#so many ways to die by russian hand

[orsane]

[scientia-rex]

I feel like disappointment in Biden is baffling to me because he was always a disappointment. He was the asshole who got to ride to power on the coattails of a better man. He told bizarre and repeated lies (despite getting caught at it and his team telling him not to) about having a Welsh coal miner dad when he did not and he stole that story from actual Welsh people. I read a profile of him years back that pointed this out and told the story of the time he straight up ignored good advice from an expert not to plant a certain kind of tree too close together and flew a bunch of them out to plant, at night because he was just too fucking excited about it, and they all died. He’s not a smart man! He’s charismatic ish and lacks principles and as far as I can tell doesn’t really care about abortion rights or a lot of things we’d consider pretty critical to preserving freedom. I sincerely thought he couldn’t become President because there were so many obviously better candidates in the pool. I underestimated the sexism and antisemitism in American politics, and when he became the candidate in 2020 I gritted my teeth and voted for him because the alternative was a man who is not only an idiot but also profoundly dangerous. Trump is not ha-ha crazy, he’s Mussolini crazy. He is not dangerous because he’s stupid, although that doesn’t help; he’s dangerous because he does not care about anyone except himself under any circumstances and if that means he lets the far right push us straight into forced birth for white women and sterilization for women of color he’s going to do that. If that means conversion therapy for queers and death penalty for homosexual acts he’s going to do that. He has literally no limits. If he gets back into power, a whole lot of people are going to die, again. It’s not a hypothetical because it happened the first time and he’s only going to get worse.

I am not, never have been, and never will be a fan of Biden. To pretend that he and Trump are in any way equivalent is wrong at best and another goddamn Russian psy-op at worst. To pretend that a third party candidacy is viable in the US is to completely ignore every election of your lifetime and your parents’ lifetimes, and to further ignore the lesson of Ross Perot.

You cannot save Palestinians by not voting for Biden in November; the best you can do is chip away at his margin, and the worst you can do is see Trump elected so he can decide to do the worst possible thing in ever circumstance. Biden has Palestinian blood on his hands and watching this when we could have had Bernie or Elizabeth Warren instead is maddening. (I would have preferred Hillary to Trump, but I don’t think she’d be any different than Biden here. They’re both old-school politicians.)

I hate everything about this, and I hate that saying “maybe don’t put the man who literally said he would kill his political enemies in power” is seen as supporting genocide. It’s acknowledging reality. Joe Biden as a person can eat rocks for all I care. I was kind of hoping he’d die sooner in his term so we’d have time to get used to and then vote for President Harris. (Remember when the line was “she’s a cop, don’t vote for her”? Funny how there’s always a reason not to vote for a woman or a person of color or someone you just “don’t like” and can’t put a finger on why except she “seems angry.” Oh does she. How would she not? When Michelle fucking Obama, the picture of grace , STILL got called angry for having the nerve to be a Black woman with an opinion? When Hillary Clinton lost to a man with no political experience to her decades and who openly discussed sexually assaulting women? Would you have voted for President Harris? Or would you let Trump win again because you don’t LIKE her personally and she’s made decisions and statements you disagree with?)

Biden has both less power than his critics give him credit for and more power than his fans give him credit for. He needs to do more to pressure Israel and although it’s a delicate diplomatic situation I’d rather see us fuck up our diplomatic relationship with Israel than watch more Palestinians get murdered for things like “wanting to eat” and “existing.” The line has been crossed, and he doesn’t see it. Because he wasn’t the best person for the job. Because they didn’t get elected, because of sexism/antisemitism/racism. Hell, I have no idea what bootlicker Pete Buttegieg would have done here, but I’d have given him a try. But no. We got Biden and we’re stuck with this reality where you can be as leftist as you want and still have to look at the situation and decide whether you’re comfortable contributing to a Trump victory through inaction. I want socialism—I want every single person on Earth to have clean drinking water, enough safe food, shelter, medical care, and education—and I’m going to vote for Biden, pissy as it makes me, because the only actual alternative is so, so much worse, for me personally as both a woman and a queer, and for everyone in America and the rest of the world who Trump would find reasons to hurt. What do you think the man who openly and repeatedly praises dictators is going to do when those dictators massacre their own people? Yes, we need to care about this genocide now. We also need to care about all of the other people who are at real risk, both at home and abroad. Would a Trump government agree to fund military intervention in Haiti without insisting on it being a colonial exercise in power? Would a Trump government roll back the restrictions on discriminating against transgender patients in healthcare? How would Trump respond if Orban started dragging people into the streets and shooting them en masse? How would Trump respond if China finally went for it and invaded Taiwan? There are more lives at stake here than mine or yours or even those of the Palestinians, who have deserved better for literally decades and are being mass killed in ways that should result in immediate sanctions, a war crimes trial, and the execution of Netanyahu.

The world deserves better from you than complicity in a Trump victory.

[k-s-morgan]

Just wanted to show one recent example of what Russia has been doing to Ukraine. The city of Kharkiv, with over a million residents, is located close to Russian borders, meaning that it's difficult to defend it from air strikes. Russia has been systematically destroying it and killing its people, intensifying its attacks more and more, using the fact that most Ukrainian allies forbid us from launching our own attacks on Russian territory.

On May 25, Russian sent bombs to a hypermarket in Kharkiv. On a weekend, in the middle of the day.

That same day, it bombed the park. Before that, it hit the rest zone.

And a publishing house.

And the hotel.

And the television tower.

And so on and on. Russia specifically targets public places and areas of life to make Kharkiv a ghost city. To destroy the home of over a million people. Many, many residents are constantly dying from these attacks, including children, pregnant women, the elderly, and other most vulnerable population groups. And Ukraine is unable to hit the locations from which Russia bombs Kharkiv because it's forbidden by our own partners. It's a joke.

And it's just one city. Russian bombs and missiles are erasing towns and villages from existence entirely on a constant basis. I can't even imagine how many people and animals die as a result. It's impossible to comprehend it on a human level. Just like it's impossible to comprehend the world's indifference, where on the one hand, we have support, but on the other hand, this support is limited to not letting us lose quickly. We are under the most cruel restrictions and limitations. And as long as the greed controls the world, which is probably forever, and our partners keep having mutually beneficial relations with Russia, there is no way out of this. Just more deaths, suffering, and misery.

[frogchiro]

We need more content of dad Makarov! That is all I want to say. Normal, Naga, Silver Fox, etc. I! Do! Not! Care! All I want to see is Makarov being a dad to some cute babies that either have heterochromia or those big brown doe eyes

You can pry good dad Makarov from my cold dead hands, he wants to make up for the sins of his father! He wants to be the best dad around and no one can stop him. If they try, they die. It is as simple as that

Imagine him being a baby whisperer, when you hold them after feeding all they do is cry and cry but as soon as he picks them up, nuzzles their full tummy with his stubble as he cooes at them in Russian they settle down and go right back to being cute little adorable messes

Imagine him being a twin or quadruplet dad

I have so many thoughts about this evil man I just can not, I have so many thoughts about him being a father

Evil man but amazing mate and dad!! I'm going to go with Naga!Makarov x Forest witch!Reader bc I miss them and I love them so much ;;

He was over the moon when you found out you were pregnant with his eggs!! Believe it or not but he always craved to have a family of his own for years, especially after what happened to him and his parents. He wasn't a good person, he was a Naga, a feared and formidable creature that everyone avoided. Well, everyone but you, the cute forest witch that helped him and rescued him when he was freezing to death and bleeding out on the snow and he just never left :(

And he was ecstatic and so smug and proud when you informed him with a small, shy smile and a flushed face that you're expecting with his clutch <3 Vladimir would shower you with even more attention than before, would never leave your side ever; he's naturally a territorial and aggressive male like most Nagas are, but with now a pregnant mate? And babies on the way? Don't be surprised if you wake up sometimes in the middle of the night with your mate missing from your bed to piercing screams coming from the forest. Just ignore it love, there's nothing to see!

And when the eggs finally arrive? He's not leaving them! Vladimir will arrange them in a neat circle, all four of them, in your bed/nest and stay wrapped around them until they're ready to hatch <3

That includes you too! Despite your giggled protests and playful squirming, Makarov is herding you back into your bedroom and into your nest where your clutch is resting, putting them in your waiting arms before wrapping his huge, strong tail around your before nuzzling into your neck, finally calm and satisfied that his family is safe and sound in his grip <333

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Second Chances

Written for @steddieangstyaugust challenge, day 1.

The world was dying. Not just Hawkins, but the whole world, invaded by the creatures of the Upside Down, the particles that made people sick, killed crops, infected water...if it wasn't the end, then it was damn close.

Steve often thought about the moment everything went to shit. Even when Barb died, when Bob died, when the whole mall burned down, there was at least a shred of hope. Even when Chrissy got lifted in the air and her limbs broke like an unwanted doll, there was a plan, something to do. A chance to make things right for the rest of them. It wasn't difficult to pinpoint the point of no return - Eddie dying.

Here was the thing. Steve didn't really believe in time travel, and he was way too high on the Russian truth serum to even consider what it would entail if it ever proved to be true.

Lo and behold, the Hawkins lab of 1990, infected by the creeping decay of the Upside Down, made it possible. Steve found himself transported back to the day of their failed mission to kill Henry. But not just normally transported - inserted into the mind of his younger self, one that wasn't scarred, limping, and on the verge of giving up. And that was great. Steve thrived when he had something to do, and keeping Eddie alive was something to do.

He didn't really care about his real time. If erasing his present meant saving Murray from getting torn in half, Jonathan and Nancy nearly bleeding out, Robin losing her eyesight, and always seeing Dustin's blank, hopeless stare, well. That was fine. He hated to see people he loved suffer. Hence the operation "Save Munson from his heroic awakening and keeping that stupid walkman intact."

It should have been easy. He prepared everyone. He told Eddie what would happen. He instructed Lucas and Erica to ensure Max lived too. He explained that Eddie wouldn't make a difference, but Dustin would mourn him forever and never recover. Eddie nodded, agreed.

Max was saved.

And Eddie got fucking killed again.

Steve got snapped back to the portal in his present with angry tears still in his eyes. "Oh no, you don't!" he muttered and dove in again. The combined mission of "save Max and Eddie" was now just "make Eddie stop dying."

He tried sending Eddie to the Creel house in his place. Explained again, with more detail. But did that rocker wannabe asshole listen? No! The first rustle of demobat wings and he was back, being torn to shreds.

No. That wouldn't do. Again.

Dustin had tried explaining time loops to Steve, but even in his limited understanding, he didn't consider this one. He wasn't trapped anywhere, fucking Eddie Munson was trapped there with him, in a repeated self-worth session that went "self-destruction is a no-no."

Still, he kept dying. And Steve kept trying. No one was going to out-stubborn Steve Harrington.

And finally, one miraculous day, it worked out. Eddie didn't die, Steve did. He felt the familiar "whoosh" of being dragged to his real time, terrified but excited to see what awaited him after, and then...

Then he was back at their makeshift camp in March 1986.

Steve didn't understand. He was staring at the all too familiar scene when a calloused hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him away. "A word, your majesty."

"Munson, what the-!"

It was Eddie, of course. He'd seen him so many times, talked to him so often, learned about his life, his childhood, his love for Wayne...but there was something different this time. Eddie's eyes seemed much older.

"I know what you're trying to do here, Harrington, and it isn't happening, hear me?" he hissed, and Steve finally understood what seemed so off.  Eddie always looked scared, no matter which attempt, no matter Steve's words or actions. But now, Eddie Munson seemed determined. Angry.

Steve shook off his hand. "What do you mean not happening, Munson?" he whispered, fighting for the last shred of self-control. "Saving the future, that isn't happening? Huh?"

Suddenly, his head snapped back. It took him a good moment to understand that Eddie hit him. "Is that what you call it?!" Eddie hissed back, then snuck a quick glance at the rest of their group. Fortunately no one noticed yet. "Do you even know what you did, Harrington? You fucking died. And everything went to shit."

Glaring at Eddie, Steve rubbed at his sore cheek. "You want to talk about things going to shit?! Do you even know what happens after you die?! People get hurt. People lose hope. And Dustin has never recovered, so there! You have to stay alive no matter what."

Eddie threw his head back and laughed, but it had no joy in it. "Oh really. Well, have you spared a single thought about how he feels, knowing you died to fix the past? How Robin feels?! Do you think that everyone is alive in the future you have so graciously created?! No, Steven. Things are shit and can't be unshitted."

That gave Steve a pause. "Wait.  What do you mean, everyone isn't alive? Who died?"

Eddie scowled at him and crossed his arms. "I'm not telling you. Let's just agree that the future when I'm dead is the better one. Deal?"

"No fucking deal." Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning at the forest ground. "What the hell, man. This was supposed to fix things! Even with Max alive, it's still the same?"

"Yep. Not just the same. Worse. I don't know how to explain it, but...they just need you. Without you, it doesn't work."

"Well, without you it doesn't work either!" Steve spat back. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Eddie shrugged. "I don't know. If things go to shit, the portal will activate anyway, right? So one of us will make it there, if at least one of us lives. So how about we both try to live this time?"

Sighing, Steve nodded. "I've tried everything else, so we might as well. As long as you stop sabotaging my future fixing or whatever by dying."

Eddie grinned and offered Steve his hand, knuckles still red from punching Steve. "Shake on it. No pointless heroisms!"

"If you can keep your word, I'll keep mine, Munson."

...

It wasn't on their first try, not even on the tenth or twentieth. One of them would always found themselves at the portal, jump in, repeat.

And then, by pure chance and a truck load of luck...they lived.

Well, their younger selves did.

Steve sat down on the grimy dead grass of the Upside Down, his limbs heavy. "I think we did it," he told Eddie as he landed next to him. "Something changed."

"Yep. I think..." Eddie trailed off, his voice quieter, weaker. "I think we avoided our futures. Which both sucked, by the way. But that also means..."

"It means we don't exist either," nodded Steve. "I thought so. We'll be gone soon, I guess." He leaned against Eddie, slumping against his shoulder. "It was an honor saving the world with you, Munson."

Eddie laid his head over Steve's nodding. "Likewise, Harrington. I'm kinda bummed we won't see the new future. But I sure hope it's a better one."

Closing their eyes, they let the time take its course.

...

In the new 1990, Eddie Munson woke up next to his boyfriend, Steve Harrington. It was the favorite part of his week, the one free day they shared, when they could cuddle and trade lazy kisses. Eddie was a hedonist by nature, and while he did his best to understand Steve's morning runs, he managed to persuade him that after saving the world, they deserved the one peaceful day only for themselves.

Steve was quiet that morning, and Eddie, always the inquisitive one, had to ask. "What's on your mind, love?"

"I just keep thinking about...you know. That day in March," whispered Steve, running his fingers through Eddie's hair. "I still don't remember it. You don't. But everyone else does. I'm just wondering if it's just a coincidence, that we blanked out and everything went just right."

Eddie smiled at him, but his eyes were serious. "I try not to think about it much," he admitted. "I don't want to jinx it, what we have. I won't look the gift dragon in the mouth. I'd like to think we were possessed by a divine inspiration or something."

Steve snorted and pulled him closer. "What, like angels?"

"Sure. We were possessed by our guardian angels and they made sure we'd survive, fix the world...and have this. Us."

Laughing, Steve pulled Eddie into a kiss. "I'll take it. Guardian angels, wherever you are and if you even exist...thank you."

Eddie snuggled closer and nodded into Steve's hair. "Thank you for everything."

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Platonic Stobin Mind-Reading AU Part 2

Part 1

The house is quiet when Steve slips in. It always is, now.

He toes his shoes off, unable to bend over enough to untie the laces. His ribs protest the slight hunch of his shoulders, stomach roiling in queasy warning to not curl in further.

The house is quiet, but Steve can almost feel the warmth of an arm around his shoulders. And he doesn’t feel alone. He looks around the foyer, almost waiting for his parents, or hell, the ghost of Hopper to appear. Nothing does.

He’s leaving smatterings of blood and mud with every step, speckling the white carpet in signs of life as he flicks on every lightswitch on his way toward the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, staring up at the insurmountable obstacle to his bed. With a sigh, he turns his back on the climb and stumbles his way toward the couch in the living room, collapsing down into it. Blood is already smearing into the velvety green of its cushions. He ignores the little voice in his head that sounds alarmingly like his Mother, berating him for leaving so many signs of life in her pristine house for lifeless dolls.

Steve falls asleep, alone in his empty house. The comforting weight is still around his shoulders.

It’s still dark when he wakes up, gasping around a nightmare he doesn’t remember having. His stomach roils with fear, like he’s still down in the Russian bunker, begging to keep his fingernails attached to his body. There’s no more comforting weight across his shoulders. He still doesn’t feel alone.

Steve leans across the couch and vomits. There’s very little left in him, popcorn dissolved into green stomach acid. The carpet’s beginning to look like Christmas come early. If she comes back, his Mother will not be pleased.

He doesn’t get up to clean it, exhaustion hitting hard even as the fear persists. He falls back asleep, wakes up mid-nightmare to a pounding at the door.

He stares at the ceiling, stuck still half in nightmare with the pounding of demodog feet echoing through the bunker where Robin and Steve are still tied back to back, her head pressed to the back of his own, Dustin’s screams filling the air as Steve writhes desperately to free himself and protect the kid.

Someone is still pounding at his door. He stumbles off the couch, ribs screaming, head spinning, ears buzzing, eyes half closed against the light as he opens the door, unable to even see who’s in front of him.

“Dingus, where have you been?” they say. Steve forces his eyes open wider past the light and pulsing of his head, willing his swollen eyes to make out Robin’s face. “I’ve been knocking for like five minutes! I was starting to think you were dead! And I was getting so scared that you’d gone off in the woods to die. Cats do that, you know.”

Steve blinks at her, struggling to keep up with her tirade. “Huh?”

Robin rolls her eyes. She steps into the house, making to shove past him where he’s blocking her entry. “Oh just let me in, it’s so hot out–”

She stops talking when her elbow hits his forearm. Stops moving too. Steve stares past her into the empty driveway, wisps of her hair tickling his cheek.

There’s relief coursing through him, thoughts running through his mind that can’t be his own–Thank god he’s alright, I thought he died, what would I have done? Thank god–can’t believe I care about Steve the hair Harrington enough to show up at his house uninvited, what kind of bizarro world are we living in, this is weirder than that flesh monster I swear to god–

Steve stumbles back, spine connecting painfully with the doorknob as the door swings back loudly into the wall with the force of his weight. Robin’s looking at him, eyes wide. There’s a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. Even past the confusion, he’s overwhelmed with the relief that she’s here, standing in front of him, whole and alive.

She reaches her hand out slowly, like he’s a stray cat that could be spooked at any moment. Her fingers latch onto his forearm, curling around it tight enough that her fingers dig into his flesh.

–that supposed to be what a demodog looks like? Dustin was really underselling it, I think I’d take Russian’s any day, aww Dingus was worried about me, wait wait wait, how do I know that he, did he sleep in that stupid outfit? where are his parents? why can I see–

Steve wrenches his arm free, ignoring the stinging of Robin’s fingernails scraping across his flesh. They stare at each other. Steve can feel himself breathing too fast. Wisps of Robin’s hair are sticking to her forehead with sweat. The door is still open.

“Dingus?”

“Good thing you’ve gotta breathe or I don’t think I’d ever get a word in,” Steve says without thought.

Robin brings her hand up to her mouth, eyes widening impossibly further. “Were you thinking about the demodogs?”

“Were you thinking that us being friends is weirder than the mind flayer?”

Robin drops her hand and smiles. “We’re friends?” she asks, voice chipper. “Wait, no! What is going on!”

They stare at each other some more. Robin looks manic, like she’s trying to pop her eyes out of her skull with the force of her stare. Steve, without looking away, reaches behind himself for the knob still pressed into his spin and slowly closes the door.

“Did you have a nightmare last night and throw up?” Robin nods. “Did your Dad have his arm around your shoulders?” Nod. “Well, shit.”

He finally turns away, stumbling back to the couch and gently settling down, leaving enough room for Robin beside him.

They settle like two, hunched quotations, knees settled together, hair brushing with how closely they’re eying each other.

“Anything?” Robin asks.

Steve hums, squinting his eyes with the focus of his concentration. Her eyes are blue, unlined but all but the barest remnants of smudges from her usual make-up. She looks a wreck. He’s pretty sure he loves her.

Are you excited right now?” he asks because he feels it bubbling up his throat, like someone’s just barely holding back a deluge of words, and it’s not him.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes up toward her head. “How are you not?” she demands, pulling her hands away from her knees to gesticulate in the scant air separating their bodies. “This is like superpower territory, Steve! We can read minds!”

Steve swallows around the excitement, feels his own warmth curl up in his chest at her joy. “So far only each others.”

Robin jolts, hands coming to clutch at the fabric across her chest, fist tight. “Oh,” she breathes. “Is that what you’re feeling?”

There’s something else clogging up his throat now. Not words. Tears, maybe. Steve looks down at his own bloody hands, trying to make words where only feelings exist, then remembers he doesn’t have to. He reaches out, snatches her hand, and lets himself feel.

“Why are you picturing us making Thanksgiving dinner together?” she asks, laughing even as tears bubble out of her eyes. Always a sympathetic crier, his own begin to well.

“We’re like, stuck together now, right?” He lets go of her hand, gets rid of the distracting feedback loop of two minds thinking around each other. “That like makes us–family?”

Robin sobs and launches herself into his arms. Unfortunately, the pressure on his ribs is violent enough to almost make him vomit again. Maybe he makes a noise of pain, or maybe she gets some sense of the way his vision is whiting out from pain through his thoughts, but she scrabbles backwards instantly, hands shuffling her further and further away until her back hits the armrest at the other side of the couch.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I just got caught up in the moment, and forgot you’re totally fucked, and dingus! Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? Because all I saw there was a white light, and that doesn’t mean you’re dying, does it? Did I kill you?”

Steve laughs but it comes out more as a cough as agony falls back into the bearable threshold of pain. “I’m fine, Robin,” he says, eyes squeezed closed as he eases himself back into a fully seated position. “I got checked out in the ambulance, same as you.”

Robin, uncharacteristically, doesn’t respond. When Steve opens his eyes, all signs of tears are gone from her face, replaced with a look that clearly shows how done with his bullshit he feels. “And they told you that you were fine?” she demands.

“This all just needs to heal on its own,” he says, gesturing from his face down his torso.

Robin scoots back over to poke his cheek with her finger. He can hear her thinking about the likelihood of him being full of shit, the pros and cons of kidnapping him via her Dad’s SUV. Steve slaps her finger away, but whatever she must’ve gleaned from his own mind satisfied her enough that she doesn’t make a move toward the door or the phone.

She eyes him up and down, gaze traveling down his bloody form, to the splotches he’s left on the couch, and the slowly-developing stains on the carpet, grimacing in disgust.

“Okay, Dingus,” she says, clapping her hands sharply enough to make his ears ring. “Game plan time. You need a shower and a change of clothes pronto. Then–have you eaten?”

“I’ll be in trouble if I don’t clean this up.” He’s too worn out to even bother gesturing at the carnage surrounding them, much less bending around his ribs to scrub.

A furrow forms between Robin’s eyebrows as she contemplates him, mouth pursed like she’s trying to solve complex algebra. Or no, she’smart enough for that to be a breeze. So more like she’s trying to figure out how to scoop his brain out and blow on it until it works better.

“Where are your cleaning supplies?” she asks.

“Robin–”

“No. You’re hurt, and I’m fine. Go take a shower.” Like she can sense him looking, her hand jumps up to cover the singular bruise on her cheekbone. “It’s not the same. Where are the cleaning supplies?”

Her words are so harsh, that he speaks before thinking: “down the hallway in the closet.”

She jumps up, walking with her usual frenetic energy as Steve tries and fails to will himself to get up and stop her. It’s only a few moments after he hears the closet door click open that she shouts, “go shower!”

He goes.

Steve has to peel his uniform off. Mud and puke and blood have dried and merged to his skin. Scabs open where he pulls until he can leave the whole thing crumpled into the smallest ball he can manage in the trash can, salvaging only his nametag as a keepsake, wondering idly if Robin will switch him.

The shower hurts, but he feels divinely clean as he bends over just enough to shuffle into clean sweatpants and an old Hawkins swim team shirt from sophomore year, washed and worn enough to be soft against his skin. He doesn’t put products in his hair, doesn’t even brush it, all remaining energy used in stumbling down the stairs to stop Robin from overworking herself needlessly.

The air smells like a janitor’s closet, enough concoctions mixed together on his Mother’s carpet to wage chemical warfare. Robin’s on her hands and knees, scrubbing ferociously with a scrub brush at the grout between tiles at the entryway. Steve steps around the couch, peering down at the carpet, off-color with cleaner instead of his various bodily fluids. The couch is similarly immaculate, velvety cushions rubbed roughly against the grain from Robin’s ruthless cleaning.

“I threw away your shoes,” Robin calls as she gathers up the cleaning supplies surrounding her and stumbles her way back toward the closet. “There was a concerning amount of blood pooled in the soles, Dingus. Ain’t no way that was all coming out.”

Steve looks around at his clean living room again. All this work, and all he can feel from Robin is pleased satisfaction. Steve feels like he’s going to cry.

“I threw away my uniform.”

Robin laughs. “It’s not like we’re gonna need them anymore.”

Steve pulls the nametag out of his pocket. The stupid anchor is flecked with blood but otherwise it’s pristine. He holds it out to Robin when she troops back into the room.

“You can be me,” he says.

Her eyes light up as she takes it and immediately affixes it onto the front of her shirt. She shuffles back to the side of the couch where she’d tucked her backpack and riffles through it, murmuring quietly enough that he can’t quite make it out. She gives a cute little Ah-ha! When she finds whatever she’s looking for before skipping back over to him, grin crooked it’s so big.

“We can trade.” And there, tucked in her palm is her own, slightly charred name tag. She pins it to his shirt, pricking him with the pointy end before finally settling it in place. “You can be Robin, and I can be Steve!”

It settles easy around his shoulders, like he really can take a step back. Be someone else. Breathe. “I’m Robin,” he murmurs.

She smacks his chest over the nametag, gentle enough to barely hurt.

“Well Robin, what’s for lunch?”

They eat sandwiches in front of the TV. Robin complains about his movie collection, even as she jumps up and down excitedly and puts in Grease. It’s comfortable, easy to forget who’s dead, and who’s injured, and how fucked up their brains are now. It’s between The Breakfast Club and Fast Times that Robin gasps, sitting bolt upright and slapping his thigh.

“Truth serum, Steve! It was truth serum!”

“What was?”

“They wanted to open our minds!”

Steve, up until this point, had thought that was obvious, didn’t realize that for once she was trailing just a bit behind him in the obvious revelations category. “Yeah, and they did.” Robin’s nodding like she can’t stop. He puts his palm flat on her head and holds it still. “Opened them so wide we swallowed each others.”

Steve can’t tell who’s thinking it, but suddenly he's picturing two brains in horrible sailor outfits and terrible mouths that hit a little too close to the demogorgon. One’s mouth is open wide enough to eat the other whole. Then they’re laughing, uproariously, like they’re watching the same funny little show, like the television hasn’t turned to static in front of them.

“Now we can’t keep any of the truths from each other,” Robin says at the same time she’s thinking about that embarrassing crush she’d had on her seventh grade teacher.

In a bid to even the playing field, Steve thinks about little Sally Perkins who he’d liked so much in fourth grade that he’d smashed a grasshopper into her hair and had to miss out on the rest of recess. She’d never talked to him again.

Robin laughs but still shuffles away so his fingers aren’t touching her scalp anymore. Her thoughts flit away, but her hazy contentment lingers.

Steve gets up to switch out the movies, brain buzzing away. “Okay so I feel what you feel, right?” he asks, not waiting for a response. “And I can hear what you’re thinking when we touch.”

“You can hear it?”

Steve starts up the movie and sits back in his place on the couch. Robin looks horrified by this. “You can’t?”

“No!” she shouts, forgetting herself enough to smack her hand into his shoulder, jostling his numerous injuries. Robin grimaces, “Sorry, it’s just, you can just hear what I’m thinking? You can’t like, see anything?”

“You can see things?” Steven demands.

“Holy shit!” Robin bounces up on her knees and just keeps doing it, like a kid excited to open presents on Christmas. “Do you know what this means?”

Steve looks over at her, eyebrow furrowed. “That you’re a–girl?”

“No!” Robin stops bouncing. “I mean, yeah. But no, Steve. What the fuck?”

“I just mean that’s like the only difference between us, right? What else could it be?”

He can feel amusement bubbling up in her stomach, but Robin just stares at him, like she’s too stunned to laugh. “I just meant that some smarty pants scientist should like study us. Because like, we’re proof that some people think differently right? Me all in words and you all in these fancy schmancy pictures! That has nothing to do with our genders, Harrington. That shit’s made up!”

Steve doesn’t know how he feels about being studied by scientists. He’d heard about mini Byers time with those Upside Down quacks and wasn’t sure he was interested in his own stay. It would be nice to have someone who knew what they were doing to help them navigate whatever minefield they’d found themselves in but not at the cost of Robin’s safety. But if they just need a smarty pants who think they know everything then–”Henderson’s smart.”

“You want to call your children?” Robin asks, laughing.

“Think about it!” he replies, slapping the couch. “The lab people are all sketchy, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to be locked up without sunlight for the next hundred years.”

“Okay, yeah but–”

“Your parents aren’t in the know, and I’m practically an orphan. Hopper died.” Steve cuts out, choked up over the thought just like he had been in the mall parking lot when he’d first been told. Robin squeezes his calf. “That takes Joyce out of the running since she's grieving and shit. That just leaves the kids!”

“What about Nan–”

“Things are still kind of weird with Nancy and Jonathan, Rob!” he says, running his fingers through his hair and pulling sharp enough to burn. “If we have to, sure, call her, but I don’t know if this counts as the kind of life or death scenario I would do that in.”

Robin sighs, folding over until her head’s on his thigh, stomach pressed into his calves. “Can we call him tomorrow?” she asks, voice muffled by the cotton of his sweatpants. “My head’s killing me and that kid is so shrill.”

Steve runs his fingers through her hair, coming it back from her face. His fingers come in contact with her forehead long enough to get a quick burst of–feels nice, I wonder if this is why all the girls liked him, or if it was all those rumors I heard about his mouth, eww eww gross don’t think about–before her thoughts cut out. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

They settle in to keep vegetating, Steve slumping further into the arm rest, Robin turning her head and wrapping her arms around his calf. The quiet lasts for ten more minutes before Steve just has to ask, “What do you mean gender is made up?”

Robin cackles.

[bestanimatedmovie]

Choose your favorite!

Vote in the other polls!

What fans say:

Kung Fu Panda:

Honestly iconic. The progression of story, the message, the acting.

The way this movie balances tone is nothing less than astonishing to me. It's funny and lighthearted but also intense and dramatic and neither ever take away from the other. Every joke and emotional beat lands excellently. Not to mention. The fight scenes SLAP. And so does the score!!

It's just GOOD. I love how all of them were insanely genuine. Po genuinely wanted to be a Kung Fu master. The Furious Five genuinely wanted to be the very best like no one ever was. And Tai Lung genuinely wanted to kick the shit out of anyone that even looked at that dragon scroll. But seriously one of the best movies.

Treasure Planet:

The setting and focal relationship!

WHALES IN SPACE. Second best treasure island adaptation (#1 is muppets). The song The Song!!

Where do I begin with this movie? It blends CG and hand drawn animation beautifully. All of the backgrounds are gorgeous. There are so many cool alien designs. The score is absolutely perfect. The amount of detail put into the design and worldbuilding shines through. All of the characters are so much fun to watch, especially Long John Silver and Captain Amelia. This movie takes at least partial responsibility for my love of space/sky pirates. Also it was actively sabotaged by Disney so I need to vouch for it at every chance.

Space pirates in a classic novel. It's gorgeously animated with a blend of 2d and 3d. Also, LONG JOHN SILVER HAS A 3D HAND thats hecking impressive for a main character to be a blend of the two in 2002. Did I mention the twink protagonist and malewife for the rich halfwit son? The aliens are beautifully unique, and a mantis guy floats off into space. from a pirate ship. because they aren't just space pirates, they're aliens and cyborgs on pirate ships going through space. Which fucking rocks.

It's a genuinely creative adaptation of Treasure Island that has so much heart and incredible animation. It helped pioneer 3D animationa nd it was the first feature animated film to utilize both 2 and 3 D animation

The animation is so good, and the way that the antogonist isn't black and white, he genuinely cares for the protagonist <3

Pirate ships in space!

Watched this on loop as a kid, gave me solace for not growing up with a dad

It fucks

The ☆A n i m a t i o n☆!! And captain Amelia

It's so fun looking, cool character design. It's funny, it's emotional. I love it so very much please aaaaaaa

How this movie looks is absolutely amazing. A space-steampunk pirate story with fantastic visuals and (mostly) great characters. The vibes this movie has are off the charts. Jim is the bad-boy-good-heart kid, the doctor is a silly-goofy-but-oddly-competent support and Silver is a complex father-figure-who's-made-mistakes. Also MORT the cute little jelly that won me over in 0.5 seconds flat. I am also a slut for a good soundtrack and this one SLAPS. I will stand by my opinion that the Russian version of the song I'm Still Here did a better job of fitting the montage and the mood. That's a hill I will die on.

[aurumacadicus]

One thing I notice all those "exercise will make you feel better" posts missing is that CORE EXERCISES WILL HELP WITH YOUR BACK PAIN. (Specifically lower back pain but for me personally lower back just starts radiating up you feel me.) In fact, a lot of physical problems can stem from not working your core!

Of course, I'm not saying start doing burpees every day. First of all, no one fucking likes those, and second of all, if you don't do any core work why would you immediately jump into such a physically strenuous exercise. (Like, burpees are annoyingly good for your entire body but they're called that to be polite. I call them pukies. Yuck.)

However! I am going to suggest a few beginner core exercises. Start as small as you'd like! (One of each per day and working your way up, doing ten of one each day, etc; whatever works best for you.)

1) Crunches. There are so many types of crunches, you can try them out until you find the one that works best for you! My favorite is reverse crunches. However, I'm going to suggest starting with the basic abdominal crunch.

2) Glute bridges. It works both your legs and your core! It works from the lower back all the way down to quads and hamstrings. Ultimately, exercises that work multiple muscle groups will help when you work up to more exercise. Until then, it's easy, it's fun(?), and it's free!

3) Modified planks. You don't have to start in the most difficult position! Pushup position is fucking hard! You can start on your knees instead of your toes and it'll still work your core just as well. Remember: Modify to work for you!

4) Russian twists. You can use no weight and work your way up, and it doesn't have to be a weighted ball or hand weight or anything. You can just use progressively larger books if you have them. You can even use your cat or dog, if they're amenable.

5) Dead bugs or the Superman. Dead bugs are done on your back, the Superman is done on your stomach. Both work your core while stretching/stabilizing your spine. It's all about slow and contained movements.

Of course, you can also look up other core exercises that might lend better to your interests, but I sincerely suggest you work some core exercises into your daily routine. Between chapters in a story, or during commercials? Right before your daily shower, maybe! Definitely not right after food. You'll die.

[persage]

CAN YOU STAY WITH ME TONIGHT?- S. HARRINGTON

Summary: It's a rainy night when Steve Harrington knocks on your door for help. This time, however, it has nothing to do with the upside down and its monsters but that doesn't make things any easier.

Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader

Words Count: 2.5k

Warnings: None, just Steve's shitty parents, some angst with comfort and the breakdown our boy deserves. Hopper!Reader. Let's pretend Hopper never "dies" at the end of season 3. (set between s3/4)

He can see it in the distance, warm and familiar. At every step the Hopper house is closer and you with it. In the dark of the night Steve Harrington needs you like never before. The rain beats quickly against his jacket as he runs fast, regretting not having taken the car and having decided to run away on foot, like an unconscious stupid child. If he lived in a normal city, he might  be afraid of catching a cold or a fever at most, but he lives in Hawkins since and November 6th 1983, the day Will Byers disappeared, he has much more to fear. He knows that rationally nothing has happened for months, that you are theoretically safe, that you have overcome the Russians and the Mind Flayer, but every time something terrible has been thrown at you it has been when you felt the safest. He trembles. He should have at least taken the bat, which he keeps under the bed, but he ran away from that hell of the house without thinking and immediately found himself running to you, like an unstoppable impulse.

To say you've had a hell of a night would be an understatement. His tear soaked face is red and puffed, his hair disheveled and even if he's been running he's cold, lips chapped and he just wanna stop moving and sleep. It seems like an eternity goes by before reaching the familiar doorstep. Though the hour, he knocks at the door and it doesn't even occur to him that the Chief Hopper can open it in your place. Also he is ashemed of being seen this way by you,  but by your dad ... It would much more embarrassing.

Luckily what he sees after a few minutes and a few reminders is your sleepy and confused face.

"Steve? What's wrong?" You ask as you open the door. You haven't looked at him well yet, not enough to realize he just cried, you rub your eyes to wipe out sleep, your hair is unkempt, the pajama you are wearing is turned upside down and you seem to have the pillow still glued to your face . Guilt grips Steve's heart.

I shouldn't have come. He thinks. He needs to go away, is nothing important.

Sorry y/n, it is nothing, I'm going home. But what comes out of his lips is something else. "Can I stay here, tonight?" He asks, his voice trembling. Idiot Steve.

Your brows knit together with concern as you let the door open fully. "Of course. My dad is working late so it's just us. What happened?" You look him up and down, resting yout hand on his chest once the door is shut. You finally notice his eyes swollen with tears, despite the rain you can clearly distinguish his tears. Something between his chest and stomach tightens. A lump rises in your throat.

You never saw Steve cry, not when Billy beat him, not when Nancy left him, not when he was tortured by the Russians. Something very serious must have happened and you are afraid to know it, because the person in front of you, even if he does not know it, is the human  you care about most in the world. The same one you were willing to die for so many times. When you stood between him and Billy, when you stood by his side in the tunnels, when you offered to take his place during the you never managed to stop him from hurting himself.

And now, again, something has already happened to him and you are here, helpless. You can only listen to him.

"I.. I shouldn't... I didn't know and... I just. It's raining." He avoids eye contact as his voice shakes as well as his hands. You grab them, squeezing them with both of yours. They are cold and wet. "You're all wet Stevie, you're gonna catch a cold." You say in the sweetest tone. He lets out a soft sigh. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have come".

"No, no don't say that. We're gonna get you into some dry clothes and get that cut cleaned up, alright?" You rub your thumb over his cheek, pulling it away to show the trail of crimson liquid. Steve haven't even noticed he was hurt, he is just so used to it.

Even if you are shorter then him, you awkwardly try to put an arm around his shoulders to warm him. Steve lets out a little laugh and you let an arm slide along his side and bring him closer to you as if you need him to have both hands on him in fear that if you let go, he'll fall completely apart.

You walk him to your room signing him to be quiet for El who is sleeping in the near room. You pick out a red sweatshirt that he lent you once and you never gave him back and some unlikely basketball shorts that must have belonged to your dad when he was young  and they certainly won't fit him well but as they are but it's your best option. Steve doesn't know how to describe the feeling while he hold the clothes in his arms waiting for you to leave him, it is just that they make him feel safe. They have your scent.

"You change and I'll get some stuff to clean the cut, yeah?" You say, gently caressing his face and regretting it a second later. Sometimes your releshionship confuses you: he's not your boyfriend, not even near to be, but you are way more tan friends. And he ran to you. In the moment of need he ran to you, it must mean something. But on the other hand then there's Robin ans this symbiotic relationship that she and Steve share that you don't understand and it scares you, also because she's awesome in so many ways and you really really like her. You don't wanna be jealous, you just  can't help it.

Steve nods and watches you leave hesitantly. He knows he must have scared you, showing up out of nowhere, late at night, and he knows you must have understood something is very wrong. Steve feels weak near you, like he doesn't need to hide his fears anymore, like he can finally break down and that's what worries him the most. He doesn't want to be a burden and he doesn't want you to change your mind about him. When you return Steve is sitting shyly on your bed, twiddling with his fingers.

"Alright, here we go." You state, walking back into the room with hands full of band-aids, gauze, hydrogen peroxide

"What happened Stevie?" You ask sitting beside him, so close you can feel his still cold skin against yours.

He takes a deep breath and remains silent.

"I am ready to challenge my father's wrath and let you stay tonight and you know he will kill me for it but you must confide in me, please. You can trust me." You continue while with dedication you cleanse his cheek of stale blood.

"I hit a mirror. And I broke it." He explains in a low voice, finally finding the courage to look into your eyes.

"Yeah" You hold stare back at him, his eyes full of shame, fear, a broken heart. "And how did you hit a mirror with your pretty face Steve? "

He clears his throat to stop the trembling of his voice. "I had a fight with my father"

When will you grow up?

When will you work for real?

You make me regret having you, stupid boy.

You're useless

You're a shame for the Harrington name.

" He ... He found out that I'm not going to leave Family Video soon and ... He freaked out. You know my, my cousin Trent  has just graduated he'll have to take care of the family business and I... I'm just too stupid for this shit."

"What did he do to you?" You struggle to control the anger in your voice and squeeze the gauze  too tightly. This time it's Steve grabbing yours hands to calm you down.

"He didn't do anything to me. He didn't beat me Y/N if that's what you are thinking, he never did and he never would"

"But you hit a mirror" Your voice holds pieces of breaking heart and anger.

"He pushed me, I slipped. I swear to you"

"It's not that better anyway. He pushed you, he makes you feel stupid, he... Doesn't even try to understand you Steve. This is not fair, you deserve better" Your voice goes up an octave, you just want to scream at Steve's parents, to make them see how wonderful thier son is. You always knew that his family never protected, loved or valued Steve as he deserves but seeing him in this state annihilates you.

" You're the only one who thinks that y/N. Sometimes I've got the feeling that you don't actually see me for who I am" Steve chuckles, but behind that sound there is nothing happy, just a lot of loneliness. "Steve we all believe you deserve the world. Robin, Dustin, the kids. Me. I've seen you fight monsters, Russians, I've seen you save everyone. I know you, I've seen you take care of Dustin and the others and be the most generous and courageous person in the world. You don't want to run a company, and that's okay so it doesn't make you any less important, less strong or valuable. Please, please believe me "

"I can't" He murmors voice breaking. He brings his hands to his face to calm down. He feels like crying.

"I can't y/n" You hang your head slightly with disappointment, while caressing his soft hair.

"He kicked me out of the house." He adds, whispering.

His chin wrinkles, his eyes burn ready for tears to start streaming as your heart falls with his.

His pain is yours.

You no longer care about keeping appearances and distances. You throw yourself on Steve stepping him in the tightest of hugs, tying your arms around his neck and resting your head on his, kissing his hair while Steve Harrington lets himself go against your chest, collapsing into a cry that has been held back for years. He cries for Barb, for Nancy, for himself and the little boy he was. He cries for the blows he took, for the mistakes he made, for Jonathan with whom he was an asshole, for the mistakes he has not forgiven himself. For high school Robin. For the Russians, for Billy and Max, poor little Max. He cries because the weight of the world is on his shoulders and he is not even able to be a worthy son, to be strong and now he throws it all on you. He cries for you, because he knows that now he can do nothing to keep you away from him, to give you better. You love him, otherwise you would have already kicked him out, you would see his flaws. Like his father you would find him useless.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He whispers against your body, sobbing his heart out.

"No, no, no don't be. Ever.

We'll find a solution I swear my Dad will help us"

"I don't want ... I don't want Chief Hopper to get in the way ... I don't want ..."

"Steve my father adores you and is grateful to you and will be happy to help you. You have saved my life a thousand times. You save me every day to be fair"

You move away wiping his tears with your thumb, looking at him with admiration, as if he were the most precious thing on earth. Steve lets himself be lulled into this unknown sensation. "We will talk about it tomorrow with my father and we will solve everything"

"Yeah." He agrees softly. "I don't know what I'd do without you y/n. Thank you"

"Don't ." Your voice is soft but scratchy. "Don't ever thank me for this Harrington. This is what we do. We're there for each other, no matter what."

He nods once as you hold his head in your hands

"And listen to me, please. You are worth, you are precious and you deserve the world"

"It's you, you are precious" he leans to you, his forehead now touching yours.

Your voice shakes "You are loved" You murmor as you help him lay down on your bed, arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly. "Now sleep, you need it Stevie boy"

"If your father finds us like this he'll kills us"

"Oh Harrington I'd be ready to die for a night with you"

You answer ironically. Or maybe not.

"I left him a note on the door. He'll know you're here and you need us." You continue.

"y/n"

"Yes Steve"

"You are loved too."

He smiles while closing his eyes,  letting himself go to the peace you give him. He loves you, he really does.

You make him feel better even if he still has a dad outside who hates him and a mother who can't stand up for him and even if his problems are not gonna disappear this night, for a few hours with your breath against his skin and your hands on him the seem to weight less on his shoulders and he he feels a little less useless and unworthy. You're his saving grace and the light of his life and maybe one day he will be able to tell properly.

[mamayan]

YAN MY BABYGURL CONGRATA ON YOUR MILESTONE!

I am here to give my try for your Russian Roulette. Can be nsfw or not (your decision and how you feel like 💋)

9, 37, 46, 61 either with Kyojuro or Kokushibo ❤️

BANG! … no bullet was shot—

Kokushibo

“Let me hold you?” || Sleep || Tangled hair || Soulmates

tw: Suggestive • NSFW • Suggestive Angst

wc: 618

“Please…”

He should kill you.

“Let me hold you?”

If he allows this to continue any longer, you’ll surely infect his mind further. You, an enchantment no doubt, have haunted him for months with that sweet scent and earnest gaze. A weak creature not meant for the night like he, yet you so kindly embrace him despite his monstrous appearance and wicked deeds. His desire for strength and achievement shudders beneath your fingers.

He should kill you.

You who sleepily wraps your arms around his neck as he lowers himself over you, brushing his lips against your own while you invite him into your bed again. You should know better, he has warned you many times in the past. You aren’t very obedient, but he hardly cares when you part your lips for him to taste you. His kiss is sensual, slower and gentler than usual. He’s savoring you, the feeling of you close to him while his blackened soul writhes against the clean half you possess. Your soft figure beneath him is the most right he’s ever felt in over four hundred years and he knows you are his own personal punishment for his sins against humanity. You don’t listen when he tells you to run, but you open up so willingly when he slots himself between your thighs. His hands greedily tracing your figure, squeezing you almost painfully as he assures himself once more you are real and not a figment of his lonely mind.

He should kill you.

Except his mind goes blank as he sheathes himself inside you, your body warm and welcoming for him as you mewl in pleasure. Your tight entrance is wet enough he hardly needs any force to sink to your deepest parts. He loses the fight immediately, succumbing to your eyes devoid of anything but complete adoration and acceptance. He loses the battle when you moan his name and beg for more, “Michikatsu, harder please—.” A great warrior crumbling before a mere human, seduced and destroyed.

His hand wraps around your delicate throat, other arm braced to lean himself over you so he can watch. All six eyes he detests normally but feels grateful for now trained on you, watching every little reaction as he softly holds you down while his hips work to throw you into ecstasy. The way your eyes water but never leave his face, lips parted and gasping for breath his cock keeps stealing from you, he watches in fascination and anxiety.

He could kill you.

You wouldn’t even resent him. So much unfathomable understanding in your eyes, it’s a wonder you still hold the compassion that you do. The trust you place in him, a demon no one could love, yet you do the unthinkable effortlessly.

“Michikatsu, I’m—,” he can feel your body tightening, trembling below.

“I know.” He loses himself again, in your pleasure and softness, in your arms which hold him gently. His hair spills, tickling your neck as he lets his canines lightly graze over the sensitive skin where your pulse races. “Go ahead, break for me.” His guttural tone is all you need to fall apart, clinging to him tightly as he finds release inside of you too. Your name on his lips as he loses again.

He should kill you...

Your hands tangle in his hair, sweaty skin making you glow in the low candle light. “I love you,” it’s nearly inaudible but he hears it. Your smile is more radiant than the sun he can not bask in.

He should kill you… before you make him forsake his own immortality to die with you.

You’re asleep before he whispers the words aloud.

“I love you too…”

post dividers/@cafekitsune

[infinitegalahad]

AMERICAN PROMETHEUS AND HIS ATHENA - CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Identifying! Reader Summary: In the fall of 1939, You are an incoming freshman at Berkeley. Despite your love for literature and the pressure of your parents, you begrudgingly enroll in a Physics course. There you meet J. Robert Oppenheimer; your professor turned into your best friend and most importantly, your lover. Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Nothing major, minus the huge age gap. The reader is 18, and Oppenheimer is at least thirty. Everything is legal and consensual. If this bothers you, please do not read it; thank you! Notes: gonna be a long note, so strap in folks. so i have this tendency to get hyperfocused on a piece of media, get my little gremlin hands on any piece of media about it, devour said piece of media, and then poop out 5k+ words in under 24 hours due to my obsession. this happened two years ago with safin from no time to die, and let me just say that it goes to show that history is a sick cycle. not sick, I'm just literally insane. lol, anyways! here's some lore. last Sunday i saw oppenheimer and thought it was a masterpiece! i also love cillain murphy too, so that's a massive bonus. the next day, i bought american prometheus. i started reading it on tuesday, and finished it on Friday. if you haven't read it, please go read it. the book is impossible to put down, and a lot of characterization of robert and other characters come from the movie, but mainly the novel. this fic is heavily researched. this fic is also very dark too, and the content is...yeah. the age gap is very massive and while legal, very taboo, so please keep this in mind. there will be dark content in this story so be warned. trigger warnings will be in the beginning of every chapter. this is on my tumblr and ao3 as well. here is a playlist i made while writing this , if that does anything. my masterlist is also at work too; the new and updated version will be out next chapter. <a href="url">add yourself to the taglist if you are interested</a>. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy.

There are people talking, and while they are close, their voices are nothing but mindless mutters.

Despite how much they had to drink, the buzz managed to slow their thoughts yet made them somewhat aware of their surroundings. If you tried, not like they really wanted to, you could point out every little detail around them–all small things, meaningless and unimportant, in the vast growing universe. 

The uneven vintage ski portrait on Hatomi’s side of the room, the dim light covered by the French literature nights on the window sill, the light of the moon in boxy shapes across the aged wooden door, your feet sticking out underneath the blanket and the cool air bringing goosebump to your toes, the heat of your flashlight against your cheek; it’s all so small. 

You’ve known Hatomi, your roommate at Berkeley, for the last week. A Japanese American from Davis, she’s a lover of literature like you, albeit you’re more into Russian and American literature than French. Both of you have concluded that you are different but are different enough to put those said differences aside to be friends. Hatomi, unlike you, is smiley and bright, the type to make a conversation not as awkward. She’s made many friends, some of whom are yours, and you’re thankful for her. In your orientation week at Berkeley, she’s helped you break out of your shell, and you’ve gone around campus and to parties to get out and meet people.

As thankful as you are for Haotmi, you are not very thankful about her bringing in some guy into the room without making it clear and having full-blow sex. Hatomi tries to keep her moans contained, but the slapping and grunts from the man beneath are not in any way contained or quiet. He’s as loud as possible, and you can identify him from one of the many parties you’ve been to, but all of them in your state become a gradual blur. 

There’s a visible outline of the two through your quilt. Hatomi’s on top, and said the man is on the bottom with messy hair. He’s got a hand on her hip, and she nudges forward, her body moving forward. It makes you feel even lonelier than you already feel, but it's not intentional, but it’s certainly a jab. Hatomi cries his name, an emphasis on the end of his name. 

You haphazardly try to catch his name, but end up forgetting it, the alcohol from earlier helping sing you to sleep. 

–

It soon became a cycle—the whole lot of it. 

You’d wake up at seven for your eight in the morning English class. Then you’d head to your philosophy class from nine-thirty to ten-thirty before heading to lunch at eleven. After that break, then comes your Greek class from twelve to one. Then it’s physics. 

It’s not that you don’t like physics. Actually, you love it—the concept is fascinating. The movement, gravity, and being a small thing in the grand scheme of the infinite universe is a topic you could dive into for hours on end. And not to mention, you have a burning hatred for the mathematics of it. You know you can do introductory algebra, but that’s where you draw the line. Calculus and all of that is too advanced. You can do it; at the bare minimum. 

Your class is not that big. It’s your smallest class with ten students, all intrigued by a fascinating professor. 

The first time you met him, he stood by the chalkboard with a huff of smoke following behind him. He wore a dark gray tweed suit and had thick, coarse hair which was wild, maintained with gel. He was tall but not towering and rather slender. With the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you knew that this man was a character; not to mention, he also looked intelligent. 

And that he was. 

Dr.Oppenheimer was the reason you started actually to love physics. Not like, love. He was not an easy teacher; he was complex but rewarding. He took the concept of physics and made it more interesting than it already was, adding another dimension to it that you didn’t think was possible. 

Instead of the class being a lecture, Oppenheimer discussed the fundamental forces and philosophy. He, like you, enjoyed how physics interacted with the classical world. With a cigarette in one hand and a piece of chalk in another, and in his velvety voice, Oppenheimer taught something along the lines of the cosmic universe or the quantum tunnel and would look to his students for their input, arguments, questions, or their voice to the topic. 

You know, or thought he knew, that you weren’t the best at physics, but could always add a philosophical or insight on how physics affects both in the modern and classical world. Sometimes in class, the two of you would dive into a conversation. Oppenheimer would give you a serious loo, staring directly at you with his bright blue eyes. You could have sworn they were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, in which you were. As you challenge you, Oppenehiemr would stare, blowing the occasional puff of smoke. You could see him smile, but maybe that was a part of your imagination. 

Physics was complicated, but not only did you enjoy the class for Oppenheimer, but you also look at Oppenheimer. You would not have said it initially, but he did come and was attractive to you. He looked serious, older, and cold; which all remained true, but he was also intelligent, and that was the most attractive thing to you. His intelligence made him overall even more handsome than he already was. With this new found elevation, you soon began to find everything he did attractive. It became a slight distraction, but it was enough to make you leave class with pink cheeks and smile to yourself all giddy. The fantastical thoughts of “what if” played in your mind, making going to sleep a little easier than it usually it. 

–

On Monday, Oppenheimer deemed that your class was heading into the “most brutal” and “nightmare-causing”  fundamental force of Physics; Quantum Mechanics. 

He also declared it was one of his favorite micro topics in Physics and, in his mind, “not too difficult if you truly look into it.”

 Everyone got a horrible gut feeling in their stomachs. 

Oppenheimer was blunt and did not sugarcoat, which was a fair warning to his class. Quantum Mechanics took everything that was horrible about Physics and made it increasingly worse. Wavefunctions, Eigenstates, Quantum Measurement, and all the new equations hit you like a frictional force. And it began to show on your assignments. 

Your normal average in the class was an A- (with Oppenheimer giving you an E for “exceptional effort”) hanging off the side of a cliff, but this new topic dragged your average down with massive magnetic force. Soon, your average became a B-. Homework assignments and reading responses leaned towards a B, while your test and quizzes averaged at failing or border failing. You felt relieved that one of your quizzes on Bra-Ket Notation came back as a C+. 

Oppenheimer was writing on the board, finishing a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle equation on the board. He looked at the clock, knowing that class was going to end soon. Putting his chalk down and burning the small amount of his cigarette on the ashtray, he reached for a large stack of his papers. Most had red handwriting with circles, arrows, and question marks. A heavy wave of anxiety hit the class as a perpetual sigh raised. 

You could have sworn Oppenheimer stared directly at you. The vast blue eye started to haunt you, but you convinced yourself it was your mind playing tricks. You turned to one of your neighborhoods and sighed, shaking your head. 

“I understand you are all eager to receive back the recent test on the basic equations of Quantum Mechanics. I have taken my time grading each one and you will see why it looks like a long time,” Oppenheimer noted, with a tinge of dark comedy and sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t look up at the class as he walked around, gently putting each paper on the desk. Each paper he put down made a student who was having a good day a very not good day.

Between the heavy sighs and whispers between the students, you gulped as Oppenheimer passed your desk. He looked down for a split second and put your paper down. He pointed to the red writing right where you had written your name before moving on. Gathering yourself, you grabbed the test, and not your shock, was disappointed. 

Out of forty-five points, you had only gotten nine. It was a new low you had hit in the class. It seemed like it would keep getting lower. Everything was far from right, and he gave those points only because you tried by writing a passage by each equation explaining what you had tried to replicate, knowing it was very wrong. 

You skimmed the front, noticing the red writing on top. He wrote your name in cursive, and you would hear him say it, asking you to “please” meet him. 

And then the bell rang. People talked amongst themselves and gathered their things as they headed out of the classroom. You sat there and sighed, visibly upset. You weren’t going to cry, but you felt like it. You tried not to show it as you began to gather your books, covering the physics test, preparing to get up. 

“Y/n.”

You freeze and look up. Oppenheimer has been leaning on his desk, looking at you like a dashing Spectre. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly begins to walk towards you. 

“Is this a good time to talk?”

Hearing the word talk made your stomach turn. You look up at him and clasp your hands together, nodding. You feel your left leg begin to shake. 

“Yes, Dr.Oppenheimer.”

Oppenheimer made his way over and stood beside you, leaning on the side of a desk, looking down at you. He took a quick glance at your shaking leg before looking back at you.

“You’re not in trouble.” 

You didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but you took a contained sigh and stopped shaking your thigh, paying full attention to the attractive older man. 

“I want to preface this conversation that you, Y/n, are one of this class’s most active and enjoyable students. Your participation and observation add onto the lesson, helping others around you, and even myself, learn more about Physics,” Oppenheimer said with high praise. He had a regalness to his soft voice. You felt your cheeks burn, containing your smile as you quietly thanked him. You watched his hands fidget inside of his pants pocket. 

“As talented and educated as you are in Academia, especially Physics, I notice you don’t do well on tests and exams. Everything else is excellent, and your effort is always there. However, with tests,” Oppenheimer moved his hand downwards, “It’s all negative. When I got your first test, I found it hard to believe it was your work. But then it all made sense.” 

“Now understand, Y/n, I am not mad or upset. I am worried. I can see there is an act of force, which is your anxiety. I do believe this is something we can work on–” Oppenheimer clearly explained. He saw your shoulders lower, relieve your tension had disappeared, “--Together, outside of the academic setting.”

“Like one-on-one?” You questioned. 

Oppenheimer nodded, “Yes, just the two of us. It would be an hour and a half to an hour, nothing more and nothing less.”

Hearing “just the two of us” made your mind go to wild places. You bit your tongue and squeezed your clasped hands together. You smiled, “Yes, of course. I think this would help a lot.”

“Now tell me, what is your availability? I understand you are busy.”

You shrugged your shoulders. You were busy but also could make time for a lot of spare time. 

“I can do any time work, preferably if you are okay with Friday afternoons,” You brainstormed, thinking about your schedule, “I know you teach a graduate class in the morning, and I have Greek at the same time.”

Oppenheimer furrowed his eyebrows, intensely studying your appearance.

“Friday afternoons?” He questioned, “Don’t you want to be with your friends and not have to worry about work? I understand your drive, Y/n, but I don’t want it to mix with your limited downtime. I hear you are an excellent student, and this is a very fixable grade. I rather you create a balance than an offset. 

While an average first-year would rather skip meeting with a Professor on Friday Afternoons, it didn’t bother you. Getting your grade up in Physis was very important. Education in your family was everything and meant a lot to you. Seeing a C with A’s and A-’s made you feel incomplete. You needed to feel complete. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer, thank you for your concern. I insist that Fridays work as well. Mondays through Tuesdays, I’m either studying or leading other study groups for my other classes. If you are worried about my social life, I can assure you that I do get out of the dorm and library with my friends,” You reassured the older man, “Besides, the whole party scene is really not my scene. I’ve seen enough parties at Berkeley to be okay with missing them. If Fridays don’t work, I will work with your time.”

“Fridays work well for me as they work well for you,” Dr.Oppenheimer concluded. He looked at the clock above his desk before looking at you, “How do Fridays at 5 pm sound?”

“Perfect timing, Dr.Oppenheimer. Shall we meet here?”

Oppenheimer rubbed his index and middle finger on the temple of his head, “Well if you are comfortable, I’d rather congregate at my house rather than the classroom since we will be out of the Academic Day.”

Taken aback by the bold move, your lips made a subtle “o” shape. You squeezed your hands together, contemplating. His house, where he slept, ate, and did other things that were not fit for the academic setting? This made your imagination run wild—the idea of being in his house, just you and him, fed into your fantasy. 

“My house is on Shasta Road. It’s right off the campus. It’s a short walk. However, if you are not comfortable, especially late at night walking home alone, then I can–” 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You insisted. He stopped speaking and looked at you, waiting for you to speak.

You stuttered, feeling the heat up your throat to your face, “It is okay. Friday at 5 pm at your house is perfect. The walk will help me clear my mind before tackling the equations.”

Oppenheimer studied your features for a second before coughing and putting his hands together, “So, it’s settled. We will meet tomorrow then. Thank you for your time, y/n.”

As Oppenheimer began to head back to his desk, you stood and gathered your books, ready to head to your Greek class. You could feel how hot your face was, but you couldn’t imagine how red and embarrassing you looked. 

“Thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. 

Scurrying to leave the classroom in a flustered state, one of your books falls over. It makes a loud slamming noise into the ground. You’ve got a solid amount of books in your hand, varying in topic and weight. Turning around, you are about to awkwardly bend down to pick up the book, but Oppenheimer has beaten you to it. His presence scared you at first. He’s holding the ivory, aged book, examining the cover and back. You stand two inches away from him as you cradle your books, not wanting to say something to disrupt him. 

“Sentimental Education. Is this for class or pleasure?” Oppenheimer inquired. He looked back at you as he placed it on top of your books. He saw the one below, your Greek textbook, was sticking out and about to fall. He made sure to push it in to balance the books and make sure you didn't fall over. 

Not that you were complaining about falling over since he would have to catch you. You cursed at your wild imagination. 

You let out a long uhm before declaring it was for class. More specifically, your English class of The French Adventure: Word, Sound, and Image taught by Mr.Chevalier. But it was unimportant. It was a good book, albeit obscure. Oppenheimer probably thought you were some idiot for both failing a test and reading some silly book. He probably wondered why you were even in a physics class to begin with. 

“Do you like it?” He questioned. 

“Yes, a lot,” You expressed, “It’s the second book we’ve read, but so far my favorite. It was ahead of its time,” You go red, “And even for this time. I don’t know what I’m saying even, my parents made me read it in high school.”

Oppenheimer made a noise of approval, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, it shows that your parents wanted you to be well-rounded, and here you stand at one of the best public universities in the world. So I would say you do know what you are saying since I fully agree.” 

The compliment made you want to make some happy noise, but you bite your lip. You nodded your head and naked it, knowing it came out as a mumble. Everything you said felt super embarrassing. 

“Y/n, I understand you have class,” Oppenheimer cut to the point, “But if you ever want a book recommendation, come to me. I’ve been looking for someone who understands.”

“Understand?” You asked, dumbfounded. 

“Someone who both understands and enjoys art.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You smile and hold your books closer, “Well, I should-”

“You should-” Oppenheimer highlighted, hands on his hips, “I shouldn’t keep you.”

You wanted to protest that he should, but you didn’t. As you made your way to the door, you looked back. There he stood in his slender and regal form, hands on his hips. For a cold man who never looked happy, he did. You could have sworn his eyes had a spark to them that made them brighter. You felt brighter too. 

On your way out, he froze and looked at you again, and gave a small smile. 

You smiled back. 

–

It’s 4:50pm.

Your mother always said it was better to be very early than to be very late. Those words guided you through life, following you from home to high school to Berkeley. 

After class, you spent the hour getting ready. Taking a shower, you made sure to look your best with low effort. You didn’t want it to appear that you were trying to look good, even though you wore it. Putting on something very casual, you made sure to wear yourself nicely and even added a sweet touch of Chanel Coco perfume that your father had gotten for you in France for your high school Graduation. 

You walk up the hill and spot the house, recognizing the numbers on the mall box. The house is well sized and has the architecture of a craftsman. It’s hidden by numerous large plants and bushes, which you take a second to admire as you walk to the door. Eventually, you reach the door and hesitate to knock. Check your watch, it’s 5:52pm. If he’s busy, you can wait. 

There’s no point in knocking since you can hear the lock on the door unlock. As you put your hands behind your back, the door opens and it reveals Oppenheimer. He looks weirdly normal and this comforts you. He swaps his flannel suit jacket for a white oxford button up with dark slacks. The top button of the shirt is unbuttoned, and in one hand he has a cigarette, in which he is trying to successfully hide. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You greeted with a small smile, squeezing your hands behind your back. 

You could swear you saw a small quirk at the side of Oppenheimer’s mouth. He stands to the side. 

“Y/n, welcome,” He greets. You quietly thank in as you walk in, standing to the side as you clutch onto your brown leather alligator bag with your textbook and notebook. 

“How was the walk?”

“Not bad. It’s nice outside. I’m sorry if I’m early, it’s a bad habit-”

“No need to apologize. It is a good habit. It will serve you well,” Oppenheimer praised once again as he led you into the kitchen. You hadn't been alone with him, let alone in his own house, but he was different. Around others, he was cold and calculated to a tee. But around you, something felt warm and strangely comforting. 

When walking to the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his house. It feels rather empty, and in a way, very melancholic. 

The kitchen is simple and small. For a California one story however, the kitchen can fit more than two, maybe three. 

“Sit,” Oppenheimer subtly commands. It’s not an intentional command, but upon hearing this, you immediately sit down on the nearest chair. As you pull out your textbook and notebook with some pens and pencils, you can see Oppenheimer rummaging through the fridge and grabbing two glasses. 

“Do you drink?”

You're in the middle of opening your notebook. You look down and lick your lips. 

“Yes.”

He doesn’t respond and proceeds to make whatever drink he is making. You sit there and swing your legs back and forth, waiting in silence minus the shaking and pouring. 

“Speak to me,” Oppenheimer announces. You look at his back as he makes the drink. Once again, he’s slender, but yet strong and vibrant in his appearance, “Go to the first page of your test. Read the equation.” 

You feel lucky Oppenheimer’s turned since your cheeks, like yesterday, have gone to a light pink. 

Obeying his words that feel like a command that you are more than happy to accept, you grab your test and open to the first page to read the first question. 

“Consider a particle in a one-dimensional potential well of width of L and infinite potential barriers at its edges. The potential inside the well is given by V(x)=0 for 0<x<L0<x<L and V(x)=∞V(x)=∞ for x < 0 x<0 and x>Lx>L,” You read out, “The Hamiltonian operator for this system is H; where x is the mass of the particle. Find the allowed energy eigenvalues and corresponding eigenfunctions for this system.”

“A fundamental. Now, tell me your answer.” 

You get your pen and calculator out, placing it at your side. “I started with the Time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substituted v(x) for the kinetic energy term. Then I tried to solve and it, uhm-”

Not only were the calculations for your test both difficult to answer and hard to process, but having Oppenheimer stand right behind you further proved to be a brain block. He was only an inch away from you as he had leaned to look at your paper, a hand on the back of your sheet which scraped your warm back. You had been so caught on the equation that you hadn't noticed he was an inch behind you, breathing down your neck. Thank god there had been a table since your legs began to shake; a combination of raw anxiety and pure adrenaline. 

You started to write the equation into your calculator, pressing down on each button. Scribbling away at your notebook, you felt his warm breath down your throat. Just as you wrote the solution, you felt him smell behind your ear and into your hair. You had sprayed some perfume there, which was a habit of yours. He leaned into, gentle and careful not to touch you, taking in the airy and smooth feminine scent. Not protesting, you finished your solution and let him bask, all while basking his cold yet comforting presence.

 “The corresponding eigenfunctions are: ∣ψn⟩= Asin⁡(nπxL)∣ψ n ⟩ =Asin( Lnπx ),” You gulped. You felt his warm presence move back, yet his hand remained on the chair. You pushed a piece of hair back, “I guess it’s not too different from my old answer. It’s right, it’s just-”

“The math piece of it,” Oppie pointed out, “Well, there was no issue here. With your calculator of course.”

“Yes,” You chuckled to yourself and looked at the big device. It really did help.

“Use it more,” Oppenheimer said, “Don’t be scared too. Math is not everyone’s strong suit; including mine.”

You smiled at him as he sat in the chair next to you. 

“I don’t know if you drank from our conversation earlier, but I made you a martini,” Oppenheimer said. You looked at it and picked up the drinking, examining the liquid. 

“Oh, thank you. I do, just the…better stuff,” You thanked with a small confession. You took a sip and let the strong liquid ooze down your throat. It was excellent, in which you proceeded to drink more. 

Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see that, but you did. 

For the next hour, the two of you talked about your test. Each question you read out, and he helped you with the math, but overall you were able to solve most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. He seemed pleased, and you were as well.

Once you had finished going over the test, you sighed and leaned back leisurely from both Oppenheimer's presence Martini. 

“Well, thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. This has been short, yet helpful.”

He crossed his arms as he also leaned back, “Of course, I’m pleased to hear.”

There was a silence before you looked at your watch and grabbed your books. 

“It’s 6pm. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, I should go-”

“I’ve only got dinner to make. Chicken, peas, and potatoes,” Oppenheimer said. He smoked another cigarette, which made you wonder how many he smoked a day. You focused on his chapped lips and the way they lightly held the cigarette, sucking in and dragging out ashen smoke. 

“Say, would you like to stay for dinner? There's plenty for two.”

The task made you blink a few times to make sure this wasn’t one of your fantastical thoughts late at night as a way to soothe you to bed. You opened your lips in an attempt to create a coherent response. 

“I can make you another Martini, even show you.”

You knew you were red, but it clearly to him did not matter. 

“Yes, I’d love-would be happy to stay for dinner, Dr.Oppenheimer.” You said, very flattered.

A slow exhale released a veil of smoky allure, as if the very air itself surrendered to Oppenheimer’s fiery elegance.

“If you are staying over for dinner from now on, please, call me Robert.” 

[ryuzakemo128]

What if.....

Parings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Oksana Ivanova / Johnny Mactavish x Military Psychologist! You, Female Reader / Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Military Psychologist! You, Female Reader

Credit for the Dividers go to: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Masterlist / Decription of Oksana

Words: 3048

Content Warning: Cursing/ swearing, implications of smut. Jealousy from you, mention of child abuse, graphic themes of violence and domestic abuse. Dark Themes and references. Read at your own discretion.

Summary: “You only speak to me when you only want something. Spit it out then.”

Simon’s office consisted of a large wooden desk, a large comfortable chair he didn’t particularly like seeing other people sitting in. Often shooing them away from it with the intention of ensuring they wouldn’t break it before he could really put some real wear and tear into it. A leather, cushioned, reclinable desk chair.

The painting of the docks above his chair was the only piece of décor against the dim concrete walls for a while. Until he brought in blue-grey coloured curtains for the window looking into the office. Bringing a little more colour to his office. Even if this office would be as temporary as the life he was living now. As everything in life is temporary and soon enough, he will die, he will be replaced by someone else entirely. It was just how life was. It is how life shall be. No matter what happens.

The desk itself was made from a nice cut of maple oak wood, and it cost him a pretty penny to both buy and haul into his office. He had his paperwork stacked neatly, just the way he liked it, he would get beyond annoyed when Soap or you would walk in leave something out of place on his desk and walk out.

It was like they enjoyed frustrating him to a degree that grated on him. It made it hard to work with either of them. He would have put in a transfer months ago, had he known how much of a jackass Soap would be by fucking you on his desk.

“Get out.” He said crossing his arms. “My office. My rules. Don’t do it again.”

He kept his office locked up tight after that. Refusing the to make a spare key for any of the team. Firm in his belief that what was in his office, stayed there, as his personal space. His own area where he didn’t have to put up his guard and listen to anyone.

He had many reasons to be upset with you. He would take that secret right to his grave if he had to. No reason to give you more ammo than you already had.

“Come on man.” Soap whined.

“No.” Simon told him again.

“Why not?” Soap asked him again.

“Cause I said so.” Simon answered again.

“Why can’t I go with you to meet this Russian chick you like so much?” Soap asked again.

“You know exactly why you’re not allowed to.” Simon reminded him. “You say the first thing that comes to mind when it comes to them.”

“That’s not true.” Soap snapped back at him.

“Well, how about the time you insulted the Russian pilot?” Simon reminded him.

“It was an accident I swear.” Soap protested.

“You made the poor woman cry.” Simon sighed shaking his head grabbing his keys. “Now scram. I don’t want to either of you inside my office when I lock it up.”

Soap and you shuffled out of his office reluctantly. Simon wasn’t going to let you or Soap ruin his chances with this one. He didn’t want to take that kind of risk of introducing you or him to her. He locked his office, the jingling of keys in his hand as he walked to his truck. He wasn’t going to give either you or Soap to tail him to where he was meeting her.

You whispered to Soap, "Who is he meeting with?"

Soap shrugged, "Someone from his past, I think. He's been acting weird since we got the intel on her."

“But he’s been acting weird even before then,” You reminded Soap.

Soap nodded thoughtfully, “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe it’s more than just a meeting with an old flame.”

You brought out a file with the name, ‘Captain Oksana Ivanova’. “Do you think he’s off to see her?”

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? The temptation of getting a background check on her ran strong within you. You convinced yourself it was for his own good that you were doing it for his benefit. Ignoring the gnawing jealously eating at you from the inside. Karma biting you on the arse. It had no intention of letting you get away with your mistakes without some kind of retribution.

“You only speak to me when you only want something. Spit it out then.” Simon sighed placing the folder of forms he was going to look at when you walked into his office.

You remembered how he was right then. Just like he was right now. You hated the fact that he seemed to be right about you in particular. He could make a random guess and still somehow get it right.

“We need to talk, Simon.” You started, placing the file on his desk. “It’s about Captain Ivanova.”

“You want to talk. You don't need to do anything.” Simon reminded you again making you feel like a child being scolded for stealing cookies from the jar. “But since you’re here, what’s this about Captain Ivanova?”

Oksana 'The Wolf', 'The Ghost of Siberia', 'The White Devil' Ivanova.

Her reputation proceeded her. Long before you had her file in your hands, you knew the name. Studied it, both from a psychologist angle, the angle from a doctor’s perspective and that of a tactician. You used her as a report for your psychology major, then you studied her tactics, her methods of warfare for your military career and now you were sitting here, about to face her in person. You felt your heart race at the thought of it.

The whispers of her tactical prowess had made its way to even the most secluded corners of the military base. Her story was like a myth, a legend whispered in the barracks and the mess halls. The way she could navigate the harsh terrain of her homeland with the grace of a wolf and the precision of a ghost. The way she had escaped death more times than anyone cared to count. The way she had turned the tide of battles single-handedly. The way she had left a trail of dead in her wake that was so cold, they called her 'The White Devil'.

“Are you jealous, (Y/L/N)?” Simon teased with a smirk on his lips. If you weren’t slightly flustered before, you are now.

You fumbled with the forms you filled out, you didn’t know what to say, or squeak out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You mumbled hoping he wouldn’t dig further than he had already.

“Mhmmm. Right. Right.” Simon rolled his eyes at your attempt at sassing him. In your opinion, he was playing hard to get. Unfortunately for him you were hard to get rid of.

You leaned in a little further trying to get him to glance at your cleavage. Even a little bit. His gaze didn’t catch it, disappointing a little bit. Though you remember, he hadn’t had a serious date with someone that didn’t care that much about his height being six feet and four inches.

“You know you’d get more luck in the world of dating if you weren’t such a sour puss.” You remarked.

He cocked an eyebrow at what you said. “I’m only sour towards you. Which you earned with your ‘hard work’ and ‘dedication’ to your cause.” He felt so fucking validated in outing what you fucked up last week. “Go back to whatever that is you do here and let the bigger, taller guys handle to tougher shit.”

You rolled your eyes as you walked over to Simon, inching closer to him, as you traced your fingertips along the corners of his desk. “You know, you and I could go on a date if you want.”

“Aren’t you dating Soap?” Simon questioned as he rose from his chair to walk over to the filing cabinet.

“Semantics. Specifics and utterances of whatever.” You gestured like you knew what you wanted to say without saying much.

“I don’t think he’d agree with you on that one Pup.” Simon chided you. Tutting under his breath.

“I just wanted to give you helping hand you know.” You pouted, huffed and crossed your arms a little.

“Don’t get bratty with me.” Simon told you. “I don’t need help from someone who is willing to cheat on their boyfriend. No matter how much their boyfriend mightn’t care about it. I’m not the type to do that to someone.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to help you. Ever thought of that?” You snapped at him.

“Pup. Don’t make me discipline you.” Simon warned.

“What are you going to do? Spank me?” You taunted, inching closer to him.

“Don’t tempt me, pup.” Simon growled into your ear. Sending a shiver down your spine.

“You never called me pup before.” You couldn’t help but point out as you inch a little closer to him.

“I hooked up with the Russian woman I told you about last weekend. She’s the one who called me that first.” Simon taunted back at you. Hoping it would get you to back off.

Your face flushed a shade of pink as he sauntered back over to his desk. Picking up the phone to call Soap. “Soap, you better get your arse in here and get your girl. Before I pick her up and carry her to you.” He said into the phone in a kind of sing song voice that really hammered home that he still planned to get even with you somehow.

Soap rushed in, looking like he had just rolled out of bed, his shirt untucked and his pants half zipped. “What’s going on?” He asked, looking bewildered at the situation.

“Your girlfriend here just tried to ask me on a date.” Simon told him. Hoping to get them both to leave him alone. “I said you wouldn’t appreciate that, and I told her I’d carry her to you if she didn’t leave.”

Soap looked over at you, he knew what you were trying to do, he didn’t even have to get you to say it, either. Soap looked over to Simon again, who thought he would be able to get rid of two people with the same stone. As the saying went with birds. Simon, pleased with himself, Simon spraying down his desk with antiseptic cleaner that he bought for his desk. Specially made to clean and keep the wood varnish intact.

“What’s the deal, Simon?” Soap asked, glancing at you with a knowing smile. He knew you were up to something, he just didn’t know what it was yet.

“What? A man can’t clean his desk and appreciate it?” Simon had no idea what Soap was talking about this time. His focus on tidying the top of his desk so it looked like a lieutenant worked inside of it. “Johnny, in a place like the military, it’s a nice and lovely thing just to have some kind of normal. Even if it’s just a neat and tidy desk. I could be dead tomorrow. I don’t have time to get sentimental with people as much as objects. Oksana is just a friend Johnny. You don’t have to get jealous of her taking your weirdly shaped place in my heart, Johnny.”

The photo of Oksana and Simon inside of a bronze metal frame on his desk, the letter from Oksana still in the envelope despite the fact that it was opened by him several times. The same woman he spoke to, the same woman that felt more mythic legend than a real tangible person. It was a photo of the two them, Oksana stood to be two inches taller than Simon. The other photo on the wall above the pile of letters from her, the one of her in a Competitive Shooting Competition.

You didn’t think much of it at the time. As Simon was the one invited to watch her compete in it. Though the recorded message of her saying, “It was fun hanging out with you. Can’t wait to do it again sometime. Thank you for celebrating my 30th birthday with me too by the way. You didn’t have to. But it means a lot to me that you did. You’re worth more than gold and silver combined. Don’t let that soap boy tell you otherwise.”

Later that week after the day they hung out together. Simon had received a bouquet of red roses from her, along with a bottle of Marmont Siberian vodka, a large box of dark chocolates and a beige card within the flowers the red ink cursive handwriting. ‘For the friend I don’t deserve but glad to have. Thank you for being there for me.’

When Oksana Ivanova came around again, Soap was more than a little determined to get her to  talk to him. He had seen the way she had looked at Simon, and it was clear that there was a history there that went beyond mere friendship. Soap knew that Simon wasn't one to be jealous, but he also knew that the man had a serious soft spot for the Russian captain.

The abandoned cat Oksana rescued on the way there, the way she cared for the small thing,  even though it was nothing but a stray. “I have a habit of collecting strays I suppose.” she remarked talking about Simon and the cat. “Though I suppose that comes from being one myself.”

You knew exactly why she said that last part, unlike Soap, unlike Simon, you dug deep into her background, and you knew exactly why she called herself that. Oksana and her twin's parents might as well have thrown them to the wolves and left them to starve. During a medical examination, Oksana’s back scars were seen by Simon once, the deep scarring made by a whip. A whip that must have been used by her biological father or stepfather, either way it certainly left trauma she waded through inside of therapy.

Her twin sister, she didn’t take any of it because anything she ever did that was considered ‘wrong’ by either their biological or stepfather was covered up by Oksana. Taking the blame for it instead. ‘Through hell or high water, I will bleed before I let anyone touch either my twin or my younger brother. I’m the oldest, I’m the one who is supposed to protect them. It’s my job.’

Her younger brother, Sergei, had been the one to find Oksana that night, curled up and shivering in a snowbank, the whip marks stark against her bare skin. The memory of her pained whimpers and the fierce protectiveness in her eyes as she held onto her siblings. He didn’t have to go into grim, gross, graphic detail, though telling him to stop would be like telling a waterfall to stop falling.

Sergei said, “The flesh was too cold, she must've been out there for hours. Our stepfather came home drunker than usual that night, raving about how we were the curses that ruined his life. Oksana told us to stay in the basement until he passed out. She was always the brave one, the one who took the brunt of his rage so we wouldn’t have to. The sound of the whip that night, it was haunting. It was the worst one yet. Our stepfather got off on causing her as much pain as he  could. I don’t know how she survived it. I suppose he had it coming when he slammed her into wall, whispering disgusting shit he wanted to do to her. She reacted in self-defence and well, the rest is history.”

“I see you have met my younger brother.” Oksana walked in with pizza in her hands, “I got pizza guys. I managed to pick it up on the way here.”

Sergei replied, “Yeah, we were just chatting about old times.” His tone was forced, trying to lighten the mood that had thickened like the smoke from a grenade.

“Have you told them about your art yet?” Oksana asked Sergei, she was proud of him.

Sergei looked up at Oksana, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I don't know if they'd be interested in that, sis.”

“Nonsense.” Oksana said with a warm smile, setting the pizza down on the desk. “Your art is amazing. Simon, Johnny, you both should see it.”

Simon’s gaze shifted to the newcomer, a cocktail of anger and curiosity swirling in his eyes. “Art?” He questioned, his voice gruff.

“Yeah. I encouraged him to get into art when we were younger.” Oksana answered.

“Why’s that?” You asked, hoping to get Simon’s mind off of the anger he had directed towards you.

“It's one thing for me and Katya to be in military and come out of it fine-ish.” Oksana explained. “Sergei, he had a real chance to grow up normally.”

Simon’s expression softened a bit at the mention of Oksana’s sister. “How’s she doing?” He asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters.

“She's an intelligence officer for the FSB.” Oksana answered. “She got married last year. I got meet my niece too.”

Simon’s eyes lit up at the mention of a niece. “How old is she?” He asked, his mind momentarily distracted from the rage that had been brewing inside of him.

“She recently turned two.” Oksana answered showing a photo of her to him.

The little girl had her aunt’s piercing blue eyes and her mother’s dark hair. She was dressed in a pink tutu, looking absolutely adorable. Simon’s expression softened even more as he took the phone from her.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, genuine warmth in his voice. “I can’t wait to meet her one day.”

Sergei brought out his recent artwork, it was a picture of a farm in Siberia, where they had lived before their mother had passed away and their father had remarried. The way the sunset painted the sky was beautiful, it was almost as if you could feel the coldness of the Siberian air just by looking at it.

Sergei gave it to Simon as a gift, a thank you gift for looking out for his older sister Oksana. Simon  looked at the picture for a long moment before setting it aside gently. “It’s beautiful, Sergei. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you for looking out for her.” Sergei told him verbally this time.

[leiandroid]

yakuza / bratva au

extremely important note about this au is that, being russian, ino's name is ino yamanavka xD

many ramblings about this au vvv

hinata is the first daughter of the yakuza's hyuuga family. she murders her father in cold blood with his own katana after a psychotic break. hanabi becomes the boss by default and is out for hinata's head for revenge. hinata runs away to russia. she regains awareness somewhere in russia after her episode and after a few weeks is found by low level bratva members that answer to a certain faction led by ino.

ino is instantly taken by this exotic yet dangerous beauty and recognises that she's not all right up there. instead of wasting her she takes her in, much to the familys protest, and makes hinata her right hand. ino's goals are to climb the ranks and take over the entire russian mafia as the top leader.

hinata has reverted to a "childlike" state for self preservation. she is shy and cheerful and nervous and meek; qualities her father literally beat out of her to shape her up to becoming the next head of the hyuuga. despite this, hanabi would be the one to grow up to be the ruthless protege he always wanted and so tossed hinata to the side. the trauma endured and the pressure and ostracisation by the whole clan caused her to eventually snap.

the guilt and grief of killing her father then has her reverted to a childlike state where she constantly seeks for his approval. she took her father's sword with her and his "spirit" lives in the sword. she seeks the swords approval and talks to it as if it were hiashi himself. and in her mind the sword praises her for how far she's become, berates her for her mistakes, etc.

when she kills she becomes hysterically insane, and in the aftermath she becomes cold and unfeeling for some time before she goes back to her normal childlike state. basically she lives in a constant state of disassociation / multiple personalities (?)

ino manipulates her to do her bidding, assures her she's okay, that she's amazing, that her father is so proud of her. she eases hinata's nerves and anxieties with sweet words and sex.

ino came from a poor background where her father sold her to the bratva for money and medicine to help his sick wife. she grew up in the mafia and was used and abused all throughout. every year, every day that passed, ino would have an ever growing hitlist; members that raped her, beat her, humiliated her, etc. and on the top of that list was her fathers name.

when she was old enough to put her plans to fruition, she tracked down her parents house only to find that they had died long ago. not being able to have the last word she is fueled by hatred and goes on a killing spree on the rest of her list and kills her boss and takes his place and threatens the remaining living members of the faction to either join her or die.

over time she becomes a terrible and horrifying leader and is now the boss of a significantly large faction that has control of a sizeable area in moscow.

she has spent time in prison where she received most of her tattoos. (dot under the eye to denote homosexuality, rose to indicate that she turned 18 in prison, nautical stars that tell of her authority, eyes on her chest to mean she is always watching, "cyka" a forced tattoo calling her a bitch, spider to show that she's an active criminal, gun to show she's killed and is/was for hire to kill, roundstone that means trust no one, and various other tattoos with real world meanings).

half her face was burned with battery acid in prison. her back is littered with scars from cuts and from lashes as disciplinary measures growing up in the mafia.

hinata's irezumi tattoos include motifs of ame no uzume that represents inner beauty and kindness, with various other details like bamboo and ginko leaves and little creatures like crabs and goldfish that represent strength, perseverance, sacrifice and loyalty.

ino genuinely cares for hinata in a very fucked up, selfish, and narcisstic way. their relationship is very complex. ino has a girl that constantly seeks her dead fathers approval, and ino has to act like the concept of a father doesn't sicken her to her bones. in a way, they both drive each other mad. ino grows to hate the sword that has part of hinata's love and attention, but understands that if the sword were to disappear then hinata would too (mind and body).

ino drives hinata to kill, which frays her mind a bit more every time, and in turn the energy ino puts into not letting hinata fall apart at the seams causes her a great deal of stress and gets in the way of a lot of her plans to take over. by the end of their conquests they are barely held together by a thread.

they do get very far together but they meet a grim fate when after hinata is forced to kill a child, she loses the last thread keeping her together then murders ino then kills herself immediately after. they become stuff of legends within the mafia.

[ornii]

Oh sorry! I mean Yelena from the MCU! :))

Mystery Woman.

A Platonic relationship with Yelena sounds interesting! Plus I’ve been getting back into the MCU.

Many would ask how you ended up dealing with A Russian Assassin. To be fair weird things happen in New York every week so stumbling upon an Assassin isnt a major thing. But you do remember the night, it was cold due to the snow and importantly you just pulled off. Double shift working at a local law firm. Superhero based claims are something that you had to file and that coupled with the constant pressure lead to a very unhappy shift for you.

Finishing up around three you stopped out to the cold and grime of New York lit up by the lights of the city. You wanted to head straight to your apartment, trudging though the snow you cursed to yourself.

“God damn Spider-Man… Daredevil all this shit.” You huffed, who new superhero’s made your life actually harder. You reach the apartment complex and past an alley you hear a thud, loud. Jerking your head you see trash bags lying next to a dumpster, which wasn’t surprising. But what was, was the strand of blonde hair in the dumpster. Curiosity admittedly got the best of you and you creep closer to see what it could be. You prayed it was something that could be easily explained but, it wasn’t.

A woman lied on the dumpster, a bad stab wound in her side, unconscious and losing blood. The sight of a body made you a bit dizzy, and you turned around to leave, “Not your problem.” You thought, but guilt crept up your spine as you heard the weak labored breath of the woman. She was going to die if you didn’t help. “..Fuck.” You whispered and turned around to yank her from the dumpster and throw her into your back, and taking her into the apartment.

Carrying a body was an issue, a bleeding unconscious one was a serious issue. But taking the back door and everyone being asleep made it easy. Slowly pushing the door to your apartment open with your foot you carried the woman to your 6 foot kitchen table, pushing the old pizza boxes and cups on the ground your lied her down and looked over her. Maybe early 30’s, late twenties, you couldn’t fully tell. You saw the growing blood clot on her side and took action and did some, less than chivalrous things. Gently reaching for her jacket you unzipped it and saw the wound. You went to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit and performed based treatment, granted you knew much more than most.

Cleaning and Treating the wound, gauze and patching up her wound was next, thankfully to little issue. You felt her forehead.

“Fever.. odd. You weren’t out in the cold long.. unless..” you pushed your thoughts down and picked up the woman and walked to your living room, gently laying her on your couch and tossing a blanket over her, you sat in the chair to watch her. “Alright, when you wake up.. I have a lot of questions.”

You head was back, body limp as you slept in less than 20 minutes, thankfully it was the weekend. Eventually your eyes opened as you heard a shift, looking back forward you saw the couch empty. You attempted to stand up by an arm wrapped around your neck and a knife was mere inches from your face, you felt the blade lower to your throat.

“Tell me who you are, now.” The woman’s voice was Russian. Heavy accent to boot, you slowly raised your hands up to surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you…” you spoke softly to keep her from gutting you.

“I was on my way from work and I found.. you in a dumpster.” You took a deep breath and continued, “you were gonna die so I, took you here.”

The woman didn’t say anything, and you thought this is how you were going to die, until you felt her grip loosen and the knife away from your neck. The woman stepped in front of you, and tilted her head slightly.

“You don’t look like Anyone trying to kill me.” She shrugged.

“Uh.. yeah? I don’t, I don’t kill people.. uh. You’re welcome?” You were very confused, about what was going on. Moments ago she was going to slit your throat and now she’s just, searching your cabinet. “Uh.. what are you doing?” You asked standing up.

“Breakfast.” She responds, looking for cereal.

“Do you need help taking my things?” You approached, watching the random Russian woman look. “No cereal? How do you americas do this..” she muttered.

“We cook actual breakfast, Eggs, sausage, toast? Sometimes waffles.”

“I could eat that.” She said, “Do you know to cook?” You decided to open that Pandora’s box, which her reply worried you.

“How hard can it be?” She said, and you took that personally, you sighed and walked past her to your fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.” You said pretty firmly.

“I don’t need you to—“

“I’m making it, sit down.” You didn’t sound angry or even trying to, just stern. The woman saw how firm you are in it, and shrugged. She sat down as she watched you go to work. Thick slices of bacon on a hot pan, adding eggs to it and stirred for maximum volume, whisking away you decided to prob her mind.

“So, you have a name or are you gonna stay the mysterious girl who tried to kill me after I saved her.” You asked, smirking as you kept the bacon to a crisp. The woman thought for a moment, and answered.

“Yelena.”

“Hm. Not American.. definitely Russian. I doubt you’re an exchange student, so I’m gonna assume you’re here for something else.”

“You could say that, also Add Hot sauce.”

“Ew, no.” You responded.

“It’s not “Ew” to me, and I’m your guest.”

“Guest?” You said, which you realized you did drag her to your apartment. “Fine I’ll add hot sauce for you.” You decided to pour some to mix with the eggs and slightly mix the grease with the hot sauce to a blend that lathers the bacon. After a good roses you placed some on two plates and you both enjoyed the silence.

“Question.” She asked, tasting the flavor and perfect ratio of salt, pepper and hot sauce, with a slight tinge of basil. “Do you pick random woman off the street?”

That actually made you laugh, you didn’t respond and just smiled. Yelena probably expected you to be defensive or angry. Instead you responded.

“Guilt I guess.. if I left you there you probably would have died. I can’t have that in my mind, if I can help someone, I will.” Your response wasn’t something she expected, you looked up from your food to see her staring at you.

“What your eyes don’t work now?” You said jokingly, snapping her out of it.

“No, but I think I’ve, overstayed my welcome is, what you Americans call it.”

“I doubt you’d get far.” You replied, Yelena frowns at this. “And what makes you think that?”

“I mean, that stab was pretty bad, it’s good you didn’t get an infection. Plus I’ll have to stitch you up when I get the chance, plus you can stay here. I don’t think you have the woman to get or rent anyway.” You shrugged. “Plus is Christmas and I’m feeling generous.”

Yelena was confused on why you were being so nice about this.

“Why are you being so nice? I just tried to kill you five minutes ago.”

“You just remind me of my sister, annoying and kind of a shithead but, she has a good heart you know? I mean siblings, right?” You gave a chuckle, for a moment you saw a hint of sadness in her eyes, but Yelena hid it so well. She only had one response to all of it;

“Yeah to siblings.”

Sorry if it’s a bit short, but I’d like to continue it if people want!

[leresq]

Recently rewatched GOTG Vol. 2 and took some notes

Rocket has no real reason for stealing the batteries other than he wanted to

Rocket can't read sarcasm unless it's explicitly shown to him. He also doesn't understand insults unless he knows what they mean. Autism coded...

Drax has to be more than strong, he's got to be superhuman at this point. He was flung around by the monster that would have killed a human instantly, survived the pressure changes of going through a jump point without exploding, and was hit around by trees like a pinball. Gamora and maybe Nebula are the only ones I can see surviving that. Speaking of which how does Quill survive being thrown around by the monster without breaking any bones?

When Gamora says "If you'd flown with what's in between your ears instead of what's in between your legs" she points to Rocket for the latter half of that statement implying he wasn't castrated by the High Evolutionary. 👀

It's implied Rocket doesn't completely understand depth and 3D space when saying Ego was a tiny man which makes sense for a raccoon but also not for the best pilot in the galaxy.

"You didn't know cuz you didn't wanna know cuz it made you rich." Is a hard ass line

I don't know much about Kurt Russell's history in acting but him as a villain is fantastic

Rocket grooms himself with his tongue!!! So kitty!!!!!!

The fact that Drax connects being an old woman to being wise means his not understanding metaphor isn't an inherent trait and it also means nobody before this point has been able to indirectly teach him what things mean.

Rocket's singing voice hunghhhh... He also runs quadrupedal by instinct

Despite having such tiny and probably fragile hands Rocket can still punch hard. The way he grabs things meant for normal hands with his little grippy paws is so adorable!!!

Drax wasn't lying when he said he was humble. Despite being a bit reckless he rarely brags about himself at all.

Even though family story time about impregnation probably is not a good idea Drax is probably the most sex positive member of the group.

Ego says he made pain receptors yet he doesn't react to anything as if it hurts at all.

Nebula never was a sadist. Thanos made her become violent because he hurt her every time she lost, so she got more and more angry. If she successfully enacted her plan of torturing Thanos I don't think she would have enjoyed it, she would be delivering a sense of justice in her eyes. She doesn't talk about that plan with fondness, she talks about it like it's a hard job that'll take a lot of willpower to complete. Who knows how many years of Thanos' abuse were quickly replaced by love and she barely resisted being healed.

When Peter successfully forms the celestial energy Ego doesn't look into his son's eyes with pride, he looks at the energy with greed. Great subtle acting.

I don't think Drax meant to insult Mantis by calling her ugly, that was just an unfortunate moment of unfiltered honesty. The fact that he quickly changes the meaning so it's some kind of compliment is impressive and adorable.

When Peter says he sees Eternity I think he sees the thing from Thor 4. Ego's plan is to reach Eternity and wish for the universe to be completely and totally his.

The contrast of the majesty Ego supposedly shows Peter and the horror of Ego's genocidal design found by Gamora and Nebula with music is perfect

The crabby puppy so cute he makes me wanna die 😍

Kraglin is so cute he's had such a hard life he just needs a warm shower and a talking Russian dog for a best friend.

The reason Mantis could put Ego to sleep when he didn't want to isn't because she's super powerful (even though she is) it's because she's part celestial and maybe Ego happened to miss a little bit of the connection to the light she has.

Life isn't about trying to make everything perfect or exactly the way you want it to, it's about diversity. That's what Ego doesn't understand.

My headcanon is that Yondu is the only one of his crew that actually cared about hygiene. He looks relatively clean compared to everybody else.

The last real goodbye Gamora and Nebula had was in Vol. 2

Baby Groot finally being nice to Drax is cute.

[canonmisogynyvictimstournament]

PRELIMINARY ROUND - DC COMICS

PROPAGANDA

Pantha

1.) Pantha was introduced in new titans #73 as one of the many experiments the wildebeest society was performing. She joined the titans basically right after being introduced.

With her personal subplot in the book having to do with figuring out who she is, both finding her past and building her future. sadly the former wasn't resolved before she left the titans and fell into obscurity (if that was the end I'd've been so happy)

until Geoff motherfucking Johns comes into the picture. In infinite crisis Superboy prime really wants to murder the current superboy. The only thing standing in the way of that are all the previous members of the titans. Pantha's the first one to jump in and within 2 panels of her showing up in the fucking event her head's been punched off. With more attention's given to how sad her murderer is about having to kill her. SBP goes on to kill 2 more titans including Pantha's son but that's not relevant to her mistreatment. and after 3 titans have been slayed it turns out that this was for nothing as Flash pops out of the speedforce and takes SBP away. later in the event Pantha's former team leader Dick Grayson calls her (along with the titans killed and maimed in the fight against SPB) ""titans no one will remember"".

And do you wanna know why Geoff Johns decided to kill of a titan of 3 years? To make the story of her boyfriend more interesting. First of all that's textbook fridging and I shouldn't need to tell you how bad that is and secondly the way he decided to make Leonid a more interesting character is to make him a depressed jackbooted militant Russian bootlicker.

After Pantha brutal fridging another writer decides to pick up her plot.

in Booster Gold #7 (yes. Booster Gold. you know that member of the JLI who's never interacted with any titans at any time before this. this'll become a theme in the short time she's here) we're introduced to an alternate timeline Pantha who's part of the freedom fighters.

when Booster asks what their deals are Pantha tries to explain why she wants to kill Maxwell Lord; a character she previously had zero connections to, before Green Arrow, Oliver fucking Queen interjects to tell her backstory for her. so not only was her backstory given to a Pantha who might have a completely different story to ours, given in a book she had zero connections to but fucking mansplained to us by a blonde bimbo who rightfully shouldn't fucking know who she is. Only to be fucking gunned down by a mind controlled Wild Dog not 11 pages later.

Her final appearance isn't much to note. her corpse is defiled and resurrected by a black lantern ring, she fights some of her old teammates (just not her boyfriend who was shown still being depressed at the start of blackest night: titans) only to be disintegrated by the original Dove coming down from the heavens to save the second one. I like Hawk and Dove but that's one final spit in the face for Pantha.

to explain why I've spent over 500 words trying to explain why Pantha's a victim of misogyny rather a character people'll know or like. Pantha's my favorite superhero of all time no ifs, ands or buts, hands down cards on the table favorite. Pantha's been dead for longer than I've been alive and every time she's brought back it isn't her and she's only there to die again.

in February 2021 a tie in to the event that went on at the time was released where superboy-prime was redeemed. SBP was redeemed before Pantha was allowed to see the panel again. And if that doesn't make your fucking blood boil then I've failed as a propagandist.

Starfire (CW: Sex Trafficking)

1.) Her original characterization was fairly decent, however it still had her stuck in relationships with men that weren't very good for her and had overtones of racism with how she was written. Post that her characterization was slowly chipped away at, some writers with harder sledgehammers than others, culminating in current writing where she's dismissed as "just a fling" to her original counterpart (Dick Grayson) to prop up a different ship (Dick Grayson/Barbara Gordon) and frequently has been used as eye candy in other comics. Simply open the first comic of Red Hood and the Outlaws, which obliterated her personality to make her associate/be subservient to the Red Hood, and you'll find plenty of panels of her appearing simply for eye candy in the boobs and butt pose for absolutely no reason. This is not the only time she's been used to cater to the male gaze (I'd argue even in her original context that was part of her appeal) but in this comic she essentially has no personality beyond "i want sex" as her memory of all past events has been erased. She's essentially just a tool for her male counterparts in the comic to bounce off of, and eye candy to bring more male readers in. She does eventually get more storylines later on, but that doesn't excuse the bad writing she was put through. Her own solo series also cashes in on her sex appeal, by infantilizing at the same time as drawing her in skimpy outfits + more boobs and butt poses galore to go for the "born sexy yesterday" misogynistic trope.

2.) 2011 reboot, in RHATO she was turned into a walking fetish by retconning most parts of her character and erasing all personality displayed in the past 30 years of comics. in that iteration she is only interested in sex and is dehumanised and ‘exotic’. she ‘forgot’ all her past relationships because she doesn’t care about them only sex. her only purpose in that book is as a powerhouse and a sex/love interest for one of the male characters who view her as a trophy because she used to date someone he dislikes (in this continuity) let’s also not forget that she was first created just to be a love interest and although she did grow into a hood character at some point, she is treated horribly time and time again by writers because of conflicting ships. she’s written as a ‘vixen’ as opposed to another ‘good girl’ female character who is shipped with the same guy in canon

3.) Kory’s oversexualization and the dehumanization associated with it is especially egregious in the context of her backstory as a survivor of sexual trafficking AND her black/indigenous coding— both demographics who are at especially increased at risk for experiencing sexual abuse in real life. Especially when it’s done in service of the narrative of a white man (Jason Todd) and in parallel with the similar character assassination of a Navajo man (Roy Harper). It’s so fucking bad, free my girl.