuerzas Especiales), Task Force 141

Rank: Sergeant

Appearance:

Eye Color: jade green

Hair Color: raven black

Height: 5' 6" (167 cm)

Scars: (pictured above) Xochitl has various scars from her time in the fighting ring, most notably her hands, as well as others around her body from her time on the field.

Tattoos: (pictured above) Her most notable tattoo is the large pair of wings accentuating her mid back and shoulders.

Build: Athletic with a sturdy, muscular frame, reflecting her strength and agility

Fancast: Stephanie Beatriz

Favorites:

Color: sunset orange

Food: pozole

Drink: agua de jamaica and black coffee

Flower: marigold

Pastimes: boxing, weightlifting, smoking, journaling

Skills and Abilities:

Preferred weapon(s): Sniper rifle

Special skills: Close-Quarters Combat (CQC) Pidge is swift and calculated, using her smaller stature and agility to outmaneuver larger opponents. With a combination of joint locks and throws, she incorporates techniques to disarm or disable opponents quickly, using their momentum against them.

Fighting style: Strong foundation in hand-to-hand combat and situational awareness.

Survival Instincts: Her experience surviving extreme hardships as a child honed her ability to adapt to unpredictable situations. Relies on quick reflexes, creativity, and unconventional tactics.

Boxing and Kickboxing: Uses sharp, deliberate punches and low, sweeping kicks to destabilize opponents.

Krav Maga Influence: Practical techniques aimed at disarming, disabling, or neutralizing threats efficiently.

Focus on Pressure Points: Targets vulnerable areas like the throat, knees, and ribs for maximum impact.

Personality:

Myers Briggs Type: ISFJ (The Defender) Pidge is naturally reserved and introspective, often communicating more through her actions than words. She tends to keep her emotions and thoughts private, relying on a small circle of trusted individuals. She can also be highly detail-oriented, practical and grounded, focusing on the present moment and the tangible realities of her missions. Her sharp observational skills allow her to read her environment and the people around her with precision.

Deeply empathetic and loyal: prioritizes the well-being of her loved ones and teammates. Her moral compass is strong, guiding her decisions and actions even in the harshest circumstances. She shows compassion, particularly towards vulnerable individuals like young children.

Adaptable Under Pressure: Although she prefers structure, her military training and survival instincts enable her to remain calm and resourceful in unpredictable situations.

Negative Traits:

Emotional Guardedness/Struggles with Vulnerability: Pidge often hides her deeper emotions, fearing judgment or being perceived as weak.

Difficulty Asking for Help: Her self-reliance sometimes prevents her from seeking support, leading to unnecessary stress or burnout.

Stubbornness: While her determination is usually a strength, it can turn into inflexibility, causing her to push herself or others too hard.

Residual Trauma: Due to her traumatic past, Pidge is constantly on edge, always scanning for potential threats. While this is useful in her line of work, it can also prevent her from fully relaxing or enjoying peaceful moments.

Tendency to Bottle Emotions: When she suppresses her feelings for too long, Pidge might have sudden emotional outbursts, which can catch others off guard. She tends to internalize negative emotions, letting them fester rather than addressing them head-on.

Background Story:

Born in a small village in Mexico, Xochitl’s early years were marked by tragedy and hardship. With her hometown overrun by rising cartels, she was caught in the crossfire of many rival gangs, taken by a human trafficking ring and was subjected to unimaginable abuse. As part of an underground fighting ring, Xochitl was forced to fight and survive, her combat skills sharpened at the cost of the many young lives she had to fight against.

The underground fighting ring turned children into killers. Every week, the cartel ran gambling rings on their "fighters"—children pitted against one another to the death. Xochitl learned quickly. The first fight nearly killed her, but the desire to survive burned brighter than the fear. At 16, she was rescued during a military operation led by John Price. Upon reaching the base of operations, it was unusually quiet. Price's team managed to find a cell filled with young girls, many of them weak and afraid, but still alive. With no sign of any cartel members, Price found it unusual, and went to investigate, only to find a horrific sight before him. Inside one of the darker cells, was the silhouette of a young woman, drenched and sitting in a pool of blood with the bodies of 4 cartel members surrounding her. With her back turned to him, he approached her quietly, but was met with a pair of jade green eyes, wide and seemingly cutting through the darkness. With heavy and ragged breaths, she revealed her name. Xochitl. After sitting with her for a few minutes, Price managed to gain her trust, freeing her from the house of horrors she grew fighting in. Price was baffled to see someone so young manage to take down 4 grown men on her own, saving the other young girls in the process. To him, she wasn't a monster. She was a hero. A fighter.

Though physically free, Xochitl struggled to trust others and rarely spoke. With no information on her family, Price took her under his wing instead of having her placed in some horrid orphanage, until she was 18, eventually joining the Mexican Special Forces (Fuerzas Especiales), under the guide of Colonel Alejandro Vargas, earning recognition for her unmatched skill set and loyalty.

After 10 years, Xochitl became a formidable member of the Mexican Special Forces, reaching the ranks of sergeant. Her jade eyes continue to carry the many lives she had taken all those years ago. With her expertise behind the scope and her close combat skills, she keeps her team safe by keeping a keen watch from above. As the events in Las Almas, Mexico unfold, Xochitl becomes a close ally to Ghost and Soap, earning mutual respect from each other. With her intimidating silence and quiet movements through the shadows, it wasn't long until Ghost began to grow intrigued by her sheer determination.

Trivia:

According to Captain Price, Xochitl had often prayed to God as a child, asking to be turned into a bird so she could fly far away, thus earning her the name "Pidge."

Price has also stated that she was quite the troublemaker, oftentimes getting into trouble and even having to bail her out of a Mexican Prison

True to her callsign, Pidge has an uncanny habit of finding high vantage points (trees, high rise buildings, etc.) whether in combat or just to think.

Pidge is terrified of severe storms, a result of her traumatic childhood. She also has an irrational fear of moths.

Pidge is afraid to close her eyes in the shower.

Pidge sometimes plays guitar and sings, but does it in private.

Pidge has an uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable it may seem.

Before every mission, she silently prays for her teams safety while holding her cross necklace.

Notable Quotes:

"Sometimes, all we need is a little freedom to soar."

"A bird in a cage is still a bird, but one that fights to fly... that's me."

"I’ve faced monsters before. They taught me how to be one—but I choose not to be."

----------------------------------------------------------

Credit to @sleepyconfusedpotato for the format inspiration 💖

[orbitposting]

DID but not as in presence of "evil murderer alter", DID as in buying two drinks instead of one because someone came to front after seeing a blue raspberry slushie and DEMANDED to have it, but the alter who walked all the way to the gas station refused to leave without getting what they wanted to get initially.

[benevolenterrancy]

("Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this." -- paraphrased from The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket)

[jesuis-assez]

THE ROOKIE- 6.03 ➦ Trouble In Paradise

[thepeacefulgarden]

[trans-axolotl]

one thing that has been frustrating lately is that outside of the disability specific organizing spaces i'm in, i've noticed that so many people assume that because i'm a wheelchair user, i don't have relevant experience/skills for high risk and escalated protests. what's particularly frustrating lately is that some of these organizing spaces i'm in, i actually have more relevant experience than a lot of my comrades--i started going to antifascist protests when i was 13 and have been involved in a lot of protest movements over the past 9 years. and have learned a lot of shit from a lot of mentors. some of my comrades just got involved this year, which is great and i have a lot of respect for them. and at the same time i genuinely do have a lot of relevant knowledge about tactics, practical experience, etc etc. i'm always learning + continue to grow my skills and don't want to get complacent ever but like. some people were talking about how they wanted to learn how to do eye flushes for tear gas and i was like "okay yeah we can practice that, i can teach everyone if we stay a little later tonight" and someone said "thanks for offering but we should probably learn from someone who's had experience doing this on the ground." which was so fucking patronizing because i literally do have that skill set...i have been tear gassed many many times, have done eye flushes for people many many times, literally have a LOT OF practice doing that in a high stress and chaotic environment when the cops are brutalizing you. and no one else in this group had this experience! ignoring my experience made no sense and actively endangered the group! it made me want to scream like. how fucking ableist to assume that and also to insist that disabled people aren't involved in high risk protests even though we have already been out here involved for years and years! i'm going to scream

[fidothefinch]

the water is fine

cw: natural disasters, scarcity of necessities that follows read below the cut (or on Ao3)

There were bodies floating downstream.

The announcement barely caused a ripple through the convenience store. Everybody was too tired, too numb. They clutched their allotted case of water bottles like they were afraid someone would take it away.

“Next,” the cashier called.

The line of refugees, which reached out the door, shuffled forward.

Jason tugged Damian closer to him, squishing the kid’s backpack between them. He looked to be on the verge of collapsing, not that he would ever say anything. Tim stood beside them both, carrying their case of water. He stared blankly ahead.

“That’s terrible,” the woman behind them moaned. She wore a backpack on her front and one on her back, and dragged a duffle bag along through the mud. She had said, earlier in the line, that she was avoiding looters. “Where do you think they’re coming from?”

Her companion was older, and her hair was pulled back into a greasy braid. The hem of her jeans were stained the same color as the floor. “Probably the Narrows.”

The first woman gasped. “You think they got hit hard?”

Someone else chimed in, then. “I could see it from my roof. The Narrows is gone.” He swept a hand through the air, miming the flood waters that had risen so quickly. “Woosh,” he said, deadpan.

The first woman’s voice cracked. “I have family in the Narrows.”

The man shifted his hold on his water. “I’m sorry.”

It was how most conversations ended. Rumors spread wildly – they were turning away search and rescue volunteers because there were too many bodies; accounts of houses floating down the river and the people who cried for help from inside; the old carpet factory by the docks that didn’t even tell its employees to evacuate. Every bridge and tunnel into Gotham had been washed away, and every road in the city was impassable. There was no radio, no cell service, no internet. No way to contact the outside world or the others stuck in the city.

No way to verify what was real. No way to find out who was still alive.

“Next,” the cashier called. His voice was dry.

The line shuffled forward.

“I want to look,” Damian whispered. “I’m going to find everyone.”

Jason and Tim’s eyes met, both bloodshot and cradled by dark circles.

“It’s not safe, squirt,” Jason said. “The floodwaters are still up.”

“I can swim,” Damian huffed, without heat. They had had this argument before. Damian had yet to win it.

“This isn’t the kind of water you can swim out of,” Jason had shouted. “The boat will flip, and you’ll be swept downstream like everyone else.”

“I can’t just sit here and watch people drown,” Dick growled. “I’m going to help, or die trying.”

It was the last they had heard from him.

“Next,” the cashier called, and it was their turn.

Tim dropped the case of water bottles onto the counter. Jason fished cash out of his pocket. No cards – that would require power.

“This, too,” Damian said, throwing a tube of triple antibiotic on the counter.

“We don’t need that,” Jason said.

Damian clicked his tongue. “Drake is hiding an injury.”

“No he’s—” but Jason stopped at the very brief, very subtle dirty look Tim shot to the youngest in their group. Not brief enough. “Tim,” Jason bit out, tone sharp.

Tim dropped a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change,” he murmured to the cashier, already grabbing the case of water to go.

Jason watched, but he couldn’t find evidence of any injury. He followed Tim’s quick progress out the front doors, past the line of wide-eyed, lost-looking refugees. The ground outside was rough terrain, the road washed away in places and buried in a thick layer of mud in others. Bricks and wood were scattered throughout the mess, like chunks of the city had been put through a blender and spilled onto the streets. Broken glass twinkled under the hot sun in an ironic twist since the storm. Murky, fetid water still flowed in a steady stream from somewhere further up what used to be the block.

They were lucky. They had made their way to the high ground. Walk a block in any direction, and the city was submerged under feet of rushing floodwater.

Jason grabbed Tim by the shoulder and forced him to turn around. “Where are you hurt?” he growled. “And why didn’t you say anything?”

Damian caught up a moment later, bringing the ointment with him. “There was blood on his hands this morning,” he said, accusingly. “I do not know where it came from.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Tim hissed. “Damian, that medicine could have gone to someone who really needed it.”

“Nuh-uh; nice try.” Jason stepped between them. “You’re too tired to deflect.”

“It’s true,” Tim ground out. “That antibiotic isn’t going to do me any good.”

Something in his tone gave Jason pause. “What do you mean by that?”

Tim’s jaw twitched. “I. . . .” he trailed off, eyes downcast. “C’mere, Damian. Get some water.” It was the first clean water they had found since their old supply ran out the day before.

Damian accepted the proffered bottle, but didn’t open it. “Drake?”

Tim ran a dirty hand down his face. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

His tone scared Jason. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s my leg.” Tim brushed some debris aside with his foot and sat heavily. “It’s just a small cut.” He rolled the hem of his pants back, revealing dirty shins and bruised knees. Jason dropped down to inspect further. There was a slice across his calf, maybe an inch long, and not too deep.

“When did this happen?” Jason asked, brushing some dirt away from the sluggishly-bleeding wound. Damian had said he saw blood this morning, but that was hours ago, and surely it wouldn’t still be bleeding now?

Tim closed his eyes. “When we crossed into Old Gotham. Yesterday.”

When the realization hit him, Jason sucked in a breath at the impact. Crossing into Old Gotham consisted of traversing waist-deep still water, with the aid of a rope someone had installed to keep balance on uneven ground. The water had been brown-orange with dirt and had an iridescent sheen from the oil it had picked up on the way, and it had smelled like the subway.

Damian, thinking along the same lines, opened his bottle passed it to Jason, who rinsed the silt from around Tim’s injury. It revealed puffy, pink skin.

One tendril of dark pink reached two inches up Tim’s leg.

“The water was contaminated,” Tim whispered. “Infection was imminent.”

It was the word the emergency warnings had used. Flash flood warning – seek higher ground immediately. Dam failure imminent.

Jason tilted the bottle, and Tim gripped it before any more water could spill out. “Save it,” he snapped. “Don’t waste it on this.”

“It’s not waste, you cretin,” Damian interjected. “We must clean the wound.”

“The infection has already spread to my blood,” Tim stated cooly, like it wasn’t his death sentence. “I don’t have a spleen, and all of my antibiotics have washed into the Atlantic.”

Damian still had the tube of triple-antibiotic ointment. He squeezed it hard enough the tube warped into a mold of his fist. “We will get you more medicine.”

“Where?”

“We will find a place that is open.”

“Pharmacies are gone. We don’t have cash to pay for it. There’s no way off this island, and as far as we know, there’s no help on the way.” Tim’s voice got louder as he spoke, his posture stiffer.

Jason recognized the fear, underneath the anger. He placed a hand on each of Tim’s shoulders. “Look at me, Tim.” He waited until Tim peeled his gaze off the muddy ground to continue. “We are not going to let you die here.”

Tim’s mouth pulled into a tight, flat line. “You aren’t letting me do anything. It just is what it is.”

“It is what I say it is,” Jason countered, forcefully enough even he almost believed it. “And I say you’re going to get through this. We’re going to find everyone else, we’re going to clean up the city, and Bruce is going to have new gray hairs to name after you for years to come.”

One corner of Tim’s mouth cracked upward, briefly, at the last comment, but fell away again almost immediately. “Okay.”

He didn’t sound like he believed it.

That was fine. Jason had enough belief for the both of them. “Get up, loser.” He hefted Tim up off his feet, and hefted a squawking Damian onto his own back.

“We’re going shopping.”