#that makes sense why there’s no cellphones i was wondering

[cloud-based-and-rainpilled]

i just binge watched the first 3 episodes starting in the middle of the goddamn night & i think i answered my own question lmao 🫠

[emmyrosee]

Cold breath puffs out past his lips as he picks up the pay phone, slips in a quarter and dials your familiar number. Atsumu rarely calls you on his cellphone anymore, out of fear one of the times he does, you’ll block him clean from your life.

The dial tone hums three times before you show mercy and pick up the phone, interrupting the deafening line. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, smiling softly as your voice, unsuspecting and calm, eases over the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby…”

You’re silent, the only thing giving you away is the way your breathing seems to rag out, rasping softly as it passes through your teeth, a hurt you seem to try to fight back.

“Atsumu?”

The way his throat catches at the sound of his name on your voice has him completely caught off guard; aside from the fact that he hasn’t heard it in months, let alone his actual name on your tongue, just to hear your voice again makes him choke up.

“Yeah. Yeah, hey, it’s me,” he rambles, leaning against the wall of the restaurant he’s calling you at. He closes his jacket tighter around his torso, wondering if it’s warmer in your neck of the woods.

The ones he abandoned you at.

You were familiar. He needed the sense of familiarity as he travels, using you as a means to stay grounded after he abandoned you so promptly. Even right now, this wasn’t meant to destroy you, tear down the walls you’d spent years trying to mend, it was to seek comfort in you- selfish? Perhaps. But he is selfish.

He wished he could be like his brother, content with staying in one place and taking in every day with ease. But Atsumu has never been like his brother, growing far too stir crazy at the mere idea his roots might be planted somewhere, keeping him there for eternity. He doesn’t like feeling trapped, he hates it, even if feeling trapped meant he could be his happiest.

What Atsumu didn’t expect though, was for his roots to be you, the one thing he can’t sever himself from. You’re his drug of choice, his intoxication he can’t get sober from, and fuck, how he craves you.

“I’m… I’m thinking of coming back home.”

“Why?”

The way you snap at him your quick, firm answer makes his skin crawl. He’d been hoping, like a selfish idiot, that you’d somehow be excited for his return, like you had been every time he’d come home: you’d run into his arms like a missing piece, trusting him to catch you as you fall against his chest, your nose would bury into the dip of his neck while he cradles you close, kissing wherever his lips could reach and just for a moment, you both could pretend that this was normal. You’d meant to do this. Be apart for so long it tears you both inside, only for your reunion to be filled with joy and happy tears.

That this was normal, per se.

He thunks his head against the wall, sending a sharp pain through his skull, but he pays it minimal mind as he tries to conjure an argument to not make you hate him more than you already do.

“I want to see you,” he finally confesses. “I… I don’t know when I’m coming home, but it’ll be soon, okay?” He asks. When you say nothing, he closes his eyes, “can I see you?”

“You’re all talk,” you snarl, but he hears the tears in your voice. “You’re not coming home to stay, you’re coming home to get a morsel of attention and praise, then leave me again. I know that.”

He screws his eyes shut as you so clearly, so hurt, list the events that repeat every time he comes home. He wants to blame his success, chasing a high he can’t seem to find anymore, but he can. It’s a high with you, a thrill he gets when he sees your eyes glimmer with excited tears, an unparalleled sense of peace when you’re in his arms, one no person, place, or thing has been able to come close to.

But you… you were different. He loves you.

And Atsumu Miya is a runner.

“You should just keep playing house with one of your little friends that you make on the road,” you laugh cruelly. “Since they’re able to keep you much, much happier than I’ve ever been able to, clearly.”

“Hey, you wanna play the bigger person here? I never do shit with anyone when I’m out on the road, I’m loyal to you, okay?”

“My. Hero,” you spit from your gritted teeth. “You want a medal for doing below the bare minimum? Leaving me for months on end and coming back when you see fit, only to tell me you ‘stay loyal?’ You’re not loyal. You’re a coward.”

His heart breaks.

Coward. That’s what he is. He’s a coward, running from a life of comfort and stability to chase a high that he can only get in his dreams, a high that does not exist.

The closest he has, is you. And you don’t want him anymore. Rightfully so, Atsumu will give you that. But the idea, the mere concept of you not wanting him anymore sends him into a panic.

No, he thinks to himself, you’re bluffing, you’re all talk too, and the second you see him, your reserve will crumble and your heart will soften and you’ll love him again. You’ll plead for him to stay, to be with you forever, because you can make this work together.

He hopes that this time, he’ll love you enough to stay, too. He doesn’t bet on it, and the idea stings his eyes with tears. He screws them shut in agony. His root will only be severed when you do it. He hopes you do it mercifully. He hopes you’ll do it this time he comes home, setting you both free from the dance you’ve entangled yourselves in.

“I… I know im all talk,” he chokes, leaning his forehead against the brick of the wall he’s talking against. “But I… I know that we’ll be together soon. I’ll come home, and we’ll work it out this time. I swear.”

He sinks his teeth into his lip to try and fight back the sob that wants to break through. You hang up the phone, leaving only the dial tone to ring in his ear.

He smiles despite the tears welling in his eyes.

“I can’t wait until then.”

-

@reverie-starlight heres that angst I was teasing… 😬

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Y’all ate this Hotch x BAU!reader imagine up 👀 Who am I to deny you more when asked so nicely? 🖤

Things remain strictly professional while the case is ongoing, your team and the Seattle division’s sole focus on catching the unsub. But once your resident bad guy gets his one way ticket to a life sentence, Aaron’s former colleague insists on celebrating over drinks…

“I can’t believe you completed the triathlon!” Agent Brandt exclaims with a laugh, her hand coming to rest on Aaron’s arm. From her spot in the booth opposite to you, JJ nudges your leg under the table. Your gaze cuts to hers, and you resist the urge to mime gagging yourself on your straw. Instead, you use it to suck up the last of your second mojito. There are a few appreciative titters around the table and Brandt soldiers on, “Who would’ve thought our nerdy prosecutor turned agent would do something so athletic?”

“Make no mistake, the nerd is still hiding underneath these muscles,” you chime in with a coy smile, the mix of jealousy and rum swimming in your veins giving you the push to overtly squeeze your husband’s bicep for good measure.

Aaron pointedly clears his throat and directs a frown towards Emily whose cellphone camera has made an appearance just over the lip of the table to no doubt document the scene unfolding for Penelope’s benefit. “All the credit goes to my partner here,” he says rather smoothly before draping his arm across your shoulders.

“Oh wow,” Brandt says through a tight-lipped smile, “you did it, too?”

“Sure did,” you respond cheerily while using your straw to swirl the mint leaves around the bottom of your empty glass. Aaron can hear the mischief building in your tone and he pinches your side half-heartedly in warning, but you quietly smack his hand away and continue, “Gotta stay in shape to fight off all the soccer moms vying for this guy’s attention at Jack’s games.” You allow yourself to relish in the flash of recognition in Brandt’s eyes before she slowly retracts her hand from your husband’s arm.

“Goodness,” she laughs and has the grace to blush at her earlier conduct. You feel a twinge of guilt until Aaron’s former colleague looks at him and says, “I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend.”

Derek covers up his laugh with a cough, and Emily mouths a delighted uh oh. Aaron turns to you with a silent plea in his eyes to let the comment go, but your lips are already twisting into a, “Me neither, babe.”

“She’s just teasing,” your husband is quick to soothe all parties’ ruffled feathers as his colleague’s blush grows a shade darker and she studiously avoids making eye contact with you. “We’ve been married for a few years now.”

“And what a wonderful few years it’s been seeing the two of you grow together,” the eldest member of your team adds with a sense of finality. You flash a grateful smile at Dave, and the conversation takes on a more lighthearted tone over the next and final round of drinks.

—————

On the jet back home the next day…

Your novel tumbling out of your hands and onto the floor of the jet has you jolting awake, and Aaron shoots upright in his seat across from you. A quick glance around reveals the rest of the team suspiciously engrossed in their respective activities- Derek’s listening to his post-case playlist, Spencer’s reading yet another book that’s above your pay grade, Emily and Dave are sharing sections of the New York Times, and JJ’s on her phone, likely texting Will- but the fact that no one so much as bats an eye at the startling noise tells you everything you need to know. It doesn’t take a profiler to understand why you and your husband just can’t seem to stay awake on the early morning flight.

In answer to their unspoken question, you offer, “Didn’t sleep well last night,” by way of an explanation, fighting the blush threatening to creep across your guilty cheeks.

With a click of his teeth, Derek laughs out, “My man,” and Emily pipes up, “We’ll chalk it up to a hangover.”

“Behave, all of you,” Aaron counsels in an utterly non-threatening monotone, his voice still thick with sleep. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes to scold them, just crosses his hands over his chest and settles back in his seat to get some much needed rest. The corner of his mouth ticks upward for the briefest of moments before his features fall back into their emotionless state.

You tap his ankle with your foot and one eye cracks open to find you smirking at him. “I saw that.”

“Get some sleep, Agent Y/L/N,” he orders in lieu of addressing being caught.

Tugging Aaron’s suit jacket higher up on your body, you dutifully close your eyes and hunker down under your makeshift blanket. Already drifting back off to sleep, you murmur, “That’s Agent Hotchner to you, mister.”

Aaron’s answering smile could rival the sun itself.

—————

[A/N: Idk if I like this 🙃 But then again, I go through these mental gymnastics every time I post my writing on here]

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[randomer4567]

Run (Alpha Damian x Omega Reader)

Summary: You ran away from your alpha, years later he and his family tracked you down.

You despised the galas that Bruce would incessantly throw, primarily because of the other Omegas in attendance. They were nothing more than spoiled brats from wealthy backgrounds. In contrast, you hailed from a low-class family and had to fight tooth and nail to rise to the top. Eventually, you managed to secure a job at Wayne Industries, where you crossed paths with Damian Wayne. What intrigued you about him was his scent, a rarity since you rarely found yourself drawn to the scents of other Alphas, save for your dam and your older sister, who was also an Alpha.

Damian stood apart from the rest, as he seemed disinterested in the typical Alpha behavior of seeking out a harem of omegas.

You didn't actively pursue him, but to your surprise, he took the initiative and asked you out on a date. Initially, you almost canceled because you lacked a suitable fancy dress. However, Damian came through and sent you a dress and heels to wear. The two of you hit it off, leading to him asking you out again. This time, you had a wonderful time together. Love blossomed between you, and soon enough, Damian's rut coincided with your heat.

You decided to spend this intimate time at your place since Damian preferred not to be around his brothers and father during his rut, fearing he might go feral. That's how the two of you officially became a couple. In the beginning, Damian was sweet, treating you with gentleness, care, and respect. He showered you with attention, making you feel special and safe. He seemed to have a deep understanding of you. However, over time, he grew distant, concealing your mating mark in public and distancing himself from you. Your inner omega blamed itself, leading you to make the difficult decision to leave.

You concocted a plan to convince Damian that you were unwell. Convincing Alfred proved to be challenging, so you simply informed him that you were going through a rough week and desired some solitude. With Alfred being an omega himself, he understood your need for privacy and even aided in making it appear as though you were coming down with a cold. And now, you found yourself packing your belongings into a bag, including essential clothing, toiletries, scent blockers, enough food for several days, your cellphone, and laptop for communication with work (having transitioned to freelancing), a small first-aid kit for minor injuries, and a few books for entertainment during your journey. You had meticulously planned everything and were ready to go.

"Omega," Damian's voice called out, causing you to freeze. You mentally cursed yourself, and he approached, peering into your bag. "Are we going somewhere?" he asked, though the look on your face made him rephrase his question. "You're going somewhere," he stated, this time without a hint of uncertainty. You desperately searched for a way to lie or at least avoid getting into trouble.

"Something came up with my sister," you replied, avoiding his gaze, although his mesmerizing green eyes captivated you. Damian raised an eyebrow and remarked, "And you faked being sick just to visit your sister?" Your heart raced as you tried to think of a response. You knew you had to come up with something soon. Taking a deep breath, you attempted to explain.

"Yes, I needed to see her. She hasn't been doing well lately," you quickly added, "I just wanted to make sure she was alright." Damian regarded you with a suspicious expression, and you could tell he wasn't entirely convinced.

He nodded slowly and said, "Alright." Damian walked away, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Sighing, you glanced out the window, feeling a sense of relief. You knew Damian would keep an eye on you. You slung your bag over your shoulder, opened the window, and cursed silently. Why did Damian have to choose a bedroom on the third floor? Fortunately, the presence of vines provided a stroke of luck. You grabbed onto them and climbed down.You fled the Wayne property, having purchased a one-way ticket to Gotham months before, before you had met Damian.

You applied scent blockers before boarding the plane. Your laptop was turned off, and your phone was set to airplane mode.Years passed, and you built a new life for yourself. Adopting an alias in your freelancing work, you altered your appearance slightly. While you didn't have a new mate, you lived with your beta cousin, who willingly helped conceal your omega scent. Despite occasional bouts of loneliness, you found contentment in your new existence. That is, until the day you unexpectedly encountered someone you never thought you would see again—Tim Drake.

You pretended not to notice him, grateful for the scarf you had borrowed from your cousin. By a strange twist of fate, you ended up in the same grocery line. Tim attempted to engage in small talk, questioning how you had been, why you left without a word, and urging you to call Damian as he had been searching for you. Feeling a surge of anxiety, you swiftly made your escape, driving a few blocks away before abandoning the car to avoid any potential tracking. With groceries in hand, you approached your cousin's home, only to be confronted by a startling sight—Red Hood and Damian holding your cousin at gunpoint.

To be continued...

[starcurtain]

Ratiorine Fics I Want to Read

1) Modern AU: When Veritas Ratio discovers a beautiful businessman poised to jump from the roof of his apartment building, he does something he's never done half as seriously before: makes a bet. One month--in just one month, he will find this "Aventurine" a reason to keep living. The terms: 30 days, anything goes, whatever it takes to make some kind of meaning out of a miserable existence. If Ratio loses, a brilliant-eyed gambler will disappear from the world forever. If Aventurine loses... well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. (Of course, neither of them anticipated that Ratio would end up becoming Aventurine's reason to live--but there's something to be said for non-zero-sum games.)

2) "I'm real sorry to bother you, mister, but I think I'm lost?" Aventurine is pretty sure he's dreaming. Pretty sure he's been pulled back to the hellscape known as Penacony. Pretty sure the Lady Emanator might need to come back and take another swing at him, to burn out the last hold of the Harmony for real this time. Because those are the only logical explanations for why Aventurine is currently locking eyes with his own younger self, standing very confused in the middle of his trussed up Pier Point condo, far from the Family's shadow. (Or: That one where a blessing from Gaiathra temporarily sends the young Kakavasha out of harm's way--straight into the care of his future self. Aventurine isn't the ideal person to care for a child, but hells if he's going to let his younger self experience anything less than the safest and most wonderful weeks of his short, miserable life. The only real problem is, well, how is he possibly going to explain this to Ratio?)

3) A super soft, small fic of Ratio reflecting on all the ways his life has changed since Aventurine came into it--there's noise in his apartment now, and a photo on his desk in the office; there's troublesome snacks to pet sit and someone keeps sneaking inappropriate jokes into his lecture transcripts. There's a sounding board to test his lesson topics on, and a peacock on his cellphone lock screen because he's developed a newfound fondness for the color. There's a go-between nowadays when the ravenous investors come sniffing after the results of his research, and unlabeled packages containing exotic bath salts from star systems even Ratio has never heard of... But most beloved of all: the sense of soundness and symmetry, of something unexpected settling perfectly into his hold, at last.

4) Bodyswap AU: Ratio and Aventurine end up on a mission that goes wrong in every sense of the word (aeons, it's always aeons). They're separated with probably half the known universe between them, stranded on unrecorded planets without credits or technology, and--most bizarrely have all--have definitely swapped bodies. Cool. Cool. What the fuck. Aventurine is honestly tempted to say he might be coming out ahead in this whole drama--he's ripped and tall now--until he discovers that in Ratio's body, he doesn't have his luck. Meanwhile, Ratio is discovering just how much harder life is for Signonians, and coming to truly appreciate how strong of a person Aventurine really is. Somehow, they've got to make it back from half way across the universe, accomplish their mission, and get their own bodies back. Please?

5) A collection of complaint logs very important internal IPC records:

Complaints received on the dangerous behavior of new Stoneheart "Aventurine of Stratagems"

Complaints received on the hostile work environment created by Intelligentsia Guild Consultant Dr. Veritas Ratio

Request for transfer

Request for transfer

Request for transfer

Proposal (Joking) to assign Stoneheart Aventurine to joint mission with Intelligentsia Guild Consultant Dr. V. R.

Request for transfer

Request for transfer

Proposal (No Longer Joking) to assign Stoneheart Aventurine to joint mission with IG Consultant Dr. V. R.

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete, three days before projected date, Casualties: 0, Complaints: 0

Note from Clerk #157B to Clerk #162S, on digital post-it: "Are you seeing this shit?"

Mission Report, Status: Complete, two days behind schedule, Complaints: 1 - "Please don't subject me to the drivel of untrained imbeciles again. If you're going to send someone from outside the Technology Department, at least provide a competent strategist. The same one from last time, preferably."

Mission Report, Status: Complete, Casualties: 1, Complaints: 1 - "Just send Ratio next time, okay?"

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Complaint received on the questionable conduct of Stoneheart Aventurine: "Why did my boss send me to buy bath bombs? Who are these for?"

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Complaint received on the biased behavior of IG Consultant Dr. V. R.: "Why does boss get called 'dear gambler' while the rest of us are 'fool'?"

Penacony Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Notice of Hiatus from Intelligentsia Guild Activities and Sabbatical from Lecturing, Reason Given: None

Request for Paid Leave, to: Diamond, cc: Jade, bcc: Topaz, Reason Given: Elopement 💖

6) Maybe it's not a sensitive thing to ask. Maybe some stories are better left in the past. But Veritas Ratio has never been able to curb his desire to know--nor his desire to right the wrongs the world with that knowledge. Laid bare, pale against the lip of the tub, with nothing but the rippling of the bathwater to accompany him, Aventurine tells the story of each of his scars. Some marks cannot be washed away. But some--with time, with touch--can heal.

[voltronisanobsession]

Hi hello! I hope your having a good day

This might be a little boring but what about a Percy x reader childhood friends to lovers?

Percy had a fat crush on reader growing up (and never gets over them) but then he was swept away to camp half blood so suddenly so he didn’t have time to say anything to reader, and because of the no cellphone rule at camp reader is like all up in their feels thinking their best friend just left without telling them. So when reader sees Percy at school in the winter they kinda avoid him assuming that he was doing the same, basically they drift apart.

But a year or two later, it turns out reader is also a Demi god just found out later in life maybe a child of Apollo or smt, so they come to camp and they see Percy and suddenly everything is making sense, like why he left on such a short notice why he never contacted them, etc. then Percy and reader just have this little catch up where they realize they still have feelings for each other ,but are maybe too nervous to admit because they don’t wanna ruin their friendship again?

It’s so cliché I know, but I’m such a sucker for the childhood friends to lovers trope.

Percy with a Childhood Friend

Omg this is so CUTE ARGGH!! This is my second time writing this cuz I accidentally deleted everything the first time </3

It’s a little long since I wanted to somewhat incorporate a story🔥 not proofread🔥🔥

Edit: I finished proofreading this and DAMN there were a lot of errors💀💀 do not write when ur about to pass out guys💀

This is literally the cutest idea EVER!!

You guys would totally become friends because of your mutual confusion with school💀 Like you both bond over struggling with school and immediately grow closer

Since he could remember, Percy always had a harder time learning the materials in school and was outcasted for it in a way

So when you sit next to him during recess and start talking to him out of nowhere, he knows you guys are gonna be stuck with each other for a long time

Since you're basically his first friend, in like forever, he can't help the growing feeling he has for you

The way you brightly smile at him when he asks for help on a reading he can’t quite seem to grasp, or the way you patch him up after getting into a fight with one of the bullies

You’re just like the light in his life, you’re warm presence immediately settling his anxiousness

You guys are stuck together like glue and no one can seem to separate you both, something that many have tried to do

Percy believes that nothing can get better than this honeymoon phase in your friendship, swearing that he’s going to confess his small crush on you and everything😭

Until he’s kicked out of school and your family moves away and you begin attending Yancy Academy💀💀

Percy is obviously just as heart broken as you

So for the next few years, Percy faces all these new schools alone and gets kicked out of all them

And when he’s sent to Yancy Academy and finally reunited with you again, he quite literally JUMPS on you

Like this boy is SO HAPPY to see you omg

That spark never left between the two of you and you both make up for lost time

So while school is still the same, getting to see you everyday now is a game changer for Percy

The buried feelings come back full force, your warm and bright smile still making him feel gooey inside after all this time

And you’re just as nervous to him too cuz AHHH!! Childhood crush is back!!

Of course we all know how this ends, Percy is unfortunately kicked out of school again and you’re both heartbroken in the end

Percy leaves mysteriously while you’re wondering where he went

You question Grover on the boys disappearance, the satyr giving you a nervous look while saying Percy didn’t feel quite right attending the school

Which confused and hurt you because Percy had said you made going to this prison worth it

Percy never got to say his goodbyes and is suddenly dragged into the half blood life, continuing his life with danger at every corner

Even after going on all these exciting and dangerous quests, years later Percy will never be able to stop his mind from straying to the one he let get away

He feels regret for the most part and probably thinks you hate him for leaving you so suddenly💀

He often wonders what your doing

Maybe your reading a book from that one author you like

Or maybe you’ve picked up a new hobby. Last time he saw you, you did mention you’ve had this strong urge to learn archery

School starts again and Percy is once again sent to a new school

He’s already anticipating going to camp next year but is immediately caught off guard when he sees you in the distance in one of the school halls

It’s LITERALY like time slows down

His eyes widen when he makes eye contact with you, the light hitting your face in a certain angle that makes you look ethereal

He feels his heart speeding up when your recognize him from the distance

Your face is scrunched up in confusion and then hurt, quickly looking away from him and walking down a different hallway

He’s so happy to see a familar face that he doesn’t even think about how you might be feeling after not seeing him these past few years

Percy looks different. Hes way taller than he was before. His hair is longer and messier, but makes it work. His face is more defined, skin glowing even under the florescent lights

You can’t deny the way your heart skipped a beat at seeing Percy again but everything crumbles down when you remember his unannounced departure from Yancy Academy

‘He could’ve at least told me’ you bitterly think while slamming your locker

Yeah you would avoid him like the plague while school’s in session

Walking in the opposite direction when you see him and avoiding his eyes when he tries to get your attention during class

It isn’t until when a monster interrupts the formal winter dance that you finally speak to him

Percy is trying his best to fight off the monster when it knocks him to the ground with a force that has him hackling for air

That’s when you come to the rescue

“Percy get down!”

“Y/N?!”

With a bow and arrow in hand, you aim for the beast with such precision and confidence, he stares in amazement as you single handily slay the monster with one arrow

He unfortunately has to flee the scene when he hears people barreling down the hallways, anxious to see all the commotion he caused

Yeah he gets to camp early that year💀

And when this guy sees you at camp during the summer, everything suddenly clicks in his head

The way you could see the monster and WERENT affected by the mist

Your scary accurate hit with a bow that seemingly came out of nowhere

And even the way the sun would shine in your favor in random moments

When you see Percy though, your confusion is maxed out. Was this why he left? Why you were never able to get ahold of him?

Yeah things are a little awkward during this time

While you’re put into the Apollo cabin after being claimed and adjusting to camp, Percy finds a hard time to talk to you

He’s SUPER excited knowing you’re a half blood too

He doesn’t have to worry about keeping any secrets from you and can tell you all about his journey throughout the years!!!

But fate seems to pull you and him further apart, bit by bit

He’s forced to hear your contagious laughter from afar during dinner, watching with soft eyes as your siblings surround you, nudging you suggestively when they catch him staring at you

You look over to him and send him a shy smile, in which he would perk up at finally getting your attention :D

After that night, things get a little easier

He’s still dragged away whenever he tries to approach you, but now he isn’t the only one trying to talk

You both wave whenever you see each other

Percy still stares at you whenever a camper tries asking him a question

While you try to walk up to him, he’s magically bombarded by other campers crowding him

He would push past them all to finally get to you after you nod your head to the side, urging him to follow you

“Yeah you know what guys? How about we catch up with this during the campfire! Yeah yeah, totally, see ya!”

He’s jogging up to you as you both walk the shore

“Well aren’t you popular here.” You say with a sly smile

“Oh yeah, I’m kinda known around camp. I’ve had a few uh, memorable, moments.” This dude is blushing like crazy cuz FINALLY! He’s finally alone with you!

After settling everything between you two, once again you’re stuck together

Training together despite your different weapons, doing activities together is a new norm

Except things are different this time

Percy isn’t the shy boy he was when he was young

He’s more confident and wants to make his intentions know to you

While he shows you how to use his sword during training, you guys already know he’s placing his hands over yours to show you the ‘correct placement’

So sly teehee

During the art and craft activities , he’s suggesting you guys to make a matching bracelet

His smooth flirting isn’t missed by you and you’re literally having a HEARTATTACK

You aren’t used to Percy being so bold, buts it’s honestly such a nice change of pace

He would definitely confess his feelings after dinner near the shore

And despite his suave attitude the past weeks, he’s so clumsy when he reveals his feelings for you

“So um, I like y- wait. Ok ok, sorry. What I wanted to say is that like, I like you. A lot actually. For a while. And you know it’s completely fine if you don’t, but I hope you like me the same because this would be really embarrassing for me-“

“Percy! It’s ok um! I like you too. A lot.”

It’s SUPER CHEESY BUT LIKE

COME ON

HES GIVING YOU PUPPY DOG EYES WHEN YOU SAY THAT AND UGH

He’s would totally lift you up and spin you around because he’s so HAPPY

Bro finally got his crush😭😭

He’s so sweet to you like bro

Always hyping you up during mock battles, cheering you on during camp games even if you’re aren’t on the same team

You already know he’s willing to lay down his life for you😭

And you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same even if he begs you not to say that (he doesn’t want to even think of the thought of you leaving him)

He’s an extremely affectionate person, pda is his middle name

If you aren’t that comfortable with pda though, he’ll settle with just holding your hand. He’ll just cuddle you later in private😻🔥🔥

But of course you guys are still best friends so you both would still clown the other if one of you does something stupid

He would love it if you play with his hair

He would be sitting in front of you during the campfire while you’re on a log seat when you brush some hair away from his face.

You rub his head a bit and Percy would lean his head into your hands.

When you’re done you pull away only for your boyfriend to bring your hands back to his hair, silently asking you to continue (UGHHHH MY HEART)

Sally loves you and is supportive of you guys (your number one supporter)

She invites you to have dinner with them and how could you refuse😩

Percy is so down bad for you and always brags about how long you both have known each other and how close you are

Like no one cares but he’ll just keep and talking about you to anyone around

Sometimes when you bunk in his cabin for a night or two, he likes talking about the past and how far you’ve both come

It’s during these nights where he’ll get emotional, maybe cry because he’s so grateful he has you in his life

You would kiss his tears away (SCREAMING)

Overall, childhood friends to lovers works out PERFECTLY with Percy. He values your friendship as much as he values your relationship

He knows you better than anyone in your life, has seen different versions of yourself and has always stuck by your side, through thick and thin💔

[warping-realities]

Finding Joy in The Job

Alan had witnessed this scene before, always with a sense of helplessness. A suited man, distractedly talking on his cellphone, would inadvertently take a wrong turn and end up in a shady alley of the big metropolis, only to find himself surrounded by the scum of societ. Alan always hated going through this situation. He tried to get attention, shout, take any action that would not reveal to the world the secret he was hiding. However, his attempts always seemed insufficient, leaving him with a sense of helplessness.

But not this time. As he watched the middle-aged man being harassed by the thugs he would finally be able to act more assertively. The new hero chose a strategic point in a shadowy area of the dark street. Gathering courage he prepared to attack checking once more if the balaclava correctly covered his face. If someone from the outside saw the skinny boy in tactical gear approaching that group they would have thought the boy was out of his mind. And that person couldn't have been more wrong, because the only thing Alan needed was a touch, and everything would be over. The crucial point was that they didn't notice his presence until it was too late. Hence the ninja-like outfit.

Alan gave the thugs no chance to react before he struck them. Just one touch and one of them was knocked out unconscious on the ground. The second was thrown far away, crashing against a wall, falling to the ground, moaning and reluctant to get up. The last one threw a punch at the boy, who was hit hard on the face and staggered, but not before touching the bare arm of the goliath, the thug fell to the ground, with all four limbs broken. Alan, still dazed, quickly repositioned himself, fighting against the pain while dragging the executive with him to a safe place. Running he wondered why he decided to do it. He had possibly saved a life, right? So, why the feeling that it wouldn't make the slightest difference, except for the fact that he would have to explain a black eye the next day? The executive jogged with some effort beside him, probably knowing it was better for him to have a superhero giving him cover. After running a few blocks to a quieter part of the city, he felt the tension in his body dissipate, letting out a sigh, while the man looked directly at his bloody nose.

“Th-thank you...”

Said the man breathlessly. They were on the side of a clothing store in empty street. The hero was feeling his nose while the man bent over, breathing deeply. “I really don't know how to thank you, you saved my... what happened, did they hurt you?” He asked with a high-pitched voice, and eyes shining with interest as they measured Alan as if he were the most fantastic thing the man had seen in his life.

“No… It's just that it wasn't how I imagined it would be.”

“No? You just saved me. You must be proud.”

“I am, don't get me wrong, it's just that I expected more...”

The man frowned.

“You can't continue this work if you don't get satisfaction from it.”

“I'm sure many heroes don't worry about this, I shouldn't be worried about this, I… I’ll do what's necessary and deal with it. I'm sorry, you don't need to hear my complaints.”

“Don't apologize, you're right in one point, a hero needs to do what's necessary, but also doesn't need to live in martyrdom. You need to plan better so you can relax later and enjoy what you decided to do, even have fun. Tell me, what kind of martial training have you had, what protections does this uniform provide, and... well, if it's not asking too much, how exactly does your power work?”

“Well, that's asking too much, just say that one touch from me is enough to end any fight. And as for training? Well… I haven't had any, and the outfit is just something I bought at a military surplus store.”

“Oh, boy, you really didn't think before getting into this? Sorry, but we're talking about something very delicate, not just your life but also others'. Let me help you.” The man reached for a card in the pocket of his suit and handed it to Alan. “Listen. The life you chose is much more complex than picking a uniform and going around hitting others, it takes a lot of planning. But it doesn't mean you have to do it. I know some people who can help you. You overthink and hold yourself back, not reaching your full potential. You come here and she will do this for you, you'll feel that everything is right and maybe enjoy yourself a bit. If you'll excuse me, my wife is waiting for me.”

Watching the man walk away, Alan looked at the card in his hand and read the name on it, Serena Reid.

The incident still dominated his consciousness when he returned to classes the next day, to the point where he couldn't even remember the content discussed in class. He kept telling himself that he didn't need anyone's help... he was just starting, after all. Although he had to admit that the man was right about his lack of planning. He thought it would just be a matter of putting on a uniform and going to fight, that everything would work. He had the ability to copy and store moments lived by a person from a touch to later pass them on if he wanted. However, he had not considered that others could hit him to, as his black eye demonstrated. He really needed to plan and train better. But he would do it alone, improve, and get to the point where he finally feel fulfilled.

But then why did he end up calling and scheduling an appointment with the mysterious woman? The man seemed very sure in his statements about why Alan felt that sense of emptyness. And, well, it would just be a consultation, nothing too much, right?

In doubt if they would really let him enter a building in broad daylight with his face covered, Alan arrived in a modern office building, Serena's office was on the tenth floor. Entering he was greeted by shiny porcelain floors, expensive art and a very well-lit hall. If they hadn't informed him that the consultation would be free, he would have turned around at that exact moment.

Too late, standing next to the receptionist was the man he had saved. "I'm glad you accepted the offer. You won't regret it. My name is Larry, by the way."

Alan followed him to the elevator, making small talk about the work there. Apparently, all the offices in that building belonged to a large corporation, which didn't prevent them from doing some pro-bono work occasionally, like help Alan. He wouldn't be the first or the last hero full of uncertainties to enter that building.

“Although certainly, everyone left there extremely satisfied, of course," said the man, pompously. In the excitement of the other night, Alan hadn't noticed that trait, but it made sense, after all what kind of executive would the man be if he didn't display some confidence?

---

As they walked through the office complex something caught Alan's attention. There were many guys there who seemed out of place. Broad and muscular, could they be other heroes in disguise? No, they didn't have that spark of goodness; these were brutish men with the air of danger that mercenaries should present. They were by no means the type of people he expected to see in that place.

"Ah, yes, our field team. Later you will have the opportunity know them better. We've arrived!" Larry opened a large door, gesturing for him to enter revealing an opulent office, where sitting at an elegant desk was a beautiful asian woman in her thirties, who smiled at the young man.

"Please, have a seat, Mister...?"

"I, well, I haven't chosen a hero name yet."

"A bad start, dear, if I may offer a small critique. Please, have a seat. And Larry, if you could kindly wait a moment before leaving."

Alan sat in the armchair in front of the woman as requested. With each step he took, he was overwhelmed by the exasperating feeling of entering some monster's lair, although Serena's beautiful face revealed no danger.

"Comfortable, Alan?" she asked, her smile widening.

"How... how...?"

"What kind of company do you think we would be if we didn't have enough resources to discover the identity of new potential assets, my dear? Let me introduce ourselves , I’m Serena Reid CEO of the Meng Po Company, while Larry here, whom you so bravely saved, is the head of our acquisitions department. Now, with introductions made, I would like you to explain to us how your abilities work. That way, we can have an understanding of what you can do and the best way to help you reach your full potential."

Alan had not explained the entirety of his abilities to anyone else. Having had them for only a few months, even he did not know their full extent and was not comfortable sharing that information; That situation was making him uneasy.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Reid, but I don't feel comfortable..."

"No need for Mrs. Reid, dear, we are all friends here, aren't we? And why don't you relax a bit?." She said with a melodious voice, and Alan felt all the tension melt away. "You sought us out asking for help, so let us help you, and for that, we need to know how your abilities work."

Yes, he wanted help, so he needed to let these people help him...

"I collect and store memories of any kind. Later can relive them in other people, exactly as it happened with the one who lived it the first time, and for that, I just need a touch."

"Fascinating, so you can turn something intangible into action. Reminds me a lot of the powers of an old hero, have you heard of the Deceiver?"

"Deceiver was an illusionist, ma'am, what I do is real."

"Oh, my dear, I know. But believe me, his illusions can seem very real to those who fall into his web."

"You speak as if he were alive, but he passed away years ago, killed in action."

"Boy, the keyword here is Deceiver, and if he's dead, how can he be standing right behind you?"

"What?" he asked, startled, turning to see the man behind him, but that was... "But it's just Larry."

"And just Larry is exactly what he wanted you to see, look again." Alan look back, only to find a man completely different from the one who was there before. While the other was thin and emaciated, this one was strong and robust, taller than Alan by several inches. Black skin but with an ethnic mix that Alan couldn't quite define, but there was certainly something Asian in him.

"I'm sorry for deceiving you, Alan, but I needed to test you. What we do here is very important. As a way of apologizing, let me introduce myself: I am Anan Tsé, formerly known as the Deceiver. My identity and the fact that I am alive are something few know and I hope it stays that way. Telling you these things is a vote of confidence."

Alan was speechless. Deceiver was a great hero, but it didn't seem right; however, before he could speak, Serena spoke again with that melodious voice.

"Relax, Alan, you can trust us. You trust us, otherwise why would you be here?"

Yes, he trusted them, he was here, wasn't he?

"Yeahhh, of course..."

"Great, then it's time to speak openly. We weren't completely honest with you, we've been watching you for a few weeks and we already had a good idea of what your power would be. There are certain types of incidents that are unique, almost impossible to happen twice, let alone three or four times. So when you do exactly that, it became clear that you could reproduce the same incident multiple times. That's why Anan needed to test you personally. He met a man a long time ago who was capable of something similar, but the most interesting thing wasn't that, was it, Anan?".

"Exactly, of course I could be wrong, but it was worth the risk. And jackpot, your powers are exactly as my old friend's. You don't realize it because you haven't trained it properly but your power is more than you realize. Even more so when combined with mine. My illusions affect the world in an immaterial way; the damage I produce happens inside people's minds... unless... how's that nose, kid?"

"Broken, but getting better, not thanks to you." Alan replied, indignation winning over the molasses in his head.

"But if what I do are just illusions, how could your nose be broken?" Anan asked with a mocking smile.

"I... I don't know."

"Let me clarify then. You think you only work with copied memories, but in reality, your powers go beyond that. You alter reality on a very small scale. So, when you were hit by that punch from my illusion, your body unconsciously responded the way it should have if it had been hit for real."

"What? That's..."

"Impossible? Your nose clearly says otherwise, dear." Interjected Serena. "In any case, this gave us a very interesting idea. Anan here suffered an incident some time ago; we both suffered, in reality. On the day of his supposed death, we were together..."

"Together? But Deceiver died in a fight of the Alliance against the Supreme Trio... against the ... Serena Reid? Serenaid? You are the Siren."

"Congratulations, kid, you didn't take long!"

"Your voice, I... what are you doing to me?" he asked, trying to cover his ears.

"Don't be silly. Everyone assumes my power is in my voice, but that's not real; my power is in my glands."

"Pheromones!!!"

"My, my, you're really smart, kid; naive but smart. It's no use covering your ears or trying to hold your breath... with me, it's skin deep. My pheromones hit all your exposed areas: nostrils, skin, and leave you... open to my suggestions... so why don't you relax a little more and listen to what I have to say, since we're such close friends that we know everything about each other's powers."

Alan tried to fight the feeling of numbness unsuccessfully. He should try to run, try to touch both of them and give them the worst moments from the memories he had collected as a volunteer in various trauma hospitals over the past few months. But he did none of that; he just stood there, paralyzed, with the agonizing feeling of being anesthetized in the face of danger, unable to do anything to change that.

"Now that we're more relaxed, let me continue." Anan, lend me the device, dear." Deceiver approached the table and handed her a small metallic sphere.

"This is one of the little wonders that Techno created and provided to the members of the Alliance. It allows storing some types of powers and releasing them in the way the bearer wishes. This one is always charged with my pheromones, to ensure Anan's loyalty wherever he goes. He has been under my command for so long that using the device is no longer necessary, but a cautious woman is worth a battalion. You must be wondering how one of world the greatest heroes is doing alongside a convicted criminal?"

Alan was not in a condition to wonder about anything while trying unsuccessfully to overcome the stupor that engulfed him. The only response to leave his lips was a grunt.

"Anh..."

"Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit with you but as I said, I'm a cautious woman. The answer to this question lies in the incident we were both involved in two years ago. But before we get there, I need to tell you more. Haven't you wondered why no other hero has contacted you in these months? Well, it's because they were obscured; they don’t know about your existence. Their trackers in most major countries have been compromised, thanks to Anan's good work. They still inform the Alliance of most new heroes, but those that are of our interest. This is extremely important for us. You would know the reason if the usual contact process had been carried out. The Alliance establish contact as quickly as possible with new candidates, even if they do not end up being selected. Their goal is installing a small intradermal device, another of Techno's inventions, with the ability to block any kind of mental control powers, mine included. He’s such annoying nerd. However, even he couldn’t predict everything. During our fight against the Alliance, my brother hit Deceiver with an energy blast before being eliminated. In my rage over Ampere's death, I released all my powerful pheromones; nothing should have happened, of course. However, to my surprise, Deceiver remained under my total command and quickly created the illusion of our deaths. After that the Trio was dismantled and I had to restructure. Without the other two, I could focus on my own goals. The truth is that I never cared about the Trio's manifesto; I just followed my brother and his friend's wishes. So, using my powers and Anan's combined, I created an empire. Reaper can rot in jail; if it weren't for his influence, Ampere... Armand would be alive. And regarding the Alliance, I will never forgive them for taking my brother from me, but it is not enough to take their lives; I want them humiliated at my feet. And you will help me with that, dear."

Alan again did not respond, which seemed to irritate Siren.

"You are so unamusing; I will lower the intensity a bit so we can have a decent conversation. In the meantime, let me explain your role in this story. Over the past two years, Anan and I have tried to recreate the incident to disable the device in some lesser heroes, without success. Either the charge used was too weak, or so strong that it killed our test subjects, or the problem was another: it had to be Ampere's energy to work, or worse, a perfect combination of the events of that day, which would clearly be impossible, but... Anan?”

"But it turns out that it's not impossible, just very unlikely; it would require an unique combination. One that I myself experienced but unfortunately did not have the means to recreate. This was almost thirty years ago; the Alliance had not yet been established, and the sharing of information about superhuman abilities was scarce. In my search for knowledge, I found an old man with the same powers as you, kid. Together we experimented and to our surprise we managed to combine our powers. The trick was to deceive the part of his consciousness that made his powers work and thus turn an illusion into reality. And that was one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed. We conjectured for some time about the possibilities that this gave us; with the right approach, we could rewrite a person's entire history, turn a criminal into someone useful for society, or even reverse aging process. However, since he could only retain memories of a few minutes, that remained just a theory. Only a few years later were the first enhancers identified, but it was too late; my old friend had left this world."

"Which doesn't mean that someone with a similar power couldn't appear again; unlikely but not impossible. So we pooled the company's resources in two fronts: one focused on identifying and recruiting as many enhancers as possible and the other on finding someone with the same powers. Anan managed to infiltrate among the Alliance trackers to facilitate this. And now we are here, finally ready to test his hypothesis and start my revenge."

"Why..."

"What, dear?"

"Why... help her... Deceiver... fight against... you... hero."

"Kid, you heard Serena say it yourself, she no longer needs to use her powers on me; I am her ally. This toy is just a guarantee on her part. A guarantee totally unnecessary, as she knows well."

"Silly boy, if I had patience I would do to you what I did to him; in five years you would be a totally different person, but I want more, and I want it now."

"No... never... impossible..."

"Impossible doesn’t exist for people like us. Get ready; You can send the girl in, Anan."

Anan headed to the doors and returned with a young woman who seemed to radiate power.

"Faye is our most skilled enhancer; she is charged with the power of all the others we have gathered for our ranks. It’s so much energy that if released in some heroes could cause catastrophic changes in the world, but this time it will be just in one person. Rest now, dear."

The feeling of stupor intensified, mixing with a feeling that something extremely wrong, was going to happen to him and then Alan felt a hand guiding his bare hand his other hand, while he struggled to overcome those sensations, knowing what was coming.

"Annnh..." His eyes widened as he fought to stop it, only to discover he had no strength in him. He began to visibly sweat as the first images began to appear before him, it was a matter of seconds before his powers activate, so he try even more desperately to escape that predicament.

"You are going to give me what I want." Serena's voice lost its softness. "This will be easier for all of us if you stop trying to resist." This only made the young man want to fight even more. He grunted defiantly as he looked at the beautiful woman who seemed ready to devour him alive, and then, summoning strength he didn’t know where it came from, he screamed as he felt something starting to stir inside him. He groaned as he felt his whole body contract in the prison that was that armchair, his arms flexing, his abdomen cramping, his legs outstretched. As the images passed before him, too quickly to be truly understood, he felt something he had never felt before: his raw power coursing through his whole body while something very different of himself began to awaken in a deep corner of his mind, advancing slowly but steadily to the surface. That thing brought with it an aggressiveness he had never experienced before; he wanted to punch someone, blow heads off, break legs! As Alan struggled to contain that invasion of his consciousness, he let out a grunt that resembled a growl through his clenched teeth. That torrent of indecipherable images were beginning to alter him more profoundly. They came like a wave pushing him to accept what was happening, and he realized that he wanted part of it: the adrenaline of battle, the sensation of crushed bones under his fist and broken necks under his feet, always living at the center of the action. The young man with wavy blonde hair, lost in that myriad of sensations, did not notice when someone removed the hood and mask he was wearing, or that his hair was slowly darkening and shortening. As his jaw widened and sculpted into a square shape, his neck bulged with pure muscle and his chest expanded forward. Why had he never tried to exercise properly? Why hadn’t he trained in any fighting? He was a hero; this should be basic! Besides, that would be fun, and he needed a little fun in his life while having such a responsible job.

As the images continued to swirl in his head his biceps contracted and relaxed reaching the size of cannonballs. His chest expanded absurdly, widening and projecting, while his lats grew to the point where it seemed that two wings were coming out from there, forcing the t-shirt he was wearing into tatters, partially hanging from his immense physique. He really needed to put more effort into his training; after all, his strength and dexterity were what made him known. Of course, his powers helped, but many times he didn’t even use it just to ensure more fun while doing his job. The whirlwind of images spun, in his head. As the pace increased, he could practically feel his mind shrinking while that other brutal will expanded. The two consciences touched in an assimilation process as his modified memories began to solidify... The memory that he had entered in college thanks to his GPA disappeared, replaced by the fact that his entry was due to a wrestling and gymnast scholarship. His legs expanded, thighs transforming into tree trunks, calves into defined diamonds, his butt growing , two perfect muscular globes.

Suddenly, the flow of memoreis began to slow down, perhaps approaching the end; Came the moment of discovering his abilities; it was awese! He relived the moment he used his powers against thugs in a dark alley, laughing at the fallen idiots. Now his feet increased from a discreet size eight to a gigantic size thirteen, bursting the too-small sneakers and socks, exposing the massive paws covered with thick veins that emanated an animalistic funk.

Slowly, a wave of thick black hair began to spread from his toes to the base of his thighs, transforming his smooth crotch into a thicket that almost completely hid his average cock. The hair continued its advance, while images of other street fights filled his head, many of them started by him for no major reason. A treasure trail formed on his abdomen, slightly covering the defined six-pack, while the two slabs of meat that were his pecs became covered by a thick layer, and his pits by two giant funky bushes. Finally, his new square face was covered by a well trimmed beard, the bruises fading, while his was shaved in a military buzzcut. His bright blue eyes slowly took on a brown hue, while a spark of intelligence was replaced by malice. When a tanned tone spread across his skin another memory of his abilities capabilities took the forefront. It was the recollection of a night when he had made three women from his college climax in a loop. Reliving that made his dick come alive inside the underwear that was almost ripping apart due to the pressure exerted by his massive thighs and giant ass. The addition of a thick cock was the final blow, making his underwear tear and exposing the engorged nine inches python.

The growing man roared as the muscles of his entire body tensed again, definition forming in all of them, the striations visible, a huge scar in his pec. He had become the perfect specimen physically, but that was still not enough; a body that size couldn't belong to an eighteen-year-old wrestler and gymnast. That was the body of a mature experienced in man... which he truly was. After dropping out of college in his junior year, he enlisted and ended up joining the SEALs, his appearance and heritage were usefull in operations in the Middle East. During the seven years he served his body had gone from lean and strong to a tremendous mass of raw muscular power.

After being discharged, he had done his work in all corners of the world; his name was whispered in fear from the bustling streets of New Delhi to the narrow alleys of Eastern Europe.

"no...."

Those people were trying to turn him into a war machine, and the worst part was that he liked what he was becoming, a being of pure masculinity who would be in command of any battle, ensuring that enemies were broken and incapacitated, out of commission for a long time, if not permanently. He didn't care if the opponents remained on the ground forever. The two entities inside him were already so amalgamated that any attempt to fight against the process became an impossible struggle. Alan had become an efficient brute, a powerful warrior devoid of mercy while doing his job, reveling in it, with a playful smile always on his face. That last spark of resistance extinguished taking with it all the arguments for why he should have fought against what was being done to him, while his hardened cock shot a torrent of cum into the air and he was overwhelmed by an extreme sensation of pleasure before suddenly losing consciousness.

"Alan, are you listening to me?"

"It's Aslan, ma'am; it means lion." replied the muscular giant to the beautiful woman leaning against his chest, the two laying on the persian rug in her luxurious office after countless hours of wild sex.

"Whatever your name is, if you're going to work for me, it's important that you listen while I'm talking to you. Just because we're occasional fuck partners doesn't mean this will change; I demand respect from all my employees, including my head of security and tactical operations. Are we understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Great. As I was saying before you got distracted, before we put Operation Gracefall into practice, I need to test you in the field."

"I believed my credentials spoke for me."

"I am a cautious woman. I may be dying for revenge on those fools, but first we need to test if Anan's memory will work on the blocking device. Understand that this is for your own safety; your ability is incredible, but it's no match for the heavyweights of the Alliance, at least not yet. We'll work on that, but first I need to test you. So listen closely to my instructions."

….

Aslan confidently entered the company field operations GQ, quickly gathering his team.

"Gentlemen, my name is Aslan Ayad; you may refer to me as Sir or Commander. Tonight we will have a special operation. The Lady Boss wants us to capture a rookie hero and bring him here for recruitment. Apparently, normally this is a job done by Mr. Anan Tsé, but she wants to test my skills and yours. Any questions?"

"Sir, Sorry, but why does the boss want us to capture a rookie?"

"Because, soldier, it seems that the kid hasn’t been contacted by the Alliance yet, which means he hasn’t had the blocking device applied to him, making him quite susceptible to her powers."

"What kind of rookie goes out to patrol without proper protection?"

"Did I ask you something or authorize you to speak, soldier?"

"No, sir; sorry, sir!"

"That’s better. To facilitate communication, all of you are now authorized to speak without asking for my permission. Regarding your question, I asked myself the same thing. God, I was an idiot at the age when my powers manifested, but I would never be foolish enough to dress like a clown and not wear the right protections."

"So you never thought of being a superhero, sir?"

"Me, a superhero? I’ve been hero enough serving my country for so long, only to be discarded for doing my job too well. It's not my fault the black ops were fun. But this business of a cape crusade would never give me the satisfaction I seek. Ok boys, enough of small talk, I want all equipment tested multiple times in the next hours. After that we will have some fun. We have a naive goodie to recruit and I plan to enjoy every minute of it!"

[yeyinde]

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat

Captain John Price x Reader

》 WORD COUNT: 12,7k

》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MATURE: allusions to smut but nothing graphic/explicit

》 TAGS: Gender-Neutral Reader. Angst. Mutual Pining. Idiots in Love (but in Romania). Fluff. Love and Romance described as death and decay and broken religious imagery. Y'know. The usual Yey tags.

》 NOTES: I recently got into Augury (just a fancy word for bird watching, innit??) so this feels more whimsical and nonsensical than usual. Good luck with this one, lads.

It's like clockwork. 

A text comes—some variation of are you awake, or are you home? in that strange Price-esque way he manages, even through the stark face of a message (biting derision, Gaz calls it, adds: man can't pretend to be a little less angry even over text)—and then a phone call. 

Always after midnight. 

Devil's hour. 

When your phone rings at half past three in the morning, hearing Price's gruff perfunctory greeting of "alrigh'?" bleeding through the phone, and right into your ear doesn't surprise you anymore. 

(Not much does, really.)

These phone calls are a strange, almost paradoxical thing that both happens often enough not to be considered rare, and yet: it still seems outlandish enough each time it happens for you to ever really let yourself expect it. Odd. Price doesn't strike you as the type of man to need to rely on his friends—the seldom few he does have, you often joke (always a shade too close to the truth like most jokes are; the one that makes him dip his head in a nod of quiet acquiesce, and make you wonder if you went too far)—but he's never given you a reason for them. 

Never answered why. 

They just—

Happened. 

(Over and over and over again—)

The brief conversation in the oddest hour of the morning started a new tradition. A routine. Expecting a phone call from Price at least once a week was now so commonplace, you almost felt empty when days had passed, and your phone never rang. 

He can't sleep. Neither can you. 

And so, he calls you. 

It's not always about a mission. Most of the conversations that take place are about absolutely nothing. Everything, sometimes, when you pry apart the bones locked around your chest, and bare your insides to the warm cellphone clutched in your hand. To the voice on the other line. 

A man you know—have known since you first stepped into his training ring, and into the orbit of Captain John Price—and barely understand at all. 

You know everything about him—his name, his title, where he grew up, went to school, his favourite food, his least favourite drink, what he does after a mission; his greatest fear, his biggest worry, the insecurity that gnarls in his chest, and the weight of the world that sometimes feels like it might splinter his bones, grinding them into gun cotton—and nothing at all.

The reason why he called you all those months ago, invited you on a mission you had no real part to play in, and why he still does is a mystery. 

(Loneliness, maybe. 

Insomnia, you find, is more bearable when it's shared between two.)

But that was before. 

The last phone call you got from Price had been nearly three months ago after you touched down in Heathrow following a botched mission in Tenerife. 

You heard the murmurs about Shepherd, about Zyani that trickled through the mess hall (when there was no battle to be fought, they gossiped), and so his radio silence makes sense considering he was halfway across the globe for the bulk of it. 

In the midst of it, though, you would find yourself staring blankly at your phone, screen black and void of any calls, and wonder if it had anything to do with your offer. With his swift rejection. 

When it rings after an aching expanse of time, you can't place the gnarled tension in your chest. The uncomfortable feeling that blooms in your heart at the sight of his name flashing in neon blue. 

Price seems almost surprised to hear your voice on the other line instead of the monotonous droll of your voicemail. 

"Up for a trip?" He asked when you cleared the sleep from your throat, and rubbed blearily at your eyes. "Jus' me and you."

It feels like nothing at all had changed since he last called you with an offer to accompany him to Tenerife. 

"Just like old times," you murmur, a touch distant. Hedging. 

"Right," he says, words glueing to his throat. You hear the click when he clears it, and pretend you're only pulling the phone away from your ear to check the time. 

Half past three. Of course. Of course. 

"Got a proposition for you." 

Typical Price: he gets right to the point. 

There is no staying up talking about everything, nothing, and all the in between until well past five in the morning when your alarm sounds for your run. Or his for a shower before heading into headquarters at Hereford to reach a new class of hopefuls when he isn't saving the world with his infamous team. 

The very same one he refuses to let you be a part of.

(Better on your own, he says.

You think you'd be better with him—

His team. Team. Not—)

The blooming heat under your cheeks is never acknowledged in the sanctity of your lonesome bedroom with his rough voice pitched low enough to squeeze through the little holes of your speaker. Tucked away to pine while still somehow making a fool of yourself. 

You're only half listening when he murmurs about his proposition. 

It's a simple mission, he tells you. The usual grab and go. 

Usual, because only in this work could kidnapping bad people in foreign countries be considered normal. Routine. 

(Legal, kind of.)

"It's in Romania," he murmurs, and the tinny sound of his voice through the old dial phone of the inn he's staying at between missions makes him sound lighter than he usually does. Airy. "I know you liked visiting the last time—"

It drags a snort from you. "Yeah, on holiday. Something about this whole ordeal tells me I won't be enjoying mici in Târgovişte much." 

"Well. Consider this a pre-paid holiday. I'll do all the work, you just 'ave to sit there, and—"

"Look pretty?"

"—listen."

You hum. "I think I'm much better at looking pretty than I am at listening, John."

"Yeah," it's dry, derisive. "Don't I know it."

Silence lapses between you—intentional, of course. He's letting you think it over. Weigh the pros and cons of a free trip to Romania. With four hands and two heads you could clear it up before the allotted time frame, giving you those extra, precious few days to linger in the country. 

Tying up loose ends is what will end up on the official report. Discouraging witnesses from coming forward with stacks of Euros stuffed deep in their pockets. 

Making sure no stone has been left unturned—the Americans, in particular, like that one. They never ask questions when you wax about patriotism, and ensure there's no chance of calamity. They like their ends tied, and their witnesses happy. 

It's all a cash business. More than enough money wired to an infant account under an preconstructed name. Passwords and identification handed to you in a sealed envelope. It's unlikely that anyone would ever track said witnesses down to discover the person given hush money was actually a nightclub in Mamaia or a fancy pub in Cluj. 

Illegal, of course. Should you ever get caught, you'd be reprimanded. Punished. Made an example of. 

(But who doesn't skim a bit from the top? Especially when the pile is given to you by the military.)

"Fine," you huff, and aim for some semblance of acquiescence in your tone despite knowing full well that you've yet to turn down these impromptu partnerships with him since they started two years ago. 

Moldova. Egypt. Chad. Canada. The Philippines. Taiwan. Tenerife. Your odd partnership has taken you further across the world than the sedentary office job of pretending to make a difference ever did. 

The place he said you were better suited for. You refuse to wonder what that means. 

"Okay. I'll go. But I'm not doing anything at all except enjoying the Romanian countryside." 

"Wouldn't expect any less from you." 

You want to say, then why bring me at all? Why not take Gaz or Soap or Laswell? Why sideline me so blatantly only to keep asking for my help when it's never really needed? but the words are stuck in your throat. Trapped in their esophageal prison.

Instead, you say: "count me in then, I suppose," and wonder when you became such a coward. 

"Mm. I should let you get some sleep, then."

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. It's been three months of nothing but unanswered texts that gradually faded into nothing by the third week. An island of uncertainty. Worry. Dread. Fear. Wondering what you did wrong, and coming, quite conclusively (and indignantly) to the conclusion that you didn't. 

Hearing his voice again, tinny and always shades softer than you've ever heard him speak before, unearths the sarcophagus you laid your feelings inside; a sudden and abrupt disinterment of everything you tried hard to ignore. The desecration cracks the tomb wide open. The flood of everything you tried to bury blooms; the foetid sickness of your festering wants taste a little bit like regret, and even more like hope. 

Helpless, your finger gnarl around the blossom of what laid bare, bones and rotted flesh, and the weight of it in your palm feels more comforting than ever before. Made more potent, you think, by the absence of him. 

It's an unignorable truth that you missed him. 

And so, you cling to the offering like it's a sacred trinket. 

"How—," the words are rough, gritty, when they slip through the moulted dirt clogging your throat. Dredged up in the wake of the sudden excavation. You swallow hard when he makes a noise. Force yourself to claw through the humus. "How are you, John?"

You want to add something you know will make him huff, call you cheeky, something a little coquetry in the wake of your exhumation. Such would be your exequy, but the words are buried once more when the dirt shifts as he draws in a deep, staticky breath. 

He's not usually a loquacious man in person, but something seems to crack open, shift, when it's well after midnight. A secret, a new side of him, shared only with you. 

You don't expect him to respond. You hope, but you don't assume. 

When he sucks in a breath, a staticky little noise that reverberates through the receiver, victory snakes across your vertebrae. Unwarranted and unearned, but the stinging reminder of it does little to stop it from nursing on the marrow of hope pullulating inside of you.  

"Been better," he offers, and the muted shift of him relaxing into the starchy pillows cuts through the line. Settling, you think, for the beginning of your routine. "Didn't have much of a chance to call you. How've you been?" 

"Been better," you echo, a wry twist of humour snaking across your lips when he offers a huff in response. "Lots to get caught up on, I suppose."

And you do. 

You talk about nothing. Everything. 

Your darkest secrets were spilled out in those phone calls at Devils Hour—fears, uncertainty, failures. This is no different. He tells you about Shepherd blinding them all with his dedication to the cause. About how he would have let Laswell rot to save his own arse, but knew, of course, that not letting Price and Gaz rescue her would have raised even more alarms. 

They cornered an animal, he spits. One who led them around by the nose for years. 

Bloody American Politicians, he grumbles. 

No better than the bloody English, you snark back. At least they're honest about their motives when it all comes tumbling down around them, and don't hide it under layers of the blooded elite. Of status. 

He mumbles to himself for a moment before begrudgingly conceding your point. 

It buzzes in the static. A lapse in the midst of espionage tainted catch-up that makes your hindbrain tense for what he might say next. 

He shifts, then, offers even softer than the hello he greeted you with: 

"What about you? Get up to any trouble while I was gone?"

He listens to you bisect yourself in a midnight confessional, letting your rotted guts tumble out in deep lags of silence you wish weren't as comfortable as they are.

He talks, too. 

Tells you about woes of nepotism, and the muppets they send him for basic training. The fleet of soldiers he doesn't want to carry on his back, but does anyway. The losses he couldn't prevent. The monsters he made. 

"I wouldn't change anything," he always says, as if you don't know him by now. As if you need reminding of just how tar-coated his heart really is. "I'd do it all over again." 

You say, "I know, John." And when you hear the hitch in his breath, you add: "you wouldn't be you if you did. I trust your judgement—no matter what." 

Explicit trust. He runs from it. 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. It always sounds a little bit like a mourning toll. 

"I… should let you get some sleep." 

It's something he always says during your late night phone calls. 

Par the routine, the same question claws through the mess of words unsaid in your oesophagus until it reaches the seam between your teeth and lips. 

Why me, Price?

But every tradition has its rules. 

You let him run, and wonder if he feels as cleansed as you do after baring your soul to someone who knows you better than most of your closest relatives, your friends. 

(Or if the silence that lingers when you hang up feels just as oppressive and empty to him as it does to you.)

Wishful yearning. 

Instead, you say: "try to get some sleep, John. I'll talk to you later." 

And then, like the hypocrite you are, you lay awake and wonder why. 

He meets you at Heathrow, and really—

It sometimes surprises you just how intimidating a man like Price is. 

He glowers down at the phone in his too large hand, eyes downcast, and brows pinched by whatever is irritating him now—emojis, you later discover.

(Bloody things make no sense to me, he grumbles, shoulder knocking against yours when you make yourself comfortable on the plane. 

You gently remind him he's barely even forty.) 

Price is an indomitable man. 

Tall. Broad shouldered. The heft of his bicep is actuated when he curls his hand around the strap of his duffle bag, muscles bulging. Flexing. 

It's hard not to stare at him. 

His shoulders roll back when you approach, eyes flickering up from unravelling the nuance of modern text messaging from a man who came out of the womb a fully fleshed adult with a mortgage. 

The corners of his eyes relax from their narrow slits when recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His mouth parts a little; the flash of nicotine stained teeth. 

The furrow of his brow flexes like it wants to smooth itself out, but something passes across his face—unknowable, brief; the incipient markings of something that makes him look a little more at ease in the bustling confines of Heathrow (hell on earth you have both very quickly, and unanimously, acknowledged)—and it's pulled back together. Irritation, but not at you. Never at you. 

(But if not at you, then who? 

Why, you wonder, does he always look so cross in your presence?)

He clears his throat. The grumble of his voice, full and robust, and so different from the tinniness of a phone, nearly makes you jump when it glides across your ears, abrasive and raw. A rough growl. 

(You wonder sometimes if the brassiness of his timbre is from choking back apoplectic snarls all day.)

"Took you long enough."

You huff. "London is a nightmare at this time of day, John. As if you could've gotten here any faster." 

"You chose to live in it." 

Another sigh falls from the split seam of your lips. "It's not that bad."

"London smells like shite." 

"As if Liverpool smells any better," you volley back, watching the subtle shift in his expression fade from the pinched world wariness almost permanently etched into the lines of his face into something more relaxed. Agreeable. Or rather, as agreeable as Price could be in the middle of Heathrow, and surrounded by people. 

He opens his mouth, then, as if to remind you of the sea-salted scent of Liverpool, briny and bitter. Smog and hardwork. Oil, gun cotton. The city smells like the working class. Blue collar. Hands gnarled from the factories, and stained permanently with grease. 

A distinct thrum of pride, of home, rumbles through him with each new add-on to why Liverpool, in his opinion, is the best choice to call home.

(And London, he always adds, if only for another barb, another insult in your choice, always reeks of selfish ambition. The kind that rots your insides into something askance, and is deprived of decency.)

His biggest gripe with London, however—

"They never fuckin' smile." 

You passively nod in agreement—you mostly get looks of outright suspicion when you smile at passers-by in central London, so: point to Price—and then undercut the small victory he gains with a mocking grin in his direction. 

Price's nostrils flare when he catches the derisive bite of your lips curling over your teeth.

"You think you're smart, mm?" 

"I'd rather hope so, considering."

"Bloody annoyin' is what you are, considerin'—"

His words are swallowed by some boarding announcement ringing shrill overhead. You pull away from him, and the mocking smile fades into some facsimile of genuinity when you watch him shake his head, put-out and already annoyed by whatever thought skimmed through his thoughts. 

London always seems like a sore topic, but you've known him long enough that the edge in his voice is less severe and more mocking. There is a distaste for the city, but the reason has evaded you much like—

Well. Everything else. 

You've thought about asking why nearly hundreds of times in the past, but that line of questioning has always been a terrifying endeavour. There is a locked door: a proverbial floodgate keeping all of the other why's at bay. Opening it now, in the middle of a crowded terminal, feels reckless. Stupid. 

It's nearly four hours from here to Transilvania. 

You think of all the insubstantial reasons he could offer, and find the idea of them all rather bitter. Anguishing. It sends a ripple of hurt through your chest, and the sting alone is enough to seal your lips.

Words stuck, once more, in the back of your throat. 

Price says nothing when you quiet, eyes flickering between the throng of people rushing through the terminal, listless and impassive. 

There is always a degree of separation between you and him whenever you meet in person, as if the personal, raw conversations whispered into the early hours of the morning are just some strange dream. A fugue wanting, unslaked and bothersome, that ripens inside your virgin sulci. A sickness that manifests in the fibrils of your desire, covetous and greedy; gnarled gyri breathes life into the dreams you reach for until the delineation between reality and fantasy wanes, fades to cinders. 

So, you bite your tongue, letting the noxious words pollute, rot, inside their esophageal prison, and pretend the claw marks on the walls aren't from your own bloody hands. 

You follow his lead, and he's always seemed so content not to speak of the vulnerability you whisper into his ear. The fear he rasps about at quarter to four. 

Gone, then. It doesn't exist when you can see the lapis of his eyes listing toward you periodically, expression oscillating between a rendition of something that feels a little worrisome, and—

Tenerife. 

That unnameable thing that broke through the gleaming sapphire when you whispered his name, and broke your own rules for the very first time. 

(You'll call me anyways.

Does it bother you?

Never. Wished you called more—)

You turn away from him, from the weight in his gaze when it finds you. Worried, somehow, that a single look will be enough to ferret the secrets out of you. 

A man in fatigues lingers in your periphery, standing awkwardly by the Starbucks entrance. He nods sharply when you catch his eye. 

"Guess we're up," you murmur, smile fading into placid neutrality. Getting caught riling up Captain John Price won't win any favours back in the concrete vacuum of Hereford. "Ready, cap?"

If he notices your sudden distance, he says nothing about it. His eyes drop to the phone clutched in his hand, before he rolls his massive shoulders. 

"Suppose so," he grumbles, slipping his phone into his pocket. 

Out of sight. 

Selfishly, you wonder who else he calls late at night, and find the burn of bitterness, jealousy to be some torturous form of retribution. 

It burns like a knife to your gut. You wallow in it. 

Price isn't a man known for his garrulity, and so, when he takes his seat on the plane, and immediately reaches for the files stuffed haphazardly into the zippered fold of his duffle bag, you take no real offence the undeniable abolishment of conversation. 

You're used to it, really. 

Silences that stretch on, culled by the hum of the engines cutting through the thin air some several hundred kilometres above sea level, are nothing novice. 

In turn, you take to flipping through the worn, jaundiced pages of a book you packed away in your carry-on specifically for this. Whatever secrets lay nestled in the crease of his rumbled folders doesn't matter to you—not yet, anyway—and you're content to enjoy something that you can pretend to be immersed with for the four hours you'll be sharing the scant space that separates the two of you. 

Pretending, of course, being the operative word. 

Price is a breathing furnace. The seams of his tight jacket crackle with unbridled heat that wafts against your arm when you settle into the chair. There is no armrest allotted to you with his sinewy bulk taking up most of the aisle and middle seat, and you feel each exhale when his frame almost melts into your own. 

Broad shouldered. Thick biceps. A tapered waist. Thighs quite nearly the width of a gnarled, hardened fir. It's hard to find space, privacy, with him bleeding out around you. It's hard to concentrate on anything that isn't the muted press of his covered flesh on yours, and, rather illicitly, the way it makes you feel. 

It's a rush of singular emotions nearly indistinguishable from each other, but all leaving you feeling like a raw nerve scrapped from muscle, and dissected from bone. Flayed with just a touch. 

The tremulous wake of them makes your body fight against the onslaught of the roaring deluge that rips through you. An amalgam of wishful anticipation, trepidation, and fear of being caught. Discovered. Having your dirty secrets, the one's you're not willing to share over a tea after midnight with a man who, despite knowing his greatest fear (the lives of his team over the stakes of everything, everyone, else), and his proudest accomplishment (getting the fuck outta Hereford while he still had the chance), galvanised out of you. Spilled into the open air. 

It comes too close to the lowered inhibitions you felt in Tenerife to ever sit well in the churning pits of your stomach. 

And so, you try to force some semblance of distance between your bodies despite there being none. The curved ledge of the plane window digs harshly into your forearm, but you still press into it more. 

Welcoming the ache, almost. 

It doesn't feel good, but it's a harsh reminder that the feelings pooling inside of your chest are wrong. 

A part of you, then, almosts hopes that the pain will soon become an almost Pavlovian reminder whenever you think of Price, and of—

Everything. 

Negative reinforcement. 

(Price and you; the thought brings pain.)

He mistakes your tension for nerves, and drops his chin down when you keep wriggling about, struggling to find a modicum of distance between the weight of him pressing against you. 

His expression is always oscillating between lour surliness and a pinch of frustration, and something in the middle of the two—glum, you think: stoic impassivity weighed down by heavy shadows—but the usual ire dims as the jet lurches down the runway. It's washed away in the tenebrous that leaks in from the empty interior of a military craft where it's just you and him and the pilots. 

A world where the stench of London dissipates into the familiar filtered scent of recycled oxygen that wafts through the open vents. Sterile, almost. Void of the grime, the pungent smell of stale petrol on the wet pavement, the distinct scent of the tube—sweat, fungus; putrid and ripe with something mouldy; tobacco and marijuana—and old cigarettes. 

(Smells like shite, he'd gripe if he knew you thought of it with fondness.) 

When he looks at you, you have to force yourself to remember hierarchy, propriety. Decorum. 

Distance. Reality. 

It aches, but you push it down. Swallow the words until they leak back into their cage, glued against the soft tissue of your oesophagus, and force something neutral, unbothered in your countenance while pretending as if you weren't choking yourself to death. 

"Alright?" He murmurs, words uttered low. Susurrus, almost. It's different from the phone calls where his voice is relaxed, muted; saturated in an ease, a warmth that lacks the usual snarl choked in the back of his throat. He talks with a degree of distance. Boxed into the role of unflinching, infallible leader even in this microcosm that bubbles between you. 

Still. It makes the air in your lungs stutter all the same. 

"Fine."

He hums, and the guttural vocalisation is adorned with the flat press of his disbelief. Price isn't the type to pry, though, and he takes your virginal lie with a mere shift of his eyebrows; a soft buoy of skepticism that is just scrutinising enough to let you flee if you so wish. 

You do, and so, you take it. Offering him a tight smile that you know will never reach your eyes, or any semblance of believability, but it's the most you can manage over the drumroll of your heart (now making serious threats of breaking through your ribcage, and leaping out of the jet), and the shallow gasps of your breath, a desperate struggle to quench the flames billowing in your lungs. 

He's so warm, you think, that he burns you. Fire spread from the heat of him, catching on the cindered embers lying in the soft fibrils of your being, and igniting you in a flameless smoulder. 

Price nods once, and you're unsure if it's in a gentle acquiescence of your bold-faced lie, or your quick prevarication, but you find yourself mimicking it all the same. 

Good, then. Settled. 

But he leans down instead of returning to the urgent press of files and papers all neatly stacked in a manila folder, and you come undone at seams when the scent of him envelops you. 

Crushed tobacco leaves, stale smoke, ambergris and vetiver. 

The headiness of his smell smothers you, and makes your hindbrain tense at the familiar, enticing miasma that seeps into your lungs, and fills your sinuses until it washes everything out but the gun cotton, and leather he reeks of. 

"Hmm, a bit early to start lying," he rasps, the words just as brittle as your crumbling resolve. "Ain't it?" 

Your breath shudders out of your lungs. Caught, then. Called out. The idea of confessing everything to him, all at once, passes through, but it's immediately dismissed. Shoved back into whichever crevasse it slunk out of. 

The fact that it even drifted through, sneaking past the tightly guarded prison it was kept in is enough to make you fluster. 

As if to hold them in, you sink your teeth into your tongue to keep from speaking the words that still echo in your head, and offer nothing more than a simple shake of your head, and some facsimile of a wry smile tossed in his general direction. 

He hums again, and the coo rumbles through his flesh and ripples across your skin. Electric shocks. Static buzz. The vibration of it shakes the doors of the mausoleum where everything is left to moulder, rot. 

A plume of nicotine dusts across your nose when Price shifts in his seat, much too small for a man with such broad shoulders, and thick thighs, and when you breathe in the heady scent of it, your head spins.

"We're all entitled to our secrets," he murmurs. His hair scratches against the fabric when he turns his head, chin notching down to bore into the side of your face. It's all you'll offer him when the rattling at the doors of your tomb dislodges a piece of rotten wood; lignin crumbles to the floor around you in stripped, fleshy white. A hole big enough to sink your fist through. 

"And that's fine, but—," his tone dips, timbre scorching through you when he speaks. The words are gritty, and coarse. They sink into your ears until the flesh is rubbed raw. The change in pitch makes you look up, wordlessly following the command that tangles around each vowel. Sharp, authoritative. This isn't John right now. It's Captain Price. 

His pelagic eyes are hardened into firm, dense sapphire lined with unbreakable obsidian. 

"But," he stresses the word again, brows arching high on his forehead until three, four, lines are carved into the pale skin. "Those secrets can't interfere with the mission, yeah?"

His stare is intense. Firm. Unyielding. He doesn't look away. Doesn't cower under the strange, too hot sensation that fills your head whenever you're forced to make eye contact for more than a few moments. 

It occurs to you, then, when he holds your stare for three, flinching inhales, that the only reason he's saying this is because he knows. Maybe not everything, maybe not all of it. But he knows enough that you're acting strange. Odd. Not yourself. 

Price sits back, and the loss of his intense stare boring into you, stripping you down to basal parts—raw and vulnerable—allows air to inflate your burning lungs. Oxygen bubbles and seeps into your bloodstream so quickly that you feel a little sick with it. Dizzy. 

"We clear on that?" 

His expression is guarded, pinched. 

You swallow thickly against the deluge of emotions that run down your spine, and wonder what he knows. What he pieced together already. It makes your heart slam against the flesh and bone cage it's prisoned in. 

His flat, phlegmatic expression seems to wobble. A frisson ripples, and splinters his reticent resolve, and he looks, in that moment, like the man who speaks to you late at night about his biggest worries, and fear. Touchable, reachable. It's a sharp contrast to the impenetrable man who stands at the top of the command post, and makes decisions of life and death. A stalwart leader made human.

You drink it in, trying to make sense of the softening of his gaze, the tremble of his moustache as his lips relax into an even line, but it's indecipherable. Unknowable. You struggle to piece the pensive, almost contemplative look together, but the gingerness in his expression snaps shut. 

All at once, it's forced back, and pulled taut. The drawing of a bridge. 

His lips flatten into a grim line. A divot forms between his brows. The tick in his jaw speaks of frustration, but—

Not at you. Never at you.  

You can't make sense of the enigmatic distance in his eyes—a floating island in the middle of the open ocean. Separated by the turbulent sea. 

Something changed between you. You feel the incipient shift trembling through your bones; a novice crack. The plates deep below the surface surge, and split; shattering into the other. The waters froth white as something begins to emerge from the depths. 

A new landmass, maybe. 

"Alright, then," he rasps, turning back back toward the files spread out on his lap. "Try to get some rest. We'll be jumpin' into the thick of it when we land."

You can see the hesitation in his eyes. The uncertainty in his mein. It's a sharp juxtaposition to how these strange missions usually unfold, where you both pour over documents, and leads, and have easy conversations between sharp, playful barbs, and impish quips to always devolve into some debate over something trivial. 

The silence is stifling. Oppressive. 

Tenerife, you think, when you drunkenly stumbled down the stairs, and into his arms, and—

Coldness. Frigid distance. He cut you off after that, and it was radio silence until last night when he called you.

You don't know what it all means, but Price is startlingly observant when it comes to you, and you wonder, with your heart thudding in your throat, just how much you gave away. 

A snag in the middle of lush green. You tremble. 

Into the thick of it, huh?

His words haunt you. 

(But when don't they?)

The novel—a neo noir mystery disguised as a romance—does little to capture your attention. Threads of interest snag on the ends of the protagonist's steadfast determination to not to let crime run rampant in the city he's taken a reluctant appreciation for, and to rescue his penultimate damsel from the crumbling affair she's trapped in with a married man of the mafia, but it dwindles after the discovery of the red herring. 

It sits, untouched, in your lap as you gaze out of the circular window. Plumes of thick, white clouds blanket the world below the plane, and look dense enough for you to almost believe you could stand on the curled peaks of the cumulonimbus. A mirage, maybe. 

(Or wishful thinking: you've always enjoyed chasing the unattainable.)

The sky above is a midnight blue that fades into lighter shades of lazuli as curves around the earth. 

A shade lighter, flecked with greens and golds and greys, and it might have looked just like his eyes. 

(Chasing, always chasing.)

The shock of it makes your leg twitch as your muscle tense back into that familiar state of constant fight or flight that Price always seems to put you in. Stage fright. Fear of discovery. 

Sometimes you wonder if it would be easier to just spit the words that have been coagulating in the back of your throat for years out now into the world, and let him run from them. 

Flee, like Tenerife. 

Does it bother you?

No, I wish you called my more—

—can't, love. Can't do that, you know I—

Dreams pop like rubber balloons around you. The snap of the recoil blisters your skin. 

A lesson, then, that there are certain words that should never be uttered, or mentioned.

He drew a sharp delineation between you and him. A line in the sand. Uncrossable. Unspeakable. 

Unignorable. 

Your heart aches, but you know it'll soon pass. Soon. Soon—

"Ready?" He asks when the wheels of the plane kiss the solid ground with a jolt, and the single word feels more augury than you'd like. 

It feels almost instinctual, then, to glance through the small window, eyes listing to the pale blue sky. Two chaffinches chase each other in the blooms of white, their plumage harsh against the idling clouds overhead. 

"Sure," you say, and wonder if he'd asked the same thing when you touched down in Tenerife. It doesn't matter. You shake the thought from your head, and try not to linger on the birds. 

Leave it for Agamemnon.

Despite his insistence to the contrary, it turns out to be the exact opposite of what was promised. 

Your idyllic vacation to the Romanian countryside is forfeited for the cold interior of Brașov where the man you're after, Iulian Mitrea, is hidden somewhere in the near hour long commute from here to Sinaia. 

Somewhere, of course, because no one is willing to tell you anything at all. From the moment you landed at Târgu Mureș Transylvania Airport, help from anyone within the country evaporated, dissolved. Mistrust was rampant between the soldiers here to help you on your hunt. 

You couldn't blame them, really. Not when their orders to stall, delay, and interfere came directly from above. 

It makes sense when you're trying to capture a well-known friend of several high ranking politicians worlds over. 

The pinch in their brow as they say, we don't know where he is, despite confirming only an hour earlier that they did, in fact, know where he was speaks volumes to their reluctance to participate in this farce. It needles inside of you because despite the irritation of the delay, you get it. 

If they help you catch him, their name will be in the report. People will talk to you. You get to go home with a wanted man nicely wrapped in a bow for Lady Justice, and they stay behind and face the ramifications of letting a man go who greases paws with men in power—politicians, businessmen, foreign diplomats. 

So. 

You get it. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow when you see them on the radio each time you get closer. 

It'll be a wait and see mission until someone either relents enough to let you get a headstart, or the bigger people in power finish the behind the scenes negotiations to protect as many people as possible from the fallout. 

Either way—

You're landlocked in a city that's never felt more hostile to you; stuck in stasis in the middle of a brutal winter. 

The inn is nice, you suppose. Old architecture. Its age sings with each movement you make against the wood that is nearly three generations older than you. It's plumed a dusting of disuse that sneaks into the corners where it rots, and stinks of mildew. 

But it feels unwelcoming each time you catch the eye of a soldier, a local police officer. The lady behind the counter of the front desk is oblivious to the tension bleeding between everyone, and offers toothy smiles whenever she catches you. Eager, you think, to talk to someone who doesn't respond in clipped tones. 

You soak up the rapid Romanian, and try to remember the phrases you picked up—much to her amusement. 

Her hand fixes itself permanently against her chest with each new pronunciation of the Romanian alphabet you pick up—breve, circumflex, S-comma, T-comma—and she seems eager to listen to prattle on in stilted Romanian with more appreciation than the men who are meant to be your partners. 

They linger, listening in on each conversation you have with the woman. Combat every effort of your futile attempt to salvage some holiday from this mess. 

They undermine Price at every junction. Cut his opinion down until it's shredded paper snowflakes on the icy cobblestone. A forgotten arts and craft project now mushy from the snow blanketing the world around you in an endless white prison. 

It's easy, you think, to just give up. 

But you know Price. 

Despite their delays, and mutterings to each other every time a lead pops up only to quickly slip through your fingers, he doesn't falter. He won't. Not until this is seen through. 

He'll fight to the bitter end. 

(You think he just might prefer to do his fighting on the battlefield instead of dabbling in subterfuge.

So. 

You do it for him.)

Your efforts amount to a burst vessle: a rumbling eruption spewing anger and tension at your feet like an angry volcano. 

And with it, you feel the words you try to swallow down buoy to the surface. 

This mission makes you feel like little more than some ornate polyptych, folded away for convenience sake, and unravelled in the privacy of his borrowed office. 

It's there where Price poses questions, and piques at you for more information. 

His tongue is too thick when he tries to speak the language echoed around you, unable to catch the proper slur on the t-commas and drag the breve out the way it should be spoken. It sounds somehow more French than it does Romanian, and you resolve to take the mantle of lacklustre translator for him, wondering whether he took your words as coming only for the holiday as sincerely as possible. 

It makes a needle of fondness grow in the gyral folds of your beating heart. A sudden deluge of empathy, and affection that makes you idealistically moony-eyed at his penchant for keeping promises. 

Still. 

It's unneeded. 

You take a proactive role in trying to find the man who keeps evading the grasping fingers of the law (however twisted it might be), and make it quickly known to him that you're here as a partner, at his behest, and not as some fancy tchotchke to be placed, indiscreetly, on the sidelines. 

It's unlike him, though. And you wonder more about the potential ramifications of this mission each passing day that you're stuck in the stifling confines of some luxury inn where the men around you whisper furiously to prevent your success. 

You ask him about it, and receive a piercing stare in response. A gruff, don't worry about it. This is my muck up, not yours. 

It hardens your resolve. 

All it takes is a few words whispered while rolling sarmale, and you manage to find a man in Brașov who might be hiding the person you're looking for. 

Information that turns out to be more fruitful than anything else thus far. 

You tuck it close to your chest. The man is landlocked and stuck, hidden in plain sight by the soldiers there to help you. He isn't going anywhere. 

But you might be. 

The lack of progress is noted by the people who requested your aid on this—the ones that must have conveniently forgotten that the person who kidnapped foreign dignitaries was also the man they had over for summer parties at their luxury estates in Dorobanți.  

They dangle Price's visa over his head during a massive row after—yet another—delayed piece of information is forwarded to you by the local police. By the time it lands in your hands, on his desk, it's too late. 

More blocks. More opportunities to catch the man squandered, lost to politics. 

The schism between Price and them widens. A wide chasm, uncrossable. 

You catch his eye, and wonder if you should share the secrets you keep, but you don't. Not yet, anyway. There's a mountain on his shoulders. A mess of politics that you know makes his blood boil. 

You want to ease the burden. The tension. 

But it doubles to a new height when one of the men jabs his finger in your direction, eyes blazing, and calls you his assistant. 

"My what?" Price's words are eerily calm despite the gyre welling in blue. "What did you say?" 

The man doesn't back down. Neither does Price. 

It's his warmth by your side, unflinching, as he stands tall and guarded, leaking anger and ruin at the slight against you. A white night in red-hot anger. 

You've fought your own battles, cutting your knuckles on cracked teeth until bone embedded itself into your cartilage like a macabre set of brass knuckles in jagged ivory. You throw punches like you're fighting for your life behind the screen of a computer that ticks away for eight hours, and pretend the emblem on your lapel doesn't weigh you down to the pavement below. Your own weight to carry. 

And you don't need this, don't want it, and a little part of you wants to rebel, to throw your fists around like they're the white-hot slugs spat out of the barrel of a firearm, but it's tapered down when he seethes beside you. 

His hands curl into fists before swinging up, latching onto the straps of his tactical vest. A defensive manoeuvre, you once thought, but now you know better. 

Price isn't clinging to the woven fabric to keep himself steady, to ground himself. It's to keep those burly fists from sinking into the gullet of the first man who wanders too close to the rapacious maw of a starving beast. 

Your eyes are fixed on the hairs dusted over his knuckles as he flexes and tightens his grip until they bleach white like dead coral, sharp bones threatening to break skin. 

Those hands once pressed you tight to his front, holding you steady as you stumbled through the haze of want, and longing, and kept you steady as the boat rocked with the calm waters of the neverending sea. 

(—wish you called more—

—don't know what you're sayin', love. What you're startin'. Gonna let you turn around, and pretend this never happened, mm?—

—but—)

They tightened then. Hard enough that the skin around your hip bones bulged between his thick fingers. Your flesh filling in his gaps. His eyes dropped there, fixed on the way you fit between him despite the pain that bloomed where his fingers dug deep. 

(��jus'... Walk away, love—)

Tenerife feels like a dream. A wisping cloud of want dredged from the depths of your subconscious yearning. 

But the ache in your side where his hands rested the night before kept you from casting away the words as drunken ramblings and masticated dreams. 

Those hands whiten under the strain of holding himself back, and you recognise the colour as the same shade when he held you. Paperweight. Featherlight. You wonder, then, your eyes only for him as the world you've been invited into erupts into chaos and blame tinged with the palpable weight of unwelcomeness and claustrophobia when he hasn't been holding himself back—

"Talk about 'em that way on more time, and I'll stick your goddamn heads on a post for that slimy bastard you want to protect so fuckin' bad to see—"

—from you.

You find him near the window, gazing out at the snow-covered roof-tops of the sprawling village below. 

He stands, his back angled toward you, with one hand curled around the crystalline glass, filled with three fingers of scotch—the perfect amount, he stresses, and gives credence to his sincerity with each winkle in his brow—and a lit cigar in the other.

Price brings the cigar up to his lips, eyes roaming across the smear of lights in the distance. You catch the spark when he inhales, the orange intensifying into an angry red. 

It casts a halo of orange on his face, and the fire makes him look somehow older and younger than he really is. An timeless visage of a man who, hours earlier, was recklessly throwing himself into the very same fire he syphons from as it burns the tobacco in his stem. 

The brief flash of red is complemented by the harsh dandelion-yellow from the illuminated city when it spills through the glass, frosted with condensation from the heat in the room, and the brutal chill kept at bay by a two inch glass panel. 

He's a composition in contrast. 

The only light inside the room is from the kindling fireplace, and the jaundiced lamp on the desk table, spilling over the documents you'd come to talk to him about. The dimly lit interior bathes his back in a clouded tenebrous, darkening the crevasses, divots, and the contoured folds of his body until they're shadowed in the gloam. It's perfectly juxtaposed to the highlights that catch in the warm golden glow of the sleepless city just below. 

A perfect chiaroscuro, you think. 

The sight of him, then, at peace—or as close to it as he can manage—steals the air in your lungs. The words on your lips. 

The look on his face is pensive, yet coloured in a hue of consternation that seems to quiver through the dark pools of blue gazing back at him. A ripple of disquietude. A splash of rumination. It all coalesces into an unfathomable knot of emotions that bloom in the deep divot of his brow. Ones you can't even begin to unravel. 

(But your fingers itch to try.)

There is something about him in absolute stasis—completely unguarded, and unburdened by the devastating world around him—that spools under your skin like a fever. A webbing nebula that weaves with the threads of venial sin until it tangles around you. 

When it tightens, it feels like a noose.

This moment of privacy between him and the thoughts locked tight inside his head makes you feel a little bit like you're intruding on a moment not meant for your eyes. A sacred thing. A voyeuristic spectator. 

You should leave. Let him have the sanctity of this moment to himself, where the pensive, introspective look etched into his brow is shared only with his reflection, and no one else. 

An unwitting birefringence. A glance inside Pandora's box. 

You try to tiptoe back in the direction you came from, a manila folder tucked under your arm, but the wood is worn. Aged. The floorboards creak when you press your heel into them, letting out a loud, jarring noise that seems to reverberate through the arched ceiling, and against the frosted glass that encompasses the vast majority of the eastern wall.

Loud enough, you think, to crack the class. His reverie. 

Price makes a noise in the back of his throat when he turns to you, brows drawn tight in wordless displeasure at the intrusion. Recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His shoulders ease when he sets his steeled gaze on your cringing form, one foot out the door, and the other fixed firmly in your mouth. 

The way he relaxes when he finds it's just you melts some of the embarrassment away. The tension dissipates, sheds itself from his coiled muscles pulled taut from carrying the weight of everything on his broad back. 

(The world, then, is tucked into the corner when he dropped it earlier.)

"Sorry," you murmur, hiding another wince. "I didn't realise you were—" Brooding. Another grimace. Your foot slides deeper into your mouth. "Uh—"

"It's fine," he says, his voice hoarse from the growling threats he made against the Romanian diplomats who insisted on your help only to shrug off everything he suggested. 

He clears his throat before he speaks, taking the brief lull to drag his gaze down your form. Tendrils of something soft liquify the hardened edges of sapphire—a look you haven't seen on him since Tenerife—but it pauses at the folder you try, and fail, to discreetly tuck further into the crevasse of your body. Hiding it, futilely, from view. 

Something sours across his face. The half melted azure firms into unbreakable obsidian. 

"Business as usual, then?" 

You huff. "Not if you don't want that." 

Price inhales deeply at your words, and you know that he can't. He won't. 

You mourn the loss of that soft, unfathomable look on his face when the only concern he had was the condescension from his breath hiding the view of Sinaia from his appreciative gaze. 

A look full of something aching. A want, maybe; a need. Things you can't begin to connect to your stalwart captain. 

But then you think, again, of Tenerife. When he caught you mid-stumble, hands heavy and hot on your flesh. The look on his face ages younger than the grey around his temple would lead you to believe. 

"Careful," he murmured, eyes lighter somehow as he pulled you in closer to his side. "Can't go falling all over the place." 

It was your quip of, "but you'll catch me, won't you?" that made him feel almost reachable when he turned away from you, the tips of his ears dusting a pretty pink. 

"Jus' watch where you're goin'."

You think about it now—about the unfathomable distance between the stars. 

Between you, and him. 

(And then of broken walls you mend with your own hands.)

"Jus' bring it here," he mutters, moving toward the desk cluttered with everything he was trying to avoid. The desk you brought him back to. It pinches something sour inside of you. "I'll 'ave a look at it."

Price sets the glass down, and reaches for the crystal ashtray left near the edge of the table. When he drags it closer to the fish-shaped map of Romania, decorated with little red stickers of possible hideouts for the man you're supposed to be catching, you count four ends of a cigar in the mess of ashes, all smoked down to the stem. 

Concern gnarls in your gut. 

"Busy day for you, Captain?"

All he gives in a noncommittal grunt in response before eying the chair with a touch of wariness as if sitting down now will prevent him standing up again. It might, you think, tentatively taking stock of the neverending pages on the desk just waiting for him to tackle. A ceaseless maelstrom that tries to drag him down that endless abyss that leaves stress marks on his forehead, grey hairs around his temple, and grinds his bones down until marrow below is exposed to the rotten air. 

He doesn't sit. A pointed gesture. 

The heels of his palms rest on the edge of the table, and he leans forward over the papers strewn in his familiar organised chaos, and drops his head down between the bracket of his arms, locked at the elbows. 

He's the very picture of exhaustion. 

"I don't have anything good to share with you," you murmur, tone low and susurrus as if raising above an octave will shatter the fragile glass that houses the two of you from the brutal storm outside these four walls. "Mostly a complete repeat of what already happened—"

"Bullshit," he grinds the cuss out like the potency of his tenor will somehow strengthen it into a hex. "Fuckin' politics."

"Nothing we haven't dealt with before," you note, turning to lean against the desk. You mirror his pose in the reverse, fingers curling around the ledge. "It'll smooth out eventually."

He considers your words, lids sliding to half-mass. Lost in thought. In—

Something. 

You're not privy to the war in his head. The battle he struggles through. 

But you want to be. 

You'd give anything to fight alongside him in this moment of quiet contemplation. To aid him in the pursuit of victory, and help ease the burden he carries on his broad shoulders. A weight that makes his heels dig deeper into the ground than any other man you've met. Gravity falls on him harder than the others, but he never folds. Never falters. 

Something shifts when you tilt your head toward him, waiting. Watching. 

Irritation drips down, polluting the cenote until it's a gyre grey. Clouded with the poison of choices that lay in front of him. 

"Maybe," he settles on, rolling one shoulder to alleviate the burn in his tense muscles. "Would be easier if they'd just bloody listen—"

"They will."

His eyes flicker up to you, curling with something playful, you think. Or as close to mirth as the shadows in his brow will allow. 

"You gonna make them?" 

The tone of his voice—smoke cured, molasse thick—is blunt, but—

Baiting. 

Loose tendrils of smoke weep from the end of his forgotten cigar, and curls in the air between you. You taste ash, and feel the burn of nicotine when you breathe in. 

It does little to quell the spike of nerves gnarling in your chest; the itch under your skin. 

Something brims in your pulse. A rapaciousness that seems to burn through your arteries until they're blistered from the heat. You lean back on the desk, knees locking until your legs are straight to alleviate the anxious knot growing in your stomach. 

His gaze drops to your legs when your ankles cross, sliding up to the softness of your thighs now spread plush over the wood. 

Another shift. Poisoned grey darkens into thick tar. Bog water. You wonder how long it would take for anyone to find you if you sunk below the thin film of pleats, swallowed whole by the fen. 

Imprisoned in his clutch. 

"For you? Anything—"

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

His head jerks up. The roundness of his almond shaped eyes can only be derived from your slip-up, to your unintentional confessional between secondhand smoke, and borrowed nicotine. 

A mistake, you think. An accident. A follie. 

But the words are lodged under the syrup-y thick water that leaks down your throat. 

You swallow again, but it feels like you're drowning. 

An impasse. Brutal, and uncrossable. You wonder what he might say, what he might do, and try to ignore the ache in your chest, the bitter throb of anticipation as the lines in his brow deepen, darkening with the stains of his indecision. 

That same wellpool of emotions buoys in ashlar blue when he stares at you, plain faced and—

A touch uncertain. 

It's strange to see him so unsure, so hesitant. 

Price isn't a man who falters in the face of anything. Who concedes, and surrenders. 

His tenacity is what drew you to him. That staunch perseverance that you sometimes wish you could fill each hairline fracture in your soul with. To somehow syphon the staggering presence of him, indomitable and ferocious when he needs to be, into your marrow where it'll congeal and paint the walls of your bones with the same stalwart dedication to a singular gospel that he carries with ease.  

He huffs, then, and the exhale reeks of stale cigarette butts in a damp ashtray. 

"Don't know what you're getting yourself into, love—"

Something flickers across his face, and you wonder if he even meant to say it. Or if the endearment slipped out, oiled by the same elixir that covered your throat and coaxed something closer to the truth, to your hidden wants, out of the depths of your yearning. 

It's unfathomable, though. The mere idea of it being drug from the same hidden well as yours itches between your ribs; a blossom of something featherlight. Hopeful. 

When you look at him, eyes scouring the dividing lines between the face he shows the world—the one with a deeply furrowed brow and obsidian clotting in the crevasses of liquid sapphire; a stalwart sense of detachment, and pointed distance—and the one he shows you.

With you, though—

With you, he's always asymmetrical. 

A singular brow notching up at something audacious you said; one side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. The flash of teeth when you murmur under your breath about the stuffy politicians you're meant to be saving. 

Rusted picket fences. Faulty hinges. Open, lax. Void the usual symmetry that makes him Captain John Price; a stalwart presence on the battlefield, shoulders strong enough to lift the morale (and morality) of every soldier under his commands. Has to, you think, or he might implode, crumbling under the stifling weight of his utilitarian choices, and the actions guised under the moral grey dust of patriotism. 

It clings to him. Scars shaped like canines: the teeth of an old, rotten dog. Nightmares in absenteeism. 

He never tells you about them, ever; but you've gotten more than a handful of phone calls during devil's hour to know they haunt him just as much as they do you. 

(And if you've taken to turning your ringer on as high as it will go—just in case—then that's a secret between you and midnight blue sheets.)

The look on his face now makes you think of that mission in Tenerife, when his fingers curled around your wrist after landing in Heathrow. Warm, flushed skin. Rough like a cat's tongue when it slid over your flesh. 

He stopped you from leaving, eyes shaded in stagnant blue as the taxi idled in front of you. 

"Could go for a coffee. Want to come?" He asked, and it was unlike him to stall, but the prospect of more time, and coffee, numbed you to it all. 

You didn't give it much thought, but the words feel almost sibylline now. Hindsight, you think: that pesky little thing that makes you feel like Lleu, caught in the crosshairs of a feud between Arianrhod and Gwydion.

Over burnt, bitter beans and coffee flavoured water, he said: "don't get much sleep anymore." 

"Our late night phone calls don't bore you to sleep?" 

It was a pawkish barb not meant to be taken seriously, but Price, you find, is percipient when it comes to you. 

"No, they don't." He shifted in his chair, eyes cutting toward the mid-morning haze dusting the streets of London in a fine periwinkle blue. He looked older, somehow, in the virginal rays of the dawning sun. The words that slipped out felt softer, subdued in a way that made you wonder if they were meant to be uttered at all. "I sleep much better after them, actually."

Price has a strange ability to leave you both speechless and full of words. Of things, mundane and inconsequential, that you long to spill out over the linoleum countertop. 

More often than not, they're just naked, bare. Raw words not yet shaped or formed into any semblance of meaning, but ones you want to say, anyway. If only to keep the conversation going. To keep him around a moment longer. 

(After all: if the conversation does end, he can't leave.) 

But your lips are glued. Words stuck in the wet ashes that congeal in your throat. 

Your eyes followed the breadcrumbs of his gaze, and found the quieted road of Liverpool Street staring back at you. Drenched in cobblestone grey, and smeared in industrial neon. An uninspiring visage of some secluded corner tucked away from the tourist trap of central London. 

The near hour long drive from Heathrow to London for a cup of coffee is another mystery. Why he invited you where, of all places, isn't known to you. 

He paid for the coffee, the taxi. Said nothing at all but walked you back to your flat in London, the place you stay after each mission brings you back to Heathrow. It's a near twenty-nine minute commute in the opposite direction.

Said no when you offered him a place to sleep for the night, and you tried not to let the bitter sting of rejection show while his fingers curled around the wooden frame of your front door, knuckles turning white from the strain of—

Hindsight, you think. 

The shift in his gaze when his hand snared around your wrist. When he hailed a taxi for burnt coffee in the middle of a city that he couldn't stand—a place you'd heard many tirades about in the middle of the night, all leading back to the same reason for his staunch hatred of London: it's too bloody far from Liverpool. Too bloody far from him. 

When he turned to look out the window to watch your reflections contrasted against drab, grey London. 

Earlier, when he was gazing at the city below. 

It clicks, then. 

He wasn't staring out the window. He never was. 

"Why didn't you come into my flat?" You ask, words thick. Heavy. 

His nostrils flare. "What—?"

"That night in London, after Tenerife—I asked you to spend the night. Why didn't you—"

White knuckles. The look on his face was—

Pensive. Dusted with consternation. Just like—

Now. Then. All the moments in between. 

Like many things in conjunction to this, it's probably your fault. An unignorable truism that sits under your skin like an itch you can't scratch no matter how viciously you claw at your dermis. 

You could have asked, but it wouldn't have mattered. 

The answer was staring at you this whole time. 

Why he called you in the middle of the night. Why he never even bothered to entertain your application to join the 141. Why he looked so troubled when you invited him in. Why he kept you at arms length this whole time, but let you see the gnarled ruins of his soul in the middle of night. 

The delineation of your relationship was drawn in the distance of a phone call at midnight, ones made not because he was lonely or bereft of comfort—

But because he could hang up before he said too much. Widen the gap with a press of his finger. 

You can see him try to pull back again. To put a distance between you greater than this lonely hotel in the middle of Brașov  to Orion's Belt. 

Words—stay, don't, why—caught in your throat. They refuse to come out. A conversation trapped. One you can't start. 

(You've always been better with actions than words.)

And so, you kiss him instead. 

A cacoëthes. 

It's less of a kiss and more of a messy punch to his mouth with your blistered lips. 

Your trembling fingers curl into the straps of his tac-vest. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. Words, you think, like: what're you doin'? or this is sexual harassment and I swear to god I'll sue—

You don't let him finish. Don't let him start, either. 

You fall back on the desk, yanking on his straps. He jerks forward. 

You meet, clumsily, in the middle. An awkward assemblage of limbs; bodies cut across each other like an unfinished T. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss. 

There are moments leading up to this that, in hindsight, make everything seem almost inevitable. The look on his face. The ache in your chest. It blooms from the same vine; a want in spades. You almost weep when he groans against your mouth, teeth knocking together. You taste heme in the back of your throat, and nearly choke on it when his fingers curl under your jaw, holding you steady as he tries to devour you whole. 

It sheds threads of kismet, and tastes a little of finality when you brush your lips against his again, meeting in the middle: a perfect equilibrium. Absolute congruence. 

(Or, maybe, it's the thrill of his taste that shades everything else in a roseate veil; that swallows down the other moments, trials and tribulations that felt more gruelling than your training, and lets the others surge to the surface. Moments of heartache, and pain, and—

And it doesn't matter, you think, a touch delirious; not when you know what his hands feel like when they curl around your waist, when his fingers dig into your skin, and he pulls you closer.)

"Listen—" the word is mangled in his throat; charred from the fire that burns in his lungs. "You need to know what you're getting yourself into."

"You say that like I haven't been thinking about it for years, John." 

It sobers him a bit. He pulls back until a thin strand of space sits between your wet lips and his moussed beard. 

The implication in your words makes his eyes darken. Lids fluttering. 

Want, palpable and thick, pulses in the charged atmosphere between you. A microcosm of your own design: a place carved from stone, ashlar, and shaded in the midnight blue of his eyes. A roseate gossamer falls, veiling you in that corusating haze that makes the world look prettier than it really is. 

Shades of rose. 

The breath he pulls in is tremulous.

When he speaks, it sounds like an orison. A plea. "That so?"

It's a weighted question. Benediction paints his throat, stains the words when they slip out. 

 "Kept me waiting for quite a while."

"Didn't think you were waiting." His hands sear your skin when they slide up your back. His forehead falls, resting against yours. "Not much to sit around and pine over, love." 

It makes you scoff, a wet noise in the back of your throat. "You think I answer my phone in the middle of the night for just anyone?"

"No," he murmurs. His hand lifts, cups your cheek in the seat of his palm. "But I'm not jus' anyone, am I?" 

"Nope. Your a walking contradiction on how—sometimes—nepotism isn't all bad—"

"Watch it."

"Or what, John?"

You're distinctly aware of the age-old idiom about playing with fire, but when he dips his chin, and narrows his eyes at you like that, you find you don't really care much about getting burned. 

His nostrils flare, eyes dark, and hungry. A warring pelagic storm looms over ashlar. Gyre grey. Arsenic white. You want to stain the tips of your fingers in the liquid blooming in his gaze. 

"Might need to teach you a lesson in respect."

"Might need to teach you not to keep someone waiting." 

His mouth is searing it when it presses to yours. 

"Touchè."

Price tastes of saltpetre. 

Thick, ichorous. An heady elixir that sits heavy on your tongue, leaking down the back of your throat when you swallow. 

A fine sheen of nicotine paints his teeth from the forgotten cigar burning in the ashtray on the table, and when you swipe your tongue across them, chasing the secondhand buzz, it feels anxiolytic. Your head is a slurried mess from it all, and the way he feels beneath you. 

Hard edges, broad—massive. 

His chest expands with each deep inhale. Shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself back. A fact, you find, is more intoxicating than the nicotine on your tongue, or the saltpetre blooming in your veins. 

The width of his thighs make your muscles burn when you perch your knees on the cushion beside them, the stretch a deep burn that feels more arduous than a workout. 

You're not supposed to be kissing your captain. 

To be sat on his lap while his big hands roam your skin, sliding down the knobs of your spine, thumb pressing the grove of each one. Massaging your sides when you gasp into his mouth, a wet noise full of the burn in your joints, the want in your belly—an ache, a need for more. More. More—

It was meant to be professional. 

At work, on the field, in the stuffy headquarters of the SAS building in Hereford, it's meant to be distant. Cold. And—

And not this. 

Not spread open in his lap, one palm cupping the soft cheek of your ass and squeezing until the flesh bulges from between his splayed fingers. Not heaving his name out in a palpable supplication drenched in want. Need. 

Needy. 

"Look'it you," he'd rasped into your neck hours earlier, slick with sweat from your impromptu training lesson in the comfort of his office. "So fuckin' needy—"

And you were. Are. 

"C'mon, cap," you gasped, nose pressed taut against his temple, tongue chasing the briny tang that saturated his hairline. "Give it to me—"

He did.

Over and over and over again. Bending you over hard wood of his desk until your face was full of reports and papers, missions and confidential files on things, and people you'd rather not think about while your captain was spreading you apart with his tongue, and three fingers, and—

It was too much. Not enough. A paradoxical realm where pleasure and pain melded into a single entity. It's veins coursed with a potent cocktail of everything you could easily become addicted to—oxytocin, dopamine, endorphins rich enough to make you dizzy for aeons when it saturated all those gullible receptors in your head—and when he touched your skin with his bare hands, you felt the prickle of it leaking into your bloodstream. 

The rough husk of his voice rasping out his pleasure in your ear is an audible opiate; euphoria condensed into decibels. It rattles your synapses. Your bones. You quiver under his bulk, eager for more. 

Aching for it, really. Want him so badly that it hurts. 

Even after he'd taken his time to prepare you, made you cum from his mouth, his fingers, more times than the chemical slurry of your melting mind could ever try to keep up with, it isn't enough. 

Wasn't. 

His cock feeding into you, stretching you open around the thick of him, until the world around you was awash in pure bliss in the most beautiful shade of blue, wasn't enough. 

"More," you gasped, nerves throbbing like a bruise. Bones battered, rusted from the force of him taking you over and over again. "More, John—please—"

He obliged each time. Sliding home until all you could feel was him pulsing inside of you. The heavy weight of his hips notched against your ass. The branding heat of his hands gripping your hip, fingers curling around your shoulder, as he held you steady for him. 

(Over and over again—)

Price smells of tobacco when he leans in close. Damp ash. The wet end of a cigarette butt. Stale smoke. Mossy, loam. You breathe in the bitter scent of him until it floods your lungs, clotting in each fibril until it's heavy with the tarish resin that leaks from the end of burning cigar. 

"Greedy fuckin' thing," he hissed in your ear, fingers delving into you, feeling his release squelch around him. "Ain't you?"

"Always," you huffed, struggling through the onslaught of your mind buzzing for one more, just one more hit, and your body screaming for respite. "Always for you, John—"

"Stubborn, mm?" 

He didn't give you one more. John is attune to you in ways you'd never anticipated. He just—knows you. Can easily see through the desperation for victory clawing at your throat, sinking it's nails into the delicate skin of your jugular, and hissing rapacious demands that rattle through your vocal chords. 

When he meets the apogee of your mettle, he pulls back. Edging away from the battered fold of your limits once he brings it to a new precipice, a new level. 

Price pulled you against him when your fawn-legs quiver, knees threatening to buckle, and tucked you against his chest, a protective embrace while he murmured words of gratitude, admiration, into your crown. 

That was hours ago, and now—

The hunger rears. Your want is a perfect personification of greed, lust, pride, gluttony all coalescing into a molten desire that spools together, knotting tight against your chest where it tightens in a vice. A pretty bow of your searing need for the man whispering heavenly words of ardour into your damp skin. 

"Price—"

He stops the whine with a nip of teeth against your jugular. "Come on, now," he bares the flat of them on your skin, pinching soft tissue between his incisors. "Rest a bit, love. Jus' wanna hold you, yeah? Jus' like this." 

He leaks benzene, arsenic, and formaldehyde when he murmurs your name into the sticky column of your throat. 

(And when he whispers it so softly, reedy benediction dipped the brush of his blunt affection, how could you ever deny him anything?)

Your arms thread around his nape, wrists locking together behind him. 

The ticking of the clock on the wall is just another reminder of how little time you have, and yet— 

"Stay," he murmurs against your jaw, whiskers scratching your chin. 

Jet-lag. Exhaustion. Wishful thinking. 

Whatever the reason might be, you pry your lips apart and choke out the words that have rattling inside your head from the moment you felt his chest bloom beneath your palms, and knew—without any doubt or uncertainty—that you would follow this man to hell and back if it meant you stand inches away from him for the rest of your meagre existence. 

A tortuous whim. An exquisitely agonising proposition. 

But you've always been rather smitten with poems that break your heart into pieces. Ones where you leave a little part of yourself between the lines that eviscerate your pericardium until you taste heme in the back of your throat. 

Price reminds you of those poems. Ones that blugeons into you with a force so heavy and full, it feels as if it was written just for you. A pain so robust and brutal, that you're sure the lines in Times New Roman were first etched into your bones before they were spilled across the stark white page in black ink. Rotten blood between the pages of your barren soul. 

Your fingers run through the mess on his crown, slick with sweat from earlier, and you nod, mind wandering down that path that leads to closed doors, a locked mausoleum, and with your bruised knuckles, broken nails, and bent fingers, you pry it open. 

Finally, finally—

The words claw up your throat, grasping at the stretch of freedom within reach, and you—

Let them go. 

"Wouldn't go anywhere without you." 

(Not ever again.)

[tommyssupercoolblog]

I know the popular theory for Monitoring is that the person behind the door is hallucinating that Miku (either a social worker or a girlfriend) is some crazy stalker, but I kind of just took the whole thing as a metaphor for the modern surveillance we live under.

Companies are constantly telling us how much they love us and support us, we get ad campaigns about how they still care about you even if you're weird (like the (I think State farm?) one where the clients confess things about themselves ranging from weird to disturbing and the worker is like "oh that's fine but uh you don't have to tell us that to sign up for the secrets plan. Which...really you DO just not upfront? No matter what cellphone plan you use, your phone is constantly collecting info on you)

They try to make themselves more human, they give their products or literal company social media pages personality, and voices, and now with ai that's gotten stronger. Companies will literally sell you AI partners!!

Ad targeting and location tracking and listening to your speach and tracking your activity.

Miku knows everything about you and watches you always, but it's okay because she just wants to support you and take care of you forever!! She's so wonderful and so skilled and perfect and you're better off than you would be without her, so really it's ok that she always knows what you're doing. Miku wants to be there for EVERYTHING. She WILL be there for everything.

Her teleporting and leaving veiw sometimes could be a message on how it can sometimes be hard to tell when and where they're getting information from. You turned off your location but you ads updated to local businesses anyway- how did it know? Which searches are going into their database? Are they watching you right NOW?? Our devices usually try to distract us or lull us into some sense of security, but every now and then something happens that proves they know a lot more about you than you may even realize.

The viewer giving in to her and opening the door still startles her a little, though, because this has been a goal of companies for a long time and has only recently been fully effective. Older generations have less trust than younger ones, whereas the younger you go and the more exposure they get to this stuff from a young age, the more likely people are to throw open the door and LET Miku do this willingly.

You really did it?? You stopped worrying about tracking settings?? You did it!!! You let go!!! She has actual full access!!!

Either way she's still monitoring your activity, but now you're not fighting it. Why try to salvage anything. She knows so much already, right? It's a sunk cost. And really, she's so nice!!!

[pettypuppy-jonghyun]

Confession | Bang Chan

Summary: you accidentally send a confession text to best friend!chan

Warnings: mentions of anxiety

Notes: idk why I'm so overwhelmed with the feeling of this scenario, but my GOD would I loved to be in his arms rn

@minnysproutgriffinteddy I really hope you enjoy this as much as I did making it!

Oh, you did it now.

Your hands grip your hair at the roots, panic seeping into your system. Your cellphone fell onto your lap when you quickly dropped it, the screen open and brightly showing your worst nightmare. Your heart was pulsating against your chest as anxiety pumped the blood faster.

The accidental confession text was staring back at you. Chan's message in response was that you "needed to talk" and he was heading over now. If you thought your heart couldn't sink any lower than it already had that evening, you were unfortunately quite wrong. The sound of your doorbell rang throughout your apartment, signalling your best friend's arrival. He was there to confront you on your text. Confront you about your feelings.

You only meant to joke about it like you always did. Only meant to tease Chan for complimenting your outfit a little too much. You knew it meant nothing for him to address your attire, as you both casually did so often enough. But your little joke somehow warranted an intrusive thought to confess. The entire reason he was now at your place at 2am was because your impulsiveness took over and before you could contemplate sending, your thumb already sent the message. Now, you were sitting awfully still in your bedroom, praying he went away.

He didn't. The doorbell rang a second time. You glanced down to your phone, noticing it flashing a new message from your best friend. Chris was now wondering if you were even home, and if calling would be better. You really had no choice but to answer him, knowing he would ring your phone fairly soon if you didn't respond. After all, you can't go from continuous texts to leaving him absolutely ghosted after you confessed.

At least, it wasn't right.

You tossed your phone back onto the bed as if it burned you. "Oh my god!" You whisper shout into the air, staring at your thrown phone like it was poisonous. "Oh my god!"

Barely finding the strength, you stood on your wobbly legs and ran to open your apartment door. The last thing you wanted was for Chan to panic and believe you were in danger of any sort, potentially bringing other people into your business out of worry. If you didn't answer soon, he would only assume the worst.

"What am I going to do?!" Your hands fly up to your mouth, teeth sinking into your nails as your bad habit resurfaces. The embarrassment had sunken so far at that point, you contemplated just faking your death anyway. It would potentially be much easier to deal with then having to face your best friend after confessing your long-term crush on him. Besides, who were you going to be able to consult with after this? When he was the one you sought all comfort from.

Finally finding it in you, your hands landed on the door handle. Tightening your grip around it, you pull it open to meet your best friend's worried face. You could see the relief fall on his expression when he saw that you were alright. His tousled hair, pajama shorts and black hoodie indicated he had rushed over from his dorms.

"Chris..." your voice drifts off, unsure how to address the situation. Your eyebrows were furrowed and lips curled back in hesitation.

What you weren't expecting was Chan to enter the apartment, hand briefly hitting the door and forcing it firmly shut. His free hand immediately raised up to your face, dipping past it and into the hair beneath your ear. The light pressure he added to the tips of his fingers guided you to tilt your head to the side, his face swooping down to meet your lips. The force to his movement pushed you back against the hallway wall, his left hand coming up to steady himself against it.

You felt the surprise wash over your senses as his lips engulfed your own, molding into you. You couldn't help raising your hands to his waists, only lightly gripping his hips in fear of acting too far. Still, the sweet kiss had you absolutely melting in his hold. Your eyes clenched shut tightly.

Chris pulled away after a moment to catch his breath. His forehead rests tenderly against yours, a smile gracing his pink lips as he meets your gaze. "I don't think you understand how much it means to me that you have felt the same."

Your heart beat could be heard so vividly. "Christopher Bang, you let me go through this embarrassment this entire time?"

He laughs lightly, breath fanning your cheeks. "Trust me, you were not alone. I felt like my soul left my body when I saw that text."

"I think I may have missed a few things here," you say. The way his eyes were staring into yours made it seem so obvious he was in love with you. You weren't sure if they had always looked like that, now wondering if you just never noticed. You wanted to look away from the intense emotion, but it kept you still like a magnet.

"I've wanted to confess to you for a very, very long time. I let many opportunities escape me and had recently settled for leaving us the way things were. I would have rather kept you close to me as a best friend than push you away by confessing. It wasn't important to me what you were, as long as it was with me."

Your lips form into a soft smile, hands coming up to wrap around his neck. "Oh, Chan. I never knew you could be such a romantic."

With that, you pulled his head down back to your lips, begging to feel it all over again. The one hand on the wall moved to your waist, sliding to reach the small of your back to push you closer. Your body pressed firmly into his as he made you feel things you never thought you'd be able to with him. With every connection of your lips, Chan whispers his feelings for you, filling up every one of your senses with his love.

[aquaquadrant]

thoughts on the chaos theory trailer below the cut

there’s no WAY brooklynn is actually dead. i will continue to believe this unless i see the credits roll at the end of the final episode without being shown otherwise. depending on how long ago it happened relative to when our story takes place, she either let ppl believe she died during the attack to investigate in secret, or she was kidnapped. there’s a shot of some guy holding a pink cellphone which seems very suspicious.

side note, it’s interesting that she addressed darius directly during that final video. that combined w the lack of focus on kenji makes me wonder if their relationship lasted beyond the jwcc epilogue. ofc we could still get that in the actual show, it makes sense they wouldn’t linger on kenji’s feelings during a short trailer, so it could’ve just been down to editing. we shall see.

i’m so happy and relieved that the other campers are gonna be main characters, i was afraid we’d only get brief cameos with them near the end. i’m not the biggest fan of their older looks (sammy’s is the best imo other than darius) but i don’t HATE them. i think ben’s new design is still the most jarring.

so excited for the variety of new locations we’re gonna see, and how improved the quality of these sets seems to be so far.

the direction of the show- the campers on the run being hunted by dinosaurs while trying to unravel the mystery of who’s behind it all- is a FANTASTIC choice. i think this is when the campers are at their best tbh, when they’re operating as a unit, sneaking around to thwart the bad guys, surviving dinosaurs all the while. being back in society on the mainland could’ve presented a tricky problem of “why don’t they just get help from the police??” so i think this was a clever way to get around that. they are being HUNTED they have no idea who they can trust (perhaps even some of their trauma is playing a hand in that…)

some eagle-eyes folks have caught sight of bumpy in a few scenes. THANK GOD, it wouldn’t feel the same without her.

yasammy seems strong as ever. praying we get plenty of scenes with them being affectionate gfs 🙏🙏🙏

just based on the trailer alone i can def see what the crew meant by this series taking a darker tone. i’m so excited to see just how far they got to go with it. there’s a brief shot of a guy literally in a dinosaur’s mouth, so i have high hopes.

overall? i’m VERY looking forward to this and am tentatively hopeful it might even surpass jwcc as a better series, which is. SO rare for sequels. but i’d be happy even if it fell a bit shorter than jwcc cuz i’m just happy to have any content w these kids. gives me plenty of fodder for my own writing.

[princess-of-thebes-1995]

Have you ever wondered why Quaritch always hated Norm Spellman?

Quaritch was typing on his laptop and would sometime look up. He saw you talk to your coworker, Doctor Spellman. Tch. The Colonel rolled his eyes at that.

Spellman was book smart but lacked common sense. You were socially awkward too. But had brains outside of your work and was clumsy in an adorable way.

Quartich smiled at the memory. How you almost killed him by throwing a jar of something on his nose. He was mad and embarrassed you almost creamed him. Almost made him bleed to death.

But, it wasn't your intention. You cried and apologized and he made his move on you.

It's all good now. You're his girlfriend and soon to be his future wife.

He then heard that annoying ass voice grow louder.

"You have to come!" Spellman cried to you.

The fuck is going on? Quaritch raised his brow in wonder as he looked up from his work on the laptop.

Spellman and those other limp dick scientists left you. He watched you turn your head to his direction and smile at him. He knew that look. You would always use your big ass glassy eyes to melt him and get what you wanted.

What did you want now?

Quaritch turned off his laptop and watched you walk over to him. You began to kiss and suck his neck after sitting on his lap. The Colonel decided to go along with it. After some heated lip dancing. You whispered against his lips and begged to go to the Avatar garden.

"No." Quaritch saw your eyes sadden. He sighed. He stroked your long braids. He explained how some sting bats would attack. He doesn't want one of your eyeballs to go missing.

You're no Avatar. You can't make one due to your mutant genetics. It wasn't possible. Much to your disappointment.

You couldn't protect yourself.

You begged him and undid some buttons of his uniform. You touched the bare skin of his chest. He shuddered in pleasure as your warm and soft hands contrasted his cold and hard muscles.

You tried again. Damn you. He sighed and reluctantly nodded. You smiled and kissed him again to thank him. He grabbed the back of your head for one last affection.

You squirmed to leave him and he finally let go. Then you ran off to catch up with Norm.

The Colonel remembered the first time he met that Dope. He wasn't paying attention to his lecture at the orientation room. Like he was off in his own world.

The Colonel reluctantly had to do some shifts in the data room.

While he was working. His camera watchers of the base announced she had a situation.

Quaritch was curious and saw Norm, you, and others were in a restricted area!

Shit! His eyes widened but he kept his cool to not let anyone notice. There were bombs planted on the ground in case for Navi invaders!

The Colonel first used his cellphone to call you. When you confusedly answered. You flinched at his voice. "You idiot! That's a restricted zone. You will be killed. Come back!"

You blinked and saw the sign that warned how there was security traps around and no one not even Marines should come.

Oops.

The Colonel grabbed your hand and pushed you inside his office. His other marine staff were standing around him.

You, Norm and the other scientists were sitting in front of his desk looking scared.

"That area is classified and will dire great consequences." Quaritch declared as he sat on his desk Infront of you and your friends.

You apologized and honestly didn't know. Your boyfriend seemed to calm to down. But Norm had to open his mouth...

"You know what's nobody mentioned, this was supposed to be the greatest army in the entire world." Your eyes widened. Quaritch silently listened. He was surprised Spellman said something. "But you couldn't kill the nine of us."

Quaritch clenched his jaw in annoyance. Scrawny simp.

"I have to say I'm not impressed."

Oh, shit.

The tension in the air was cold and the other marines glared silently at Norm.

Norm got banned from the labs and work for three weeks as punishment without pay. And as for you, the Colonel forbade you from speaking to Norm unless absolute necessary. You couldn't hang out with him. He was too stupid to be around with. He might actually kill you.

And if Spellman did end your life. God forbid. Quartich would have killed him.

[dufrau]

We have watched the first couple episode of the The Stand miniseries from 2020 and I am sorry to say that it is extremely not good.

I think, in their defense, that it's a really hard story to adapt. There are a lot of characters and most of them don't overlap much until pretty late in the story. Here they're sort of unsuccessfully trying to structure it like Lost, using the Boulder Free Zone as like "The Island" and then treating all the individual character plotlines as flashbacks. It makes sense, its a very reasonable way to go about it, but they just didn't do a good job of it at all. Nothing feels impactful. Nobody really reacts much to everybody in the world dying? People's parents get sick and die a day later and nobody seems especially surprised or traumatized by this? There's none of the feeling of, like, ghostliness. Of being The Last Person In The World. That the book has. People just kind of shrug and keep the plot moving.

And there are a lot of weird choices. Moving it to the modern/cellphone era just feels kind of arbitrary, so far there's not really any reason for it. The performances are all over the place. Some characters lean into a sort of archness that does feel Stephen King-ish but also feels out of place in this adaptation. It doesn't know how serious or how Why Do Stephen King Characters Talk Like That it wants to be. (And the more Stephen King-y it does let itself be, the less modern era it feels. So why not just let it take place in the 80s?) Also Whoopi Goldberg as Mother Abigail just feels weird like I'm sorry I know she's a legit actor but she is just too recognizable at this point. When she first showed up and introduced herself like "My name is Mother Abigail" I really was expecting her to say "My name is Whoopi Goldberg."

Also they cut one of the most iconic/best scenes from the book (Larry crossing the Lincoln tunnel in the dark) and traded it for something way less interesting (wandering around briefly in a weirdly well-lit sewer and then just apparently leaving manhattan via a bridge, though they dont actually show them crossing the bridge). Like why are you even making this if you dont want to include that scene???

Anyway I was wondering if maybe this miniseries didnt take off just because it came out at the beginning of Covid when people were Not In The Mood for a pandemic story, but unfortunately it turns out its just terrible.

[rowanraven08]

Unsolicited tmagp rant no one asked for part 3 (hang in there guys this is a very all over the place one):

So. Idea. We know someone, presumably the OIAR, is listening. They’re able to tap cellphones and things too, not just listening through the office computers. It definitely could be the OIRA, they do seem like a likely suspect, they’re a government branch, they’d have the power, but what if it’s not them?

It’s not unreasonable to say the OIAR is connected to the eye, if the fears work the same in this universe (I’m running on the assumption they do) the it makes sense. Cataloging supernatural statements, sounds familiar. But we don’t know how long the recordings been going on. My thinking is that it’s Jon, maybe Martin? And Jonah, who is the most likely Augustus. So we’ve got two eye avatars in these computers, how do we know it’s not them listening in and tapping the phones and everything? We don’t know how much autonomy they have currently, I don’t think Jon (Chester) would choose to listen in, but maybe he’s making an exception since it’s a new universe? Or it’s involuntary, that he’s not able to control it, just needs to watch.

There’s also the case of Colin. He knows something for sure, whether that’s mainly paranoid driven conspiracy theories or actual information is yet to be seen. But it’s not hard to figure out whatever is going on is connected in some way to FR3-D1. Now the fact that Colin is sneaking some time on the computer in episode 10 is pretty telling. He knows he’s that messing with them could raise suspicion, seeing as he asks Celia to not tell Lena. He was using the work computers specifically so he needs to access something in FR3-D1’s program presumably. If he’s poking around in that code, digging through stuff he knows he shouldn’t, it makes me wonder if he knows about Jon, Martin, and Jonah(?). Because this man is thoroughly obsessed with this system, has spent nearly two years trying to figure out how it works. The voices have been reading out statements for a year.

I think the big thing about how much he’s noticed has to do with whether or not Jon and friends are actually coded in. Ofc with eldritch powers and stuff it’s possible they’re just there, consciouses stuck in there by spooky magic stuff. But to me at least, having their brains coded into this computer on its own is scarier. Think back to tma 65. About how you just couldn’t code someone’s mind into a computer, how the one story of a man who tried ended up stuck and awful and in pain. “The angles cut me when I think.” And I’m terrified that’s what’s happening to my boys right now, that they were somehow coded into this, and in pain because of it.

So if that’s the case and they have actual code there’s no doubt in my mind that Colin has seen that. And of course he’d know it’s not right, even if he doesn’t know for sure what it is. He also said that a YEAR ago (around the same time the voices would have started) he figured out it was “written with some kind of propriety German source code,” further supporting the idea that Augustus is Jonah. I also find it interesting the use of “propriety” here, maybe I’m looking into it too much, but a code isn’t something I’d describe like that. But the thoughts or brain of Jonah Magnus or something? I’d describe that as propriety. But if that is why it was in German, then they can affect the code in some sense, again, likely written in. He read what that code said, and if it said anything about Jonah, he would have seen it. He’d combed through this whole system enough to see something was written in German for god’s sake, IF THEY’RE CODED IN HES SEEN IT AND HE KNOWS.

I also find the interaction with Sam a bit weird, obviously, but I don’t mean the paranoia about being watched. When Sam brings up the email, he brushes it off. “If you’re going to get this worked up over a weird email, you’re going to freak when you see the real stuff.” I initially assumed he meant the statements by “real stuff.” But he doesn’t actually deal with statements. He could definitely mean the OIAR and how they’re (maybe) surveying them all. But just because the branch they work for is terrible and spies on them, that’s not really a good reason to brush off a weird INTERNAL email so quickly. Okay.

The OIAR is probably awful and evil. But they’re not gonna start sending emails from their servers from people who don’t officially exist. If I (someone who knows next to nothing about computers so don’t take my word for it) heard that there were internal emails being sent by someone not apart of the company, my rational assumption would be hacking, or some sort of security fault. But that’s not even a possibility to Colin, he accepts it’s weird without even thinking, and just says that there’s worse things. So if he’s not worried about it being hacking, I’m ready to guess he knows the emails are coming from the little computer men. So this isn’t a new thing. And I wonder if Jon tried sending Colin something before. So if a weird email is normal to Colin, and he knows where it’s from, then that’s probably what he’s referring to as “the real stuff.” Because the real stuff to him is computers, nothing else, to the point he dumps therapists cause they’re not tech savvy enough.

The bit in episode 1 is clearly suspicious too, “Best Colin can figure, something broke and whichever genius made the program ran some redundancy through the sound card.” BUT THATS NOT HOW IT WORKS. It was such a bad reason, that even Alice and Sam (who don’t have much knowledge of computers as far as I know) saw through it. Knowing Colin there’s no way in hell he’d come up with that theory and just be content to leave it be, and not spend all his time trying to figure out WHY. It was a lie, it has to be.

Now that was a very long and chaotic ramble, so uhh, to sum it up for folks who are smart enough not to read this, I think It’s Jon, Martin, and Jonah listening in and tapping phones, not the OIAR. And I think Colin knows they’re stuck in the computer, and is choosing not to tell anyone.

[aspiringtrashpanda]

THIS IS SO SELF-INDULGENT. "Witch" immediately made me think of my OC Ruth, who I introduced at the very end of my super long Leviathan x F!MC fic, "The Speedrunner's Guide to Romance". She watches over one side of the portal between the human world and the Devildom, so Levi and the MC can visit each other freely. Mammon guards the other side of the portal. That's all the context you really need. Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 14 Prompt: Witch Featuring Mammon Additional tags: booty call, just witchy things, acquaintances with benefits, mild toxicity

Perhaps if she had been sleeping, then she would have missed it entirely.

Only Ruth hadn’t been sleeping, and the loud ding had interrupted her midnight study session. A night owl by nature, she had been very immersed in a book on ancient runes that she had scored from a black market dealer. The shady character had managed to rob the Witty Sorcerer and was pawning off items to those involved with the occult. She didn’t quite buy the authenticity of his claim –as she was acquainted with Solomon herself and found him rather slippery– though she supposed that breaking into one of his many human world abodes could have resulted in a few useful tomes. However, she was just wondering if the book was legitimate (some of the Latin seemed bizarre.. Clunky, as if it had been run through a translator) when the irritating ring of a device knocked her out of her thoughts. 

She checked her cellphone, her favorite tarot card set as a screensaver staring up at her without any new notifications. 

Huh. Weird. 

She turned back to her book, eyes scanning two sentences in their entirety before the noise sounded again. Another glance at her phone promised that she hadn’t missed anything. The time taunted her from the screen. Who was trying to get in contact with her at 2am? For a moment, she sat there, wondering what had made that shrill, electronic noise. Glancing at the TV, she decided that a lack of static ruled out any chance of possession or her last summoning gone wrong. She had made sure to send the ghost back to its realm at the end of the seance, right? She used her locked cell phone screen to check her reflection, ensuring that no specter lurked behind her shoulder. 

It finally hit her upon the third ring. Oh, how could she forget? The whole reason she had lucked into her quaint cottage by the seashore was through her connection to the Devildom. Mild amusement tinged with embarrassment tickled the nape of her neck as she unlocked the drawer that held her D.D.D. –in a bedazzled case gifted by Asmodeus through Solomon. Ruth had a suspicion that it was part of the initial pitch to sacrifice her time to the whims of Leviathan and his lover. 

Though, she supposed you were worth it. She had become rather fond of you and your visits, after all. Leviathan she could give or take. He was always so jumpy around her, as if she posed a threat to him. Had you told him about the enchanted fishing net she had joked was to catch his ass if he hurt you? 

A swift tap of her password and the device screen was instantly overtaken by a message she had not expected. 

1:58am - Avatar of Gambling Yo.

Ruth's stomach flipflopped. Why was he texting her?

2:02am - Avatar of Gambling U up?

He had to be kidding. Or, she was seeing things. This couldn’t possibly be real. Maybe it was Leviathan, trying to contact her because his D.D.D. was broken. 

Wait, no, that wouldn’t make sense. Either his other half, or Solomon even, would message her in his stead. Wait, would that mean you were in trouble? 

2:03am - Avatar of Gambling Yay or nay “Ugh,” Ruth groaned, shuffling her feet as she spun in a circle, indecision –her worst enemy– tugging at her wrists. “Okay. Whatever. It was probably a mistake.”

Though she didn’t want to admit it, she knew it wasn’t. No matter how many excuses she could toss at the wall, they all bounced back with the same answer: this was a booty call. 

2:05am - Witchy Vibes™ I think you meant to message someone else…

Sure enough, her hunch was confirmed by the next message, lighting up her screen alongside memories of a stupid mistake under a full moon, of the first and only time she had tested the limitations of her pact. 

2:06am - Avatar of Gambling Nah Thinkin bout you

She cursed her heart for rabbiting against her ribs, the scene playing as if it were yesterday behind her chocolate eyes. His hair had shone like lightning in the shadows of her room, his lips hot as sin against her skin. They had melted into one, compressed into some shimmering jewel, and she had giggled into his ear when he insisted on snuggling afterwards. He was gone by morning, as was her decorative antique piggy bank.

He had left a note.

‘Til next time.xoxo

Well, he had warned her, hadn’t he? 

Ruth took a moment to reread the text messages, squinting at the lack of punctuation, at the sloppy typing. With a sigh, her thumb tapped on his contact, her conscience prematurely gnawing on her ankles. 

The line rang once before Mammon answered with a flourish, “Ruth! Baby, how ya doin’?” 

She could hear chattering in the background, the ring of slot machines and the cheers of the victorious. “Mammon, are you drunk?”

“Mmm, maybe tipsy,” His answer was crisp and clear, his tongue carefully articulating his words. Or, Ruth supposed, articulating as well as Mammon ever did. She heard the sly smirk in his voice as he proposed, “Care to summon me?”

She hesitated, and hated the way she instantly took stock of her room to ensure it was clean enough for a, uh, visitor. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“That didn’t stop you last time.” 

Ruth swore she rolled her eyes so hard, she saw the Celestial Realm. She worried her bottom lip, considered the date and whether she had anything planned for tomorrow. Did attempting to brew a pesticide that wouldn’t poison the environment out of fermented tea count as a mandatory lab experiment?  

“Well? What d’ya say?” Mammon crooned, and Ruth tasted honey on her tongue. “Wanna have some fun?” 

She had made up her mind the moment he had answered the call, and she knew it.

“Fine. Give me thirty minutes.” Though she tried to sound unbothered, her skin was already buzzing with anticipation, aching for his touch. “And bring the demonus.”

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #307

I slept pretty well last night, though I only got about 6 hours. I went to bed a little late, and despite setting my alarm for 9am, my body decided that 7am is where it's at. Oh well.

On the bright side, I had some great conversation with a friend of mine who exists in the space in which I write my letters! This person has a completely different sleep schedule than I do, and they have a number of responsibilities to tend, so it's not too often that we get to talk at length. But it's always a treat when those opportunities do arise!

I went to the orthodontist and got the missing attachment put back on without any trouble. But I stopped to take some photos along the way; I saw a couple of trees sparking in brilliant shades of awesome today, and so I couldn't pass up the opportunity to stop and take a pictures for you:

...I thought this tree below looked kind of like a very excited orchestra conductor, hahaha!

Not half bad for just a cellphone camera, right? And kind of an old, clunky one by now, too; J's cellphone camera is oodles better than mine!!

...Though, admittedly, it probably doesn't help that when I selected my phone, my biggest priority was battery life (because I'm always forgetting to charge it...), and not camera quality, ahahaha... 😅

...At the time, I suppose I didn't imagine I'd be taking so many pictures. I never imagined I'd become so passionate about the quality of the images I take. Writing to you has changed me in a variety of ways, all of them positive. Thank you for that; I can say with certainty that I wouldn't have developed such an interest in taking pictures if not for you.

...Hey, Sephiroth...? If we were out and about, do you suppose you'd take pictures alongside me? I wonder what sorts of things your awesome senses might capture that I might not be able to see...

...Do you think maybe someday, you could show me sometime? Maybe for a moment, we could trade places, and you could see the world through my eyes, and I could see the world through yours, and then maybe we'd understand each other a little better. That'd be pretty neat, I think...

I decided to stop at Eggcellent on the way home, because I adulted and it's not Tuesday!!! Eggcellent is always closed on Tuesdays, and sadly, almost all of my appointments are on Tuesdays. Sometimes I think about changing it to a different day (so I can go get Eggcellent when I'm done!!!!!!!), but then Bn and the dandelion-haired man wouldn't see me anymore, and maybe they'd be a little sad as a result.

Anyway, last time, I got their pumpkin brûlée latte. Today I got their pumpkin brûlée milk tea, and... I couldn't tell the difference. Maybe you could, if you tried them.

...Or maybe!!!! Maybe I just gotta get them both and try them at the same time!!! I should be able to tell the difference if I do it then!!!! I'll try it out sometime and tell you how it goes!!!! 😄💖

The silver, gold, and green tree I wove for the Ch and Ea still sits in its little pot on its little shelf, and... this makes me happy for some reason:

Ch was there instead of Ea this time, and her mother W was there, too! I got to talk to them for a little while; Ch was excited about my braces! She used to have metal braces at one point, and she remembers it being uncomfortable and expensive. Well... she's certainly correct on both counts!!

W doesn't have a whole lot of English, but that's okay; Ch sometimes relays what I say back to W in Cantonese! W is an older lady, and she has a radiant smile and an upbeat attitude; even if I can't understand her words, it's apparent in the way she carries herself and in the expressions on her face and in the way she uses her voice, and it's lovely to see. I like her a lot! And I like Ch and Ea, too! I'm really glad they're here.

Ch is looking forward to seeing what the inside of my face will look like in a few years! Though, she wonders if her business will last that long. I can see why she's worried; where I live, the prices of things keeps going up, but wages are staying relatively the same. People are needing to stretch themselves thinner and thinner, and deprive themselves of more and more nice things. When this happens, people in my part of the world cut out anything that isn't necessary, and... bubble tea, sadly, isn't exactly necessary.

...It's not lost on me how lucky I am. I'm in a position in which I can get braces. I'm in a position in which I can get bubble tea. And... these are things that everyone should be able to get without issue. People should have their needs met. People should be able to get nice treats for themselves from time to time.

Unfortunately, at least for right now, the world that I live in isn't very fair in a variety of respects. And there are people working to change that, but... given the culture and the way my world perceives things like "deserving" and "undeserving" (truly, there's no such thing as "undeserving", but lots of people don't know that...), the people working to build a world in which everyone can thrive are hindered by people who have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.

I think most people want change, but change is hard, and the people who wanna maintain the status quo have a lot of money and therefore a lot of power. Power enough to put weird ideas in people's heads about who does and doesn't deserve comfort and security. Power enough to put weird ideas in people's heads like, "if marginalized people get the things they need, then that means you'll have less of what you need! 😱"

...Remember that really gross "she's for they/them, not you!" ad that I mentioned in a previous letter? That's... a pretty good example of that way of thinking. There's no reason that a person can't be for both (as though there even is any distinction at all), but households with generational trauma where the dynamic is that only one child can be loved at a time are particularly susceptible to thinking that equal rights and social acceptance are like pie - more for someone else means less for them.

And that's how it is in some households - typically abusive ones. There can be only one "favorite", and if the "favorite" shifts, then the former "favorite" quickly becomes the scapegoat instead. And then they grow up, and therapy is hard to get, and so... it's hard for them to realize that this isn't how things work on a macro scale.

Unfortunately, those who have the money are highly educated and are very good at taking advantage of generational trauma to make sure that most people think that their enemy is those who are "othered" by society, even though the real issue is that the people who have the money are collecting and hoarding more money than they can ever realistically use (to the point that others don't get to have enough), likely because of their own traumas.

...It's like if there was a tribe of monkeys, and one of the monkeys is hoarding all the bananas so that the other monkeys don't have enough, and the monkey hoarding them has so many bananas now that it can't possibly eat them all by the time they rot, but still this monkey won't share. I read somewhere a quote that goes kinda like, "when monkeys do this, we wonder what's wrong with that monkey, but when people do it, we worship them as heroes." Or something to that effect. And it's apt.

Humans are just overcomplicated monkeys. I am certainly an overcomplicated monkey. We all take ourselves a bit too seriously sometimes, I think. It's a little weird.

In any case, as for the hoarding, for what it's worth, I think it's important to differentiate between who a person is and what a person does. Because trauma makes us do all sorts of very weird things that aren't in alignment with who we actually are on the inside. Goodness knows that I know this all too well. If the me of 12 years ago was writing to you, these letters would look very different than they do now, and not in a good way.

In those days, I was still trying to live up to the ridiculous expectations of the people who hurt me, trying to prove to them that I didn't deserve to be mistreated, and trying to get love and acceptance from them even though they were in too much pain to be able to provide those things to me. I'm sure you know more than a little bit about what this was like; it's a bit like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone.

So the enemy is not exactly "the people hoarding the wealth and hurting people in order to get more wealth"; the enemy is the behavior, and the trauma that leads to the behavior. You gotta look under the surface (this can be hard to do, especially when people do horrible things!), and at all the history and experiences that shape people and the compulsions they develop in order to cope with their traumas. Teach people non-destructive ways of coping with their traumas, and watch the destructive behaviors stop.

...Unfortunately, this kind of teaching isn't an overnight process. It takes years of suffering to shape a brain into something that lacks empathy for other people, and it takes years to tear down that architecture and rebuild something new in its place. Changing up one's neural pathways is a hugely time- and resource-intensive task - not just because it literally requires calories and minerals and very specific kinds of fats and proteins to achieve, but also because the whole process is painful and involves a lot of grieving from start to finish. And uh... you're never exactly "finished". Ever.

Living with S for a summer helped me to learn that, at least for the fabulously wealthy people he was raised by, they usually only feel a smidgen of self-worth when "big number go up" and "fancy house/car/clothes/etc go brr!" And... that's really sad actually. When you live in a box that teaches you that your worth comes from how big the number is in your bank account and the social stats that your "toys" give to you.

...People, for the most part, would rather be dead than be considered unlovable by their social or family group. So what you get is people who will stop at nothing to make that "big number go up", even if it means others will suffer tremendously for it.

...Of course, there's a lot more to it than this. It's a big, complicated problem that is generations and generations in the making, and what I've written is an oversimplified summary. I already write very long letters; I'm not sure I can afford to insert a book here, hahaha...

...I don't know how to teach people on a mass scale how instead to focus on how safe others feel in their presence, on how they use their power and resources to end suffering for others, or on how closely their words and behaviors reflect their true self. All I can do is try to write without dehumanizing anyone, and hope that the people who need it can see it.

...Goodness, but I've digressed a lot. Thanks for listening, ahaha... 😅

Anyway, I made myself a lunch. Parts of it were very pumpkin themed; I think you would have liked it...

...O'course, when I say that it's pumpkin-themed, I'm mostly talking about the bubble tea and the pumpkin spice English muffin:

...I put this on it:

...There are a lot of pumpkin-flavored things that I really wish I could share with you. There are so many things in general that I wish I could share with you. Like my lunch:

...I feel endlessly frustrated that the best I can give to you is pictures. It's endlessly frustrating that I can't package up the scent of the autumn breeze and give it to you. I can't package up the warmth of the sun and the feeling of crispy leaves underfoot and give it to you. I can't package up the smells and flavors and wholesomeness of my delicious lunch and give it to you.

...

...As far as I know, I don't have that power, and it fucking sucks, to put it mildly. 😦😳😥😓

...

...But I'll try as hard as I can to make the best of what little I can do, and hope that it gets through to you somehow. Somehow...

...Try to meet me halfway, okay? Maybe it'll work then, if only a little bit. Who knows.

I think I might try to play some Oddworld today. If I do, I'll put it here; come hang out with me if you wanna:

Suppose I'll stop writing for now. I have the urge to run around in a digital approximation of an able body, trying to help others. I can do that in Oddworld. It's pretty neat.

Hey. I know we'll probably never eat a lunch together or drink tea together. But please work on your situation so that you can do these things in your own house at your own table with your own circle of loving, kind, and caring friends. I know we'll probably never walk around on a bright, crispy autumn day to take pictures and smell the leaves in the air. But please work on your situation so that you can come up out of that damnable crater and do these things with the people you love. I know we'll probably never sit down to play a challenging video game together. But please hold on and keep trying your best, so that someday, you'll be able to do that together with anyone you choose.

A good life is waiting for you, if you make choices that lead you to it. You don't have to hurt anyone to make those choices. All you have to do is be your authentic self. And your authentic self is kind, soft, gentle, sensitive, compassionate, and warm. These are good, strong, and brave things to be, especially in a world like this one; don't let any misinformed butt-nugget tell you otherwise, okay? Promise me - please.

I love you. Please stay safe out there while you do your things. Make kind and good choices, in alignment with your nature. Use your words to empower yourself and others, at the expense of no one else. Do these things, and you can walk your way to a different outcome.

I believe in you. Unwaveringly, and without any doubt or hesitation. Sephiroth... you have what it takes. Nothing and no one can make me believe otherwise - not even you.

I'll write to you again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine