#then she wakes and it's like ''time to commit some violence''

[ruesol]

A drop of blood (in milk) - chapter 3

(GOJO x READER)

PLOT:

You’ve always prevented your blind childhood best friend from fighting your battles for you.

That is until you find out he’s a dragon who refused to participate in a war until he had you safe and sound in his lair.

or: the dragon shifter x witch au

fanfic masterlist

—

No human, mage, elf, or anyone else, for that matter, has the ability to suppress draconic energy. Its source runs deeper than just the elemental energy that a dragon’s existence circles around. Emotions are the driving force behind their motive to protect the people below.

But what will a lone dragon do when the love for his mate compels him to villainize the same people he was created to protect? 

The anticipation of learning about Gojo’s recent developments in performing his mission is quickly chased away when Yaga sees him standing at the castle's threshold with you passed out in his arms.

Gojo’s blindfold was abandoned, probably burned to ash in some corner of a forest. Cyan irises mimic the hottest flame with the way they shine under the grand chandelier. His clothes had burned in many places, too, mainly his sleeves and a few holes around the back of his shirt. The chrome scales on Gojo’s skin glitter when the light hits them, drawing Yaga’s eyes to the young dragon’s triceps. Claws drawn out, sharp, yet he’s careful enough not to pierce your sooty skin.

“I thought you were going to wait to tell her?” The mage master’s question sounds more like a forthcoming scolding.

You look peaceful, unconscious in Gojo’s firm hold as your head is cocooned by his arms. The young dragon worries about how you’ll eventually be pulled out of your dreamy microcosm when he finally spills everything to you, Ichor dripping from every secret exposed.

“She doesn’t know yet. I’ll tell her when she wakes up.” Gojo ignores Yaga’s following questions as he walks to his quarters, finally releasing a breath of relief as he lays you down on his bed. The shock of almost dying still hasn’t worn off on you. You look troubled even when unconscious. He asks one of the elves serving him to bathe you and give you clean clothes so you won’t be covered in soot and ash when you finally wake up.

“What is the meaning of all this? I thought we were going to kill the fucking King before you brought her here,” Yaga growled at Gojo as soon as he had returned to the great hall. The light shines down on the throne at the end of the room, where Gojo stands. When he sits, the light hits his hair like heaven has placed a halo on him. Ironic for someone who believed that a bit of violence was worth protecting the love of his life.

“I had to. They were going to kill her. Besides, she’s smart. She’ll handle the information just fine,” Gojo grumbles into the palms of his hands, rubbing away the exhaustion he had built up after entirely shifting into a dragon for the first time in years.

“Kill her? What the fuck is going on in that town?” Yaga walks over to Gojo and clutches his collar, yanking it to urge the dragon to look up with his slitted eyes at him. Gojo complies. Yaga was his guide in the mortal realm, after all. “She’s powerful enough to save herself, so why did you swoop in?”

“It’s the bond. I just can’t help it,” Gojo answers through gritted teeth–not out of agitation towards his heaven-made commitment to you, but agitation towards what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t intervened. For all he cared, those people could’ve been burned to a crisp.

“Well, control it, scoundrel, because we have bigger things to worry about. King Zenin has been sniffing around some hidden elven territories, and I’m afraid they’re close to finding them. We have to–”

“Why don’t you care about what happens to her? You’re her teacher!” Gojo yelled. The echoes of his voice prompt multiple of his servants to pop their heads by the hall's entrance. Their allegiance to him still didn’t make any sense, but he appreciated the commitment.

“Because if you had simply whisked her away to this place, then she’d know nothing. She’d be useless. I have never, in my life, ever seen a witch with so much potential. Being in dangerous situations would be a great catalyst for her to grow even more powerful. It would make her a useful mate for you.”

Anger burns in his chest. Passion, fury, rage–they all come naturally to him. They carry the heat of his inner fire. Lava gurgles till he tastes its bitterness in the back of his throat. If he didn’t have so much respect for Yaga, then he’d have ripped his head off clean and put it up as a showpiece on his mantle, a trophy and a warning at once.

“Is that all you see her as? Some sort of weapon? A tool in my plan? She’s more than just a witch–she’s the woman I’d burn myself alive for, and that cursed town would have had a worse fate if she’d died today.” The dragon’s tone is menacing, not just for Yaga but for the haven that was the island he had brought you to. “The elves, dragonhood, fuck, saving the innocent–they mean nothing to me if she doesn’t exist–if I don’t feel her breath entwined with mine.”

“And what are you going to do if she hears this? If she knows that your heart welcomes destruction over humanity for her sake? She’ll blame herself for it for as long as she’s alive,” Yaga reminds him. Gojo seldom found any flaws in your judgment. You could say the sun was cuboidal, and he’d blindly believe you. But he never seemed to understand why you cared so much about the innocent. They were defenseless, weak, and overly dependent on beings like him to survive.

But alas, to keep you alive forever, he will do whatever it takes, even if it involves forcing himself to go against his own beliefs.

“I’d rather have her hate me for eternity than her rot beneath the soil with the rest of humanity.”

–

In his eyes, you’re no less than the morning sun–bright, blinding, and connected to him in a way that the universe intended since the beginning of time.

The elves have done a great job of cleaning you up. You’re wearing something customary to the elvish women–a silken gown that sticks to your body like a second skin, yet it feels like you’re wearing nothing.

It’s hard for him to take his eyes off your body as you drowsily stretch in his bed, arching as the sun bathes you in gold. You sigh deeply, trying to sink deeper into your slumber, but he can see that your body commands that you wake up. It commands you to see your mate in his truest form.

Your eyelashes flutter, and the first sight you see is the roof of the canopy bed, red satin with gold tassels on the borders. You’re still disoriented. The only thing you’re probably aware of is the fact that you have a sense of perception.

You look around first as your elbows help you rise. The exhaustion is still meshed deep in your bones, making you lean against the soft nest of pillows around your head as you look around.

Gojo finds your curiosity adorable, like a skittish kitten trying to familiarize herself.

A ghost of a smile emerges on his plush mouth when you finally see him, eyes widening when you realize you’re seeing his eyes for the first time.

“The village–there was a fire, and–your eyes? Where am I?” Your voice is hoarse. Three days of being unconscious had caught up to you. Discomfort heavy in your mind and heart, you crawl to the edge of the bed, legs trembling as your toes touch the cold, marbled floor, but Gojo’s at your side immediately, his large hand spanning the small of your back as he stabilizes you.

“Satoru, what is going on? We’re not in Rosenrot. We’re–where are we?” You can’t help but lean on him as he walks you to the balcony.

“I’m not cursed. I can see just fine.”

“I can see that. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why would you even lie about it? They look so–”

“So much like a dragon’s.”

“Yeah…” Your hands reach out to touch his face, hesitating until he leans. The slits in his eyes curve outwards, and a shiver runs down Gojo’s spine. “That’s because I am one. Well, I’m more of a dragon shifter. I have yet to ascend.”

You immediately pull your hand away, though you’re still in his hold. There’s a fold between your brows as you look up at him skeptically. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” you scoff.

But he stays silent. He pulls his arms away as he takes a couple of steps back. It’s hard to see past the sun's direct glare in your eyes, but you can see how his eyes are glowing.

Gojo feels the need to prove himself. Years of hiding himself from you have finally come to an end. He finally feels whole—Anima mundi. The energy of fire ignites his skin, and chrome scales slowly materialize down his arms. He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows to show them to you, and your lips part, a breath of disbelief escaping.

His claws come easily with one swift flex, a red tinge at the tips. He grows bigger. Literally. His clothes stretch till they rip, the stitches splitting near his shoulders as his sleeves fall off, his pants growing shorter as his thighs expand.

Despite all the changes, his eyes convey everything they need to tell you: ‘I’m still your Satoru. The awkward, bullied kid you’d always stand up for. The blind man who was always taken advantage of.’

“Believe me now?”

He watches you with bated breath. He knows you’ll come to him sooner or later. The bond obligates you to. But it would still sting if you didn’t acknowledge him like this. He fears your rejection more than he does his fate if he doesn’t ascend to dragonhood like his fate intended him to. Anticipation sits heavy on his shoulders. It’s a burden he’s been bearing ever since he met you.

You sigh as you press on your temples. “I don’t understand what’s going on. I have so many questions, but I don’t even know where to start. I–you’re a dragon? Like, one of the most superior vessels of the elements?”

He gulps and nods as he walks closer to you, but you back away further. “NO, don’t come here. You don’t just bring me to some…I’m not even sure what this place is, but you don’t just get to drop all this information on me like it’s nothing.” He can see you trembling, and fear dawns on him. He can’t tell if you’re afraid of him or are just angry that he lied about himself.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m the worst. But I’ll explain everything if you just come here.” He brings his palm forward, and you take it cautiously. Gojo can see the look you have on your face. Cautious but still trusting because once upon a time, you used to be the one who was taller than him before his growth spurt hit. 

Your hand is much smaller than his. It always was since the beginning because of his build, but his dragon form has turned him into a sinewy monster. Gojo remembers you telling him that Todo was probably the most swole man you’d ever met. Todo would sometimes help you carry your supply crates, and you’d think about how he could hurl the heavy crates across the room like javelins.

But this was entirely new for you. Gojo can sense it in the way your hand trembles ever so slightly in his grip. He knows there’s no point in asking you not to be afraid. He’ll have to prove himself to you.

That’s fine. The two of you have the rest of eternity for it, and only for you does he have the patience of a saint.

He walks you over to the marble railing, and you squint, the sun’s light hitting your eyes painfully. Seeing this, Gojo creates a visor with his hand as he holds onto your waist.

“What do you see?”

What stares back at you is a lush jungle concentrated in the middle of the landmass—waves skirt by the beach, a gorgeous aqua blue that rivals the beauty of Gojo’s eyes. “An island,” you answer dryly.

“Are you sure? Looks can be deceiving.”

You click your tongue and sigh as you look around more. “I’m not sure what you want me to see.”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

You want to smack him across his face. Your mind is beyond overstimulated with a thousand thoughts racing through it, and the man wants to play a match of “I Spy” with you.

Then all of a sudden, the jungle looks like it’s refracting. Greens, blues, and yellows bending and swirling into an odd pinwheel. The same occurs near the water, the waves almost turning into a viscous slime-like texture, clinging onto land the more it flows further in.

In the blink of an eye, the island in front of you turns into a settlement. Small buildings, along with hundreds, if not thousands, of people walking around.

“A glamor!” you gasp. “It’s my first time seeing one done on such a large scale! I’ve only ever seen them done over stuff like hidden doors, but this is insane!”

“I didn’t know that dragons had the same abilities as mages. This is so fascinating, oh my gosh.” The view came more into fruition, and you gazed in amazement. Creating a glamor, especially of this size, is a feat that not many can achieve. It takes a mage years to master the art of invisibility, let alone camouflage themselves in plain sight.

“That’s because they can’t.” You turn around when you hear the familiar sound and let out a noise of surprise when your eyes land on Yaga.

“I created it,” Yaga says from where he stands at the balcony’s entrance.

“You–You’re alive!” Gojo can sense the tears brimming in your eyes. He feels the hollow pain of mourning and confusion meld together. Now that you’re aware of his true form, the bond has made itself more apparent, making him feel inklings of your emotions. You probably do, too, but just can’t fathom it yet.

You turn to Gojo with a deep crease between your brows. Reality had shifted beneath your feet within less than a week. Life as you knew it was never going to be the same. You were part of something bigger than yourself. Bigger than anything you had ever imagined, “You have a lot to explain, Satoru.”

–

It all sounds too good to be true.

Your best friend was a dragon shifter who could only ascend if he did something for the world's greater good, which, in his case, was to protect the elves from disappearing.

“So, you’re telling me that King Zenin, the same man I had pledged my allegiance to, is murdering and consuming elves to absorb their powers?” You wished the cushioned seat of Gojo’s throne swallowed you up. You were sinking into its softness anyway. “This sounds like a conspiracy theory.”

But Yaga and Gojo look as serious as ever. Austere faces with their arms folded. You can feel the heat of the sun on your neck. The summer heat on Gojo’s Island, or Cinder, feels different compared to the heat in Rosenrot. Over here, it feels like a warm hug from the Sun. Like coming home after years of being at war.

Rosenrot was warm and humid. Debility and nausea were constant visitors. The rude townsfolk just made it worse. A shiver runs down your spine when you remember that it didn’t take them one second to nearly burn you at the stake.

“And I had to fake my death because the defenses here at Cinder were getting weaker by the day. The mages in Rosenrot seem to be progressing with the magic faster now that they’ve been concentrating elven powers into potions. I couldn’t play double agent for much longer,” Yaga continued. There are obvious elements of exhaustion on his face–dark circles, yellowing sclera, and his skin looks like it has aged ten years since his disappearance.

“That still doesn’t explain what the King plans to do with all that magic and what I’m doing here. Plus, Satoru still hasn’t told me why he chose to fool me all these years.”

“We have an insider at the castle, an elf we’ve glamored well. He told us they planned on creating a synthetic dragon through the King. They want to set off the balance of the hierarchy within the magic realm.” There’s a heaviness to Gojo’s answer that you feel deep behind your ribs, in the core of your chest. It’s odd; nothing you’ve ever felt like before. Empathy always came easily to you; it’s why you chose to become an apothecary anyway, but this was different.

It felt autoscopic. It felt like you were in someone else’s mind for a second. All too integrating.

“I’m sorry, but this is just way too much for me to process right now.” You tremble under the heat of Gojo’s gaze. There’s something beyond concern in it.

Almost like desire.

“I don’t understand where I come into this whole thing. Why’d you bring me here then?” you ask as you look up at Gojo. Yaga sighs, rubbing a hand down his face as he walks away. “I will not be explaining this part.”

Gojo gets on his knees and takes your hands in his, eyes staring up at you with the utmost sincerity.

“What does Yaga mean by that?”

The look on Gojo’s face is almost guilt-ridden like a thief who has snatched something from an innocent’s home. You can’t help but eye him with suspicion, which makes him tug your hands to his heart.

“Before I say anything, I want you to know that whatever I did was not only because of what fate has planned for us, but also because you are my friend and I care for you more than I have for anyone,” he prefaces with a gulp. “All this means nothing to me if you’re not beside me.”

“Satoru, you’re scaring me. Get to the point.”

“I lied to you about my identity to protect you. The villagers were about to kill you, and I wasn’t just going to stand and watch them take away the love of my life. My mate–we’ve been bonded to one another since our births.”

--

tag list: @eva-616 @luv3nti @leafynightmares @n1vi @uhkaey @heyl820 @kittsoraxx @asuritam @ratedrrrr @mentallyunpresent @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @starlight5cat @birbwithhat @ressyshi@strawberrymilkshakes-posts @qyuin @gh0stlyreader @ssetsuka @ibreathesmut @pickledsoda

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Don't Go where I Can't Follow Part 2/2

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x F!Nurse!Ex-militaryReader

summary: You join Jack at the hospital after waking up alone, and the activities of the day bring up bad memories as the shooter closes in on the hospital

(Warning for normal Pitt mayhem, and gun violence. I know nothing about medical procedures, nor do I know anything about the military. Reader is Australian because I am a self indulgent bitch)

Jack had just needed to steal an intern.

That was why he wandered into the yellow zone, he had no internal warning that sent him there, just a need for another set of hands to hold bodies together while he and Robby stitched them back together.

That's how he ended up with the strangers back to him and you in his eyeline.

You, who looked so completely calm, as you placed Santos at your back, with your calm voice that he hadn’t heard since your days in the military.

Calm.

Controlled.

Scared.

He could tell you were scared, could tell how your fingers curled in on themselves as if you were crossing your own fingers that this would end okay. 

Then the gun went off.

A bullet sped to your chest before he could never blink. Time didn’t slow, it didn’t give him a moment to do anything but run to your side.

But hands grabbed at him, Dana and Robby, grabbing at him as he pulled and pushed them off him. Jack could hear screaming, someone cursing over and over again but he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You fell beautifully, as if choreographed from a movie. First to your knees, hands raised to your chest, as you tried to push the blood back in. Then straight over onto the floor.

Jack pulled from Robby's grasp, elbowing his nose in the process but he didn’t care, he had to get to you.

“Jack- Stop!” Suddenly Dana is in front of him, grabbing his face to pull his gaze from you to her, “You can’t help her right now, Robby is.” And he watched as his best friend started barking orders, a wad of gauze shoved up his nose to stop the bleeding.

He took a moment, closing his eyes and counting to ten. He needed to ground himself before everything threatened to take over. He allowed Dana to pull him away, until he was seated in her chair, she forced his body like a pretzel until his arms rested on his knees and his head was almost between his knees. 

“The shooter?”

“Landon has him, SWAT got him good but the fucker is going to live.”

“Good.” was his only response, because of course it was, no matter the crimes committed by the monster, this hospital was not going to be where his trial and execution would be held.

“Dana-” he whispered, ripping off the gloves he still wore, covered in so much blood the blue material was no longer visible.

“Yeah Honey?”

“If she dies-”

“She won’t die!”

“If she dies, I won’t make it back- you know that don’t you.”

“Jack-”

“I barely survived it last time, this time I won’t.”

The charge nurse knelt in front of him and grasped his knees, squeezing tight until he looked up at her.

“That girl has survived so much fucking much, between a bullet wound, a bombing and whatever the fuck you two have going on, this- this won’t kill her.”

But Jack didn’t hear her, his mind already racing back to another time.

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

“Have you heard from the aussies?” He asked, between baskets as him and the communication officer wasted their downtime with a pick up game.

“Not yet- but you know them, their satellites get pointed in the wrong direction every time there’s a football game on.”

Jack laughed and threw the ball into the basket, missing completely.

Basketball was not his sport of choice, give him a hockey stick anyday over this, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It had been quiet for a few days here and he knew that in other parts of the country there had been some action but no one could confirm where and with whom so a pit formed in his stomach as the hours went by and he hadn’t received an update on your location.

It had been months since you two had last seen each other, and even then it had been only one day where you two had been working in the same village, not getting more than five minutes to feel each other up in the back of a jeep.

“ABBOTT!” The Sergeant of the unit called his name, his face usually one with a smile no matter the situation was missing his characteristic smile as Jack wandered over, throwing the basketball back to the communications officer not looking to see if it was caught.

Once in the tent the Sergeant had commandeered as his office, Jack sat down fiddling with a pen and leaning back in the chair. It was not abnormal for him to be called to this office, it could be for anything from supply requirements, a mission or simply because the man before him had received a secret supply of scotch and didn’t want to drink alone.

But today he settled not in his overly comfortable chair behind the desk but in the fold out chair next to Jack, his hands knitted tightly together in his lap as he clears his throat.

“At 1300 hours yesterday there was a shooting on a medical unit about eight hundred clicks from here. Allied medical officers were shot, one englishman dead and-”

Jack swore, “She got shot?”

“The reports that are coming out said she got shot in the shoulder, the right side, with little injuries elsewhere other than a bump on the head.”

Jack nodded slowly, taking it all in. A shoulder wound was not something to be trifled with, if left unchecked it could lead to loss of limb or mobility. But you are not dumb, he knows this, you would be pedantic about physical therapy.

“Ok, so is she in Cairo or a medicentre here?”

“Abbott- Jack, there's more. At 1500 her medivac convoy was driving through hostile lands and reports are saying there was a drone.”

“Reports? From survivors?”

“Aerial support from our own drones, there were no survivors.”

No survivors.

No survivors.

No survivors.

The words were not sinking in, he needed to move, he needed to get up from this chair and get to the communication centre. They would patch him through to you and everything would be fine.

“No Sir, I’m sorry but no she can’t be gone.”

“Jack, son… She’s gone.”

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

“Jack, honey, She’s gone-”

He roared back to reality, jumping from the chair and grabbing Dana by the shoulders, her words unfinished.

“She is not gone!”

“To surgery you idiot! She has gone up to surgery!” Dana said, darting out of his touch and forcing him back into the chair.

Surgery, you were going to surgery, he kept telling himself, you were not dead and you were not gone. 

“How is she?” his voice was broken, nothing but a whisper of air.

“Alive, the bullet entered her chest just above her heart and tore through and out. Santos got hit too in the shoulder but she only just told us. Crazy kid kept going until we had your girl up in the elevators.”

Jack let out the breath he had been holding and he took a moment to gather himself. The ER was a buzz of people, packing away the equipment no longer needed, the overlooked clean up crews were working tirelessly to mop up the blood while the police fenced off where the shooting had happened.

Someone was drawing an outline of where you fell on the lino and he had to look away.

“Dr Abbott-” someone called his name, weak and with a little bit of fear coated his name as he turned around.

He finally saw her, Santos, with her scrub top off and her tank top covered in blood, your blood. But it was the bandage and sling that really caught his eye.

Dana had mentioned Santos had been shot.

“Are you okay?”

The girl nodded her eyes filling with tears as she tried to push them away with her one good hand, “Because of her I am. She was yelling at me and then she stepped in front of me.”

He nodded and sat on the small wheelie chair by Santos bed.

“I don’t understand, why would she do that for me?”

Jack took his time to answer, looking anywhere but at the young girl before him, her tears making his own threaten to fall.

“She is tough, a tough nurse and an even tougher teacher.But she has seen things, gone through things that would keep anyone up at night. But she would do it all again, go through all the pain, to make sure someone else doesn’t.”

Santos went to speak but Robby appeared from nowhere, his presence ending the conversation. 

“You okay Kid?” he asked Santos, before turning to Jack not really waiting for an answer, “Are you going up?”

Jack looked around again, at the quieting ER and the people making themselves useful. According to the clock on the wall his shift would have technically started an hour ago now, but the time had gone by without any truly noticing or the day shift making tracks to leave.

“I should stay here, my shift just started.”

“Jack-”

“I either stay down here or I go up there and sit in an awful chair and stew.”

“You can stew, you can sit in that godawful chair and you can wait for her.”

“Robby, I-”

“Jack, she’s your person, your thing.” The other doctor moved his hands around while trying to word your relationship, “go, I’ve already called in help.”

Robby pulled Jack to his feet and manhandled him to the elevator, pressing the button to surgery and stepping out as the doors shut.

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

Everything hurts as you blink yourself awake, your limbs feeling heavy and your head pounding.

Pain bloomed behind your eyes as the fluorescent lights hit your eyes.

“Fuuuuuck!” you thought but couldn’t speak, every breath hindered by a tube down your throat. Panic set in, as the pain grew in your chest, and your head. Black dots dance in your vision as you try to blink away all the pain.

Hands grab you but you can’t see who it is, they are firm as they hold your hands to your side and a voice that is warm like honey tea fills your ears but the words are nothing but sound.

You can’t understand what the person is saying and the panic gets worse, you scramble to try and get away from their touch but they hold firm, their thumbs working circles around your wrists, and their own breath now warm against your skin. 

“Baby-”

Lemongrass, lemongrass and sweat filled your nose and the panic subsided because he was there.

Jack.

Holding you down and saying your name like a prayer, he was there.

You let out a moan, or a cry, with the tube down your throat you wouldn’t know which. Tears fell as you grabbed at his hands, his face now coming into focus.

Jack was here.

You had once woken in a hospital room, with a tube down your throat and your body on fire, with no one by your side. A handful of old friends came to say hello, your commanding officer came to give you a medal and your discharge papers, but no one stood there and held you while you wept that you were alive.

But here he was now, Jack with his own tears, holding you and reminding you you are alive.

“You're here baby, you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, finally taking it all in, you were intubated, with your chest half exposed and bandaged up. You could just see your feet, giving them a wiggle to confirm movement.

You are alive.

You are alive and Jack is here.

“You kept your promise.” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

I’m not going anywhere.

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

I miss main story Sylus so much (;_;)

Don't get me wrong I adore memory Sylus. Soft!Sylus is everything to me. But I have to admit that I really want to see more of the other equally valid and real side of him as well. That being the rough, morally grey crimelord we see during Long Awaited Revelry and in his Anecdote. Apart from Sylus on the job being hot as hell, there is so much about him and his motivations that we don't know yet and that I'm dying to find out.

I will also freely admit that a huge part of the reason for why I fell for Sylus and why he still has me in a chokehold is his complexity, his duality. I like that he is neither devil nor saint. Neither black nor white. Neither red flag nor forest full of green. He is so much more multifaceted and layered. He has real tangible flaws, and is certainly not a harmless cinnamon roll. He is a loverboy, yes, but equally a dangerous criminal whose hands have and will continue to kill others. And this duality is what makes him a great character in my eyes.

Hell, as much as it hurts me to witness, I like that he monumentally fucked up his initial meeting with present MC. And the narrative is very clear on this — his actions towards MC were wrong. He was forceful. He was cruel. Let's not sugarcoat this. Sure, us players know why he went about doing it the way he did and we feel bad for him as a consequence, but that doesn't make what he did in any way right or justifiable. MC was right to feel fear and disgust, and she would've been fully justified in never forgiving him imo. And honestly, I think Sylus would agree. He realizes just how badly he screwed things up, even if it took the harsh but true wake-up call from the shopkeeper to bring him to this realization. And it's a hugely important moment, both for him as a character and for his relationship with MC. Afterwards, he puts in the conscious effort to do better. To be better for her. To make things right. To me, this decision and commitment of his wouldn't have hit nearly as hard or been as meaningful if his prior actions hadn't been what they were. They proved that he is capable of real self reflection and growth. It's a massively important moment in their relationship.

The rocky start to their relationship also makes cards like Razor's Dance so impactful. Same with Goodcat Code and some phone calls and interactions where Sylus' fears and insecurities regarding MC's feelings toward him shine through. With the context of his behavior in LAR, it's completely understandable for him to have these fears. He knows he fucked up. Had he been a cinnamon roll made up of purely green flags, neither his feelings nor MC's would have made sense. Nor would MC's eventual forgiveness, and ability to once more see in him what others cannot, be near as powerful.

I don't know, am I making any sense with this or am I just rambling lol 😅

My point is that I love and appreciate all sides of Sylus. Both good and bad. It's what makes him him. And I would no more want to trade or give up main story Sylus than I would memory Sylus. I want big bad ruthless boss of Onychinus just as much as I want soft loverboy Sylus. They are equally important to Sylus' character. He wouldn't be himself without either. It's a package deal.

Perfect/flawless characters bore me. If Sylus were simply soft and green through and through, I would've lost interest. Honestly, I most likely wouldn't have downloaded the game to begin with. It was the danger mixed in with the comfort that drew me in.

It's like a friend and I have discussed many times — the fact that the hands that have wrought violence and death upon countless people are the very same ones that touch his beloved with such reverence and tenderness, is incredibly hot. Duality ftw.

So needless to say I am waiting with baited breath for the day when we will finally see main story Sylus again. Or for that matter, just a memory of Sylus in boss of Onychinus mode.

🐉❤️ ��‍⬛

[frudoo]

bakers wake up and get to the shop soooo early to prep for the day, right? so 3 am 4 am, simon (or whoever) is chill he’s on his routine, unlocking the door of the bakery when all of a sudden, he and drunk clubgoer? insomniac? kicked out? !reader meet each other- if she’s in a bad situation, simon fights off some guys first, or catches her from stumbling onto the pavement, but either way, they’re the only people out on the streets at this hour, and he invites her in to have a cup of tea while he mixes his dough and the sun rises?

been in my head for forever

This isn't quite what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy anyway <3

Warnings: Mentions of body image issues. Mentions of drinking alcohol, stalking. Brief implications of past abuse and crimes. One (1) act of violence.

It’s been exactly three days, right down to the minute, since Simon saw you last. After leaving the nursing home, you dropped him back off at his house and told him you’d be in touch. Then you were gone. He knows you’re a busy woman, that you probably haven’t even gotten around to editing his pictures yet. Still, here he is, waiting by his phone like a pioneer woman longingly gazing out the window for her lover. 

     He hears a ping and smiles excitedly only to find that it’s Johnny texting him for the millionth time. Simon resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall to watch it shatter, instead making his way into the kitchen to make himself dinner. He rummages through the fridge and pulls out some eggs, leftover ham from a couple of nights ago, a block of swiss cheese, and some asparagus. There’s some pie dough in the back of the fridge that he needs to use before it goes bad, so he grabs that too. 

     He chops up the ham and asparagus, shreds the cheese and whisks a handful of eggs in a bowl, surrounded by dead silence. Cooking is a nice distraction, relaxing and comforting. It reminds him of being younger, helping his mum stir the ingredients in her green, floral-patterned mixing bowl while she nursed his baby brother. He cherished those quiet moments home alone with the two people that loved him most, when his bastard father was out drinking or sleeping with other women. Beth is the one he learned most of his skills from—her chocolate cake recipe is the very one he uses for his business. Her handwriting will forever be engraved into his brain.

     Simon sighs as he assembles the quiche and puts it in the oven. He’s long since shed tears over his lost family, but he thinks about them every single day. It’s nice to think that Beth and Tommy are watching over him from some place way up in the sky, that they see the softer parts of him, the good in him. But his father knocks from down below, mocking, reminding Simon of his career, what heinous war crimes he’s committed and how he’s covered it up. No better than me, son, he jeers, ya take afta ya pops. He’s worked with his therapist on how to drown out that nasty voice. It works most of the time.

     Before he knows it, Simon is finally in bed. The dishes are washed, the oven is off, and he is warm, full, and happy—all the makings of a good night’s sleep. That’s exactly what he gets.

     Until that peace is disrupted by the sound of his doorbell being rung frantically. 

     He wakes with a start, rubbing the sleep from his hazy eyes. Four o’clock in the morning and already the world is trying to take back the tranquility he had for just a few hours. He turns on his bedside lamp, not bothering to put a shirt on, just slipping on a pair of sweatpants and padding to the front door. He looks through the peephole and his heart sinks. He flings the door open.

     “S-Simon, I’m so- so sorry to show up like this, but I-I was out with my friends and- and- fuck, I’m so sorry, I’ll just-”

     “Shh, lovie, breathe f’me,” Simon furrows his brow, resting his hands on your biceps gently. “Tell me wha’s goin’ on.”

     You sniffle and wipe away the tears running down your cheeks, smearing your mascara. 

     “We w-went to the bar, and there was a guy there who kept trying to- to- Simon, he’s following me, I-I can’t- please,” you sob, eyes wide and terrified.

     His grip on you tightens as he pulls you inside, instantly on alert. Rapidly approaching his front door is some guy with a scowl on his face and his eyes locked on your back. Simon coaxes you behind him as the guy stomps up to his doorstep.

     “Oi, mate, tha’s my bird ya go’ in there. We go’ into a figh’ and she ran off from me.”

     “Simon, I don’t- I don’t know him,” you slur timidly. “He’s b-been following me for miles.” 

     “Ge’ off o’my property ‘fore I break ya bloody jaw,” Simon growls, crossing his arms over his broad, scarred chest. 

     “Who the fuck d’ya think ya are, ya big prick? Gimme the broad an’ I’ll-”

     You barely have time to blink before there’s a loud crack and a pained yell from the smaller man. Simon’s shoulders heave as he grabs the guy by his shirt collar, leaning in close to mutter in his ear. 

     “Y’ever come ‘round ‘ere again, I’ll use ya guts as tinsel on ya mum’s Christmas tree. Go’ tha’?” 

     The man holds his dislocated jaw in shock before scurrying away with tears in his eyes like a scared little puppy. You let out a sigh of relief, still shaking even as Simon locks the door and turns to face you. He freezes when you wrap your arms around his neck but ultimately surrenders to the hug, strong arms snug around your waist. 

     “Thank you so much, I-I don’t- I can go home, now, I don’t wanna bother you any more than I already have,” you pull back apologetically, suddenly aware of exactly how early you’ve woken the poor man up. 

     “No’ a bother, lovie, I promise,” he murmurs. “Don’ wan’ ya goin’ ou’ all by y’self again. Y’can stay w’me.” 

     “I couldn’t-”

     “Ya will,” he interrupts, cupping your face in his big, warm hands. “Y’still stumblin’ ‘round, love. Tha’ alcohol needs t’wear off ‘fore I le’ ya go anywhere.”

     You pout, and Simon tuts, guiding you over to the couch and softly pushing you down onto the cushion. He takes off your heels and sets them beneath the coffee table, making sure you’re plenty comfortable. You snuggle up with the blanket he drapes over you and a content grin tugs at his lips. 

     “Ya ‘ungry?” He questions.

     He nods when you do, heading into the kitchen to warm up a slice of the quiche he made last night. He leans back against the counter and flinches at the cold, a dark flush heating his pale skin as he remembers he’s in nothing but a pair of damn sweatpants. He feels far too exposed, and insecurity creeps its way into his brain. Before he can decide to run to his bedroom and throw on a shirt, the microwave beeps, so he grabs a fork and brings you the food.

     “Made this las’ nigh’. Should keep y’full, maybe preven’ a hangover,” he explains softly, setting the hot plate on the coffee table. 

     “Thank you, Simon,” you grin up at him gratefully.

     “Since I’m up, m’gonna ge’ started on an order, alrigh’? Lemme know if ya need anythin’. Don’ hesitate t’ask.”

     Simon told a little white lie—there is no order he needs to complete. He just doesn’t want you to feel worse than you already do. He makes his way into the kitchen once more with a yawn, gathering all of the ingredients he needs to make chocolate cake. He’s been craving it since last night, and besides, it’ll help him feel closer to his mom and Tommy. Some of his best—untainted—memories revolve around that cake, shared around the table after supper. 

     You tread into the kitchen after a few minutes, empty plate in hand. Simon smiles, and you return the gesture, walking towards the sink. 

     “Lovie, y’don’ hafta wash-”

     “Sure I do,” you cut him off, running the hot water. “The quiche was really good. Thanks again for… well. All of this.”

     “Y’can always come over. Whenever ya wan’. I mean it.”

     You move to stand next to him, drying off your hands on one of his dishtowels. He’s mixing the batter by hand despite having a stand mixer, but you don’t question it. You observe silently, not wanting to distract him from his work. Simon looks up at you through his long blond lashes, stepping aside and gesturing for you to take over the whisking.

     “O-oh, I shouldn’t,” you laugh nervously.

     “Ya should,” he insists. “Ya won’ ruin it, sweet’eart. It’s pretty ‘ard t’fuck up. ‘Sides, I need t’butter some pans.”

     Cautiously, you take the whisk from him, slowly dragging it through the thin batter. The task isn’t as daunting as you led yourself to believe. You repeat the figure eight motion a few more times as Simon preps his bakeware.

     “Wanna pour it in?” He asks, sliding one of the metal pans over to you.

     “No. I- uh, well I’m kinda… still seeing double. Just a little,” you giggle, and he chuckles in response.

     “No’ a problem.”

     It’s smooth and practiced, the way he works. Such a simple act, but he makes it look like an art form. He doesn’t have to measure how much batter he pours into each pan, he just knows. Simon slides them into the oven, then turns to look at you. He sighs when he sees that you’re already eyeing his dirty dishes.

     “I can wash-”

     “No’ gonna ‘appen. Tha’s wha’ the dishwasher’s fo’, love,” he raises an eyebrow, making a show out of loading up the machine and drying off his hands once the chore is complete. “C’mon, then. Y’need some sleep.”

     You yawn before you can protest, much to his amusement. Rolling your eyes playfully, you follow behind him as he leads you to his bedroom. He pulls out a shirt and a pair of shorts from his drawer and hands them to you. 

     “More comfortable than tha’ dress, m’sure,” he hums, turning on his heel to give you some privacy. “I’ll be up fron’ if ya need me.”

     “S-Simon,” you chew on your bottom lip nervously. “Will you… will you stay with me? I don’t wanna kick you out of your own bed.”

     His heart skips a beat, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

     “Gotta ge’ the cakes outta the oven, firs’. Ge’ changed an’ I’ll come back in, yeah?”

     Simon gently shuts the door and trods back to the kitchen. You do as he says and change quickly, bashfully peeking out the door once you’re in his clothes. After a good few minutes he returns, still smelling of the chocolate cake. He hesitates before stepping back inside, grinning softly to himself as he watches you climb beneath his covers. He sits at the edge of the bed while you get comfortable.

     “Are you gonna lay down?” You ask through yet another yawn, lifting up the sheets and blinking up at him.

     “I-I, uh… yeah. Sure, lovie,” he sucks in a deep breath, then slides into bed right beside you.

     You hum contentedly and rub your eyes with the backs of your hands. You turn on your side to face him, carefully reaching out to brush a crumb of cake from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. 

     “Taste test?”

     “Ya caugh’ me,” he huffs in amusement, breath hitching in his throat as you lean in closer.

     “Thanks for saving me, Si,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

     As your head rests on his pillow and you drift off to sleep, there’s only one thought in Simon’s head.

     He could get used to this.

[zepskies]

Wake Me Up - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, Ben is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

AN: Welcome back to the BMD-verse! Let me tell you, I’ve had this mini series outlined for months, but now I thought it was finally time to get to it. If you’re not tired of the Break Me Down world yet, I very much hope you enjoy Wake Me Up.

**As a reminder, this story is set shortly after Love Actually, and will contain references from that three-part story. 

Song Inspo: For this whole series it’s “I Can Read Your Mind” by the Doobie Brothers. (I pretty much listened to this on repeat.)

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Starting off strong in this one: with mature themes, show level violence, angst, kidnapping, PTSD, mentions of torture (not too graphic), and character death.

💚 Wake Me Up Masterlist || Break Me Down Masterlist

Part 1: “Familiar Territory”

The start of a new year continued a steady rhythm for you and Ben. Namely, another successful mission for the Supe Affairs team.

While you were patched into the team’s communications line from the safety of your desk back at the S.A. headquarters in New York, your friends were a few states over in Denver, Colorado. They’d just arrested a supe that had been committing a series of bank robberies by literally slipping away from the police, thanks to his particular superpower.

“Somebody better get this shit off of me,” M.M. groused.

He wasn’t too happy about some questionable ooze this particular supe secreted as a defense mechanism. According to Frenchie’s research, it was the same shit that certain frogs could produce to repel predators.

“Need a good hose down, more like,” said Butcher. “You smell fuckin’ foul.”

“Like Satan’s ass crack,” Ben remarked.

You couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement.

“Let’s just get the fuck outta here,” M.M. said, his tone all surly, as per usual. You didn’t envy his plight.

“Good job, guys,” you said, to change the subject. “Now it’s just a short flight back to New York.”

“No layovers this time. I’m not being paid to rot in a fucking airport with a bunch of mouth-breathing assholes and their screaming brats,” Ben said.

Charming. You rolled your eyes, but a smile played on your lips when you imagined his taciturn face.

“Okay, your majesty. I’ll make sure it’s a nonstop flight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

That last bit, you said with a hint of more behind your words. You drummed your nails on your desk and crossed your legs underneath it. A week was a long time for you and your boyfriend to be apart, and you’d been missing him.

“You better be,” Ben said. His voice was deep and cocky. He was smirking, you were sure, and you knew that he’d understood you perfectly well.

“Anybody else hearing this blatant foreplay?” Hughie quipped.

“I sense cheeks will be cracked tonight,” Frenchie muttered.

“Ugh!” you heard Annie shudder.

You knew she supported you and Ben, but you also knew that she didn’t want to hear about the gushy details. You laughed through your embarrassment. 

“Okay, guys. I’ll see you all tomorrow,” you said, before you officially signed off. 

You grabbed your purse that was stowed away in a desk drawer, fished out your cell phone, and you called Ben’s cell. He picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he said. 

“I love you,” you said with a smile. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Mhmm,” he replied. “I’ll see you soon, baby doll.”

You pouted. “Come on, say it.”

“Say what?”

You sighed. You knew he was being deliberately obtuse.

“You know exactly what,” you replied.

Part of you was upset that he didn’t say it back as often as you liked. God forbid Butcher and the others hear him express his affection for you.

But you supposed you understood that any kind of vulnerability was difficult for him, especially in front of others. As much shit as you gave him, you also knew how to pick your battles with Ben.

“I told you. I’ll see you soon,” he said.

You once again tapped your nails, on your armrest this time. After a moment, you relented.

“Okay, baby. Have a safe flight,” you said, even if you were still frowning.

When Ben hung up with you, he let out a deep sigh.

An entire week with these juvenile cocksuckers was almost too much for him to fucking take. While he often felt your presence with you on the comm line during the actual mission, and the occasional phone call on long nights in between, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough.

He was ready to go home.

The flight itself was fine, though dealing with civilians and the tiring experience of a long-ass flight made him even more antsy to land. Because even when they got to JFK, he still had a hired car waiting for him to drive him from the airport to get to Scarsdale, and to the apartment he shared with you. It had already been almost a year of you two living there, in a three-bedroom spanning two floors.

Ben hadn’t thought he would get used to such a small place, but it was all right. It had become his home, far more than the penthouses and party mansions ever were, at least.

When he finally got home and unlocked the front door of the apartment, he stepped into darkness. All the lights were off.

Odd, he thought. He called your name while he shut the door behind him, then flicked on the foyer light. He realized then that he hadn’t seen your car in the driveway. Were you still working? It wasn’t unlike you to get caught up with the paperwork and other logistics after a case.

After a quick look around of each room, from the kitchen to the living room, Ben knew you hadn’t come home yet. A frown marred his face.

He went upstairs and entered the bedroom next. He unclipped his wrist guards and took his gloves off first, followed by loosening the collar of his supe suit. The bed was made, untouched since this morning, he was sure.

Then he noticed the scrap of paper resting on his pillow. He picked it up, and his brows furrowed as he read.

By the time you find me, she’ll wish she was dead.

Ben called Grace Mallory first.

When she didn’t answer, he called Butcher next. Ben’s hand shook the slightest bit while holding the phone up to his ear.

“Evenin’, guv,” Butcher answered with a tired sigh. “What’s this about—”

“We have a fucking problem,” Ben growled.

Ben pushed the limits of his Mercedes Benz while driving himself to Supe Affairs.

The others met him there in a conference room, except for Grace, who was on an active case at the moment. There Hughie and Frenchie tapped into the S.A. security footage on their laptops. 

They eventually found you getting into your car in the S.A. garage, about four hours ago. Then two later, the street cameras picked you up somewhere in the Village. Ben recognized the street. 

You probably had dinner with your friend Yvette and her family, but you intended to make it home on time to meet Ben when you left around 9:00 p.m. 

You had parallel parked at a meter on the street. According to the footage, it looked quiet and empty when you headed back to your car. 

You were stopped by someone before you could get the driver’s side door open. It looked like a man’s height and build; he grabbed you by the shoulder and threw a punch you managed to dodge.

You put up a good fight, but you were eventually knocked out with what looked to be a crowbar, at first glance. When Hughie zoomed in, it was actually a black baton. Ben watched it all with a deepening frown. Anger churned in his gut and ignited his blood as he watched your unconscious body being hauled into a black SUV.

“That looks military-issued,” M.M. said, pointing at the baton that the suspect used to hit you.

Butcher nodded, and also noted the man’s fighting style. “That’s a professional.”

“He would have to be, to take her out,” M.M. said, glancing at Ben. “And the timing. They knew you were coming home. That note was personal, besides the fact that they were casing your place…they’ve probably been watching both of you, waiting for the chance to get the jump on you.”

“The question,” Butcher said, “is who the fuck would wanna tangle with Soldier Boy that badly?”   

“Shit. That’s a laundry list, isn’t it?” Hughie said. M.M.’s glance told him to shut the fuck up.

Ben was silent, but his fury was mounting. His head turned sharply to Butcher.

“Get Mallory on the line. Now,” he barked. When no one moved quick enough for him, his temper snapped at its thinly held leash.

“I said right fucking now!”

Slowly you blinked your eyes open. For a moment, you were seeing in double vision. It soon cleared up to reveal dark, damp, musty surroundings.

It smelled familiar; after that mission to find and subdue Sapphire a couple of months ago, you’d recognize a New York sewer anywhere.

Fuuucking shit, you thought with a groan. Your head was aching. You felt a trickle of blood down the side of your neck, and you found yourself in a familiar position—seated on a metal chair with your hands secured behind your back. Your restraints felt like zip ties.

“You finally with us, sweetheart?” asked a man. His voice was smooth and commanding.

“Jackson, I don’t know about this,” whispered someone else. Another man, though he sounded slightly younger, reminding you of Hughie.

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” Jackson snapped.

At least you had a name. He stepped into the light that came from a couple of small lanterns. One was propped on top of a bucket by the wall. The other was on a plastic fold out table that you saw a few feet beside you.

The man who stepped into your line of vision was tall, maybe around Ben’s height, if just shy of his build. He was blonde, just like his skinnier friend. They shared some notable facial features and coloring, but while Jackson’s eyes were dark brown and self-assured, the younger man’s were blue and apprehensive. If you had to guess, they looked like brothers.

“Nice digs,” you remarked, gesturing with your gaze at your surroundings.

Jackson rose a brow, crossing his arms.

“You’re taking all this pretty well,” he said. 

You huffed humorlessly.

“This isn’t exactly my first kidnapping,” you said.

He quirked his head and drew closer.   

“All right. Well, since we’re on the clock, let me tell you why you’re here,” he said. He bent down in front of you so that his face was level with yours. “I need you, sweetheart. You’re going to tell me how to bring down Soldier Boy. How to kill him. How to end him. Then maybe, I’ll let you go without gouging out those pretty eyes.”

You stared back at Jackson with an expression that didn’t change.

Then you spat in his face.

And you expected the hard, back-handed slap that made your head whip to the side. It rattled you for a moment as you caught your breath, but you recovered enough to lean back in your seat. Your eyes met Jackson’s directly after he wiped his face with his shirt. “Tommy” stood off to the side behind his partner. He’d looked away when you were hit.

You focused on the other man, Jackson. He was wearing black cargo pants to match his boots, and a belt with a gun on his hip. He carried himself like a trained killer.

“Military, government agency, or private sector?” you asked.

His head tilted. He studied you, just like you were studying him.

“None of the above really,” he said. “Not anymore.”

He walked over to the fold out table, where he grabbed a black bag and unzipped it. A flash of silver gleamed as he pulled out one sharp instrument after the next. You had to hide your apprehension, and fear that made your insides tremble.

He glanced over at you.

“Let’s get started,” he said.

Hours later, you were teetering on the edge of consciousness.

After the last hit, you spat a wad of phlegm and blood onto Jackson’s shoes. He rotated the ache out of his hand. He looked down at you through furrowed brows.

“Damn, bitch,” he said, catching his breath. “You can take a hit. I’ll give you that.” 

“My dad was a Marine, numb nuts,” you managed to reply, through labored breaths. “He used to hit harder with his open hand than all the strength in that limp-dick wrist of yours.” 

Jackson smirked. “Christ. Daddy issues, huh? Why doesn’t that surprise me.” 

You gave him a droll look. Again, to cover your fear, because you weren’t willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

Angered and frustrated by that defiance, he reached down and grabbed your neck and jaw with one hand. You winced at the force of his grip, but when he started squeezing, this was the one thing that made you truly whimper. You tried not to think about the ghost of your father’s hand around your neck.

“Don’t you get it, asshole?” you gritted out while struggling for breath. “You can’t kill him. No one can. Stronger, smarter people than you have tried.” 

Moments ticked by while Jackson contemplated your words. 

Then he released you. You sucked in gulps of air and tried not to cough out a lung.

“Maybe,” he said. “But Soldier Boy’s got a weakness. If anyone knows it, I’ve got a feeling it’s you.” 

You can’t say anything. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. 

That had been your mantra for every minute you had spent in this hole. You shook your head.

“Look, Jackson.” You sucked in another breath to steady yourself, and blink a drip of blood out of your eyes. “He’s going to kill you. You and your brother. Take your family and run, while you’ve still got a chance.” 

“…You know what? You’re probably right,” Jackson said, scratching the back of his head with his crimson-stained hand. “But I just realized something.”

He leaned down again, until he was level with your face.

“When he finds you, drowned in your own goddamn blood…I think the look on his face might just be enough for me.”

Your eyes widened. 

It took days. Three painful days to pick up the threads, which led closer to home than anyone could’ve anticipated. 

Grace Mallory put pressure across the chain of command, and even reached out to the FBI for assistance. An alert email finally came to her phone, and she realized that an agent on her own payroll had been flagged for never reporting back for his debriefing on a reconnaissance mission.

That agent was Jackson Rawlins.

The further she read into his file, the worse her frown became. She immediately sent the lead to Ben, Butcher, and the rest of the team to run down. For the first time in years, Grace actually prayed.

She prayed that they would reach you in time. It wasn’t until then that she realized it; she hadn’t thought of you as a cog in her system for some time now—not even as leverage against Soldier Boy. She was genuinely concerned about you.

Grace worried that she was setting herself up for disappointment…if it was too late. However, she also worried about what would happen if you didn’t survive. She considered how Ben might react, with that nuclear power within him that he was still learning to control. The consequences of this mission could very well be catastrophic. 

You were losing track of time in this windowless pit. You knew it had been days, but you didn’t remember how many. The cellar was cold, and the way sound and air traveled, it felt like you were underground. It certainly smelled like it—damp and gross. It made you certain this was a sewer.

Now this is Satan’s ass crack, you thought. You winced at the pain that radiated…pretty much everywhere. Blood had dried from various lacerations across your face, neck, chest, and arms, and bruises were dark against your skin.

Your blouse was in tatters, and your jeans had bleeding rips as well, though at least he’d kept your ankle boots on. You were too weak even for hunger. And a large, heavy chain attached to manacles on your wrists had replaced the zip ties. One end of the chain was fastened between the wall and a line of plumbing.

Footsteps echoed down the hall behind you. You closed your eyes and steeled yourself.

“Are we actually gonna have a conversation today?” Jackson asked.

“Depends,” you replied, your voice dry and coarse. “Are you going to tell me why you hate Ben so much?”

An angry sigh escaped Jackson’s lips. He pointed up in frustration.

“Ben.” Jackson rolled and cracked his neck, like just the mention of your boyfriend’s real name was disgusting to this man.

“You talk about him like he’s a real fucking person. Not like the animal supe he is,” he said.

“He is a person,” you said, both in exhaustion, and in pain. “And he’s trying to be better. Look, he’s done terrible things. I’m not saying he hasn’t. I don’t know what he’s done to you in the past, but—”

Jackson shut you up with a sharp backhand. It made black spots encroach on your vision as you caught your breath.

You noticed his brother Tom come in the room as well, to watch and worry. He didn’t seem comfortable with this way of things. He looked like a civilian. Maybe you could use that to your advantage…

But you lost track of thought after that, when Jackson started in on you with either his hands, or the creativity of the instruments on the table nearby. 

You tried to block out the pain, along with his questions about Ben. If you couldn’t talk about him, you couldn’t let yourself think about him. So you couldn’t say anything.

Not about the Novichok nerve agent, one of the few things that had been found to incapacitate him. Not his imprisonment by Vought or the S.A.—nothing that your captor could one day use against Ben.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

Even though all you wanted right now was him. 

Ben, please…

You zoned in and out of consciousness from there.

When you next registered being awake, mercifully, you were left alone. You raised your head when Tom came to blot at least some of your wounds and give you water. You’d only eaten small pieces of protein bars for days. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered.

“Why does he want Ben?” you wheezed. “Why are you going along with this if you’re so damn sorry?”

Tom looked up at you with pain and grief in his blue eyes. He sighed and dragged a nearby chair from the table. He sat beside you while he fed you half a protein bar. It was a struggle to even get the pieces down.

“Last year,” said Tom, clearing his throat. “I lived in the building that Soldier Boy blew up when he got back from…wherever the Russians had him.”

Your eyes widened as you processed that. “You…but you made it out. Why—”

“I wasn’t home. I was at work,” Tom said. His voice was pained as his eyes became red and glassy. “Our mom wasn’t so lucky.”

You sighed, closing your eyes.

“She was retired, and I was taking care of her,” Tom said. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Jackson wasn’t here. He was on a mission in Colombia. Told me he was cleaning up some cartel shit.”

At that, you had a sneaking suspicion that coiled in your gut. Ben had left a bit of a mess when he peaced out of Colombia, with an entire plane filled with drugs and weapons from whatever cartel he’d infiltrated. (In his words, he’d cut the head off the snake.)

Grace told you she’d sent a team in to handle that mess…

“Your brother—who does he work for?” you asked. Though you had a feeling you knew the answer.

Tom seemed to read your understanding, and his face turned grim.

“The CIA,” he said.

Fuck, you grimaced. So not only had Ben been responsible for their mother’s death, but Jackson had been part of the team that cleaned up his mess in South America. It explained why Jackson was somehow able to find your information; Supe Affairs had become a subsect of the CIA, thanks to Grace. 

“I didn’t know he was planning this. I swear to God. All he said was that he had a way to get at Soldier Boy,” Tom said. You let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I really am,” you said. Tears welled up hot in your eyes. “But you need to let me go. For your own safety, believe me.”

You saw the guilt, the sadness, the regret on Tom’s face. The brief indecision was overtaken when he glanced down the hall. You knew then that he was more afraid of his own brother than he was willing to do the right thing.

Your tears spilled over, though you tried to breathe through it. You’d tried to save them for when you were alone, those seldom few, cold hours, but you were reaching your breaking point.

“Okay, before I go, do you have to use the bathroom?” Tom asked. There was a bucket in the corner, and Jackson preferred it away from the chair. It was the only time Tom was allowed to unchain you from the wall and let you stretch your legs.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, you nodded in agreement. It was humiliating to know you were going to have to do this yet again, in a bucket, with company. With the manacles still on your wrists, he brought you over to the “special” corner.

Tom sighed and looked away to give you some semblance of privacy.

That was when you used every scrap of energy you had left in you.

You grabbed the chain and yanked it out of his hands long enough to wrap it around his neck from behind. You cut off his sounds of strain and kicked out his knees, so he was forced to kneel on the ground.

You wrapped the rest of the chain around your thigh, giving you the leverage you needed to tighten your grip and choke him out, until he was unconscious. His body fell to the side, and you heaved for breath. Once again, there were black spots in your vision, but you did your best to blink them away.

Now set with determination, you made your way to the plastic table and searched for the key to your chains. After the manacles were unlocked, you rubbed at your raw wrists and rapidly scanned the room. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you calculated which way you should go to try and escape.

There were three possibilities in this clearing under the sewer: left, right, or straight ahead. Every time Tom or Jackson emerged, it sounded like it was behind you. The chair was facing to the east, which meant you had to take the left tunnel.

You ran in that direction and tried to find a metal ladder that would take you to whatever manhole cover these guys had detached. Someone couldn’t just open up any of those iron plates without the right tools, from the inside or the outside.

You walked as fast as you could manage, even though your entire body protested in pain. Then finally, you saw a black duffel bag lying on the ground, against the wall. Next to it was a metal ladder that went all the way up to the top.

“Jackson, don’t!”

You heard Tom’s voice, but you felt the presence behind you too late. Jackson hit you in the back of the head with that damn baton, so hard that even he grimaced at how the sound echoed on the walls. You crumpled to the ground.

Jackson stood over you with a grim set to his face. He turned to his brother with a shake of his head.

“She’s a walking welt, and you couldn’t handle her?” he said.

“This is too much,” Tom said in worry. He bent down and held two fingers to your neck. He still felt a pulse, at least, but when he felt behind your head, he found blood. His hand shook as he stared at it.

“If you didn’t want in on this, you should’ve said so from the beginning,” said Jackson. He spun the baton in his hand and clipped the hilt to his belt, from a small metal loop on the end of it.

“You didn’t say anything about…about this!” Tom argued. He cleaned your blood off on his jacket.

Jackson regarded his brother with disappointment, and he hefted you up into his arms. Tom followed him back to their setup with your makeshift prison. There Jackson left you lying on the ground, and chained you back up by your wrists for good measure. He then literally and figuratively wiped his hands of you.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” he said. “For good this time.”

Tom looked at you, then his brother in shock. There was even emotion in his eyes.   

“We’re leaving her to die,” he said, his voice unsteady. He knew then, that their mother wouldn't have wanted this in her name. If she saw both of them now, she wouldn't recognize them.

Jackson grabbed his younger brother where his neck met his shoulder. An iron grip.

“And what do you think Soldier Boy is going to do if he finds us?” Jackson asked. His gaze encouraged Tom to explore that reality for a moment.

Jackson nodded at your unconscious form. “Trust me, that bitch was never going to talk. But this is almost better.”

It wasn’t right, Tom thought. He knew it, deep in his heart, but he wasn’t strong like his brother, or even like you.

That was when they heard it. The rumble of engines dying and tires rolling overhead, dislodging a few stray pebbles and dust from the ceiling. Jackson’s eyes widened. 

“Fuck!” he muttered. “All right, let’s go.”

Jackson forced his younger brother to leave the sewer with him, and leave you chained up on the floor.

Ben, Butcher, M.M., and Frenchie had done much of the legwork in tracking down Jackson Rawlins and his brother Tom (with help from Annie, Kimiko, and Hughie of course). Frenchie had found your likely location with a powerful thermal scanner, courtesy of Grace.

Now, they’d driven up to the wide alley in the city and blocked off all the exits on the block. Ben was the first to get his boots on the ground and stride toward the point of entry, where according to Frenchie’s scanners, more than one body was holed up in the sewer. He held his shield at his side and at the ready when the manhole cover loosened, and slid open.

A small gas bomb rolled out towards his feet, but it was just tear gas, not the kind of thing that could actually affect him. Ben picked up the little round ball of metal and crushed it in his hand. While the rest of the team dove for the oxygen masks stored in the car, Ben stalked forward.

Seeing the silhouette of a man, Ben threw his shield hard enough to rattle a supe.

Jackson Rawlins was thrown clean onto his back with a force that stole the breath from his lungs, even through his gas mask. It also broke half a dozen ribs. Ben was soon bearing on top of him and ripping off the mask.

Jackson cried out as remnants of the tear gas seared his eyes.

“Got us a runner!” Butcher shouted. He intercepted and grabbed up a second man who tried to escape. Tom Rawlins wasn’t the threat, but he still wasn’t going free. M.M. and Frenchie also dove down into the sewer to try and find you after they got their gas masks on.

Meanwhile, Ben hauled Jackson up by his neck and walked him back until he hit the brick wall beside a nail salon. Jackson grunted in pain. Every breath he took was now agonizing, thanks to his now battered and broken ribs.

“Where is she?” Ben demanded.

Jackson actually laughed in his face, despite his now bloodshot eyes.

“All you fucking supes are the same,” he said. “But you…you’re the worst. Quite literally, the original asshole. And what does the government do? What does the world do? Gives you a pass on decades of indiscretions, fuck ups, and straight up murder.” 

Ben didn’t outwardly react, but he knew what Jackson’s problem was. He knew he killed the man’s family. Collateral damage—something that had caused Ben more than one argument with you in the past.

But he didn’t care.

He didn’t care, because all he could see in his mind’s eye was a metal bat hitting the back of your head and knocking you clean out. He saw you being taken against your will. Taken from him. And that, he couldn’t abide.

“Where. Is she?” Ben said, as his grip flexed around the other man’s neck. It would be easy. Easier than snapping a toothpick. And he warned, “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

“Dead, probably,” Jackson spat, despite his red and bleary eyes. “Real tough bitch. I see why you’re fucking her…I had me a little taste myself.”

In that moment, Ben couldn’t compute.

His green eyes widened. His breath stilled.

Then his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth were grinding. A fire in his blood and behind his eyes, and fury that burned hot in his chest, almost giving it that nuclear glow.

His hand tightened and choked any salacious words Jackson might’ve spewed out next.

“He didn’t!” Tom shouted out. He was being restrained by Butcher. Ben glanced at them out of the corner of his eye.  

“He didn’t touch her. Not like that,” Tom said. He looked sincere.  

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” said his older brother. 

It earned Ben’s attention back. Jackson had the look of a man who knew he was going to die either way.

Ben’s lips curled into a sneer. He took the man’s head with both hands, and slowly crushed his skull. The scream echoed between Ben’s ears, but he was only satisfied when Jackson’s lifeless body dropped at his feet.

He turned to the other Rawlins next.

Tom had screamed as well to watch his brother’s life ended before his eyes. He now stared straight into Soldier Boy’s, pleading wordlessly for his own life. Ben started toward him.

“Please,” Tom said. He tried twisting away from Butcher, who held firm to the man’s arm. The Brit knew all too well, the rage that Ben had in his blood.

“Ben,” Annie tried, and she even stepped forward. Butcher held a hand out against her with a knowing look. It wouldn’t be wise to stand in the way.

“Hey!” M.M. shouted up from down the open hatch of the sewer. “We found her! Need help getting her loose.”

Ben paused in his steps. Tom was shaking, lips trembling, petrified.

Tilting his head, Ben let out a subtle breath through his nose. He began to turn back toward the sewer.

At the last moment, however, he drew his gun and shot Tom Rawlins between the eyes. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Annie and Hughie flinched, but Butcher and Kimiko weren’t surprised in the least.

Meanwhile, Ben made his way back towards M.M.’s voice, and into the sewer. He heard M.M. and Frenchie arguing about first aid and head wounds, the further in he went. Ben’s dark mood blackened even more along the way.

Once he reached them, he also reached you, held in M.M.’s arms as he cradled your head.

You were unconscious with your wrists locked into heavy chains. The furrow between Ben’s brows deepened, but he got down to his knees beside you and first, broke your chains. He guided you out of M.M.’s arms and into his own, making sure to support your head. Blood was already staining his half-glove and fingers.

It was then that he noticed the small crimson pool lying where your body had been, likely from the wound he could feel at the back of your head. Ben’s mouth trembled the slightest bit, mostly in anger as he drew himself back onto his feet. Your body was littered with bruises, cuts both shallow and deep made by what looked like a blade, and God knew what else.

“I had me a little taste myself,” Jackson had taunted.

No, Ben internally shook that thought from his mind. No, you hadn’t been touched like that, at least, according to the sniveling, cock-sucking brother.

But can you trust that little cunt’s word?

Ben briefly closed his eyes, pressing his lips to your forehead. He continued walking down the hall and towards the light and fresh air of the world above.

You’re gonna be just fine, he promised you, if just within the safety of his mind.

Yeah, you would be all right.

He was going to make sure of it.

AN: 🫣 I'm sorry...BUT, I can promise it will get better (eventually). First, it's going to get worse.

Next Time:

It was a slow process, and it hurt, but you managed to turn your head. You saw a man sitting in the corner with a laptop balanced on his lap. He typed with two fingers at a time, which reminded you of your grandfather. His brown hair fell over his furrowed brows, but his beard was well trimmed.

His head soon raised, possibly feeling the weight of your gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily closed the laptop and set it down on his seat before he went to you. You frowned when he came to sit at your bedside, and even touched your cheek with a gentle hand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth. “How’re you feeling?”

You didn’t have the energy to lean away from his hand, but you did give him a look of weary confusion.

“I…I don’t…who are you?” you asked.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Break Me Down Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

BMD/Series Tag List (Part 1):

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@spnwoman @syrma-sensei @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @muhahaha303 @123passwort

@mrsjenniferwinchester @lyarr24 @xoxovienna @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28

@nancymcl @ashbatz @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022

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@tearsfortheyouth @agalliasi @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67 @deansbbyx

[fromchaostocosmos]

Antisemitism makes strange bedfellows out of people and that could not be more clearly seen then with Marjorie Taylor Greene and Rashida Tlaib.

I think one would be hard pressed to find something that those two would agree on besides antisemitism.

And some of oddest logic in which they can't vote on a resolution that condemns antisemitism because other forms of discrimination exist.

Like the option to vote to condemn antisemitism and be against other forms of discrimination at the same time is apparently.

Also since when did Marjorie Taylor Greene care about discrimination.

Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, a Georgia Republican, and Rep. Rashida Tlaib, a Michigan Democrat, each voted “present” on the resolution, introduced in the wake of attacks on Jewish targets in Boulder, Colorado, and Washington, DC. The women, both of whom have been accused of antisemitism themselves, each said they could not support the resolution because of what they said was Congress’s inattention to other groups facing deadly threats.

The resolution that they declined to back had bipartisan support. It was titled “Condemning the rise in ideologically motivated attacks on Jewish individuals in the United States, including the recent violent assault in Boulder, Colorado, and reaffirming the House of Representatives' commitment to combating antisemitism and politically motivated violence.”

“Antisemitic hate crimes are wrong, but so are all hate crimes. Yet Congress never votes on hate crimes committed against white people, Christians, men, the homeless, or countless others,” she tweeted. She added, “Americans from every background are being murdered — even in the womb — and Congress stays silent. We don’t vote on endless resolutions defending them.” Greene continued, “Prioritizing one group of Americans and/or one foreign country above our own people is fueling resentment and actually driving more division, including antisemitism. These crimes are horrific and easy for me to denounce. But because of the reasons I stated above, I voted present.”

Tlaib, for her part, denounced both resolutions as “Republican-led attempts to cynically politicize tragic acts of violence — like the recent horrific attack in Boulder — to demonize immigrant communities, praise ICE, and pave the path for the further repression of our constitutional rights to free speech and protest in support of Palestinian lives and human rights.” She noted that Congress had not issued resolutions when Wadea al-Fayoume, a 6-year-old Palestinian-American near Chicago, was murdered or when three Palestinian college students were shot in Vermont. “I stand firmly against antisemitism. And I stand firmly in support of a Free Palestine,” Tlaib said in a statement. “These values are not contradictory. Our fight against antisemitism is connected to our fight against Islamophobia, anti-Black racism, white nationalism, and oppression in all forms. We must continue to speak out for a world free from dehumanization and violence.”

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 15

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series masterlist<3

Summary: The dynamic between you and Homelander intensifies, blurring the lines between love and control, as he unveils an unexpected surprise.

Warnings: smut, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

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The week passed in a blur.

Homelander has been… different.

Softer. Sweeter. Better.

It’s been easy to forget the parts of him that should send you running. His violence, his rage. The way he sees the world as his own—something to mold, something to control.

He took you out every night, showed you the kind of attention that turned heads—big, public displays of affection, making it clear to everyone who you belong to.

Fancy dinners with the best wine. Private rooftop picnics where he flew you above the skyline, pressing soft kisses to your neck while the city lights sparkled below.

And even at the tower, he was good.

Waking up slow, curled into his arms. Breakfast already waiting for you. His hands on your waist while you brushed your teeth, whispering in your ear how fucking perfect you are.

It was intoxicating.

But—

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

Silly girl.

A man like him can’t let things be good for long.

—

You stand among your team, casually sipping your coffee. You’re at Supe Fest—another bullshit meet-and-greet Vought forced you to attend to keep up appearances. But because you guys are the Seven—the elite, the faces of power—you only have to commit two hours of your precious time.

Just enough to show the fans you care before going back to “saving the world”—or at least, pretending to.

Homelander stands close beside you, his presence undeniable. It’s not lost on anyone just how much you’ve become his.

His protege, his prized possession, the living proof of his influence. His girl.

The rest of the team feels it, too—jealousy simmering beneath their forced smiles. Even the men, who have spent years groveling for Homelander’s approval, couldn’t help but seethe with envy.

The Deep? He hates you.

Sage? Same. But mostly? She’s jealous.

A-Train? He’s torn—part envy, part concern. I mean, he’s barely spoken three words to you. But somehow? He sees himself in you—the vulnerable version he’s long since buried.

And Black Noir? Well… Black Noir doesn’t speak.

Ashley lingers beside the group, buzzing with her typical nervous energy. She’s basically a chaperone, trying to wrangle a room full of powerful delinquents.

“I was thinking,” she pipes up, clasping her clipboard, “this would be a great opportunity to scout for our next Seven member in real time!”

Firecracker’s replacement has been a nightmare to find. Without Homelander’s full attention, it’s impossible for her to lock someone in.

“That’s great you were thinking, Ashley,” Homelander muses, his tone deceptively pleasant. “Because sometimes, I feel like you don’t use that fucking brain of yours at all.”

You hate how Homelander speaks to others. Women, specifically. But Ashley? She’s not someone to trust—isn’t someone who has your best interests at heart. Knowing Homelander has her under his thumb, somehow makes you feel safer.

“Stop,” you look at him, trying not to laugh.

“Okay, sorry Homelander, I mean, sir-” Ashley blurts, scrambling to pivot. “Alright, you Seven—I mean, Six—you’re slotted for two hours, and all of the money you bring in goes to a charity of your choice!”

Homelander barely acknowledges her, already bored.

“We’ll stay for thirty minutes,” he cuts in smoothly, pointing between you and himself. “We have plans. You understand, right, Ashley?”

Ashley has no choice but to understand. She gives a tight, hurried nod. Homelander smiles down at you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He strides off toward some Vought executive, glowing with charisma as he shakes hands, poses for photos. He’s good at playing the part.

The second he’s gone, The Deep appears. He steps far too close, his breath warm against your face.

“What the fuck do you have that I don’t?” he sneers.

You blink, unimpressed.

“Well, for starters? I’m not on a PETA watchlist.”

His face burns with anger.

“Bro, that was fake news!” He huffs, shaking his head. “This shit isn’t fair! You spread your legs for him, and suddenly you’re—”

Your hand snaps up instinctively. You slap him, and the crack of the hit echoes around you. A sharp jolt of electricity surges through your palm, shocking him in the process.

The Deep stumbles, sucking in a breath. His expression morphing from rage to stunned disbelief.

You’re not sure why it feels so easy—why standing up to him feels so… natural.

Maybe it’s because he reminds you of them—the men who shattered your innocence all those years ago.

Men who thought your body was theirs to ruin.

Men who believed they could break you, silence you, erase you.

Men who were so very wrong.

Because you’re still here.

Still standing.

Still breathing.

And now, you’re not the broken girl they left behind.

Now, you’re the one with the power.

The Deep barely has time to react. Before he can even think about retaliating—

Homelander reappears.

His presence like a crackling live wire—tension coiling in the air, thick and suffocating. The easy smirk on his face doesn’t reach his eyes, which gleam with something razor-sharp.

The Deep goes stiff, still reeling from the slap and the electric charge you sent through him.

“You having fun here, buddy?” Homelander’s voice is smooth, mocking, but you can hear the warning beneath it.

The Deep’s throat bobs, his expression flickering between panic and desperation. “I was just—”

“Just what?” Homelander tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Just being a little pussy bitch?”

The Deep opens his mouth—then he shuts it again.

The surrounding crowd is silent. You can feel the weight of the stares pressing in from all sides.

Good thing Homelander loves an audience.

He lets the silence stretch, The Deep squirming beneath his gaze.

Then, finally—

He laughs.

A light, amused sound, as if all of this is just so funny to him.

And honestly? You can’t say you disagree.

“You know, for a guy who can talk to fish, you really don’t listen for shit.”

The Deep clenches his jaw, fingers curling at his sides. “I—”

“No, no, don’t even try it,” Homelander interrupts smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s honestly just… sad at this point.”

The Deep stiffens with frustration, but he doesn’t dare to respond.

Homelander grins, placing a possessive hand on the back of your neck. The Deep turns sharply on his heel and storms off, his hands balled into fists. Homelander chuckles as he watches him go.

“You zapped him?” His lips quirk, delighted.

You shrug, still feeling the faint buzz of electricity tingling in your fingertips. “He was asking for it.”

Homelander lets out a low, pleased hum, his grip on the back of your neck tightening.

“God, I love you.”

Huh?

I love you.

You freeze.

The words sit there, waiting.

And you can’t say them. You just can’t.

Not because you don’t feel it—God, you feel something alright. But because you were rational. It’s been only weeks.

Weeks since you met. Weeks since he decided you belonged to him. Weeks since he started reshaping your entire world to fit his.

And you can’t help but ask yourself—if it’s only been weeks, why does it feel like a lifetime?

His gaze interrupts your inner monologue, his eyes waiting patiently for you to say the words.

Panic crawls up your spine, and before you can stop yourself, you deflect.

“This is a pretty big turnout,” you say quickly, gesturing toward the crowd.

For a second—just a second—his smirk falters.

Then just like that, it’s back.

But thinner. Tighter. His expression smoothed, but his eyes?

They are sharp.

“Do I need to repeat myself, darling?”

You try to shift in his grip, but he doesn’t let you move.

Another chance.

Another out.

But no words come out.

“My princess is shy. How adorable.”

He slides his fingers up your neck, pausing them against your throat in a way that feels deliberate. He leans in close, his mouth against your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you so good tonight, you’ll have no choice but to say it.”

Fucking hell.

—

The meet-and-greet moves along, an endless blur of fans cycling through. Homelander is in performance mode. He flashes that perfect, easy smile, making people weep just by standing too close.

A guy makes his way to the table —young, around your age, flashing a cocky grin. He barely glances at Homelander. His eyes are only on you.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re even prettier in person.”

You give a polite, carefully neutral smile. “That’s sweet.”

You feel the weight of Homelander beside you. The heat radiating off of him. The way his fingers twitch—just barely—on the table.

The guy leans in slightly. “I saw your Sports Illustrated cover, and I gotta say… Vought sure does know how to pick ‘em.”

You laugh awkwardly, signing his poster. “I appreciate that.”

“Think you can sign this, too?” He pulls out a napkin, sliding it across the table.

The implication is clear.

And that’s when everything snaps.

Homelander moves so fast, splitting the table open in the process. The sharp, sudden snap of splintered wood rips through the air, sending gasps through the crowd.

The guy stumbles backward, his face going pale.

And when he looks up—

Homelander is smiling.

But it isn’t warm.

It’s not charming.

It’s all teeth.

“That was a really fucking bad idea.”

The guy takes another step back, hands raised.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Homelander’s head tilts, eyes glowing faintly. “Didn’t mean to hit on my beautiful girlfriend? Hmm?”

The guy swallows hard. “I was just joking—”

“I love jokes. You wanna know what’s funny?” Homelander leans in slightly, voice lowering like he’s telling a secret. “The way your little hands are shaking. Now run along, kid.”

The guy doesn’t just walk—he fucking bolts, nearly knocking over the line behind him.

Homelander straightens his suit, exhaling slowly, calm again. Just like nothing happened at all.

You turn to him, stunned, heart still racing.

“You liked that. And I bet your pussy is dripping for me.”

“What is wrong with you?”

He grins wider. “You tell me, sweetheart.”

And when you step away a few minutes later, stomach churning, searching for a place to breathe—

He follows.

You make a beeline for the small, tucked-away family bathroom, slipping inside, fingers fumbling for the lock—

But before you can close the door, his foot wedges between it. He steps inside, locking the door behind him.

The space is too small. Too small for this much tension. Just his presence swallows up the air as his eyes lock on you, predatory and waiting.

“You didn’t say it back.”

His voice is flat.

Not teasing anymore.

Not amused in the slightest.

You inhale sharply, pressing your hands against the sink as you try to steady yourself.

“Jesus, Homelander. Are we really doing this right now?”

“Yeah,” he says plainly, stepping closer. “We are.”

Your brows furrow. “Why does it matter?”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Why does it—?” He laughs, shaking his head, voice low and mocking. “You’ve been mine since the moment I laid eyes on you. And you think it doesn’t matter?”

“It’s only been weeks. You can’t just decide—”

He moves so fast you barely have time to process it—his hand grips the edge of the sink on either side of you, caging you in.

Homelander leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“I don’t care if it’s been weeks. I don’t do time like you do.”

His hand tilts your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Do you love me?”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

You want to lie.

To run.

But your body betrays you, yet again.

Because when his grip tightens, when his chest presses against yours, when his breath fans against your lips—

Your body burns for him.

A smirk curls at his lips. “See? You do love me. You’re just scared.”

You clench your jaw. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” He slides a hand down your waist, gripping hard. “Then say it.”

“Stop trying to control me.”

His eyes darken.

And then—

His lips crash against yours. Hard. Desperate. Punishing. Like he is pulling the words out of you, forcing you to surrender in the only way you knew how. You whimper against his mouth, your body arching against him despite the fight still lingering in your chest.

“You love me,” his voice rough, needy. “Fucking say it.”

You gasp, your fingers gripping tight into his suit. Your head tilts as his lips travel down your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

And fuck, you want to fight it. You try. But when his hands slip under your shirt, fingers digging into your hips, pressing you flush against him—

All you can do is melt.

His lips devour you, the frustration still thick in the air. It saturates every touch, every movement. It’s messy, all heat and desperation, as if he can pull the words out of you through sheer force.

“Say it.”

Your hands press against his chest, not to push him away—to ground yourself. Because, fuck, he’s everywhere. His scent, his heat.

“You’re being a fucking psycho,” you breathe, voice breathless but still defiant.

“Yeah?” His fingers slip under your shirt, running up your stomach, dragging over your ribs. “Is that why you’re shaking, sweetheart?”

That’s not why.

It’s because you want him. You need him.

Because you’re too far gone.

And he knows it.

His lips brush against your ear, his voice turning sickeningly soft. “You love me.”

He’s pushing you, pressing you to the edge, demanding something you aren’t ready to say. But you still arch when he lifts you onto the sink, his hips wedging between your thighs. He quickly pulls your pants down, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

You gasp as his hand wraps around your throat, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

“You don’t get to run from me.”

His other hand slides down, gripping the inside of your thigh, spreading you wider beneath him.

You hate how easy you make it for him.

How you don’t fight it.

Don’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your fingers fist into his suit, pulling him closer. Your body reacting even when your mind still fights to process the weight of it all.

Homelander smirks against your lips. “There she is. My sweet girl.”

“You do love me,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. “You just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s wrong. But the way his mouth drags down your collarbone, the way his fingers slide beneath your waistband, teasing, barely touching—

You can’t say a fucking word.

And right now, you hate him for being right.

His fingers slip lower, his thumb circling your clit. He can feel the wetness through your panties as he pulls them to the side without hesitation. He pushes two fingers inside of you, maintaining the steady rhythm against your clit. He works his fingers slowly, feeling every inch of you. Another way to remind you he’s always in control.

“Let me hear you. Moan for daddy.”

He’s in heaven watching the way your lips part, feeling the way your nails dig into his arms.

Your head tips back against the mirror, legs trembling around his waist. You catch yourself calling out his name as you ride his hand to completion.

And when he finally kisses you again—

You don’t fight it.

You don’t hold back.

Because fuck, you need him just as much as he needs you.

And when you finally say those three words?

You know you’ll never be the same.

—

Your body still trembles slightly, your mind caught somewhere between bliss and confusion. Homelander is looking at you. Not smirking, not mocking—just watching. Studying. Waiting for you to say it. For you to give in.

Instead, you swallow, smoothing your hands over your thighs. You try to reassemble yourself, try to push away the weight of what had just happened.

Because fuck, it was a lot. The fight. The way he cornered you. The way you let him have you anyway.

Your feelings for him are a mess—a dangerous tangle of things you aren’t ready to name.

“All daddy wants to do is take care of you,” he says, kissing each of your fingertips.

“You have a funny way of showing it...”

Homelander chuckles. “I’ll give you that.”

He pulls back, watching your expression. His smirk is slow, but there’s something dangerous behind it. Something still unsatisfied.

“You know you love me, baby.”

And you don’t deny it.

“I have a surprise for you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift. “Another surprise?”

Homelander grins, looping an arm around your waist. “Mmhmm. Something special.”

Maybe this is his way of making things up to you. Maybe—just maybe—he can be sweet.

So you let him lead you out of the bathroom, out of the event, out of the chaos of Vought’s carefully manufactured world, his arm firm around you the entire time.

And you don’t question it.

Don’t ask where he’s taking you.

Don’t ask why he’s flying you over the city, past the twinkling skyline, past the lights and life…

To something darker.

More isolated.

A… warehouse?

Before you can say anything, Homelander turns to you. His eyes gleaming, lips curling into something soft and affectionate.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Something in his tone sends a chill crawling down your spine.

But his eyes—those eyes—they are so soft.

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

Homelander smiles, pushing open the door.

Dim, flickering light. The scent of sweat, metal, something heavier.

Then—

The sound of muffled screams.

You turn your head slowly—

And you see them.

Four men.

Tied to chairs.

Eyes wide, terrified, pleading.

Your body locks up, something cold seizing your chest. Your breath stalling in your throat.

It’s them.

The men who took from you. Who stole your innocence, your power, your past. Even moments of your present.

Homelander lets out a pleased murmur against your ear.

“Maybe now you’ll tell me you love me...”

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

tags: @raginginkedslut @lilyalone @helreyy

[talesof-old]

soul vow | n.s.

pairing(s): neteyam sully x na’vi!reader

warning(s): slight mentions of violence, mentions of injuries (nothing explicit), grief, mourning, potential loss of a mate, neteyam :(((

word count: 952

masterlist

only neteyam can choose to return to the living, but you will remain by his side regardless

You gently stroked the top of Neteyam’s cheekbone, committing his tanhì to memory, heart aching when you remembered how they flickered and faded.

Shells clinked together as Ronal entered the space. Her arms, laden with all sorts of supplies, tightened briefly as she caught sight of you. She’d tried to shoo you away originally, but you were nothing if not stubborn. She sighed and her things on the floor, settling on her knees and cradling her swollen belly.

“He has yet to wake.” The words were barely a whisper, just as helpless and broken sounding as you’d felt since he’d been shot.

“It is his choice to return, child. He will pass, or he will wake.” Your ears flattened. Days had passed; any longer and you were certain you’d have to live without him forever. His siblings had come and gone, oftentimes it was only Tuk that sat with you. You suspected that it was too terrible to see their older brother and son so vulnerable. Ronal pricked at his skin, something she’d done every day since.

Your fingers traced over the strips on his arms, body gently rocking as you quietly hummed the tune of his songchord. On the nights you’d spent together, he’d taught it to you. His voice, low and honeyed, had been easy to focus on. Even now, you could imagine it. The soft words, the lilt in his tone as if he recalled something funny, the glimmer in his eyes when he approached the part of his song that included you. Grief threatened to cleave your heart in two. Na’vi mate for life. A widow so soon? Tears burned behind your closed eyelids, thinking of the day you made tsaheylu and promised to walk by each other’s side til the end of your days.

The first night Ronal spent trying to heal Neteyam, you’d disappeared to the Spirit Tree, weeping and wailing like some wounded, dying animal. Please, you begged. Do not take him from me now.

Days, and next to nothing had changed. Yesterday morning, his fingers had twitched in your hold, and you’d nearly burst into tears. With bated breath, you’d waited for him to open those beautiful ambery eyes and see you.

It never happened.

You opened your eyes. Ronal tapped his forehead, chanting as she went. Laughter sounded outside of the tent, twisting your stomach as it faded. How long had it been since you heard him do the same? Even now, your memories were turning to smoke in your hands; fading from the number of times you’d revisited them. If that was your fate, it was worse than death. Movement drew your attention. His fingers twitched, and just seconds later, his brow furrowed. Ronal’s eyes flashed to yours.

Leaning forward on unsteady feet, you cupped his cheek. A soft groan left dry lips, his eyes squeezing before he leaned into your touch. You let out a broken laugh, a mangled half sob as his eyelashes fluttered. Ronal called out, alerting whoever stood outside of the Tsahìk’s healing marui.

Commotion followed, but you didn’t bother moving; a pair of golden green eyes opened, hazy at first, but clearing as they focus in on your face. Neteyam’s ears flattened and tears were quick to line his eyes. You moved then, softly wrapping your arms around his bruised form. He groaned, but buried his face into the safety the crook of your neck offered. It was only when Tuk and Neytiri rushed to him that he drew away.

Reluctant to let go, but understanding their need to assure his health, you gave them the space to worry over him.

You placed a hand over your chest as you stood to speak to Ronal. “Thank you, Tsahìk. Words are not enough.”

She stared for a moment, offering nothing but a nod before exiting the area. The rest of the Sully family filed in, weariness etched deep into the planes of their faces. The beads of your top gently sounded as you took up the empty spot by Neteyam’s feet. You rested a hand on his ankle, tail flicking back and forth as you witness a palpable relief settle over each of their shoulders.

As eclipse washed the reef in a blanket of indigo, you curled up against your mate’s weak form. Silence settled over the marui, nothing but the gentle lapping of water lulling you to sleep. Maybe if exhaustion hadn’t sunken its claws so deep, you would’ve noticed the tension in his shoulders. Neteyam ran a trembling hand over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

You frowned, half asleep but no less ecstatic to hear his voice. He pressed his forehead to yours. “I should’ve been better.” Something clamped down on your chest. Skxwang, you wanted to scream. Instead, you simply pressed a kiss to his bandaged chest. The weight of his stare had you shifting, looking up to meet the anguish head on.

“You were perfect, Teyam.”

His eyes fell shut, squeezing hard. His head began to shake. You lifted your arm, cupping his cheek and stopping his frantic movements.

“You are not to blame for any of it. Understand?”

For a moment, he kept still, eyes still shut. It would be an honor to chase away any doubt that crept in. A duty you would kill for until you were returned to the Great Mother.

“Okay.”

There’s a long road of recovery ahead, you’re certain, but simply knowing Neteyam is breathing was enough. The rest would fall into place. As you drew him in close, the both of you on the verge of sleep, you vowed that death would have to take you first before ever thinking of coming for the Na’vi in your arms.

+++

[isetfiretomyself]

Yandere Fem Villain X Hero Reader (G/N)

Damn! At it again with another non male Yandere 🙏 Ik they don't get as many likes but I like them and my blog is just a lil bit fun for me! I'm just being silly fr :3 But the next two fics will be ones requested!!!! A little bit of a clue but ones a pt2 🤫

Trigger warnings! Violence, Obsessive behaviour, Yandere behaviour, Rather specific but Reader thinks the Yandere is their responsibility. I don't condone toxic behaviour irl!

💥Yandere Villain who's always hated Heros. From a young age the system let her down and she'll never forgive them.

💥Yandere Villain who was beaten half to death by a hero, only surviving because he got distracted. (Yandere Hero crossover, anyone?:>)Her face was completely numb from pain. She was slipping in and out of consciousness and fully didn't expect to wake back up. That was fine, she'd accepted that death was going to be the only thing that was kind to her so she embraces with open arms.

💥 What Yandere Villain didn't expect was for you to turn up. Her archenemies! You had some great battles over the years, you must be there to see her last moments. Hero's and their dramatic behaviour.

💥Yandere Villain Who didn't expect you to drag her to safety and do your best to patch her up.

"What are you doing hero?" She groans trying to push you away. "Stop moving you're going to swallow blood just lean forward!" You say trying to remain calm. "Why...why are you doing this?" "I can't loose you! I hate everyone! I hate other heros, I hate villains, they all think the same! You're the only one who seems to have a shred of morals and you're blowing stuff up!" You let out a sigh, not realising you had so much pent up emotions. What you didn't know is Yandere Villain saw this as a confession. I mean you hate everyone but saved her, you must love her right!

💥Yandere Villain who refused to let you fight others anymore. You didn't like them anyway! It doesn't matter heros, hell even other villains she'll take on anyone for your sake.

💥Yandere Villain who even finds you out of the costume. Don't even worry about it! She's just here for you!

"Why are you here Lizzie?" You say trying to close your curtains as quick as possible. "Can I not be?" "You keep protecting me, I've got people breathing down my neck because of this! They think we're together!" "Are we not?" "..." "..."

💥Yandere Villain who thought you guys were together! She was absolutely distraught when she realised they aren't.

"What!? Why not!? Please, please, please give me a shot!" You had been looking for a reason to retire but dating a villain isn't exactly the reason you wanted.

💥Yandere Villain who refused to give up on you. She even killed off petty criminals to make your job easier! Isn't she considerate? That's a great trait in a partner!

💥Yandere Villain who wanted to be a photographer before everything went down so now she takes photos of you all the time! When you think you see a flash in your home, you're not dumb. You know it's her but at least she's not being destructive.You feel like you owe it to society to keep her distracted.

💥Yandere Villain who sees this as you liking her and maybe you do have a soft spot for her a little.

💥Yandere Villain who bought all your merch! Listen a villain with connections can be quite wealthy and she used to spend that on weapons but now it's all on you! She even got you guys matching knifes! (You had to convince her that matching scars were a bad idea)

💥Yandere Villain who was furious when she saw you on the news fighting some newbie villain! Not only fighting her hero but trying to take her spot as the top villain in the city!

💥Yandere Villain who hadn't committed much crime in a while but soon made up for it. It doesn't matter how much power that Villain had it wasn't anything compared to her rage.

💥Yandere Villain who steps closer to you , absolute covered in blood.

"Are you okay? That filth didn't hurt you ,right? I should of broken more of their bones..." She holds your shoulders and keeps asking you if you're okay but you don't respond. Completely stunned you just stare at the blood on the floor. Maybe you shouldn't of let her get so bad?

[fantasywater]

Is Stolas actually cheating? Why or Why Not?

I've had some debates where I've been told that Stolas isn't cheating, and especially not continuously. However, I personally think that he is.

The not cheating crowd reasoning's are:

1.Only the initial act was cheating. Once Stolas screamed the morning after that he wanted a divorce than every sex act with Blitz afterwards was not.

2. Since the marriage was consentless, loveless, and abusive this means he was never cheating on her. This interpretation tallies with Stolas's words on the balcony and in Western Energy.

3. Divorce only takes one person's consent and Stolas called it so he's free to fuck whomever, whenever, and wherever.

My rebuttals:

1.It's still cheating until that balcony scene where he calls for the divorce and kicks her out.Because even after his petty moment of triumph he still tries to placate her, and she's still living in the house. She is also still eating dinner like a family while still very much pissed at what he keeps doing.

I also find it ironic that only when he finally stops being passive and goes through with the divorce is when he also finally stops sleeping with Blitz for good. He went backwards with it. Which means he absolutely would have kept blatantly cheating(as well as kept Blitz in the deal) if the dropoff wake-up call hadn't happened.

2. No one gets to redefine a word just because the character doing it is a fan favorite. Stolas is committing infidelity by the very definition of it. He's an adulterer and a victim of domestic violence. Both are true at the same time.

Basically Stolas as a character can think what he's doing is indeed not cheating,but this doesn't mean the narrative agrees with him.

Narrative disagreement: Stella and Octavia's call-outs in Loolooland. Asmodeus's call out in Ozzie's. Via's pain again in Seeing Stars. Andre's call out in Western Energy. Via yet again in the Sinmas leaks.

Out of all the people I've listed I think the narrative has been very consistent in using Octavia to drive home that his cheating was wrong, and therefore damaging, regardless of what he personally thinks about it.

3. Yes, he called for divorce, but he cheated to initiate it therefore breaking his daughter's peace and mental health in the process.

The Via angle will always be why despite his pain his cheating still makes him an asshole. As well as the fact that he kept doing it even after his daughter told him that it was negatively affecting her.

Do you all agree with the view that both parties need to consent if they want to have sex with other people during separation or divorce proceedings,and especially if one spouse still has feelings, is pissed, or sad about it?

I know for example celebrities very much sleep around when they're only separated or in the various stages of divorce though they're technically still married.

Other bits:

Anyone else think Stolas's take back my power moment against Stella was lacking?

I mean it didn't really hit because there was no strong buildup of her wronging him.

But there's plenty of him wronging her with his frequent and remorseless cheating, and therefore her negative actions are because of that inciting incident.

To me Blitz and Via's felt earned while Stolas's didn't.

We had a whole season(honestly Stars and Western as well) of Stolas wronging Blitz so when he so strongly lashed out in Full Moon it truly felt cathartic.

Same with Via. We have two full episodes of this man repeatedly neglecting his own child for his affair partner and breaking her mental health. So when the third time happened and she has her take back my power moment I cheered.

With Stolas however I should have been cheering, and in a vacuum it wasn't a bad scene,but then the buildup was pretty bad because he has been onscreen for a season, and the circus bedroom scene, very much wronging Stella not the other way around.

Thoughts?

[gushhyyy]

Me and Mr.Wrong 04

Jey needs answers

Warnings: cursing, choking(consent is implied), arguing, usual wrestling violence.

Catch up

Who the fuck did she have in here?

-

The cooling air, the warm arms and blankets around me. Turning over nuzzling deeper into Jordan’s neck closing my heavy eyes again before I felt the covers being yanked off.

“What the- what Lorena?” My eyes shot open sleepiness long gone.

He was dressed in a black nike tech and some matching forces.

“Aye who is this?” He hollered slightly startling me quickly finding my robe, thankfully I wasn’t naked.

“Joshua come here.” I said trying to drag him by his arms outside of the room before he woke my neighbors and Jordan. I was already feeling dizzy and a little sick lately I didn’t need a headache on top of that.

“Lorena why you playing with me? Huh you tryna save his ass?” He yelled yanking his arm away from me. Quickly running behind him back to my room as he walked over to Jordan smacking him in the face a few times.

“Wakey wakey it’s time to check your ass out!”

“Joshua your being ridiculous, stop!” I tried Jordan woke up as the feeling, quickly waking up and getting on ten before realizing who it was.

“Oh you must be Joshua, Rena Ima head you and let you handle this. Call me.” He said putting on his pants calmly and kissed me on my forehead before leaving.

It was maybe five- thirty in the moraning hiding from how the sun had just started to peak over into the windows of my high rise.

“How did you even get in here?” I asked turning the lights on doing my morning routine as if he wasn’t there and this wasn’t happening.

“Who is he and why was he here Lorena? You lucky I got some sense and didn’t stick my foot in his ass.” He said following behind me.

“Josh- don’t Josh me shit I need an answer and now!”

“His name is Jordan I’ve known him since high school and collage.” I answered. There wasn’t anyway around this.

“Why was he here? Did yall fuck?” He asked next pacing the island of my kitchen.

“Yeah” I shrugged. Why does he care? Hearing him smack is teeth and mumble what I just know he didn’t say. “What’d you say, Samuel?”

“You just fucking anybody huh?” He looked me up and down and this is where he had me fucked up.

“Oh I fuck one person someone I’ve known since forever and I fuck everybody! I know Mr.community dick ain’t talking, like you didn’t fuck Jaida and Gianna! You think you slick like California hair and you not!” Not only did he invite himself in here. He now has the gual to try and call me something.

Please, he needs to find something safe to do!

“Yeah you didn’t think I knew but my duck ass went after the club to see you to apologize but miss thang opened the door and there you were buck naked and slumped.” I said bumping past him to sit on the couch. Clicking through my fire tv looking for something to watch.

Today was my off day and he wasn’t about to ruin my self-care day.

“You keep walking away from me like I don’t show you something for playing with me” he followed me once again snatching the remote out of my hand. “So this what we doing we on some get back shit?” Huffing.

“No, we’re not Jordan and I went on a date we had an amazing time and it led to it. You can do whatever but the second I do something I’m easy? Man bye.”

If he wasn’t going to commit fine. He’s more than grown enough but I’m not holding myself back waiting for him. Yes I loved him but I refused to beg- let alone wait for a man to love me.

“What you bringing them up for that’s petty! You just mad it was them and not your ass!”

“Let it be them then. But you can get the fuck out. Both out of my face and my house.” Walking over to my call button I waited for him to refuse.

“Stop playing with me Lorena Alice Mitchel.” He stormed over putting his left hand around my throat lightly. He would never hurt me and I knew that but I couldn’t lie and say the pressure didn’t have my panties soaked.

“Get out before I call security!” I barely got out. Trying to ignore how good his hand left around my neck. Ignore how primal his eyes looked right I loved when he got like this. My heart was racing.

“Alright you’re gonna be back like you always are. You pretend done and entertain some other dude,but the second you see me with someone. You get jealous cause a scene and then we go home. Ima let you think you doing something.” He said letting go and leaving.

-

Tonight was my qualifiers match for the chamber. I was facing bayley. This was a very big match for me it was potentially my fifth title opportunity. Sitting in hair and makeup next to bayley we’d just got done practicing for our match tonight.

“I’m so excited.” I clapped as I was getting my hair curled.

“I’m so happy for you finally get your push. There is nothing like your first clear road to a championship. Plus the people love you and are rooting for you tonight.” She said getting her lashes put on.

“Right sis but on other news, word around the locker rooms is that you and Jey broke up.” Jessica aka Tiffany Stratton said. Cutting my eyes to her before I laughed.

“We’d have to be together to break up.” I kept it cute.

“That’s now what they saying. They’re saying Jey brought some girl to his hotel after the after party.” She continued I could feel her looking for a reaction out of me which I wasn’t going to give her.

Lifting my chain clad arm I shrugged before turning into the mirror to look at my hair. Layla has been a wwe stylist for about seven months and we’d gotten close. She was one of the few people I trusted to do my hair especially after how the barbers had the boys looking especially Josh and that country ass hair cut.

It looked like a five year old tried to draw a design on the side of his head with a sharpie. But that wasn’t my business.

“She being all types of nosy.” Layla said from behind me combing through my hair.

“Right, but wasn’t much to tell and especially not to her.” I said bending down as she put in my gold crescent moon headpiece.

I was covered in gold chains long my shorts and my bralette cut top. I had an enchantress ring persona like off of suicide squad but in gold instead of silver. I looked like a sun goddess.

I had a quiet but intimidating persona, so whenever I did get on the mic for a promo weather I said two words or had a whole spiel they went crazy for it. I had been called up from aew within a year and a half I was a two time champion and well known in the kind of underground company and by my fourth year I was called up to the big leagues.

It was hard my first year here. Not because the people didn’t like me but because my co-workers didn’t. They didn’t know much about my background and didn’t care to learn so they just assumed I was some easy call up that would burn out. They felt like I hadn’t worked hard enough to sit with them.

And me not giving a damn to get their approval didn’t help much and I was quickly stamped. It wasn’t until Bianca got called up and Gianna or liv Morgan came back that I had any friends. And then trinity and Layla.

Getting to the gorilla waiting for my music I bounced off the nerves. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes and tried to calm my nerves.

“You got this sis!” I heard John say tapping my arms.

“Thank you, but the nerves still get to me sometimes.” I said popping my eyes open.

“You’ll get used to it.” He said walking off but I hoped I never gotten used to it. That I never got to comfortable this business moved fast. As John said ‘you either step up or step aside’ I had worked so hard to be here and I’ll be mad if I get this far and get comfortable. Hearing my music I walked through the curtain.

-

“There she is folks the enchantress his here in Toronto.” Micheal Cole commentated.

“She is my person favorite to not only with elimination chamber and the gold but my favorite period. I watched her at aew and I still can’t take my eyes off of her and if bayleys still smart she won’t either!” McFee said.

“I agree Pat she’s fast, like nothing I’ve ever seen before and she ring aware two very important qualities.” Cole responded.

“Starting this match off we have a bit of a stare down.” He continued

“Her eyes trap your soul.” Pat said

“Off to a slow start as Aalice and bayley lock up. What do you think leads ladies need to do to leave victorious?” Cole asked pat.

“Bayley needs to remain calm and to control the pace aalice is very fast and trying to be faster is near impossible. As long as aalice controls the pace she’s a given to win Cole. Bayley need to keep this as slow as possible”

“And woah a huge close line from bayley as she goes for a pin- kick out at one.”

“We’ll be back after this commercial break.”

-

“During the break it has been all aalice she is dominating bayley in a way that I have never before just as expected she even in such a fast pace still very precise.” Cole said

“Bayley made the mistake of speeding up the pace coming off the ropes aalice hit her with a gobsmacking right hand.” Pat relayed.

“Boom a bayley to belly she may do it here Pat.”

“One, two- kick out at two.” Cole counted out.

“The back and fourth is starting again bayley is in control she needs to be careful.” He added.

“Oh my god future shock ddt- future shock ddt!” Pat yelled.

“She’s going to do it. She’s going to do it.”

“One! Two! Three! The enchantress is going to the elimination chamber!” Cole cheered.

“Shes my pick to win this whole thing!” Pat added.

-

Thank you for reading!

[blacklightwriter]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ - ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ: ɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ

Story Summary: EXTREME SLOW BURN. A woman from war-torn Demacia is transported to Zaun, where she makes ends meet. Her skills in inventing catch the attention of a Piltovan, who extends a full ride through Piltover Academy, which she accepts. Here, her adventure begins. Content Warning: Violence, war. Word Count: 1,9k Author's Note: Here is the prologue for the Viktor fic I've been working on for years now. This story was written BEFORE season two of Arcane, so keep that in mind. I'm new to writing fanfic and what is expected when introducing a story, so if there's something more you'd like to see, please let me know. Enjoy and thanks for reading! Find me on Ao3!

I have always imagined that my life was intimately entwined with the idea of peace, It always seemed wrong to me that people were constantly at odds with one another. What could they possibly take from each other? What caused that burning hatred in them to make them want to commit such heinous acts in the name of victory? Revenge? Ideas of war were always lost on me.

Growing up in Demacia, my family knew war. The battle-ridden kingdom seemed constantly at odds whether it was from invaders from outside or conspirers from within. My mother and father did what they could to protect me from the costs of war the best they could, but even they knew that at some point the veil would be ripped and I would need to see the world for what it was.

My mother was a gentle soul. She spent her days showing me how to sew and the best way to heal wounds, often telling me stories of valor from her time on the battlefield helping the wounded. Other times telling me the consequences of war with a distant look on her face. She told me how she had to amputate a child’s arm because he would die if she didn’t.

I often wondered if that was why I would sometimes hear her scream in the middle of the night.

My father was an inventor and a damn good one. He worked for the king to help find ways to improve the lives of everyday Demacians. The food plow that would collect, wash, and store food? That was him. His idea. When the king took an interest in it, my father insisted that every farmer of Demacia be given one. Other territories could pay for it, but Demacians were who it was built for. The King agreed and ever since then, our family had been regarded highly. We were able to live in the main city if we wanted to, but my mother felt uneasy about it. So, we lived in a small cottage just outside its walls in the Silent Forest.

I spent many hot summers staying with my father in our back shed - his workshop. He taught me everything he possibly could and planted a love for science in me.

“We have the possibility to change anything we want to, vita mea.” He said, his nose wrinkling in displeasure at the contraption before him. “As inventors, our duty is to make the world a better place.”

He fiddled with his tools, moving them expertly across the machine until a satisfying click came and the machine began humming. He smiled, turning a warm gaze to me.

“I don’t ever want you to forget that. This world can be cruel and relentless, but we must strive to do the right thing. Always.”

My mother would always yell at us when the sun set and the trees began tittering with the life of the forest animals around us. Those nights were the best memories I have. Coming home from school and seeing my father and mother in the kitchen preparing dinner, laughing, and being in love. Despite the tension in our flawed kingdom, my parents had hope and remained steadfast that the same peace we had in our home was attainable to Demacia.

But, like most dreams, we had to wake up eventually.

When the King died, we all mourned. Not only for the loss but for the end of an era. People were unsure what would happen now. There were already talks of the noble families saying the King’s son, Jarvan, wasn’t fit to rule. This made Jarvan tense and he sought out my father, demanding that he make weapons to defend the Great City from the war he knew was coming.

Despite my father knowing his duty as a Demacian citizen, he also knew he had a duty to his family. Building weapons of war would put a mark on our backs and since we weren’t in the protected main city, it was too big of a risk. So, my father said no.

This angered the new king, no doubt out of fear of losing his newly gained title, and he demanded my father do his bidding or he and his family be put to death. War had found our small slice of peace, and my father made a choice.

He came home that day crying, I remember, a mysterious man shrouded in a dark cloak to his side. He and my mother spoke tearfully. He hugged my mother as she sobbed loudly. Finally, they came to me, telling me what had happened and how it was time for me to say goodbye to Demacia.

“This man is a magician, Vannah. He will take you somewhere far away from here. Somewhere you will be safe.” He explained, packing things for me frantically. There wasn’t much time.

The panic hadn’t set in yet, nor the realization that this would be my final moments with my family. I think about it a lot. Most of the time with a tinge of regret.

“Magicians aren’t supposed to do magic here, though, pater.” I said, my eyebrows pinching in confusion. “They can’t even do magic because of all the petricite, I thought.”

“I can only do one of you.” The man said with indifference, his dark figure looming in the corner.

“Wait, one of us? As in…?”

My whole world began shattering. My home, my family, my life. All of it was slipping through my fingers. Just an hour ago I was sitting in a chair across from my mother, reading her my favorite play, joking with her about how I was going to be a famous actress one day.

My father whirled at me, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders, his face contorted with sorrow. “There is no time, vita mea. We must pack.”

I stepped away from his grip, shaking my head, feeling the tears forming. “No! No! I will not leave! You can not ask me to leave!”

My mother stepped forward, tears falling freely down her face, her arms wrapping around me tightly. “We aren’t asking, lux mea.”

I began sobbing, hearing my father continue to pack as my mother and I held each other, engraining our touch into each other’s minds so we would never forget. I felt her tears dampen my hair and she gingerly ran her hands up and down my back in a poor attempt to soothe me.

She pulled away a little to look at my face when my father stepped over to us, moving my hair out of my face and placing a kiss on my forehead.

“I want you to have something, Vannah.” My father said, sticking his hand in his shirt and pulling out his necklace of petricite. He had gotten it as a gift from the previous king for his service to Demacia. A proud reminder to him of what happens when you do the right thing.

He pulled the necklace from around his neck and placed it softly around mine, the stone feeling too heavy on me. Like it didn’t belong there. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me to him so our foreheads touched, his eyes glassy with sorrow.

“Remember what we have taught you, vita mea. The world will do what it can to tear you down, but we must work to make it a better place. Whenever you doubt that you will look at this,” He pulled up the stone, revealing a protection rune carved into its surface. “And you will remember.”

“I don’t want to leave you, pater.” I whispered.

“You won’t. Not now. Not ever. And we will never leave you. We will be with you now and forever.” He pulled my mother and I into a tight hug, both of them whispering hushed goodbyes and I love you, but the hole in my heart had begun forming. For a brief and horrifying second, I understood how people gained that burning hatred for one another, but I pushed that thought aside.

“They are coming.” The magician whispered, moving to the center of the room and pulling out shimmering blue crystals.

My mother and father pulled from me, handing me my bag of what I could take from my home and my heart shattered at the loss of their warmth.

My father gently took my cheek in his hands, wiping away my tears, a sad smile on his lips. Suddenly a burst of wind and a glowing blue light erupted from the middle of the room. I turned and saw a blue circle of light. Loud knocks were coming from the front door.

“What’s going on in there! Open the door this instant!” A voice from the other side called.

Thunderous wind roared through the room as the portal pushed everything in the room to the walls, breaking the windows in the cottage. Screams could be heard from outside.

“You must come! Now!” The magician yelled, stepping through the circle of light and disappearing.

“Go.” My father said, his hand dropping from my face as he and my mother rushed to the door, pushing all their weight on it to keep whoever was outside from coming in.

I nodded, looking fearfully at the booming and breaking door. I took careful steps back, never once facing the portal, only facing my parents.

As I was mere steps away from the portal, the door burst open, and Demacian guards rushed in, immediately pushing my mother and father to the ground.

“Go, Vannah!” My father yelled, gesturing wildly as a guard grabbed his arms viciously.

“Using magic, eh, scientist? Traitor!” The guard yelled, raising his sword up above my father.

“No!” I tried to run towards them, but I felt a hand grab my wrist and pull me back towards the portal, blue light engulfing me as I watched the sword plunge into my dad’s back.

Suddenly, the light was gone. All light. A terrible smell filled my lungs, but not enough air. I collapsed on the ground as my lungs burned, gasping and coughing for air.

“I would suggest getting used to it, kid.” The magician taunted, his small form bending down in front of me, a smug smirk on his face.

“Wh-Where am I?” I gasped, clutching at my throat. I looked around hoping to find something familiar, but all I could see was a grey haze.

People who were around us glared at us with threatening sneers. Crumbling buildings stood low to the ground and there wasn’t a sky, just more grey haze.

“Your pops wanted you somewhere safe. There’s no place safer than here. Welcome to Zaun, kid.”

I coughed, my mind having a hard time forming a coherent thought from the lack of oxygen. “Z-Zaun?”

“He wanted Piltover, but he couldn’t afford it.” The man said with a shrug, standing up straight. “I’m sorry for your loss, kid.”

With that, he turned on his heels and began walking away.

“W-Wait!” I called, coughing once more, tears streaming from my eyes as my lungs burned.

He let out an annoyed sigh and turned to face me, his eyebrows raised in frustration. “What?”

“What am I supposed to do now?” I whimpered, black spots dabbling my vision.

“How am I supposed to know? Your dad paid me to get you here, not escort you around. You’re old enough to figure it out yourself, so do it.”

I didn’t have it in me to argue. I clutched at my throat, hoping the air would miraculously appear. Black spots started filling my vision and soon, the world faded into nothingness.

[mariacallous]

As war rages between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza Strip, it is hard to envision an end to the conflict. For decades, though, a growing movement of Palestinian and Israeli women has not only envisioned a peaceful coexistence, but also demanded it.

Just three days before Hamas’s Oct. 7, 2023, attack, thousands of women from two peacebuilding groups gathered at Jerusalem’s Tolerance Monument for a rally and march. Israelis from Women Wage Peace carried blue flags, and Palestinians from Women of the Sun flew yellow ones.

Members of the two groups traveled to the Dead Sea—believed since ancient times to have healing qualities—and set a table. Women from both sides pulled up chairs as a symbol of a good-faith resumption of negotiations to reach a political solution.

Women Wage Peace formed in response to Operation Protective Edge, which was Israel’s 2014 invasion of Gaza in the wake of then-U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry’s failed effort to restart final status negotiations.

“We, Palestinian and Israeli mothers, are determined to stop the vicious cycle of bloodshed,” reads the preamble to their campaign, the Mother’s Call. This campaign was nine months in the making, and it involved aligning around a single agenda that demands a political solution within a limited time frame.

They set the table to show the importance of dialogue and women’s involvement in decision-making. But in the war between Israel and Hamas that has started since then, women’s voices are largely missing from negotiations and consultations.

Ensuring women’s participation isn’t about equity or fairness or a show of inclusion. It’s about winning the peace.

In 2014, Laurel Stone, then a researcher at Seton Hall University, conducted a quantitative analysis of 156 peace agreements over time. She found that when women are decision-makers—serving as negotiators and mediators—the probability of an agreement lasting at least two years increased by 20 percent. The probability of the agreement holding for 15 years increased by 35 percent.

Many studies show that women tend to be more collaborative, more focused on social issues over military issues, and less likely to attack those who hold differing views. With women at the table, the potential for risk-taking behavior and attacks on perceived enemies may be lower. In diverse teams, decisions are more likely to be based on facts than assumptions.

While men are more likely to be fighters in war, the work of holding families and communities together more often falls to women, and according to some studies, it’s women who more frequently stand up for a return to negotiations, civilian protection, and an end to violence.

“We learned from the cases of Northern Ireland and Liberia,” Yael Braudo-Bahat, the co-director of Women Wage Peace, told Foreign Policy. Women’s active participation greatly strengthened these peace and recovery processes.

Ahead of the formal talks that led to the Belfast Agreement in Northern Ireland, Catholic and Protestant women’s groups formed the Northern Ireland Women’s Coalition and gained two seats at a table of 20 in formal negotiations. As one of the few groups that moved beyond the sectarian divide, its members were seen as honest brokers. They represented civil society concerns and helped ensure that the agreement included commitments for social healing and integration.

Because the brutality of war falls disproportionately on women—they frequently are the first to go hungry, serve as the de facto caretakers, and become the victims of increased gender based violence—they are often committed to finding a path to peace even when male leaders won’t compromise.

During the Second Liberian Civil War, women played a heroic role by successfully pressuring male decision-makers to negotiate. The documentary Pray the Devil Back to Hell, directed by Gini Reticker and produced by Abigail Disney, popularized the incredible story of how women convinced the warring parties to attend peace talks in Accra, Ghana.

“We were the ones watching our children die of hunger … we were the easiest targets of rape and sexual abuse,” said Nobel Prize laureate Leymah Gbowee, the founder of the Women for Liberia Mass Action for Peace grassroots movement, which played a major role in pushing then-President Charles Taylor to sign a peace agreement in 2003. This common suffering among women formed the basis for unity across political and religious divides.

In Israel and Gaza, women will need to play an important role in the implementation of any new accord between Israel and Palestine, Braudo-Bahat said. Her organization’s partnership with its Palestinian counterpart, Women of the Sun, has remained steadfast, even after learning that her co-founder, Vivian Silver, 74, was murdered by Hamas on Oct. 7.

“We continue our plans—we work together, and we don’t hide it,” she said. “It might be dangerous to the Women of the Sun, but they are so courageous.”

Although many Palestinians want peace, for others, “peace is normalization,” a member of Women of the Sun wrote to Foreign Policy via WhatsApp, choosing to go by the initials M.H. to preserve her anonymity and safety. Some Palestinians think that “it’s something shameful to be dealing with Israel,” she added, because it could imply that the Israelis’ treatment of, and policies toward, Palestinians are tolerable.

“I believe we should actively engage and collaborate, even if some label it as normalization,” M.H. said. “I am committed to working toward a better future for us.”

International law is on the side of these women. United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325, adopted unanimously more than 23 years ago, urges all member states to increase the participation of women in peace and security efforts, and highlights women’s essential role in preventing war, protecting civilians, and negotiating lasting peace.

Despite Israel’s deteriorating track record with regard to women’s rights and roles as decision-makers, women are involved in the war as politicians, members of the military and civilians. Women in politics have made important advances for gender equity, although among the 32 cabinet ministers sworn in a year ago, only five were women. One of those women ministers was dismissed amid the recent closure of the Ministry for the Advancement of Women.

The reality for women in Gaza is far more challenging when it comes to holding leadership positions. Women generally do not participate in public political activities or hold public office, although Hamas appointed 23-year old Isra al-Modallal as its first female spokesperson in November. She told the Guardian newspaper that she is not a member of Hamas or any political party.

At the start of the conflict, Hamas had just one woman, Jamila al-Shanti, 68, serving as part of the organization’s 15-member political bureau. Al-Shanti, who was also a founder of Hamas’s women’s movement, died in an Israeli airstrike on Oct. 19.

“You can hear amazing rhetoric and lip service, even from the Palestinian leadership,” Dr. Dalal Iriqat, an assistant professor at the Arab American University in the West Bank, told Foreign Policy. “But when it comes to practice, I always find a scarcity of women in decision-making.”

Women’s organizations in the Palestinian territories and in Israel have a rich history of political engagement, however. Palestinian women created social structures such as health clinics and orphanages for displaced Palestinians following the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. Following the Six-Day War in 1967, with traditional political structures in tatters and both Gaza and the West Bank under Israeli occupation, women of every social class stepped up.

It was through the networks they formed that a new cadre of women activists emerged as a force in December 1987, when Palestinian frustration with Israeli rule broke out in a popular uprising that became known as the First Intifada, or “shaking off.” Underlying this largely nonviolent Palestinian struggle was a collective social, economic, and political mobilization led by women.

Palestinian political leadership acknowledged women’s centrality in the Intifada, which paved the way for negotiations with Israel when it included three women—Suad Amiry, Zahiria Kamal, and Hanan Ashrawi—as part of the delegation that participated in the Middle East peace talks that culminated with the Madrid Conference in October 1991.

Ultimately, though, exiled Palestinian Liberation Organization leaders shunted the Madrid framework to begin secret negotiations with Israel that resulted in the security-focused Oslo Accords and the establishment of the Palestinian Authority. Under their leadership, Israeli occupation, and the failures of the Oslo Accords, democratic ideals and women’s rights eroded.

Israel and the United States have discussed a potential role for the Palestinian Authority in Gaza after the military operation. The Palestinian Authority has three women ministers, including its minister for women’s affairs, though women still struggle for equal opportunities and freedom from violence.

“Women usually refrain from being [an] activist in politics,” said an activist in the West Bank who withheld her name for security reasons. “Women are frightened to be involved in political activities, because they will be put in jail or be subjected to any kind of violence.” And the conditions are much worse for women when funding is restricted, as well as under Hamas, she said.

Serena Awad, a Gazan nonprofit worker who is now living in Rafah, told Foreign Policy that Gazan women are directing and managing many aspects of the humanitarian response. These women work for the United Nations as well as in health, cultural, child protection, human rights, sports, and legal organizations.

“I have lived through six aggressions, and every time, I wait for my turn to die,” said 24-year-old Awad. “What I want the world to know is that women in Gaza are like any other women—we study, go to work, have our own family, but we suffer.”

Israeli and Palestinian women working as peacebuilders say they need more international support. Women’s organizations are notoriously underfunded in the best of times, with only 0.4 percent of global gender-related funding going directly to women’s rights organizations, according to calculations by the Association for Women’s Rights in Development.

During crises, women’s rights often take a back seat. Women of the Sun’s 2024 budget is approximately $100,000, and Women Wage Peace’s budget is approximately $1 million, according to the organizations’ representatives.

Women’s groups are more likely to be effective during negotiations and during the implementation of recovery programs when they have access to external funding. During the peace process between Sudan and South Sudan, for example, South Sudanese women were highly mobilized as delegates, but some had to pause their involvement so they could go back to earning money.

In addition to funding, democratic countries have a role to play by insisting on women’s participation in negotiations, said M.H. of the Women of the Sun. She and other peacebuilders say that the United States and the United Nations should be more active in promoting women as counterparts, negotiators, and experts.

“By will, things can happen,” M.H. told Foreign Policy “And if the US says it [that women should be involved in negotiations], it can happen.”.

Talks convened by Qatar, the United States, and Egypt to end the conflict between Hamas and Israel are underway. These countries and other regional players—including Jordan, Israel, and the Palestinian Authority, have previously created national action plans that recognize the unique impact of war on women and their crucial role in promoting peace, culminating in 107 countries worldwide forming national action plans to empower women.

Still, news coverage reveals little or no evidence of efforts by these countries to promote women’s participation in the Israel-Hamas conflict.

The U.S. State Department is “working to ensure the expertise of women from civil society and in government is incorporated in any process related to the current conflict in Gaza,” wrote a spokesperson in an email.

If the political will for participation exists, both Israelis and Palestinians have a robust list of women advocates from which to draw for official and nonofficial negotiations and discussions. A diverse list of 12 Israeli and Palestinian women who are qualified to participate in negotiations was provided by the 1325 Project run by members of  Women Lawyers for Social Justice—known in Israel as Itach Ma’aki—to the U.S. Embassy and other embassies and international bodies.

“At least one person will be engaging in Track 2 and 3 efforts, and she was approached through us by an international body,” said 1325 project co-director Netta Loevy, referring to nonofficial negotiations and consultations.

Braudo-Bahat, meanwhile, urged policymakers to involve women in discussions now—not after violence ends. “The day after the war is yesterday … we need to start now,” she said.

Back in Gaza, the water tastes like poison; it’s freezing, and Awad, the 24-year-old nonprofit worker, keeps losing weight. She asked almost a dozen Gazan women leaders what they think should happen to resolve the war and to ensure that women participate in negotiations.

No one could give her an answer. They were busy responding to humanitarian needs, and telecommunication and internet services were out.

“Nothing has changed, but what can we do about it? All we can do is waiting and praying for this to end,” Awad wrote to Foreign Policy through WhatsApp, which only works for her about once every four days.

Iriqat, the Arab American University professor, has one wish: “That someone considers that if women are in charge, and involved, a more strategic agreement could hold.”

[belle-noche]

Rook Takes King - Chapter One

Warnings: This chapter and story will often mention times spent in slavery, graphic violence in tune with the game and the Antivan crows, and will offer chapter to chapter warnings, Read at your own discretion

Series Masterlist

Chapter One - Little Pawn

The cobblestones of Treviso’s street were still sheen with the morning rain as Viago winded through the crowded streets of the market. Blood still clung to the underside of his fingernails, despite his best hasty efforts to clean them. The fifth talon had just completed a contract with his usual efficiency. No witnesses, no outstanding evidence, simply another noble that wouldn’t wake to see the sunrise. His steps were unhurried as he made his way back towards the De Riva Villa, a small but well enough space he called his own, when he wasn’t at the Cantori Diamond.

He almost didn’t see her. Almost. 

She couldn’t have been any older than eight, a scrawny elven child with matted hair and clothes that hung off her frame far too much to be healthy. But it wasn’t her appearance alone that caught his attention, it was her hands. Nimble fingers that methodically slipped in and out of pockets. Viago stops by a fruit vendor, but his eyes track the movements of the girl, three purses in ten minutes, the girl was either exceptionally trained-or exceptionally lucky.

Perhaps both Viago conceded.

When she slips away from the market stalls and into the narrow alleyway, Viago follows. She’s crouched between stacked crates, counting and separating the different coins. Against the shadows of the alley, Viago can better see the gauntness of her face, hollow cheeks and eyes that are too dark and hardened for one so small. He can tell she hasn’t eaten in days, maybe weeks given her current state.

The scuff of his boot against the cobblestones is deliberate. 

The girl whirls around, coins tight in her small fist, but it's her eyes that make Viago pause. They’re strikingly different, one amber, one green. They darted around, never focusing on one thing too long-cataloguing possible escape routes Viago realized. With the instinctive calculation of prey that’s been hunted before, finally, her eyes settle on Viago, narrowing slightly with suspicion. “Quite the haul for one so young.” Viago remarks, keeping his posture relaxed, non-threatening. “You have a talent.”

The girl didn’t respond, but she also didn’t run. Her eyes fixed on him, assessing how much of a threat Viago might pose to her. “Where did you learn to pick pockets like that?” He asks, leaning against the alley wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Taught myself.” She replies, voice clipped and wary. A lie, clearly. But an understandable one. “Really?” Viago can’t stop the arch of his brow, “Your fingers work the seam before committing to the lift. That’s a Tevinter method, not something you naturally develop.” 

She curls into herself as her eyes widen before she steals her expression again. “What do you want?” “I’m not interested in taking your coin,” Viago assures her, he remains where he is, but he crouches to bring himself eye level with the girl. “I’m curious about you. You're new to Treviso.” He says, matter of factly. “I know of most of this city’s…entrepreneurs.” She seems to tense further, as if that was possible, and something haunted that has no business filling the eyes of a child overtakes the suspicion that filled them before.

“Are you going to send me back?” Her voice is breakingly quiet, fear overriding the caution. Viago’s eyes narrow in confusion briefly, before his eyes take in the marks on her. The matching raw skin of her wrists and neck, irritated to the point they’ll probably scar, unmistakable to that of iron manacles. The pieces fall into place with disturbing certainty. An elven child, on the run, and terrified of being returned.

“No.” Viago says, soft but firm. “I have no interest in returning anyone to chains.” Some of the tension left her body, though the suspicion remained. She was smart not to trust him, he wouldn’t if he were in her shoes. “You haven’t eaten properly in days.” Viago observes, “Perhaps longer.” The girl shrugs, meant to appear nonchalant, but was betrayed by the slight sound that left her empty stomach. “I can offer you a meal, if you’d like. A bed to sleep in, training to hone those skills of yours.” Viago is surprised at the words leaving his mouth. 

“Why?” The question is blunt, practical, no words wasted, and eyes that are still filled with suspicion, though maybe slightly less. “Professional courtesy.” Viago replies- a ghost of a smile on his lips. “One thief to another.” The girl’s eyes narrow again. “You’re not a thief.” Viago is impressed by her perception of things. “Not exactly, but I respect skill when I see it.” Viago holds out his hand, a silent invitation. She studies him for a long moment, weighing hunger against risk. She gathers her coins, approaching him slowly. Perhaps the hope of a child seeking safe harbour outweighs everything else when she places her hand in his. “Okay.” 

Viago leads her through the city, taking a winding route to the Cantori Diamond, changing from his original destination from the villa he called home. He notes how the girl memorized their path, constantly noticing which side streets may give potential escape routes if necessary. She was cautious, intelligent, and thought like a survivor. Good qualities to have, if she were to take him up on his offer.

The Cantori Diamond is an unassuming building from the outside, a casino-one of many among Antiva. It’s true security hidden behind the facade of faded elegance. Viago ushers the girl inside, warm lamplight revealing comfortable furnishings that bellied the deadly nature of it’s occupants. Teia’s seated at a window, fingers tracing lines on a map. Her eyes meet his as she tracks his steps, taking in the situation with keen eyes. She rises from her seat, “Viago.” She greets-voice honeyed with a warm intimacy that was perceptible only to the select few that knew her well. Her eyes land on the child beside him, slightly hiding behind his legs. “And who is this?”

“A talent I discovered in the market today.” Viago replied, “She has potential.” The subtle meaning wasn’t lost on the seventh talon. Teia is slow with her movements as she kneels to the girl’s level, a smile-small but genuine on her lips. “Hello, little one.” She tenses, but holds her ground, chin tilted slightly in defiance. “She escaped Slavers, most likely in Tevinter.” Viago tells her softly, “Made her way here on her own. Probably a stowaway on a boat.” 

Understanding softened Teia’s expression. She and Viago exchanged looks-both knowing what it means to survive against impossible odds. Her attention returns to the child in front of her, "Do you have a name?” She asks gently. The girl shakes her head, eyes downcast. Teia hummed thoughtfully, “What about…Eshe?” Teia suggests after a moment of consideration. “It means ‘life’ in the old tongue. A good name for someone who fought so hard to keep it.”

The girl looks up, contemplating almost. She nods hesitantly. “Okay.” the word barely audible. Viago hums in agreement, “Eshe De Riva, has a certain ring to it.” Viago says, a heavy decision made in the moment. Teia’s eyes widen fractionally as they met his, this was not a mere fledgling entering his house-the use of his last name signified the claiming of a protege, a possible heir to the legacy he’s created for himself. The subtle shift in her expression isn’t lost on Viago, but she makes no comment on his choice at present time.

Instead, Teia extends her hand to the newly named Eshe. “Come, let’s get you some food then find you some clean clothes. Tomorrow will begin soon enough.” The girl-Eshe looks up at Viago as if for confirmation. He nods his head, “Go.” He offers softly. As teia leads her away, Viago catches a final glimpse of those mismatched eyes looking back at him-wary still, but with the first fragile spark of what one day could be trust.

Later, after Viago and now Eshe had returned to the De Riva Villa, Viago stood at the window in his chambers, looking out across the small open courtyard, a glass of orlesian brandy in hand. Arms looped around his torso from behind him, a solid presence against his back. He covers both of Teia’s hands with one of his own, “We need to talk about it.” Teia says softly. “I couldn’t just leave her there, Teia.” He tells her, “I know, but giving her your last name places certain expectations on her, from the rest of the Talons especially.” Viago is silent for a beat. “I didn’t intend to give her my name, at first.” Teia gazes up at him, “What changed your mind?” Viago’s eyebrows furrow, “I…Don’t know. If I’m being honest.” Taking a slow slip of his drink. “She’ll have a long way to go, your name will give her a heavy burden.” Teia says to him, Viago bows his head, something akin to guilt gracings his features briefly at the burden he’s placed on a girl who didn’t ask for it. “I know.”

Teia presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, hand skimming the waistband of his pants. “Come to bed, mi amor. Tomorrow will require a rested head.” Though the tone in her voice tells him it’s not sleep she’s offering, a devilish smile fills his features as he finishes his drink before following after her. 

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Uncanny Valley: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Summary: Therapy isn't something you're taking too well, but if you want to keep your job, you'll continue to go. you're forced to confront thoughts and memories of your own family when you come across the father of the unsub.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Season Five Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

"Anything you cannot relinquish when it has outlived its usefulness, possesses you. And in this materialistic age, a great many of us are possessed by our possessions." - Mildred Lisette Norman

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock is the only thing in the therapist's office that can be heard. You arrived half an hour ago but you haven't said a damn word. You look worse than last week. You have more bags under your eyes, your hair is greasy from not washing it in a week, and you look like you've been through Hell. Melissa has been taking this at your pace but if you don't start talking soon, she'll have to go to the FBI and report this.

"Would you like to take a nap?"

"If I close my eyes, I'll start to see things I wish I didn't."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

Maybe something good will come out of you telling her your problems. If you're going to be here, may as well give it a shot.

"My nightmares get pretty bad. I'm even waking my boyfriend and he barely gets enough sleep as it is."

"Nightmares about what? Prison?"

"No. I think--"

You stop yourself from finishing that sentence.

"Go on, what do you think?" she encourages.

"Being in prison wasn't as bad as it could have been. Sure, there were one or two prisoners that weren't the best, but it could have been worse. I made a friend who's still in there for a crime she didn't commit," you sigh.

"Are you using her trauma and taking it as your own?"

"No. I knew I wasn't going to be in prison for long because I didn't murder those men. I knew my team would get me out of there. I also know either my team or myself will help my friend get out. She doesn't deserve to be in there any more than I did. I'm not worried about that and I don't think was ever worried about that."

"Tell me, then, what's bothering you."

"The problem with being in a place with hundreds of mentally ill and psychotic people is that I felt everything. Some of those women were murderers, robbers, and arsonists, and I felt everything," you whisper painfully. 

"All of their fear, their concerns, their worries, and their sadness. Every emotion perceived to be negative, I felt. There was no happiness. There was no light in all of that darkness. I got bombarded with energy and I think it's still stuck to me because I can still feel it. Their fear is fueling my own. Every time I close my eyes, I think I'm going to wake up back in that cell and relive that nightmare. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that car with those four men only this time, it's one. It might have only been one back then. I don't know anymore," you cry.

Melissa grabs her tissue box and hands it to you. You hate feeling this way. You hate that you're even here, but you know you have to be. If you want to get better, and you know you do, then you have to be honest with her and accept that she's only trying to help.

"You were raped at such a young age. The mind has a weird way of protecting the person. You might have projected four men from that one because of how scared you were."

"It happened such a long time ago. I've made my peace with it. I've met my daughter because of it. I'm having visions in the day about it. I came to terms with it so I don't know why I keep having nightmares about it."

"Your body might have been exhaled from it but your mind hasn't."

"You know, I used to let people's fear control me, but I've grown and gotten over that. Now, I feel people's pain but it doesn't control me. Until I went to prison and all that growth, all that learning just went away."

"If the energies and emotions were as high as you say they were, that might have triggered something in your brain and caused you to go backward a few steps."

"What do I do?" you cry.

"I don't suggest this to all of my clients but Image Rehearsal Therapy might help you. What it is, essentially, is rewriting your nightmares and confronting them head-on instead of avoiding them. It'll help reduce your nightmares, insomnia, and with your trauma symptoms.

"The four steps with IRT are writing down your nightmares and getting them on paper, rewriting them so they either have happier endings or have a better outcome, inducing the intention to redream these now rewritten nightmares before falling asleep, and repeat until you no longer fear them.

"You don't have to do this with all of your nightmares so choose a few core ones that really bother you and we take these steps one nightmare at a time. If done correctly, you'll start to notice fewer nightmares until there are no more," she explains.

"I've done this before. Can you believe I used to have nightmares as a child? I even have two journals filled with rewritten dreams."

"How did that work for you then?"

"It worked at that time. I got so used to seeing those bad things that I wasn't afraid anymore."

"I think this might work now but in order for it to work properly, you need to be doing this every day. Even if you manage to write two sentences. Every day, you need to be writing in those journals and reprogramming your brain into chasing those fears off."

"Okay, I'll try," you nod.

You leave your morning appointment with a slight headache. You get to work to see everyone else already there. Spencer greets you with a kiss and takes your bag from you. He would have waited for you after your appointment but he was playing a game of chess in the park. You told him it was alright to go on without you which is why you two are just now meeting here for the first time today.

"How was chess?" you smile tiredly.

"Riveting. How was therapy?"

Your bottom lip trembles at the thought of having to relive that session. You see Hotch and Rossi in the briefing room and clear your throat.

"The team's waiting up there."

He understands your desire to not want to talk about it, and he's not going to force you. If you ever feel safe enough to tell him, he'll listen but those sessions are for you to heal on your own. He'll help in any way he can which you appreciate. He's been so patient since you got out of prison. You'll honestly never find anyone better than him.

Hotch is abc as the permanent unit chief for the team. Strauss must have granted him his privileges back, and Derek had no problem stepping down to let Hotch back in the place he belonged.

"Rita Stuart, twenty-five, is the second victim in Atlantic City."

JJ puts a picture up on the screen of Rita. She was found dead in a cart on a merry-go-round wearing a blue dress.

"That's a pretty public spot for a dump site."

"Technically, I think it would qualify more as a disposal site. You don't leave a body on a merry-go-round out of convenience."

"He took some time with her appearance, didn't he?" Emily asks.

"Yeah. Her nails were polished, her hair was cut, and her clothes were brand-new. He wanted her to look her best when found. That's a lot of remorse."

"Who is victim number one?" Hotch asks.

"Stacia Jackson, twenty-nine." Stacia's picture is of her found at a playground sitting on the swings. "She was found at a local playground."

"That's a change in victimology."

Rita was a white red-headed girl and Stacia was a young black woman. That's a huge jump in picking out victims.

"What's the connection between these women?"

"There is none. Rita was married and Stacia was single. Rita worked at a diner and Stacia was a corporate lawyer. According to their credit cards, they never came within ten miles of each other."

"Both women were taken two months ago?"

"Yeah, they lived such completely different lives. The police didn't tie their abduction together until now."

"Was there any evidence of sexual assault?"

"No, there wasn't even any evidence of violence."

"How did they die?"

"Rita had a stroke and Stacia had a brain hemorrhage."

"Look at this," Spencer says as he is looking through the files, "the unsub gave them a battery of drugs like Atracurium and Doxacurium. These are neural inhibitors. They block signals from the brain to the muscles."

"He put them in medical comas for two months?" JJ gasps.

"Actually, they weren't in a coma. You'd need phenobarbital to keep them unconscious and they didn't have that."

"Wait, these victims were paralyzed but were still conscious?"

"Yeah. They could open their eyes, hear, and probably even feel stimulation. Physical immobility but mental awareness. This unsub wants total domination over them, and he turns their bodies into prisons to do it."

"Wheels up in twenty," Hotch declares.

The team shuffles out of the room but you stay behind so it's just you two.

"Hey, first, welcome back," you smile. "I'm sure you heard that Derek made me go to therapy but he's not unit chief anymore--"

"You're still going," Hotch says and leaves the room.

You sigh in frustration and watch your team from the window. This is gonna suck. You arrive at the plane at the same time as everyone else and pick up the conversation you left behind in the briefing room.

"Keeping women in a conscious paralysis reads as sadism. It's definitely dehumanizing by reducing them to objects, but there's nothing else about this profile that takes us down that path."

"These women were found in excellent condition. There was no evidence of bed sores and they were well fed through an IV," JJ says.

"His access to IVs and drugs makes it almost certain he has medical training."

"Are we sure this is a he?" you ask. "The care this unsub shows these victims, although they are dehumanized, says female."

"What about the postmortem posing? That's a lot of dead weight for a woman to carry."

So? Is he implying women can't be strong enough to carry someone? Don't get ahead of yourself, Y/N. He's not directing it to you. No one is out to get you. Calm down.

"These women are petite. They're under a hundred pounds."

"Okay, if we reconsider the gender of the profile, what changes?"

"Nothing. If anything, it fits better. Men kill to fulfill a sexual compulsion. Women don't. You see this in Angel of Mercy killers like Genene Jones and Amy Archer. They didn't care about race or hair color. It's men that do."

Penelope logged onto video chat right before Spencer had time to finish talking. She heard the last sentence he said and agreed completely.

"Damn straight men do."

Derek looks at her and he is shocked to see she is sporting red hair.

"Hello, Red. Look at you. Guys, look at her."

He turns the computer so everyone can see her, and she gives a big smile. She's beautiful but you keep quiet while everyone praises her for her looks. It's hard to find the energy to care about a lot of things these days. Is that depression or just plain anxiety? You're not sure anymore.

"Garcia, what did you find out about the clothing the unsub's dressing the victims in?" Hotch asks, getting everyone back on track.

"Only that both garments were made from chiffon, but with the wonder twin powers of the Atlantic City Police and my impeccable eye for fashion, we have also determined that these garments fit ridiculously well. They're super flattering to each victim's exact measurements, kind of exactly like the unsub whipped them up herself."

"Maybe that's what connects the victims. Maybe she isn't just killing petite women because they're easier to abduct and pose, but because of a physical type. She wants a body type. She could be sewing these clothes for specific women."

"Please tell me she is not killing these women because she needs human models," JJ sighs. "I mean, there's gotta be more to it than that."

"There probably is, but we at least have a start on the victimology."

"Prentiss and Morgan, I want you to interview the victims' families. Talk to them about lifestyle choices and any body image issues these women may have had." Hotch looks at Spencer only to notice he is holding your hand. He knows you're having trouble and decides it's best if he keeps you with Spencer for the time being. "Reid, take Y/N and go to Rita's autopsy. See if the drugs point to any specific medical training the unsub might have had. Dave and I will go to the disposal site. Garcia, I want you to check missing persons reports for the last two months. See if any abductions match what we know. We need to find out if the unsub's already taken another victim."

You have a bit of time to relax before the plane lands, and Spencer kisses your head to silently let you know he is here with you. You lean your head on his shoulder and take comfort where you can when you can.

x

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[according2thelore]

so like... what do y'all think john winchester assumed had happened when he woke up one night on a dark road in his crying girlfriend's arms with her dead dad right next to them with a stab wound in his belly? d'you think he wondered if he'd had some kind of blackout and killed samuel 'cause john thought he was a threat and reacted the way he was trained to deal with threats in the marines? 'cause I think that's more than plausible. and I think it's deliciously fucked up of mary if she let him go on the rest of their lives thinking he'd killed her daddy. and doubly so if john had to hold his brand new baby boy and ask his wife what she thought they oughta name him and have her fling the name of a man he'd killed back in his face. anyways.. many thoughts on ''in the beginning'' tonight 🥰👍

💜 cilla/mdbp 😈🎉

hello, cilla!!!

GAHHHHHH

because mr. campbell was always kind of an unnerving guy. he'd hated john as long as he and mary were together, and--mary doesn't know this--john went over to her house one time to straighten it out with the old man for mary's sake.

just a friendly conversation about how much he loved mary and would do right by her, probably a precursor to asking for her hand like a good nice boy would do, and john's mother raised him right.

but he answered the door with a knife tucked into his belt and one hand hidden behind the door. john knows the look in his eye. he knows that knife--he has one in the box of his army things under the mattress, one he hasn't opened in years because he can still taste the metal tang of blood when he looks at it. it's wicked and sharp and ridged, made for gutting things.

he didn't get mr. campbell's permission, and he left with his heartbeat in his ears, dazed. i don't want some washed-up, war-fucked civilian mechanic marrying my mary. you're no good for her, kid.

john wakes up in a backwater country lane two months later, mr. campbell gutted on the side of the road next to him. the knife is on the ground. the knife. the knife john has been trained to use in his sleep.

he has episodes, sometimes. he was at work in his first few months back, and a lift had slipped out from a car. it hit the ground with a grind of gears and screech of metal, and the next thing john remembers, it's two hours later and he's holding his friend jack down beneath a table, like he's trying to shield him from enemy fire. he has a wrench in his hand that he holds like a pistol. his buddies are all standing around him and talking to him like he's a spooked horse.

he broke jack's arm. he knows he's capable of committing violence and not remembering a fucking thing. he becomes almost an animal, when he feels threatened.

and here mary is, crying into his hair, and john doesn't remember a thing. he doesn't remember getting up that morning.

did he try to confront mr. campbell again? did mr. campbell find them out here, together, and try to defend mary's honour? did john...did john--

when he asks mary, tremulous, mary's eyes do something strange. resolve settles in the set of her jaw.

"we can't tell anyone, do you hear me? we've got to burn him before my family finds out."

when john wavers, she snaps.

"i'm doing this for you, john." as she starts dragging her father's corpse, still pumping blood, off into the woods.

it's a confirmation about every horrific thing john has ever thought about himself.

john thinks he's the luckiest man in the world, that his now-wife loves him this much. she chose him over her own father, and will hide his sins. she still wants to marry him, still trusts him. she stares at john the entire time the pyre burns, like she can't stand to look at her father.

"i'm so sorry," john says, numbly. he can't believe he was capable of this. killed an innocent man. he prays it was in self-defense, but mary still won't talk about it--she won't, not even when dean and sammy are born. but now, in the moment, he says, "i don't know what happened. i'll do anything to make this up to you, mary. i love you more than anything in the world. i swear on my life i'll do anything to protect you. anything to make you trust me again."

and you just can't buy that kind of devotion. not that mary doesn't love john--she does. but if she's going to get out, all the way out, she needs a man willing to cut all ties and not question any of it.

when his second son is born, john looks down at the face of his little boy, and is in love all over again, dean tugging at his pant leg so he can get a look at "dean's baby." he wants to name him michael, after a friend in the marines that saved his life in 'nam. but mary's face is impassive as she says, "we should name him samuel. after my daddy."

john winchester knows he'll never escape his sins.

he'll never be clean.

he killed his wife's father. he's unclean in the biblical sense.

~~~

@majordemonblockparty this ask made me throw up blood like a consumptive victorian waif <3 thank you so much <3

-lizzy