#and i report most of them for spreading dangerous bullshit
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Let the light in
Summary: The Avengers are separated after being hunted down and forced to live life on the low, causing a painful break up with the love of your life. What happens when she finds you again?
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader
A/N: Based off of this request
Warnings: Angst, violence, loneliness, blood, breakup, team separated, depression, kissing, comfort
Song: Let the light in- Lana Del Rey
The team sat around the dark living room, the familiar voice of one of New York's most famous news anchors echoing in through the air, “Good evening New Yorkers, today we open our headline with some shocking news: Former Stark enterprise building, located on the upper east side, exploded earlier today by a missile attack on the Avengers. Sources say Tony Stark was currently using it to house new plans for an updated Avengers training arena and larger compound. Two architects, three investors, and one security manager was injured. Two of the victims later succumbed to their injuries after the explosion. Reports confirming the source of the violence are still unknown, however the Avengers were believed to have been inside the building at the time- hence the attack. The founding members of the Avengers Initiative such as Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Thor Odinson, Y/N L/N, and Clint Barton have yet to speak out. This marks the second targeted attack on our world’s heroes in nearly a month since the Maximoff twins incident in Barbados, where Pietro Maximoff was nearly assassinated. It raises the question for us all: Are our heroes being hunted?”
The screen went black, bye bye news lady. The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. “What’re we gonna do Tony?” You got no answer.
“Cap?”
For the first time in the decade you’d known the team, (except for the Maximoffs & Peter) you saw uncertainty in all of their eyes. Tony threw his classic sunglasses on the couch, squeezing the middle of his nose in a useless attempt to massage an oncoming headache away, “Fury… thought it’d be wise if we split up for awhile-,” he was quickly shut up with protests from the group.
“It’s too dangerous. This isn't easy for me, but we're facing a threat that's beyond anything we've encountered before. I've crunched the numbers, run simulations – the Avengers need to disband temporarily. We scatter, go off the grid, and regroup when the dust settles.”
“This is bullshit, Tony. You know it is. This is exactly what they want-”
“Tasha,” your gentle touch on her back always softened her heart, but not today. She didn’t even look at you.
“It’s not the end, Nat. It’s like a strategic retreat. We're ensuring we'll live to fight another day. For once, I’m with Stark on this. We play it safe, keep low profiles, and spread out,” Steve sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and taking a hard look at everyone, “we’re family, we keep each other safe. And this is how we do it.”
As much as the idea made your stomach churn, he was right. He always was. This was your family. Every holiday, happy memory, laugh and cry and battle and bruise was all with them. This team is how you met the love of your life. You loved each other, and if this is what needed to happen, then you’d do it.
But that didn’t sit well with your girlfriend.
“No, end of story. We’re not separating.”
“You know I don’t think it’s just you’re choice, Natasha. I mean we have to decide this together,” your fingers lightly brushed the edge of the bed, nervously playing with the soft sheets you had just bought.
“Exactly, and I. Said. No.” She was acting like a stubborn toddler that didn’t want to eat her veggies, crossing her arms and raising her voice an octave.
It was then when you saw something different in her eyes, those beautiful green orbs that held so much sadness and joy at the same time. But today they were cloudy, like a storm was brewing in her mind. You gently slipped off of the bed and stood in front of her, pressing your forehead to hers, “You know it’s going to be okay, right?” soft palms caressed the side of her cheek, immediately feeling her sigh into your touch. “It’s going to be okay, you’ll see.” You wish your words were true.
Two months later the Avengers were spreading out all across the U.S., saying choked up goodbyes and packing your things. It was agreed upon that there’d be a team meeting once a month, every month, for the next year until you could figure out who the threat was, and how to eliminate them. You thought San Francisco sounded nice, fresh, and a little more peaceful than the hustle and bustle of New York. And it was, for a time. You got a haircut, dyed your gorgeous h/c locks to a rich h/c shade. You bought a sweet little home with a bay window over looking the Golden Gate Bridge, started building an in home gym and library, and kept an extremely low profile. You finished file work and other Avengers paperwork at home, with a high security grade laptop. Natasha on the other hand, refused to dye her hair, or keep a low profile. She didn’t want to admit that she was depressed, but it was glaringly oblivious. Being thrown out of her comforting routine put a wrench in Natasha’s life that not even you, her beautiful girl, could fix. All day she would do her paperwork, workout, and just keep to herself. It was like you weren’t even girlfriends anymore. Finally, in the fifth month of living “undercover,” she finally agreed to go on a low key date with you to a small, cozy bar on the outskirts of the city. You got dressed up for the first time in what felt like forever, did your makeup real pretty, and even did braids on Natasha’s silky hair. She looked happy, finally. Adorning a brown leather jacket, dark blue jeans, and a low cut green top- her classic silver arrow necklace sitting pretty on her chest- your girlfriend looked like her old self again...absolutely perfect.
“You look gorgeous, baby,” swift arms swept you into a gentle kiss, smirking against your lips and pulling you close to her waist.
You thought that night would be perfect, but by 11 pm you two were home and icing her bloody knuckles, static tv voices echoing in the background. You felt hot tears rising to the surface, but you never let them fall. It’s not like you were just mad or angry or disappointed…no this was something more. You were embarrassed. Embarrassed by Natasha. You thought you’d never say that sentence, but then there you were, apologizing to the bartender for your girlfriend's rowdy behavior, and throwing $20 to the guy she completely knocked out before nearly carrying her out of the bar and into a cab. Within the next two weeks she packed her bags, and your home was changing once again, now empty.
8 months later
The team said that you’d only be separated for a year, or less, but you were coming up on a year pretty soon and none of you were any closer to figuring out who the threat is. But you, you moved on, strived forward, and kept going. Your breakup with Nat had been one of the most painful moments of your life, but you didn’t let it stop you. These days you hardly cried over her at all, never even thought of the old days. Well, except for last Tuesday, when you saw one of her old sweaters and lied in bed for the rest of the day, or on Thursday when you heard her favorite song and- well, never mind that. You were at the top of your fucking game.
Ms. Romanoff, on the other hand, had moved out of San Francisco completely and settled in Washington D.C. from the last you heard. She attended the monthly zooms, same as you, but you two never addressed one another. Natasha pushed all of the heartbreak she harbored deep, deep down until she would lie down for bed and reach out next to her…but you were never there.
#natasha romanoff angst#natasha romanoff x reader#natasha romanoff fluff#natasha romanoff x fem!reader#avengers x reader#avengers fic
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Hi! I have been reading you for a long time and would like to ask you something for the first time… The last message flow to the Lethal Company from the Nutcracker was WILDLY SWEET, however, it hurt me from the bracken that was shot through the lytic…. May I ask the bracken and the reader where the bracken constantly goes behind the reader's back…. JUST TO HUG! Someone from the team warns about the danger and the bracken gently takes the reader in his arms to his lair for even bigger hugs!
Bruh you have no idea how soft i am for brackens hfghhs (when I first started playing LC, they were ALWAYS killing me...but now they just like to pop out and scurry away when I look at them, so I consider us to be pretty chill)
Anyways woe Bracken fluff be upon ye <3
.....
Of all the creatures you've encountered during your time with the Company, Brackens were certainly the most complicated.
Even though there's been countless documents and reports of employees scanning, studying, and dying to these aliens...they were still seldom understood. The data on the terminal said so.
There was one in particular who had such a unique behavior pattern that remained a mystery to you.
And he lived on Experimentation, which was supposedly the "safest" moon to land on and gather scrap from.
Most of the time, however, that was a load of bullshit...as you and your crew had many encounters with aggressive lifeforms such as hoarding bugs, Thumpers, spiders, and turrets that were placed in the most inconvenient spots...
Hell, even an Earth Leviathan showed up and nearly consumed your entire ship.
As of right now, though, you were on-track to making the third profit quota's deadline. So a trip to Experimentation was an order, as you could grab minimal loot and still gain enough leftover money to buy some much-needed ship upgrades and tools.
Or maybe new suits or jack o'lanterns.
None of you were good at managing your budget.
But during this trip, you were less focused on getting loot and more eager to see....a certain someone.
Hopefully, he hasn't forgotten about you or mistook you for another random employee.
While two of your coworkers headed into the facility's main entrance and one stayed behind on the ship, you ascended the stairs leading up to the fire exit--armed with nothing but a flashlight and a walkie-talkie.
[Nearby activity detected!]
"Oh come on...can you be anymore vague?" You huffed, slightly annoyed that your scanner displayed the message before you could even touch the damn door.
"Activity" was awfully broad and could mean literally anything was waiting for you on the other side..
It could be a bunker spider or snare flea waiting to drop down on you and catch you by surprise.
It could be a Hygrodere spreading itself all over the floor, anticipating you setting one foot into it before drowning in its slimy body.
It could even be a simple turret ready to turn you into swiss cheese.
However, there's the possibility that it could also be the one entity here who didn't wanna give you a painful death, and you hoped to god you were right.
So you took a leap of faith and entered.
Surprisingly no danger was immediately present, although you did find a lot of good loot inside the room and smiled. "Oh sweet!" You grabbed the rubber ducky and Rubik's cube in the nearest corner, pocketing them. "This should set us way above-"
"Something's behind you!"
"Huh-?!"
All of the sudden, a pair of large arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you back and causing your oxygen tanks to be pressed against the creature's chest-
Wait.
You only knew one Bracken that did that, and you couldn't help but laugh. "Oh my gosh, you scared me! You know you can't keep doing that!"
"Krrrrrr.." The entity purred softly, nuzzling his face against your neck as its leaves rustled with happiness.
With a chuckle, you patted his arm affectionately. "I've missed you, too, buddy. I told you I'd be back."
Knowing it was this Bracken, you felt safer than ever. He had a habit of greeting you this way: by sneaking up behind you like the rest of his species typically did, and attacking you.....not by snapping your neck like a twig, but by embracing and nuzzling you.
Of course, nobody in your crew believed that you've got a dangerous alien predator on Experimentation who always waited for you. Who loved you like a dog and would kill a Thumper for you.
If only they could meet him...but then again, he was shy.
"Don't tell me it's that damn Bracken again...did you tame it or something?"
The staticky voice of your coworker over the walkie-talkie startled the poor Bracken out of the hug, as it dropped you and flared its leaves out, wondering where they were.
"Relax, we're cool." You huffed, annoyed that they spooked your friend. "I gotta conserve my battery so...signal me when it gets close to midnight."
"....fine. Just don't die. Over and out."
After switching off the device, you turned back to him and smiled apologetically. "Don't worry. They're far away, so they won't bother us." You removed your helmet for the moment.
He nodded in understanding, crouching down to get a better look at your human features.
For some reason he never minded prolonged eye contact with you--and that was a good thing....otherwise, you would've been dead a long time ago.
You smiled and patted the top of his head, before he suddenly sprung up and scooped you up into his arms, lifting you completely off the ground. "Woah! Hey! Where are we going?" You asked as he carried you out of the room, taking you somewhere further within the facility.
Considering the Bracken knew his way around, you weren't too concerned with getting lost.
On your way to this unknown destination, you spotted a hoarding bug skittering down the hallway, eyeing the brass bell attached to your belt.....only to freeze as the leafy entity glared at it.
Luckily it understood the appropriate time to make eye contact with a Bracken, as it eventually looked away from him and decided to leave for another part of the facility.
It seems most of the creatures were knew who was the alpha.
'Man, whoever's tracking me must be so confused right now..' You thought to yourself as he continued walking.
Eventually you both arrived at a place many employees dubbed the "Bracken Room": a large open illuminated space with yellowish walls that looked out of place in the facility.
After setting you down on the floor, you looked at the Bracken with confusion, wondering why he decided to bring you here....until he brought you into another hug, wanting to sit down and have you in his lap.
You just smiled and wrapped your arms around him, giggling as he tucked his head underneath your chin, wanting to listen to the sound of a human's heartbeat.
Now you understood.
All he wanted was to take you to a quiet, safe place away from all the other monsters and employees. A place where he could have you to himself...at least for a couple more hours, anyways.
You knew the ship wasn't leaving anytime soon, so you didn't mind keeping him company.
While other Brackens are among the top three reasons employees hated their job...this one made you love it.
You feel so lucky, you'll consider buying a lottery ticket if you ever returned to Earth.
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Got perma-banned from Reddit for calling out a pedophile, they still won't let me have my account back
Hello. To anyone who manages to find this post (probably no one will but I still need to get this off my chest). Please help my reblog this story. This needs to be shared.
I have been permanently "suspended" from Reddit-which is a bullshit term that they have called my ostracization because their sentence is never going to let up.
5 months ago, I saw a comment on Reddit where a person was dangerously promoting the idea that minors can start having sexual arousal at a young age, therefore they are capable of consenting to an adult having sex with them.
I of course told this person to immediately desist. They refused, so I unleashed a diatribe of hurtful words (not even ashamed to say I frankly told them to go choke on their own vomit).
And how did Reddit admins choose to handle the situation after I reported this aggressor's comments invoking harm on children?
My comments were reported by the pedophile for "inciting bodily violence". My account was the one that got preemptively IP banned from Reddit, from my main and even my alt account which had nothing to do with my main account.
I traveled out of the country recently and got a new IP. I am a struggling artist and writer and wanted to use the account solely to get advice on character design and storyboarding tips for my current project. Reddit somehow managed to track my IP change and they banned me once again, on an account that had nothing to do with my previous account.
If anyone can find this post, please reblog. Please help me spread the word on how horribly corrupt Reddit's admin team is and how they use their so-called "terms of service" to protect the well-being of online predators and other creeps rather than the people who are in need of most protection.
#reddit is dead#reddit is evil#feminism#protect children#social justice#sound of freedom#online predators#stop predators#radical feminism#radical feminist safe
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Desiderium ch 1: Vestiges of the Past
Hi friends! I'm finally back on my regularly scheduled bullshit after graduating from college, so please have the first chapter of my Silco x OC fic as an apology. I hope y'all enjoy!
Pairing: Silco x Original female character
Rating: Explicit (18+ only) minors DNI I will disintegrate your kneecaps
Word count: 2.3k
AO3 Link
Click here if you'd like to join my taglist!
Please see below the cut for all applicable tags/warnings
Tags/warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, angst and eventual comfort, canon-typical violence, blood and injury, friends to lovers to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mid-sized female character
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Saying that Silco’s day had gone to shit was an understatement. It was barely noon, and the most feared man in Zaun was in the kind of foul mood that usually took a whole day to cultivate. He was already nursing his second glass of whiskey, this one even more full than the last. Time of day didn’t really matter in the preternatural, constant grey haze of the undercity, or at least that’s what he told himself.
Silco scowled at nothing in particular as he absentmindedly swirled the amber liquor around his lowball glass. He downed the whole thing in one deep draft, and the alcohol traced a fiery path down his throat. It gave a different, almost cathartic pain to distract from his throbbing headache. He slammed the glass down on the desk in frustration, and the force of the impact was enough to send the ice sliding up the side with a satisfying clink. Silco traded the glass for the papers littering his desk, muttering vehemently under his breath as he flipped through them, “failed mission, incomplete report, shipment seized…. Fuck”.
The papers quickly received the same rough treatment as the glass, swiftly spreading across his desk in a fan of his subordinates’ latest failures. Taking over The Last Drop and expanding the shimmer operation meant hiring more new workers was necessary, but they somehow managed to be overwhelmingly disappointing. Silco pushed away from his desk in frustration, massaging his temples. He slowly turned his chair around to face the ornate window behind him and rested his aching head against the high back of his chair. The dim, green glow that defined the undercity greeted him as he pushed his hair back from his face, “some people seem to need a little extra encouragement to do their jobs properly,” he grumbled.
His reprieve was short-lived. Loud, hurried footsteps in the hallway and a sharp knock on his office door jolted Silco upright. He heard the click of the handle turning before he could even start to speak and immediately knew something was wrong. Normally, nobody would dare enter without permission; he had certainly made enough of an example of the last poor sap to try it.
The person rushed in and quickly shut the door behind them. Their breathless panting signaled that they had run all the way here, but it was broken up by small grunts of pain. A soft, steady dripping noise was audible, and Silco inwardly sighed.
At least I’ll get the pleasure of scaring the shit out of whoever this is; Sevika would’ve already spoken up, and Jinx never knocks.
He slowly turned around, eyebrow arched expectantly, and tone dangerously calm as he spoke, “What do you want?”
The man in his office was doubled over, either desperately trying to regain his breath or attempting to stay conscious. At first glance, he looked like he’d been mauled by a wild animal, but that description did his injuries no justice. Deep, angry scratches and several bite marks thoroughly canvassed the exposed skin of his arms and torso. The torn front of his shirt was stained deep crimson, and the rag he held to the side of his face was saturated with blood that steadily dripped onto the floor. Slowly, Silco realized he was the new hire Sevika took with her this morning on patrols.
Any ire Silco had felt was quickly replaced by icy fingers of dread clawing down his spine. “Where is she?”
The man struggled to speak, coughing up even more blood onto the floor with a horrid, gurgling sound. Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity, he managed to choke out a few words. “Se..vika fine…. bringing…. her.”
Her?
Despite the vague statement, silent relief flooded Silco as he fished his cigar box out of his desk drawer. He wasn’t familiar with this new hire, but the burly man didn’t look like he would be easy to seriously injure. However, whoever had done this much damage hadn’t managed to take Sevika out. Few things could make the day worse, but losing his right hand to an unknown danger so soon into being the reigning kingpin of the undercity would certainly be one of them.
“Go get Singed to put you back together.” Silco’s tone was still icily calm, but it no longer held the same dangerous edge. Now, it merely reflected the cold disinterest of a powerful man that he tried so hard to cultivate. Emotions were not something the newly crowned Eye of Zaun could afford to regularly show. They were complicated, messy, and the last bit of damning evidence that he still had a heart.
He plucked a cigar out of its gilded box and slid the drawer shut as the mercenary visibly winced. The healing process Singed used would arguably hurt worse than the injury itself, but the mercenary also knew better than to argue or be ungrateful. He opened his mouth to try and voice his thanks, but Silco stopped him with an exasperated wave of his hand.
“My floor doesn’t need any more blood on it. Get out.”
The man nearly tripped over himself as he hurried out of the office. He left the door wide open, much to Silco’s further annoyance.
“At least it’ll be open for Sevika and whoever she’s dragging in,” he muttered.
He expertly trimmed the end of his cigar and lit it, taking time to savor the taste. In the quiet moment before the storm, each extra second of respite was a luxury. The calming effects of the nicotine hit, and the comforting, spicy aroma of his preferred tobacco blend filled the air as Silco turned his attention back to the paperwork. He had no idea what to expect, but he’d be damned if he looked surprised by it. After all, a good poker face was priceless in Zaun, and Silco had one of the best.
He didn’t have to wait long. More footsteps approached and stopped outside his door; one pair sounded steady, and the other seemed decently unstable. Every so often, the sound of the unsteady footsteps would change into the unmistakable sound of feet being drug across the floor. Silco heard Sevika say something in a low, decently threatening tone before they stepped inside, and he simply continued filling out the paperwork. He quickly finished the last tally and looked up. Silco tried to remain impassive, but what was sitting in front of him was far more interesting than anything he could’ve expected.
The woman’s head was covered with a sack, presumably to discourage any more biting, and her arms were bound tightly behind her back. However, that was relatively normal; many of Silco’s more unwilling visitors were brought in with some form of head covering to protect their handler. What was abnormal in this situation was the woman’s appearance.
From the state of the guard, he was anticipating a large, muscular woman with a build like Sevika. At the very least, Silco expected to see one of the various female mercenaries that worked for the other Chem Barons. This woman was very clearly neither. Now, Silco was definitely smart enough not to underestimate the damage a woman could do, but everything about this girl screamed that she was deeply out of place.
I’m sure part of Vash’s current condition is due to a grave miscalculation of the woman’s abilities. I can hardly blame him.
Silco leaned back in his chair, studying the sight in front of him, a slightly sardonic smile pulling at the corner of his lips. The violence was the most brutal, animalistic thing he’d seen since Deckard ripped through the enforcers, but the source of this incident was surprisingly easy on the eyes.
Her dress was blackened with grime from the streets and nearly torn to shreds, but it was obviously once beautiful and would have been right at home among Piltover’s elite. It was a white and gold confection that hugged every generous curve of the short woman’s body like it had been tailor-made. The deep v-shaped cut in the front was accentuated by gold and displayed her decolletage like a prize, but even a Zaunite prostitute would have worn a more practical dress. A deep slit had been torn in the form-fitted skirt to allow for easier movement, but the dress was still as out of place in Zaun as a dove would be among ravens.
Sevika walked over to shut the door. “Vash found her outside one of the storehouses. After I pulled her off of him, she wouldn’t say a word. I figured you’d want to see her.”
Some distant part of Silco’s brain registered the man’s name, but most of his attention was still focused on the woman in front of him. Her exposed skin was filthy, bloody, and bruised in many places, but otherwise, it was easy to tell she lacked the scars and marks that years of continuous life in the undercity left on all Zaunites.
The woman had very obviously been through hell and back; she wore no shoes under the ragged hem of the dress, and her feet were cracked and bleeding as if she’d been running for days. However, her posture did not match the battered condition of her appearance. Her head was slightly bowed, but her whole body was tensed as if she were a wild animal, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice.
Silco’s mind raced.
This woman is obviously from Piltover. Vash underestimating her would explain his injuries to an extent….. but she was able to cause that kind of damage, and she still has fight left in her?
He looked up and raised a single questioning eyebrow at Sevika, who merely shrugged in response and gestured up and down at the dress in a manner that very clearly said, “What the fuck?”.
Silco waved his hand in exasperation and motioned for Sevika to remove the sack. He picked a knife off his desk, flipping it open and studying the fine edge of the blade.
Far be it from me to not learn from the mistakes of others.
Sevika slashed through the tie in one fluid motion and ripped the sack off her head. White-blonde curls sprang free from their confines, and Silco instantly felt his world slam to a halt. They were as filthy and bloodstained as the dress, but they were still achingly familiar. He had only ever seen them on one other girl- the first girl he had ever loved and the first person who ever betrayed him.
It can’t be.
The heart Silco pretended not to have anymore started to ache. Memories flashed through his mind at a rapid-fire pace. A beautiful girl with a head of curly blonde hair drinking and laughing beside him and Vander, celebrating their first successful mission….. the first time he held her close and claimed her soft lips with his own…. and the day he found the note that broke his heart.
The woman’s chest heaved as she greedily sucked in the fresh air, cleavage threatening to spill over the tight neckline of the dress. She visibly steeled herself and glared up at Silco, her forest-green eyes barely focused but still burning with a baleful inner fire. Her plush lips were drawn back into a muted snarl, revealing bloodstained teeth. However, as soon as her eyes connected with his, the fury shifted to disbelief and utter confusion. Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity, her beautiful eyes settled on one emotion: heartbreak.
“Sil….?”
A clear, bell-like voice Silco never thought he’d hear again rang out in the room as the woman spoke. He didn’t feel his grip on the knife loosen, but some part of his brain registered the sound of it clattering to the floor. The sound echoed in his head as the woman closed her eyes and shook her head slightly as if to dispel a vision.
She opened her eyes once more, and a single tear slid down her cheek, trailing a clean line to contrast the blood and grime caked on her face. Her exhaustion seemed to catch her all at once, and she crumpled in the chair. She fell to the side, but her hands were still bound, so the chair fell with her.
Silco was out of his own seat and around the desk before he knew it, but Sevika was faster. She caught the edge of the chair and hauled it back upright, bringing the woman back with it in one strong pull.
Her head lolled to the side, seemingly lifeless, and Silco felt his world stop a second time. Sevika reached over and checked her wrist for a pulse, still not daring to put her hands near her mouth or head.
“Faint, but still there.”
“Singed. Now.” Silco croaked, barely managing to get the words out. They felt stuck in his throat, and the world was swimming. “Whatever he has to do.”
She nodded brusquely and slashed the bonds that tied the woman’s wrists together. In a fluid motion, she scooped the bloody woman into her arms and rushed out the door, slamming it behind her.
Silco fell to his knees in front of the chair.
She left. She’s back… but she left. She left me. She left me alone….
He wished he could rip out his heart; make this pain finally stop. Of all the cruel tricks the universe had played on him, this one was by far the most painful. A thin, barely noticeable stream of tears fell from his closed eye as the ruined one blankly stared at the chair she had just inhabited.
Selene.
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Tagging some friends: @saradika @thefact0rygirl @milf-plokoon @kirstykiddo @hereforthesunrise @ashotofspotchka @thebeardedmoon @eriseffigy @dont-mess-with-my-fandom @redflamesbaku @my-awakened-ghost @agatemermaid @shadow-pancake9 @zaunsin @warpedbands @kemeso25 @lemmielem
If a line is through your name I was unable to tag your account
#ayo im BACK#silco#arcane#silco arcane#silco fanfic#arcane fanfic#silco fanfiction#silco x oc#sevika#sevika arcane#arcane fanfiction#slow burn#enemies to lovers
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Alright so I don't know if anyone else has already made a post about this or not, but do y'all remember when we split into pieces the last time and a bunch of us decided to be birds?
And those birds decided to take the WORST parts of our discourse that we had already talked through and figured out as a group and let it simmer and fester among them and become irreparably harmful sticking points in queer Fandom?
Yeah uh, some of those bitchy ass birds think they can come back here with their radfem/TERF/SWERF BS and we'll all just welcome them back with open arms. Be diligent. Be vigilant.
I'm going to impart some advice to all of you that I learned while I was a bird watcher.
DO NOT ENGAGE THEM. If they are chirping about harmful shit, DONT EVEN ENGAGE THEM FOR THE "GOTCHA" REPLY. literally JUST BLOCK THEM. Reblogging only spreads the hate.
THEY DONT NEED TO BE EDUCATED. They know they're shitty people. They're trying to find others like them. Don't let them spread out. Report the heinous shit. Block them. Move the fuck on.
IF YOU GET PUT ON SOME KIND OF HATE LIST OR CALLOUT POST for something that seems perfectly "normal" (like being a pro-shipper) scroll the other usernames in that post. See who else is being called out. See what they're being called out for. And BAND TOGETHER. FOLLOW THEM. If you know for a FACT you're getting attacked for something that's literally not an issue, stick together. Follow them. Message them, if you can. Make sure they know they're not alone.
Switch your box to no-anons for a while. Turn off submissions. Turn off messages from non followers for a minute. You might get brigaded.
IF YOU FIND THE INSTIGATOR OF THE HATE CAMPAIGN: there are courses of action to take into consideration.
If you are a minor and the instigator is also a minor: report them and block. Use screenshots, links if you can. The safety folks here at Tumblr have traditionally been far more responsive than on other apps. See above steps.
If you are a minor and the instigator is an adult: report, block, and try to find an adult you trust that can talk through this with you. Beware of adults that label themselves as "safe adults" or "Fandom mom/dads" this title has been corrupted in recent years by radical adults who want power over younger, vulnerable minds. See above steps.
If you are an adult and the instigator is a minor: SEE ABOVE POINTS. It is not YOUR DUTY to explain to a CHILD trying to cancel you why you haven't done anything wrong. Put away the older sibling/cousin/parent energy and remind yourself that the kid is not your responsibility. Report, especially if they have posts stating they're underage to be on here, and block. That's it.
If you are an adult and the instigator is also an adult: I can't tell you what to do with any sort of authority, but I can tell you that trying to argue, reason, educate, or counter-harassment just doesn't work. They don't care. They have a cultlike sense of power and think they have moral superiority over you, which is extremely dangerous if they also have a small army of minors that they've spread their bullshit beliefs to. The most hurtful thing you can do to fight back is to just keep playing whack a mole: report, block, repeat. These are extremely angry, spiteful people that don't give a damn who they hurt. They want to control people because of their discomfort with content they deem inappropriate.
For the record, these people have warped the term "proshipper" to mean "someone who is okay with really morally reprehensible, """illegal""", or just serial content of a nature I feel uncomfortable with" and tend to throw around words like lolicon, pedophile, and groomer. They come up with straight up BIZARRE things to fight over that at the end of the day boil down to "I am uncomfortable with sexually or romantically toned content that may or may not have to do with fictional characters that have the slightest potential to be interpreted as underage."
We're talking things like a character being under five foot five. That's supposedly grounds for being considered child like, and then therefore incapable of feeling anything other than warm fuzziness about going to the park or petting a cat. It sounds legitimately nuts, but it is something I have personally witnessed.
Proship literally means "fine with shipping, and against harassing people for what they do in their spare time relating to their favorite fiction" that's it.
Yknow. The opposite of what these people do.
(This is also the part where I point out that most of the attacks and hate go towards people of marginalized societal groups because it's a good way to act on a "universal stigma" to hide the real reason all this is happening: bitchass, convoluted adults that want to be able to prey on kids without people that would stand up to their bullshit getting in the way)
Anyway. I'm sure I'm rambling and maybe no one will see this, but this is something I wanted to pass on as someone who has been fighting a losing battle against a rising tide of youngsters who reject our notions of safe, happy, considerate Fandom and instead want us to cater to their corrupted, conservative leaning views. I've been doing it on tiktok for 3 years and I'm fucking tired. No one listened to me on this there, so I'm hoping folks will understand me better here. I just wanted to warn all of you that not everyone who is moving here (or coming back) has the best intentions.
Uh. Here's a gif. When I was here last, that was customary to end a post with.
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can tiktok stop putting FUCKING EATING DISORDER BULLSHIT ON MY FYP IM GONNA SCREAM
#tw eating disorder mention#i always click not intersted or block these accounts#and i report most of them for spreading dangerous bullshit#BUT ITS STILL THERE#and these people are always like ‘im not responding for your triggers’ yes you are!!!!!!#bc your content gets put out to everyone on this stupid app!!!!!!#and its not like recovery stuff its ppl posting those fucking pro ana diet plans#and i already hate how i look and idk how to change it bc even trying to lose weight in a healthy way makes me go back to starting myself#and the thing is im technically in calorie deficit most of the time at least#bc my whole family is ok those box diets which is fine and very convenient#and i know how much i’m eating more or less#and i’m still not losing weight at all and whenever i see all this pro ed crap i wanna relapse so badly#i’m only on tiktok bc it’s the only place where i can interact with ppl with common interests to me bc there aren’t fanbases here on tumblr#but fuck it’s so mentally draining#dante yells
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Hi, I was reading your post about Jason punching Dick in the face when Dick revealed he fake his death was bullshit ( which it was) and it reminded me of an issue/question that has bothered me for sometime.
Why did people believe Dick was actually dead?
I’m not the most avid comic reader so maybe I missed something but it was always weird to me that everyone just accepted this especially given how Bruce was acting or should I say wasn’t acting.
This is a man when his child died another child had to come along and told him sir you are being too violent and emotional you need supervision. When his other child died he went all over the universe to bring him back to life because he knew it was possible ( which was happening at the same time), so why didn’t anyone think it was weird he wasn’t doing that for Dick. Can you imagine Dick really dying that soon after Damian it would be injustice Batman Version. You are telling me that Tim, Jason or Barbara didn’t think it was weird that Bruce didn’t also bring Dick’s corpse to the bring Damian back to life mission or mention it to themselves. Like what more likely Dick dead and Bruce is handling it well or that he fake his death to do something stupid and Dangerous after his partner/brother/ little bit my son the feelings are complicated died after he was knocked out and woke up to his corpse.
Oh man, this is like, the entire nature of my beef?
(Slight derail just to emphasize the fact real quick that Dick DID actually die, he was just revived quickly, but like, the trauma of his death was very real and its not like anyone was clued into Luthor having a resurrection backdoor built into his literal murder of Dick in the actual moment of it happening. So Dick’s death wasn’t fake, and additionally, he didn’t have anything to do with like, telling people about it, because he was literally comatose in the cave and recovering while Bruce was telling people....by the time Dick woke up in the cave, we already know that Alfred at least had already been convinced by Bruce that Dick was dead, so I have a kneejerk need to pushback against the Dick faked his death narrative by reminding people wherever possible that Dick had no agency in the spreading of that narrative.
It happened without him being involved, and the only actual contribution he ever made to it was just not revealing he was alive before Grayson #12, after Bruce like.....emotionally, mentally and physically badgered him into accepting that doing so would be directly harmful to his family and he didn’t want to be the reason more people died when like, people had just died because he ‘let’ himself be captured and interrogated by Power Woman’s Lasso of Submission, did he?
SORRY TO BE PEDANTIC, just wanted to start this off on a clarification, even though I know the aim of your ask was very much in tune with the rest of my response. A lot of people don’t read the actual comics, so like, I’m never gonna skip over an opportunity to emphasize that the shorthand people use to refer to Dick’s death and the year he was with Spyral, is like, literally just shorthand for describing it. Its not actually an accurate description of how all that went down and who had the most hand in it).
BUT ANYWAY. BACK TO THE MEAT OF THE BEEF.
Okay so like, not only was the entire family and Bruce himself giving Dick shit for his death and Spyral, like, PAINFULLY egregious because it was literal victim blaming in every possible sense of the word....
None of it made a LICK of sense with ANY of their characterizations, and they ONLY all accepted it on face value because the Plot Demanded It, and when you're like, no, as a reader I say The Plot Demanded It is not a good enough reason for me to be like well sure, that makes sense......looking at the characters ACTUAL actions at face value pretty much just makes them all look like assholes?
Like, Tim has never gracefully accepted anyone's death. Ever. This is core characterization for him. He will go to the ends of the earth for his loved ones and to bring them back, prove they're not dead, refuse to let death be the final verdict for them. He was tempted to use the Lazarus Pit to bring his parents back to life. He refused to accept Bruce was dead long before he had any proof whatsoever of that theory. He tried to clone his BFF/future-husband Kon in his fucking basement like, dude was two whole inches away from going Full Dark Side in his quest to bring back a lost loved one no matter WHAT the cost.....and then you've got Dick unmasked onscreen, killed offscreen, and Bruce then reporting to the rest of them with zero inflection 'oh Dick's dead now. Its very sad' and Tim's just like, sure. Sounds legit.
I mean?!?!
And you're SO RIGHT ABOUT THE DAMIAN THING! Bruce LITERALLY LITERALLY LITERALLY went BEYOND the ends of the Earth, like, he full on chartered a fucking space ship to fly his whole family out to APOKOLIPS to bring Damian back from the dead by going to EXTREME lengths.....WHILE everyone else thought Dick was dead....
And not a single person looked at Bruce and was like, okay, not that we're not down to do this for Damian because we miss Stabby Smurf something fierce ourselves, but.....what the fuck is UP with you dude? Why aren't you displaying ANY hint of this same kind of energy in regards to your eldest son that you said you watched die right in front of you?
Like....I don't know that we were actually ever told that Dick's coffin was empty or had a fake in it, but like....this family of detectives who refuse to accept death, defy death, COME BACK FROM THE DEAD....not a single one of them said like, okay, if I'm gonna like, ACCEPT accept that Dick is dead and gone for good, I need to at least just see him one last time? That's literally all it would have taken for someone to realize hey something's a little wonky here. Where's the dead body, Pops?
Since when has Jason ever missed an opportunity to prove Bruce is a) full of shit, b) acting like an emotionless robot and all his kids deserve better especially when they've just like....died, c) just factually incorrect and wrong and jumped to a conclusion before it was conclusively proved, d) lying like a liar or e) all of the above?
Nobody even ASKED if Dick's body could be put in a Lazarus Pit? Yeah, Jason wouldn't necessarily recommend it himself, given what it put him through, but actually fuck that, I take that back, because I'm NOT actually of the opinion that Jason full on hates his life and actively spends every second of every day wishing he hadn't been resurrected, even if it had come with a huge buffet of additional trauma and pain.
And that's kinda what's implied when people just take it for granted that he would never be on board with any scenario involving using a Lazarus Pit to bring Dick back, because it suggests that based even just on his own experiences and feelings, he honestly believes Dick would prefer being dead and not have ANY further opportunities to be with his loved ones, his friends, help save the damn world again at some future point.....that Jason, projecting based just off himself, legit feels Dick would rather be dead than have another shot at life even WITH the downsides of Lazarus Pit usage? Nope. Sorry, I don't buy it.
Speaking of not buying it.....you know what was missing from all those soliloquies the others monologued at Dick about how they felt and were hurt and just devastated by his death, to such a point they can't seem to muster a single shred of happiness that he's NOT dead still -
(seriously, Damian was the ONLY person in ALL THE LANDS OF EMOTION-HAVING who expressed ANY kind of positive reaction to having Dick back. We were so fucking cheated of like.....ANY opportunity to have the characters show just how much they valued him by just being fucking HAPPY he was alive, no matter what else was involved....and then most of fandom compounded that by for years being like mmmm, no, Dick didn't get yelled at enough by his family for what HE put THEM through. Needs more yelling. More punching too. Bad Dick. Bad. This is the only way you'll learn not to die and get shipped off on a mission that you don't want but at least is to protect your family after being beaten into it by your dad whilst victim blaming you for dying in the first place. WHEN WILL YOU LEARN TO THINK ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE AND THEIR FEELINGS FOR A CHANGE, DICK?!?)
- But like, BUT I DIGRESS aside....you know what was missing from all those monologues about how hard DICK'S death and ensuing year of basically exile from his loved ones was for EVERYONE BUT HIM?
We never got a single line of explanation as to what everyone else officially thinks even happened to him in the first place?
Like, did Bruce straight up just say oh bad news kids, your brother umm. Expired. Spontaneously. There's no one to blame, he just keeled over, its all very sad.
Is that how that went down?
You're telling me that the explanation of Dick's death didn't come with a single pointed finger at someone for this family of blame-happy vigilantes to like, BLAME for the loss of this brother they all mourned oh so much, they just couldn't help but blame him for all the hurt it caused them?
The family that in every other fic is like OBSESSED with avenging and being avenged and all things vengeful and even tangentially vengeance-y....like didn't ask for a single detail on whomst the fuck deprived us of our brother-having?
Where were the attempts on Luthor's life by Jason (who I mean, yeah I know it was in a previous continuity, but erasing that timeline doesn't erase my awareness of the time Dick killed Jason's murderer so like.....mmm, just saying, woulda been nice)....where was the rage directed at the Crime Syndicate and references to how seriously and personally the Batfam took making sure that they were PUNISHED for all this and would never be free to wreak havoc on their world or their family again? What did they tell Damian when he came back to life, and how are you going to tell me that this fraternal little ball of fury didn't aim himself like a cannonball at whomever the fuck had DARED take HIS Batman from him when Damian wasn't around to have his back?
Not only does everyone else's desire to be avenged start falling really flat the second you factor in hey maybe Dick feels "mmm what about MY avenging" sometimes, and why doesn't anyone ever care about doing that for him.....but also, y'know what REALLY sucks about the ONLY person we actually SEE being blamed for Dick's death and ensuing absence being like....Dick himself?
Not only were his family all super keen on making all of this HIS fault and HIM the bad guy because of how it made them all feeeeeeel (and meanwhile fuck his feelings, am I right Batfam hfaklshfklahfkla).....
They somehow found a way to justify prioritizing this OVER ever even getting around to blaming some villain for his death in the FIRST place, in the entire year or so they thought he was still dead!
Like, you couldn't come up with a single target in all that time, but Dick's back two seconds, and you don't even give him a chance to EXPLAIN before you're punching him, shutting him down with 'I expected better from you' and turning away with 'I don't want to hear it, why am I surprised Dick Grayson disappointed me again'?
afshklfhalfhalfhla
Make it make sense!
And like, it won't, cuz it doesn't, and it never will, and like I said at the top, the ONLY reason it all played out this way is because DC doesn't give a fuck about character development and deemed it necessary to go down this way for the sake of the plot (which was totes worth it, I mean, glad we sacrificed characters for this A+ plot which was clearly the greatest plot of all time and definitely justified every story choice made or not made around it loooool).
BUT.
BUT BUT BUT.
The problem isn't JUST that DC is stupid, even though that is an eternal mood and quite the problem.
Its that the SECOND large parts of fandom decided to play along with DC and just accept the story at face value, only add to it and play into it exactly as it happened in canon with no significant deviations, and like, heaping on the LITERAL abuse from Dick's siblings while ignoring the LITERAL abuse from his father....
THAT....is when all of this becomes relevant.
Because the second people decided TO engage with the reasoning DC gave for what Bruce did and how and what Dick did and how and just not mess with any of that and have it all play out exactly like that...
The second people are like, okay we're FINE with not just dismissing this story as OOC writing that doesn't make any sense, and actually VALIDATING it to various degrees by engaging with it as is....
That's when 'OOC writing' stops being an excuse or explanation for alllll of the above gaps in character logic and actions.
Because its like, when you had abundant chance to REJECT this story and say nope, this was bullshit from start to finish and I'm not here for it, when you were just as capable of transforming literally ANY aspect of this story you didn't like into something that made more sense to you....
And you chose not to.
That's.....accepting it as valid writing. You were like, okay, I'm game to just treat this as a thing that happened, just like they said that happened.
For the chance to give Dick shit for it, see. For the angst, see.
And that's when I'm like okay cool, so when engaging with this story as is and accepting it on face value and just delving into the characters as they were SHOWN interacting with and around these events......for the angst or whatever....
You guys just all decided en masse to just hop, skip and jump over allllllllll the opportunities for angst inherent in examining even ANY SINGLE ONE of the above lapses in judgment or hypocrisy on the parts of the characters (who don't get to be excused by OOC writing if you're not going to call the story an example of OOC writing, whoops).
And its just like, uh, what's up with that?
#lol thank you for this ask tho#I havent gone on a good Spyral rant in months#it does wonders for my pores
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and i’ve gotta crow | takami keigo
hawks x pro-hero! reader. quirk unspecified.
summary: “You’re suffering from amnesia,” says Hawks to you, in your hospital bed.
No, you are not.
“We’re engaged to be married.”
No, you are not.
After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?
fluff/trickery??? completely avoidable angst, bc reader is a little shit. hawks is a scumbag bully at first. reader is honestly kind of violent. dealing with acne in a scene.
When the first things you saw after groggily blinking your eyes open were multiple IVs in the back of your hand, you flipped over and snuggled farther into your hospital bed to deal with it later, but against your will you were forced to lie flat on your back to stare into the hospital fluorescents.
When the nurse fiddling with your IVs came into focus, he said, “You need to lie on your back. You have deep gashes on your lower abdomen, and tossing about too much could open the stitches.”
That sounded like bullshit, but you were too out of it to care. “Yeah, okay,” you said through a croak, “Oh, fuck.” You wrestled a hand to your throat, massaging it. “Am I waking up from a coma? Don’t let anyone see me until I’ve done my eyebrows.”
The nurse laughed through his nose. “No, don’t worry. You’ve barely been—” He cut himself off and frowned. “The news should probably be broken to you when you have emotional support. I’ll be back soon.”
He left.
Emotional support? Wouldn’t that fucking gash on your stomach be—ooh, ouch, don’t move.
Where’s your phone? Where’s your goddamn phone; where’s any of your personal belongings? If they got crushed, you’re killing Hawks on sight.
Hawks, oh, my God. Where is he? He’s dead. If he still has the audacity to bully you professionally—fuck.
He’d cornered you on patrol earlier—whenever that was—and cut into you in that casually, negging-type way that wasn’t enough to report but enough to make you stay up late and freak out about being good enough. It hurt your chest whenever you thought about it.
But this was the first time he’d gotten seriously physical.
He’d alit on the top of the warehouse next to you, landing what would have been haphazardly for anyone else (the arch of his feet against the edge, his toes barely touching roof) and had crouched next to you, his scarlet wings completely blowing your cover as they stretched and shuddered.
“What’s a little girl like you doing in this part of town?” Hawks had propped his chin on both his fists. “Thought shoplifters were more your calibre.”
“Hawks, this is actually really important to me, so please, please leave,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on the group you could barely make out through the skylight. They’d already been partially concealed by crates, so they were hard to see.
“Someone else give you a tip for their location?” He’d tapped your opposite shoulder with the end of his wing, but you hadn’t even flinched.
“Bruh, you know I’ve been on this for weeks,” you’d said, shifting away from him, “I even shared intel at your last briefing.”
“Is that what you were talking about?” Hawks had scratched his chin. “I zoned out. Usually the little cases female heroes present aren’t in my circle, and I like to unwind when brain power isn’t needed.”
You’d planned to rip his wings out feather by feather while you’d gritted your teeth. “You can’t talk to me like that, Hawks.”
He’d laughed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “C’mon, babygirl, have a slice of chill, won’t you? I thought you were one of the cool girls. Relax. I don’t mean anything by it.”
“Leave me alone, Hawks. You’re not gonna bully me into joining your agency. You’re not gonna bully me into quitting being a hero,” you’d said, inwardly screaming, “I’d tell you to go talk to someone who’d fall for your shit, but then, she’d have to suffer, too. So, fuck off into a sewer, jackass.”
“Oof,” Hawks had said, placing a hand over his heart and shaking his head, “You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart. I’m only looking for my better half. Didn’t think it could be you, but I’d thought I’d give you a chance to prove me wrong. Don’t take yourself too seriously; just be along for the ride like the rest of us.”
“Huh,” you had said, and you’d stood and strode to the edge of the warehouse to your harness and rope, and you rappelled down the side of it as stealthily as you came up.
“I’ve been watching you all these years, sweetness, and I know you by now; I know how you really feel,” Hawks had said a bit too loudly while he flew downwards at your speed (braggart). “Strip away all of your busy work, your so-called hero trappings, and we’d mesh together just fine. We may be rough around the edges, but we clean up really nicely, don’t we?”
You’d unclipped your carabiner and stepped out of your harness, stashing it in your pack. “Fuck off.”
You’d moved towards the back entrance, but Hawks had slammed a hand against the concrete wall in front of you. You’d ducked under it and carried on, and he’d grabbed the back of your shirt.
“C’mon, if we didn’t know each other, and our eyes met from across the room at some hero gala, you’d be all over me, wouldn’t you?”
You had swiped his hand away. “I’d be putting a lid on my drink.”
His arms behind his back, Hawks had followed you through the door and behind the exposed pipes and closer to your targets. “Saw you coming onto Todoroki at the last one. You looked fine in his colours, but you would’ve looked better in mine.”
Don’t grace him with an answer; don’t grace him with an ans— “I wasn’t coming onto Shoto,” you’d said, pulling yourself up a couple of pipes for a better view—and you’d hit him when he flapped his wings to hover the few feet you’d ascended, because the noise might alert them.
“Yeah, you just simp for him, right? Then you didn’t step outside your comfortable ice queen act?” Hawks had gripped onto a pipe just underneath your ass. “You’re too much of a natural tease for that.”
How can you report him when he’s the head of his own agency? You guess the commission might listen, but what can they do besides slap his wrist? There’s really no one who can stop him, is there?
You hadn’t replied but instead crawled onto the iron catwalk. If you could position yourself about three-quarters of the way across, you’d be able to effectively activate your quirk and get this over with—wait, why would you think like that? You’d been waiting for this for ages.
A hand spreading across the small of your back had reminded you.
You’d flipped over with fire in your eyes and kicked him away as quietly as you could, but all he’d done was sit back on his knees to grin down at you, army-crawling your way through a dirty warehouse.
Would he take credit for your work again?
You’d shaken yourself. Eat my entire ass, Hawks. And with that, you’d continued inching towards your targets. When you’d gotten into position to watch them, Hawks had merely watched you.
You had scowled. “I’m gonna tear you a—”
“You had a hard childhood, didn’t you?”
A chill had unfurled up your spine, simple as that. Hawks now not only had the annoying air of an arrogant pick-up artist but also gave you an intense sense of danger. You’d moved away from him, regrettably away from your target, but Hawks had followed you, getting closer until his body heat had seeped into yours, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his dumb face.
“I could take suuuuch good care of you, little girl,” he’d said under his breath, “if only you’d let me. No one else is crazy enough to call me out or want more than the bare minimum.” His wings had folded in on his back, making themselves as small as possible to get closer to you. “If you give in, tell me yes, say please, you wouldn’t have to let any worries cross your pretty little mind. All you have to do is let me in.”
“Yikes,” you had said, sucking in through your teeth, “God, you’re a creep.”
Hawks had slammed you down onto the catwalk, iron reverberating through the warehouse as it struck your head, and your targets had looked up by the time the catwalk hinges had loosened and had come crashing down in the midst of their meeting.
You’re really not supposed to shoot guns inside. Don’t they know that’ll ruin their ears? No matter, really. You had fought them anyway, amidst crates splintering open from whatever they were shooting at you—fuck, that was a big hole. What’s oozing out of that? Gross, don’t step in it.
One with a normal revolver—his arm had given a woody crack when you’d bent it backwards—God, that was nice. Good sounds. If you could sample them into a rap track, you would.
You’d been planning a collab with a popular rapper while you’d hurled yourself at another villain, sawdust flying—just to keep your mind busy, really, but fucking—fucking Hawks had bested whoever he’d half-assed to the ground and had shouted your way.
“C’mere, you little shit—”
He’d scooped you up while you’d been taking care of it by yourself, and he had pinned you down behind a stack of crates that reached the remains of the catwalk, straddling you but keeping most of his weight off, his wings outstretched yet still hidden from the cloud of sawdust rising with deep gurgling on the far side.
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he’d said over the chaos, spit flying, “You can’t handle this; you’re gonna get fucking killed. I can’t babysit you all the time.”
“Get fucked; I’m the number fourteen hero,” you’d said, deadly still, but twitching in fury, “I can handle anyth—”
“Aww, fourteen. And one day babygirl might reach the single digits.” Hawks had sneered in your face. “If she manages to fuck her way through them.”
Your jaw had dropped, and you pretended to cough on sawdust and kicked him off in the confusion. Hawks had grabbed a hold of your calf, grappling for your thigh, while you’d scrambled to climb over crates to the gurgling mess on the other side; you could handle it, and you would.
You’d slapped his hands away, wrestled out of his grasp again and again, and you’d launched yourself into the dust—
Yeah.
While the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, you picked at a hangnail. You hadn’t braced yourself for the explosion, so, you guessed you deserved whatever was wrong with you now. Big-ass gashes on your stomach. Probably broken ribs. Something felt off in your left leg, besides—oh, ho, what had the doctors thought when they’d seen Hawks’s scratches?
What an idiot.
When the door creaked open, the nurse returned with a mug of water for you, but—what? Who’s that bitch following him?
You blinked, twice. With his hands in his pockets and his nasty little wings tucked in behind him, Hawks meandered to your bedside, his gaze on your throat as you swallowed down water.
God, you’re too tired to deal with him. Let’s get this over with.
The nurse glanced over his clipboard. “I’ve already told your partner this, but I thought you would want him here.”
Maybe if you ignore Hawks, he’ll leave.
“You were very brave today,” said the nurse, “Your work as a hero is greatly appreciated. You’re on temporary leave to heal, though. Like I said, you’ve got three, major gashes on your stomach, and your leg’s broken—the fibula split, if you want to know. You’ll be on crutches for a while. You have four broken ribs, and—” The nurse bit his lip and softened his voice. “You hit your head pretty hard. Nothing’s broken, but you should have amnesia, with the trauma you’ve endured.”
Should have? They don’t know? You sure as hell don’t fucking have amnesia. It barely happens in real life, and it definitely hasn’t happened to you. You remembered every fucking infuriating thing Hawks did to ruin your mission, and if he doesn’t square up—
“I’m so sorry, baby,” said Hawks, grabbing your hand. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, and then he took his glove off to hold you skin-to-skin. “You remember who I am?”
You just stared at him.
“Your fiancé’s been a real presence in the waiting room,” said the nurse, “He hardly stopped pacing the entire time you were in surgery. He wouldn’t even talk to fans.”
Oh, my God.
Holy fucking shit.
“Oops, sorry,” said the nurse, covering his mouth, “I know you were keeping it a secret. Don’t blame him, please; he only told me to be able to see you immediately.”
Shutting your eyes, you took a deep, deep breath. You have been handed a golden opportunity on a fucking Hawks-shaped platter, holy fuck, and by God are you going to take advantage of it. Imagine how much you can fucking humiliate him, how far you can take it. How much you can make him pay for how he treated you, and now, if he says he’s your fiancé, then he’s gonna fucking worship you. You’re going to mould him into your little bitch, and he’s going to thank you for it. And you’ll get endless dirt on him just by seeing his place.
Don’t fuck this up.
Exhaling, you opened your eyes, blinking a bit. You curled your lips into your mouth, biting the lower one. “I remember you’re Hawks,” you said in a nervous voice, “and I remember, uh.”
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” Hawks squeezed your hand, his tone kind. “It’ll come back in time.”
You clutched Hawks’s hand while the nurse rattled off instructions and gave you your crutches, and Hawks squeezed your hand back, softly smiling at you.
When the nurse left, you turned to Hawks and said, “I’m so, so sorry, but I—I feel like there’s something big missing that I can’t remember.” You scratched your forehead with your free hand, dragging the IVs with you.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawks tilted his head, still gazing decidedly down at you.
“Oh, God,” you said, “Oh, fuck. I don’t know. Um.” Take it back. Take it way back. That way he’ll dig himself into a deeper hole. The more lies he has to create, the funnier it’ll be. “Let’s see, I, hm.” You already weren’t speaking like yourself, but you looked upward as you faked combing through memories. “I don’t know how things work chronologically, but the most recent memory I have of you is—it’s after a press conference, and I’ve never been in the building before,” you said slowly, “And I can’t find the bathroom, but some press keeps following me, and I—I faceplant in between your shoulder blades, right between your wings. You—” You lowered your voice, shrinking a little in the hospital bed, “You got rid of them so easily, with just a gesture, and you put your arm around me. You were—” You shook your head, staring at both of your hands. “—so warm.”
Was that too thick? That was too thick, wasn’t it?
His free hand shot to his mouth, and he bit his knuckle. “But sweetheart, that’s,” said Hawks, his eyes watering, “That’s only around the third time we met.”
You know.
“Shit,” you said, widening your eyes, “How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Hawks squeezed your hand and kept the pressure longer than was necessary. “Three fucking years. You don’t remember anything past that?”
You pretended to be scared to look at him. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry—”
“No, no, you don’t have to be,” said Hawks, and he leant towards you to lift your chin, rubbing his thumb against it, “It’s not your fault.”
You had to hand it to him: Hawks was a good actor.
But so were you.
***
Hawks disappeared for a while after that, but he manifested the day you were loosed from the hospital, more than giddy to carry all of your shit all the way to your flat. He was probably getting some sick pleasure from watching you hobble on your crutches.
“I can help you, if you lean on me,” said Hawks, giving you an easy grin, “I don’t want you to be in any more pain than you have to.”
“This is something I should do myself,” you said in what was hopefully a tough-it-out voice, “I’d like to be able to walk without depending on anyone.”
“I honestly think you ought to be in a wheelchair.” His wings bristled. “But what do I know? I could fly us to your place, if you like.”
“I don’t like. I’ve gotta concentrate on limping. Stop talking, Hawks.”
You got to your flat, and Hawks had guessed which key opened the door on the first try. Drat! He was already doing a good job of acting like he’d been here before, like he’s not surprised that the number fourteen hero lives in a pretty shitty apartment (you started living here as a student and got too damn comfortable for your own good—plus, you didn’t want your cat to endure the trauma of moving).
Hawks plopped your keys in the bowl by the door with a clatter, and he shut the front door behind you, flipping one of the locks.
He set your stuff neatly on the kitchen table—your purse, your tactical pack, your ropes—and lay your dry-cleaned hero suit over the back of a kitchen chair, and his hands were on you the next moment to guide you to your tacky, sunflower couch. Removing one crutch, he put your arm over his shoulder instead, one hand planted on your lower back above your bandages, and he eased you down onto the cushions.
Hawks then stepped over your legs to sit on your opposite side, and he brought your legs to rest in his lap, his hand gripping your non-casted leg. “Gotta keep it elevated, chickadee.”
You let yourself giggle. Time to get this shitshow started. “Thank you so much for helping me, Hawks; I know I’ve been a real hassle these past few days, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of stress. You’re already under so much. I don’t understand how the commission would let you date anyone, let alone propose.”
“Oh, I know,” said Hawks, spreading himself out on the couch. He shifted himself to face you in addition to accommodate his wings—he was now positioned so that they’d drape over the arm of the couch instead of being squished against the back cushions. That bitch, he probably wasn’t used to couches that weren’t custom made to his special body requirements. Spoiled fuck.
“The commission was really pissed when they found out. Do you remember how, sweetness? Right, I’ll tell you,” said Hawks, running an ungloved hand through his hair before shaking it loose. “You remember up to the press conference with the faceplant. Short version is that you hated me for a good year before something clicked. You started acting awkward whenever I was around, avoiding me, and stuff. Sometimes getting red. I thought it was cute.”
You ducked your head. Flustered. He probably likes easily flustered women.
Wait. That’s not who you are. And he’d like you for who you are, if you’re engaged.
But at the same time, if you’re (gag) in love with him, wouldn’t you be flustered by some of the things he says?
Easy, baby. Take it as it comes. Pick your battles. Go with your gut.
And gut says make Hawks eat shit.
“You think I’m cute?”
“I know you’re cute.”
You’re going to stuff his own feathers down his throat.
“We got together at that dinner Endeavor’s agency sponsored. Do you remember that at all? That place with the purple lights. You’d gotten nervous from the crowd and had gone to take some of your anxiety meds. I caught you in the hall back from the bathroom and talked you down before going back out there.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to say I’m the one who kissed you, but you took initiative before I had the guts.”
Funny. Hilarious, in fact. That was the night Hawks had solidified himself as the Biggest Dick in the World, because yeah, he’d caught you in the purple-lit hallway, but he’d caught you on the way to take your meds, not on the way back. You were talking yourself down from a panic attack and couldn’t argue him away, so he’d followed you into the bathroom, running his mouth and acting like it was an accident when the tip of his wing had knocked your two capsules down the sink.
He’d told you that if you’re a big girl, you’d be able to handle the rest of the night. Or you could leave at any time with him, and he’d make excuses that everyone would have to accept.
Honestly, you’d love to let his fake memory be true, because then, you’d be able to wear purple again without feeling queasy.
Cocking your head, you smiled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”
Hawks let out a light laugh, craning his neck to rest his head on the back of the sofa. “That’s what you said that night, too. About how it felt out of character.”
“Was I good?”
Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow at you: probably the first genuine emotion he’s shown you the whole time he’s been here. “Hm?”
“When I kissed you. Was it good,” you asked flatly.
“Oh,” Hawks said, his wings puffing out just barely, “Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Groundbreaking. Show-stopping.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he shifted underneath your legs, leaning slightly towards you but holding eye contact before carrying on.
You shook your head. “I don’t have the energy to give you the makeout session you deserve,” you said, envisioning drowning him in the bathtub, “I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”
“Always,” said Hawks, “Want me to keep going?”
“You can hardly eat me out when we haven’t kissed yet.”
“I meant,” said Hawks, pausing to visibly swallow (was it real?), “about our relationship, but if you wanna eat—”
“Nah, keep going. So, I started the relationship? I must be crazy. Neither of us have fucking time to sleep, let alone be in a relationship.”
Hawks never shut up about how he was taking time out of his endlessly packed days to spend time with you, how time was precious to him, and if he’s spending time with you, why, then, you’d better pay up, bitch (always accompanied with his hands on his belt, subtly pointing his thumbs towards his cock).
Hawks shrugged with his wings instead of his shoulders. Interesting. Has he ever done that before? “The commission said that, but after I insisted we’d make time, they relented. Eventually,” said Hawks, jerking his head to the side, “Our quirks don’t exactly fit well, so we haven’t worked with each other professionally too often, and, of course, we’ve had to hide our relationship so that we can’t be a public weak spot to each other. Plus, we’re more marketable as eligible, young heroes.”
“Fuck the market,” you said, slumping into the pillows.
“There’s my girl,” said Hawks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth, “There’s her spark. I know, baby. I feel the same way, but being made into libidinous body pillows pays the bills, y’know?”
Nodding, you brought one of the couch pillows around for you to hug, and you smushed your chin into it. “Hawks,” you said, so quietly you almost couldn’t be heard over the A/C kicking on, “How long have we been engaged?”
“Four months,” he said, his grin unconsciously fading until he was essentially baring his teeth, “Since the twentieth.”
Taking a moment, you said, “I can’t remember anything at all.”
“That’s okay. It’ll come back.”
“No, I can’t—” You slid your hands through your hair, pulling at it, and you heaved a sigh. “Goddammit, Hawks. I wish I could—fuck. I’m missing something huge. I know I am.” Make him nervous. Make him lie awake at night. “I’m sorry, Hawks. It’s probably something really important, and I—”
“Shh, shh, shh, shh, it’s all right,” said Hawks, and he stood to lean over you, his hands rising to cup your face, and holy shit, his hands cover so much of your skin; is that legal? He’s got hands. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ve had a big day. Turn your brain off. I’ll take care of you.”
Red flag! Big, red flag! Creep! He’s a creep!
Your gaze fell to his jacket pockets. Does he carry date rape drugs on his person?
“Hawks, I don’t wanna inconvenience you any more than I have.”
“I’m your fiancé,” said Hawks, actually looking you straight in the eyes and not breaking, “I want to take care of you.”
“Sure, in the way the mob takes care of people.”
Hawks’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes narrowed.
Cover it up. “I’m not sorry. I don’t trust your cooking. You’ll poison my spaghetti!” You made a dumb gesture, pinching your fingers together. “Have you seen The Godfather? There’s actually a pretty legit spaghetti recipe in it; it’s not too bad, but it’s kind of watery—”
Hawks brought your hand to his mouth to kiss your knuckles and let his lips linger. “Watch it with me?”
You shook your head. “I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”
“I’ll join you.”
“No,” you said, “My bed’s not made with your wings in mind.” Fuck off to your own little sex next, Hawks. Get out of here. “If they got hurt, it’d be my fault. Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Go home. Get mugged on the way.
Hawks sighed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “If you insist. But you’ve gotta reach out to me for anything you have trouble with, yeah? Memories, opening jars, orgasms, you know.”
“I’m leaving,” you said, reaching for your crutches, “Ten minutes ago.”
***
“You didn’t tell me how you proposed.”
Hawks froze mid-bite of his ramen, but after a quick beat, he slurped the rest of the noodle up. “I was hoping you’d recall that on your own, baby. Get your own feelings about it, instead of me telling you how to feel.”
If you weren’t faking amnesia, you’d fucking break his nose for that. Bastard.
“I imagine once you tell me, the feelings will rush in,” you said, clicking your chopsticks twice for emphasis, “I want to remember everything, and if I don’t, well, I want to fall in love with you again.”
Hawks’s gaze glazed over for an infinitesimal moment. Score.
“It’ll sound goofy once I describe it.” With his wings cramped against the back of the booth, Hawks scratched the back of his neck—a classic move for pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m not exactly known for being romantic.”
Yeah, he’s known for fooling around with anyone who’s glittery, like a goddamn crow. If you’re paying attention.
“Aw, but Hawks, you’ve been nothing but so effortlessly romantic to me since I’ve been convalescing,” you said, rolling up the paper wrapper of your straw and soaking it in the ring your cup left on the table.
“Right, well. I flew us out to the countryside, to this overlook halfway up a mountain. You liked going rappelling there a lot. To practise for missions.” Hawks had some of your habits down, at least. Bet he gets the location wrong, though. “We watched the sunrise. We shared a thermos of tea. I asked you once the sun had risen, but you didn’t say yes right away,” said Hawks, “You jumped off the overlook without your gear, and I caught you. You were furious about it—you didn’t want me to see you overwhelmed. But you said yes.”
Ugh. That sounded about right. That sounded pretty realistic. Hawks was a fucking stalker.
“Fuck,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “That’s cute.” You stretched the skin of your cheeks before releasing, and you returned to your ramen. “Question: did we put the ring into storage, or something? I don’t have the little indent on my ring finger from wearing a ring too long, and I haven’t found anything at home.” Make him sweat. Make him stumble. Where’s the ring, Hawks?
With a flash of his eyebrows, Hawks maneuvered his straw to his mouth using only his lips, looking quite stupid, in your opinion. “Figured you’d ask that at some point. I’m so overjoyed to see you every time that I forget to bring it up. The ring’s been sent off to a high-level, government-backed, support company. I’ve pulled in a favour from the higher-ups. I wanted to turn your ring into something a little more personal and incorporate one of my feathers into it,” said Hawks, taking a moment to slurp his drink noisily, “Depending on how well it goes, I’d be able to help you if we’re separated and know where you are. At the very least—” Hawks ducked his head to give the illusion of staring up at you with wide eyes, his blond eyelashes light against his skin. “—I’d be able to feel your heartbeat. It would bring me great comfort.”
Great, so he’d have a GPS on you at all times, knowing whether or not you went somewhere he didn’t want you to. He’d be able to tell if you went somewhere your non-amnesia self would know about. Great. Phenomenal.
“Hawks, that’s very sweet,” you said, fiddling with the remnants of your straw wrapper, now fizzled out of its snake shape, “Wouldn’t the process hurt you, though? Since you can feel it.”
“Nothing more than a twinge, sweetheart,” said Hawks, holding up his hands, “And I’d bear any amount of pain for your sake.”
You fantasised about beating his head in with the back end of a rifle.
***
When you were told Hawks was waiting for you outside of the recording booth, you told the messenger that Hawks could wait until you were finished with five more takes. You could picture Hawks’s little pout at the news, his feathers bristling despite the closed space, and resigning himself to sit in one of those clangy, metal chairs out front, having to hunch forward so that he didn’t crush his wings.
The idol group adored the ingenuity of bone-crunching as percussion in a song, and along with that and some other combat foley, you were singing the bridge with the rapper of the group (the dance captain would sing your part for live shows). It’d be a good promo for the girl group and for you, and the song, “Spine,” was going to be released as a single as soon as it was polished.
Hawks perked up the moment you stepped through the secondary door to the booth, his eyes brightening and wings spreading to take up more space. “I didn’t think I’d catch you,” said Hawks, standing to take your hands (the cold leather gloves sucked the heat out of your hands), “I’ve got to fly, soon, but I wanted to tell you personally.”
“You’re not pregnant,” you said, fighting the urge to break his goggles/visor/hat thing.
His lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, baby. There’s gonna be a heroes’ gala held at the end of the month, and I wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make it a positive experience for you. Here, I’ve got this woman’s phone number,” he said, fishing a slip of paper out of his jacket, “She’ll help accommodate the venue for your leg.”
Stupid fucking bastard man. He probably wanted to pick out your clothes himself, infantilise you and dress you up like a goddamn doll. Deny you your personhood. “I’ll be out of the cast by then.” You slid the paper into your back pocket.
“I know,” Hawks said in a way that was a fucking lie, “I just don’t want there to be any accidents. I can’t have my babygirl any more hurt than she is.” Hawks placed his cold, gloved hand against your cheek, and you, shutting your eyes, made yourself lean into it. “But contact her. She’ll make it the safest place it can be for you, even when I have to leave your side.”
God, galas were great. Big events for villains to ruin. You licked your lips thinking about using a new move you’ve learnt to take a villain down (involving clamping your legs around the villain’s neck to choke him as he crumpled to the floor—your combat coach had banned you from the move after you made her pass out). “Are we announcing our engagement, then? If we’re going together?”
“I’d love to,” said Hawks, “but only if you want to. The ring could be ready by then, if I ask them to rush it—”
“Let’s do it.” If you plunged the ring into icy water, would he start to shiver? Ooh, your ring’s going to act as a fucking bay leaf in your soups for a while.
“Oh,” said Hawks, sighing lightly with his eyes fluttering shut. He pressed his forehead to yours and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetheart. You are so dear to me, and I want everyone to know it. The best damn thing in my life. Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you said, placing your hand on his face to push him away, “Don’t you have work to do, screw boy?”
***
“Did we have a date?” you asked from the edge of the bathtub.
Hawks dipped the razor in the water, washing off the hair and shaving cream. “We’ve gone on so many, darling; you’ll have to specify.”
“No, I meant for the wedding.” Let’s once again play: Can Hawks Cover His Own Ass?
Hawks dragged the razor down your freshly exfoliated, freshly-un-casted, freshly not-broken leg, starting at your knee. “Nope!”
“No explanation?”
“You wanna get married tomorrow? A six-month engagement is rather short, don’t you think?” His nose twitched. He’d said the scent of your shaving cream irritated his nose. Good.
“I don’t. Why didn’t we have a date for the wedding?” You eyed the actual and literal pile of your dead skin on the towel. Maybe you should make Hawks snort it.
“We were too busy working; you’d said you didn’t mind having a long engagement, so long as I was yours. Then, uh, you know. The accident,” Hawks said with a shrug—with his shoulders this time, because if he moved his wings while he was crouched in your bathtub, he’d soak them, and they were a bitch to dry, apparently. Suffer, you rat bastard.
“The commission isn’t involved in that decision?”
“I thought that was implied,” said Hawks, gripping your ankle to turn your calf to the side, “They don’t want it to be a huge spectacle, so even I don’t know how much of a wedding wedding they’d let us have.”
He’s too damn good at this. If he weren’t a pro-hero, he’d fit right along in a theatre troupe.
You’re going to wring his neck.
You caught him staring at the crotch of your underwear (bone-dry, you might add) while he shaved your thighs, and he spent more time rubbing lotion into your inner thighs than anywhere else. He tossed your dead skin before you could make him eat it, and he scooped you up against your protestations about your weight and capability, humming while he carried you to your bed.
The fucker tucked you in and rounded up your cat to place in your arms (your cat disagreed with him and promptly leapt off the bed).
“Let me stay with you,” said Hawks, kissing each of your fingertips. It’s an order.
Yet you shook your head.
***
“The doctors said you shouldn’t drink,” Hawks said under his breath, taking the champagne flute gently from your grasp.
“But I want to,” you said, sticking out your lower lip, “I’m wearing goddamn heels and a fucking dress. I’ve got on makeup, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done my time; let me drink.”
“Baby, you’ve got to stay safe,” he said, and he set the glass next to some 40s-level hero’s place at the long, white tablecloth. “There’s already press paying more attention to us than usual. You wanna make a fool of yourself?”
“Yes,” you said, lifting another champagne flute from a passing gala waiter, “Who gives a shit about the press.”
Hawks laughed too loudly to be natural before lowering his voice. “Baby, you are gonna be the death of me.”
“Promise?”
***
When “Spine” was released on a cool, spring morning to an excitable audience, you were lurking in alleyways by the docks, searching for a fight. When the music video dropped, you were smashing some guy’s face into a concrete wall. While more and more citizens recognised you and your talent, your work for the community, your connections, your popularity—with your rank steadily rising—you were rappelling down a port sewer to pummel a slime villain into dust.
You wiped his blood off on your pants, hands devoid of anything that could taint. You’d left the ring at home.
***
“You tricked me,” you said, scowling as Hawks pushed you forward, “This isn’t the rock climbing park.”
Once you deliberately smashed your face into the glass door and crossed your arms, Hawks held the door open for you. “Would you have dressed up so nicely for rock climbing?”
“A meta-game challenge,” you said, “to rock-climb in a long skirt.”
You glowered about the restaurant while you and Hawks stood in the lobby, his hand low on your back, suspiciously respectfully. You made no effort to hide your distaste: it was the place with the purple lights.
Over there at the absurdly long bar, Endeavor had drunk flat whisky without so much of a growl at anyone, despite it being his event. Hexagonal tables with lilac tablecloths dotted the floor—you’d hidden in one of the few booths, up against the exposed brick wall—but your hiding place had been ruined once a violet disco ball had emerged from the ceiling. Shiny, wooden floor that had reflected your post-panic attack face right back at you and let every shoe strike it with a clatter. No silence allowed.
The whole restaurant had lavender LED lights running around the walls, swathing the place in a distorted sort of purple haze, and any candles lit on the centre tables had indigo flames—you’d focused on how those might have been made in the process of coming down from your panic attack.
God. You’re going to throw up.
The hostess escorted you and Hawks to a farther back room, this one with booths separated by small, brick walls that didn’t reach the ceiling yet concealed the booths’ occupants from each other—unless you were passing directly in front of one.
Hawks made you sit in the booth first, trapping you in as he settled. He had to be on the edge, anyway, he told you, because of his wings. You’re going to rip them off and boil them in the soup.
The two of you ordered. You don’t remember what. You can only channel so much of your nerves into jostling your leg. This is not cool. This place is not cool. You need to get out.
“Hey, let me through,” you said, nudging Hawks, “Bathroom.”
Once there, you lightly slapped your cheeks a couple of times, trying to ground yourself through physical sensation. No use. Can’t they fucking use normal lights in this place?
You didn’t have your panic meds, because you’ve never needed them rock climbing. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.
You took your time meandering back to the booth, coming to a halt at the end of the narrow hallway and ducking behind the corner.
Endeavor stood by your booth, his arms crossed over a flaming chest. You caught your breath at the sight of his orange fire, a comforting contrast to all the damn purple, but still—Endeavor. Talking to your (gag) fiancé.
Without the courage to interact with Endeavor, you listened at the corner for his departure.
“Nah, she can handle her bladder just fine. It’s her nerves,” Hawks was saying, hidden by the bricks, “She likes hiding. She doesn’t necessarily like being in the spotlight.”
“Yet she hasn’t completely withdrawn as Eraserhead has. You’ve picked a strange one to marry.”
From the angle Endeavor glared at him, Hawks must be slumping in his seat. “But that’s what so great about her. And it’s hard to process, y’know, like, she’s finally mine. You follow?”
“Regrettably,” said Endeavor, “Regardless, I offer my congratulations that your courtship finally worked out in your favour. You should have told me sooner.”
Courtship. That’s a funny way to pronounce bullying.
“Eh, I’ve gotta have some secrets, don’t I? Can’t betray my otherwise cool exterior.” Hawks laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve been allowed such happiness. The woman I’ve loved for years is gonna be waking up to me every day soon, y’know?”
Hawks has got to know you can hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying those things. Endeavor must be in on Hawks’s ruse, since Endeavor is Hawks’s closest—actually, Endeavor isn’t the type to revel in romantic shit. Endeavor straight-up isn’t the type to revel. To the best of your knowledge, Endeavor doesn’t genuinely like Hawks as so much as tolerates him; when did they get so close? It must have taken a long time—
Time.
You could feel your IQ dropping as you actually considered: had you been in a legitimate coma? Had you (fuck) genuinely had amnesia?
No, no. You don’t live in Crazytown. Your eyebrows hadn’t been overgrown when you’d woken up in the hospital. You’d only been there a day.
Of course, Hawks is a vain piece of shit and does his own eyebrows, so he might have considered that yours were a piece of pride/insecurity for you and may have done them while you were—did Hawks do his own eyebrows? That spoiled fuck probably had someone else to do them for him. If they were naturally like that, you were going to throttle his ass.
You didn’t fucking have amnesia. Hawks is and always has been a stupid, clammy birdbrain. He’s always been cruel to you. He didn’t fucking like you.
He sure as hell wasn’t in fucking love with you.
Oh, my fuck, what if your memories of Hawks have been fabricated by a coma-addled mind and that—
“Hey, there,” said—said someone, some pale-ass, sleep-deprived freak who startled you out of your head, “Are you all right? You look—I mean, do you need some water? A chair?”
You blinked, yet he wouldn’t come into focus—you were taking in details about him, ones that didn’t fucking matter (chain on his wallet, three rings all on the left hand, a button-down missing the last button, a cloud of axe body spray), but he didn’t register as a human person. He couldn’t; you hadn’t grounded yourself yet. You yourself still had a frazzled, cartoon scribble buzzing inside of your chest, and until you vomited it up, a panic attack may yet still happen.
You can’t deal with anyone new right now.
A spark of recognition crossed the new guy’s face, and he, through a smirk, asked if you were your hero name.
Oh god oh fuck not now
“Sweetheart,” came Hawks’s melodious drawl (registering first his voice, then bodily warmth, then the wingtip covering your ass), “You were taking so long that I came to check on you.” He pulled you by the waist towards him, blocking the guy from seeing your face by pressing it into his chest. “Who’s this?”
Who cares. All you could focus on (sharp and overwhelming, nothing else but) was how fucking incredible Hawks smelled, and at this point, you’d use anything to bring yourself back down to earth. A small voice in the back of your head told you that freaking out to this degree in this particular situation was leaning towards pathetic, since basically nothing happened, besides being in an uncomfortable environment and being accosted by a fan at the wrong time, but you? You did not control the rate at which your brain panicked.
And really, no rhyme or reason played into why your grabby little hands itched for human contact once safe in the booth again, why Hawks’s scent lay on your tongue more heavily than your soup, why the overwhelming sensation of being so fucking spaced out of it threw its entire weight upon your shoulders—you couldn’t find yourself. You were lost.
And in this horrible, purple place, the only thing that’s familiar was Hawks.
When you scooted as closely as you could to him in the booth, keeping your glare towards your lap while you looped your arm under his to snuggle into it, Hawks cleared his throat to say, “What’s this?”
You scowled into his jacket, both hands gripping his forearm.
He set his chopsticks down. “How can I help, darling?”
Growling, you bonked your forehead against his shoulder, dragging your hands down to his.
“Hey,” said Hawks, and he guided your face towards his and stroked your cheek with his thumb, “Did that guy bother you too much before I got there?”
Turning your mouth towards the hand cupping your cheek, you kissed his palm, bit the leather, and kissed it again before burying yourself in his shoulder again.
He rested his hand on the crown of your head. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”
“Not sure I can put it into words,” you said, “I think I wanna go home.” You bit the fabric of his jacket and gnashed it between your teeth.
“I can handle that,” said Hawks, “Gimme a moment to get takeaway boxes, yeah? Then we’ll leave, and you’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”
Unfortunately, you were still clutching onto his arm by the time he unlocked his darkened penthouse (because you’re not gonna hold his hand. God), but you slapped his hand away from the light switches.
“Turning them on would be too much stimulation,” you said, “Please don’t.”
Hawks hummed against the top of your head, placing keys and both of your phones on the kitchen counter. “Bed or couch?”
“Window,” you said.
“Window?”
“I’m assuming you’ve got one.”
“I do,” said Hawks, guiding you through his dark apartment, probably past scarily expensive, posh shit. He led you to what was most likely his living room, with the cool, dim light of the night sky through a vast, single-frame, wall-to-floor window illuminating furniture custom built for his wings, but he eased you down onto the carpet, tugging your shirt upwards so that the window would be touching your bare skin on the small of your back.
Hawks yanked his boots off, late, instead of at the door, and he tossed them over his shoulder. He took yours off, too, and once he’d set them aside, he sat next to you against the window, a hand on your thigh.
“Better?”
“Probably,” you said, staring at the triangle of light beige carpet between your crossed legs.
“Need me to talk? You need to talk?”
“Not right now.”
Hawks was a dumbass. He’s such a fucking dumbass. But he’s a dumbass who’s here right now, and he’s interested (?) in you, interested in helping you. And good golly, you have to be touched. Hawks’s offering warmth, freely, potentially lovingly, and all you had to do was reach out to take it, even if you didn’t reciprocate whatever sentiment was motivating him yourself.
Do you really want to take what you have no feelings for?
Hawks lies a lot to Endeavor. To everyone. He might not have been lying earlier. What reason had he to lie?
Guess it didn’t matter, because you were lying.
But good God, you haven’t been kissed in a long time. Haven’t felt safe or loved. You could…you could indulge for a few hours in order to calm down. You could pretend.
The last ten months had proved that.
“Hey,” you said idly, reaching out to grab the inner fleece lining of his jacket to rub it between your fingers, “Hawks, I’m gonna—I’m gonna put my mouth on your mouth. Okay?”
Hawks’s wings ruffled and constricted themselves so that he could move closer to you, and his hand has migrated from your thigh to grip your hip—how could anyone’s hands encompass that much of you? Your fucking hands couldn’t, not in the way his does.
(Bird man big and safe.)
([No, fuck you, don’t think that.])
(BIRD MAN SAFE—)
Shoved is how you’d describe the first few seconds of the kiss, followed closely by wet and you’d think his teeth would be sharper. Your lips didn’t line up with his completely until he adjusted your chin with two of his fingers, guiding it open just barely, as well, so that his tongue could graze your teeth—it took you a moment of processing before parting them, with a final don’t think! shouted to your neocortex.
Birds have a higher body temperature than other animals, on average having a body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). The colour of their feathers, of course, affects how much light and heat they absorb, with the lighter coloured feathers—say, red—reflecting more, rejecting outside heat sources.
Yet Hawks gripped you like he’d fucking freeze if he weren’t clutching you, if he weren’t straddling your legs, one palm flat against the cool of the window by your head. The other snaked around you, his forearm lying almost vertically up your back to press down between your shoulder blades, keeping you as near to his chest (he probably didn’t realise it, but his fingers ran across the curve of your shoulder blades where his wings were on his own body.
For some reason, the thought crossed your mind that you weren’t enough for him, because you were too dissimilar.)
Don’t think!
When he massaged your tongue with his, applying pressure sporadically, you returned the action—have you ever seen a bird tongue up close? They’re fucking nasty little things, looking more like a grub than anything else. Thank God Hawks had a normal, human tongue that performed particularly delightful, normal things, like drag across the roof of your mouth and aid in sucking phenomenal hickeys onto your jawline, licking over where he’s bitten and kissed.
Stop thinking about bird anatomy. Hawks has no discernible bird traits except for his fucking wings. He’s not a fucking bird man. He’s just some dude with wings. And not all birds have functional wings; for example, the ostrich and the penguin do not have wings to be used in flight—
Oh, my fuck. Turn your brain off.
Your stomach lurched. That had been something Hawks had told you too often, back before your accident.
It’s what he wants.
Hawks fucking whimpered when you pulled the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, prying him away from your skin with great difficulty—he kept trying to touch you with his mouth and tongue in the process.
“Let me have more,” he said, panting, his breath heavy and just below your ear, “Please.” He pressed his lips to the spot in front of your ear in a weak kiss, having spent himself for the most part. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for so long.”
“I don’t—” You fake-stuttered, but it turned out you needed the time to put your thoughts into words. “I don’t think I’m back yet. I’m,” you said, taking as deep a breath as you could with Hawks smushed against your chest, “Something’s missing. Something big.” That’s right. Steer it back in his direction. Make the bird man sweat. “I don’t—something doesn’t feel right.”
It took a moment, but Hawks nodded fervently, shutting his eyes. “Of course. Yeah. Yeah, I get it, sweetheart. Can’t do anything when your heart’s not in it.”
Your heart’s not the problem. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hawks,” you said, untangling yourself from underneath him, “Would you just, uh, hold me for a while?”
His wings wrapped around the both of you on his enormous bed, still fluttering with each slow breath he took. Hawks almost looked genuine while he slept, and probably for the best—at least he was getting rest; at least his guard might be down.
You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing.
***
“Rank speculation is out,” you said, scrubbing the pumice stone over a patch of dry skin on Hawks’s back and scrolling through the twitter with your other hand, “Take a look.”
He opened the link you sent once he’d safely removed a dead feather that had been lodged in an odd spot in a wing. “Huh. Think I could truly take on Endeavor?”
“Well, he’s got that abusive-to-his-family thing, while you’re rocking the preparing-for-my-wedding look, and he can’t network non-aggressively to save his life.”
“Nor can you.” Hawks shot you a smirk over his shoulder.
“Zoom in on my speculated nine, baby,” you said, flicking away some dead skin with a satisfied/disgusted sneer, “And I didn’t have to sleep my way there.”
“Ah, ha, ha,” said Hawks, “Knew you could do it. Whoever’s told you that is gonna have to deal with my foot up their ass. You’re more than capable of getting there on your own.”
“Which I did. I have.” Wait. Hawks told you that. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s a commonly said, misogynistic comment towards women heroes. Hawks isn’t special. “But having your foot up someone’s ass wouldn’t be good for PR, unless you wanted to advertise that you’re a kinky son of a bitch who’s cheating on his fiancée.”
“I would never,” said Hawks, and, contorting his arm, he grabbed your hand with the pumice stone to kiss the back of it, “But my PR is solid, regardless.”
“If the public knew how much time you had to spend preening these fucking wings, they’d probably appreciate you more. Or call you conceited.”
Hawks hummed. “It’s a necessary evil,” he said, returning to his wingtip to search for dead feathers. “Thank you for helping.”
“No problem. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get to see how—Hawks, holy fuck. Do you feel that?” You ran a finger near the base of a wing.
“It’s your finger?”
“No, this,” you said, tapping the spot.
“No?”
“My God. It’s a dilated pore of a winer,” you said, already reaching for the tweezers, “Right at the base of your wing. It’s basically an enormous fucking blackhead. I’m popping it. Oh, my God. I’ve never seen one in real life.”
“You’re popping it?”
“You didn’t have a problem with my getting the ones where your costume sits.”
“No,” said Hawks, rolling back his shoulders, his wings spreading with them, “Gotcha. Get on with it.”
“Can I film it?”
“What? No,” said Hawks, “No one can see me preening, let alone dealing with acne.”
“There’s sure to be another hero out there with a wing quirk, right? I don’t know how you can’t feel it.”
“Yeah,” Hawks said slowly, “Since my feathers can feel—I suppose where the wings merge with my skin is pretty numb. I haven’t ever had to think about it.” He licked his lips. “Funny.”
He continued to scroll through his feed and tend to his feathers while you worked at his back. “Bad news: the tabloids got a hold of our grocery list from the last time we went to the shops. I must have dropped it at some point in the store.”
“Oh, so do they know what kind of ice cream we prefer? The horror.”
“No, but they’ve brought in some hack handwriting analyst. Talking about our annotations for each other on the list. Something about how you’re logical and I’m a romantic. The writer of the article is practically swooning.” Hawks pulled out a clot of feathers with his teeth and spat them aside. “With good reason, though. The trashy pictures they snapped of us are hot.”
“Describe them to me.”
“I can show you—”
“No,” you said, concentrating on your work, “I don’t want the image imprinted on my brain. Describe them in your own words.”
“All right,” said Hawks, crossing his legs and placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, “To start, the flash is on.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah. We’ve got that distantly surprised look going on. It looks like we’re near the eggs and cheese. You’re not looking at the camera, but I believe it’s in the moment I caught it.” Hawks flicked away a feather and let it fall to the carpet. “My hand’s on your waist. The other’s on the cart. You’ve scrunched your face up in concentration; it’s really cute.”
“Aw, we should get it framed,” you said, wiping away the gunk with a tissue and wadding it up so that no one will ever have to see or touch it ever again.
“Never,” said Hawks, “The first picture of us I wanna get framed should be on our wedding day.”
“It’s coming along quickly,” you said, setting aside the tweezers, “Bit more quickly than I’d thought it would.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait,” said Hawks with a light laugh, and you ducked to rest your head against his shoulder, straining your neck to reach him over his wing.
Hawks clicked his non-nasty, non-bird tongue. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
Sighing, you said, “Turn your head this way.”
He did you one better, since he anticipated your plan. He twisted around, keeping his legs crossed as he pulled you into his lap. His wings initially bristled but wrapped around you when his arms did, and Hawks kissed your cheek, once, twice, until he arrived at your mouth, where he barely grazed your lips, rather letting his hot breath spread over your face—and he grinned up at you with half-lidded eyes (he’d left off his eyeliner today, but the natural marks below his waterline kept his eyes sharp, anyway).
“Kiss me, you fucking idiot,” you said, overriding whatever he was about to do by kissing him yourself, hard and open-mouthed, almost violent in its fervent. Yet Hawks held you lightly, delicately, but still close enough to freeze.
You ran your cold, cold hands over his bare abdomen, pressing your thumb down with considerable force to trace his muscles (he grunted at that, and that’s it; that’s right—make him squirm; make him sweat; make him yours). His finger only toyed with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, as if waiting for you, which didn’t line up with what you had garnered about Hawks at all, but c’mon, man, come on; didn’t you want this all those months ago? Almost a year, now? Years, if what he said to Endeavor is true? But when he flinched away with a shaky breath once your cold fingers circled his nipple, you knew this was where you were supposed to be: right here, in Hawks’s lap, completely destroying him with hardly anything at all. Nothing but light touches and a strategic flick of your tongue. Idiot man. He must really like you if this is doing it for him.
You slowed and opened your eyes at that thought, frowning, and you pulled away. With the back of his hand, Hawks wiped saliva off of both of your mouths, yours first.
He waited for you.
“If you can’t take all of me, then what’s the point?”
He tilted his head. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to share.”
“I’m missing something.”
“I know.”
“I want to find it before we get married.” You laid your palm flat on his chest, and he grinned at the cold.
“You can find it,” he said, “I know you can.”
“I don’t know what I’m blocking out,” you said, lying—or maybe you weren’t? Fuck it. “Whatever I’m repressing is really fucking with me.”
“Take your time,” said Hawks, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m here for—”
“Hawks,” you said, faking the light of realisation in your eyes, accompanied with a sharp inhale, “I can’t remember your name.”
Hawks’s mouth snapped shut.
“You told me once. I know you did,” you said, moving to cup his cheek after tapping the mark underneath his eye, “but the memory—there’s a blur where you spoke. I—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “That, that might be it. I don’t know. Everything else about the scene is in perfect detail. I remember what fucking socks I was wearing, for Christ’s sake. But you. What you said. Maybe it’s something so personal, so intimate, that I’ve repressed it. Maybe it was too much for me to handle.” You cupped his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at you. If you hadn’t been scrutinising him for some evidence of breaking character, you wouldn’t’ve seen the minute quivering of his upper lip. Hardly there, but it was there. “It’s a part of you that I want. Even if I couldn’t handle it before, I want to try now.”
Hawks averted his gaze, even though he couldn’t move his head. And bang, you’ve got him. Hawks’s name was still strictly secret, hidden by the commission, but if he’s genuinely in this dumbass situation for the long haul, if he’s truly in it for you, then he would have told you. Even if he wanted you to continue to call him Hawks, your own fiancé would have told you his damn name.
So, this is it. The way out.
Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out you’ve been faking all this time. Good. Let each feather burn.
“Keigo,” he said, staring into your eyes with a newfound determination, “My name is Takami Keigo.”
Oh, shit—you clapped a hand over your heart, your eyes widening. Maybe you could play this off as memory recovery instead of absolute shock? But you hadn’t any memories to recover, probably. Holy fuck.
Where do you go from here?
You tried to say his name but ended up simply mouthing it, and after clearing your throat and coughing a bit, you managed to say it aloud. “Keigo,” you said softly, reaching for his hand, “Keigo, I fucking love you.”
You’d only been kissing him for a few moments before his wings shuddered in a muscle spasm and flung you off to the side.
***
Only a commission higher-up witnessed your wedding. She stood silently to the side the entire ceremony in the courthouse and only shook Hawks’s hand afterwards.
You and your cat essentially moved into his penthouse and adjusted. Your mostly empty apartment stayed leased under your name.
Sometimes, you’d note that you turned your brain off and instantly be hit with a lightning strike of self-loathing—but you didn’t have to consciously decide to be affectionate with Hawks. Being with him came naturally and easily. Probably for the best, since if you had to think about it, you’d screw it up.
You stayed together. Supported each other. Sneaked out to see the other on patrol. Took care, listened to each other. Defended each other. Worked it out.
And now, you stared up at the ceiling fan whirling in your darkened bedroom, Keigo lying on his stomach next to you in the bed as he slept. Your cat catloafed between his wings and nestled into them, rising and falling with each breath he took. Hawks was perfect, always saving the day, working up a routine to mesh with your fighting style and quirk, always charming and easygoing with the people he rescued, indulging you in your ferocity, and Keigo, Keigo whispered sweet and dirty things into your ear when he spotted you in public, made you laugh, worked wonders with his cock, helped you clean up before he even thought of preening himself, held you, and made you feel held. He’s got it bad.
And maybe you do, too.
Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out.
#bnha#mha#hawks#keigo takami#takami keigo#hawks x reader#hawks/reader#hawks imagine#hawks fic#hawks headcanons#hawks fanfic#hawks fanfiction#takami keigo x reader#takami keigo/reader#takami keigo imagine#takami keigo fic#takami keigo headcanons#takami keigo fanfiction#takami keigo fanfic
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My fellow tumblr friends and followers please, please help me with reporting @kingdagain. This person claims to have been a submissive before they became a Dom and I call bullshit on both. He doesn't behave submissive at all. He is very aggressive with his words and he demands you call him honorifics. He claims consent and that he's a gentleman yet he has blocked a good majority of respected and trusted doms in the community and refuses to learn more about safe bdsm practices. They claim to know more than most which is a huge red flag. They're very pushy with a certain type of self image when the community can clearly see he's a dangerous person. And then he deletes that pinned post and reblogs an even worse one.
This person doesn't understand what bdsm and it shows in their text posts. Looking for submissives? And you're not poly anywhere? Also you don't offer any safe outlets to get to know you. Your blog is also 99% porn and 1% I'm a healthy dominant that cares about consent. Which you blatantly disregard and still behave as if this is normal healthy behavior. You expect STRANGERS to call you daddy, sir or master when is a tall tale sign that says "unhealthy dominant ahead". They say they're looking for honesty and realism but yet their blog screams red flags. I have also deleted enough predatory blogs to know what they look like. It's weird and also helpful how they all have a similar vibe/tone to them and yours is fucking text book bub.
They also go on to try and push that fake self image of theirs by writing a lengthy post that honestly just feels like a fanfic. I don't believe that's their true story. I truly believe that this person is claiming these things in order for you to let your guard down and let him in so he can torment you, abuse you, push you past your limits and use every piece of NSFW material you sent them to spread across the internet. Here is their writing which I believe to be fanfic but I'll let you be the judge
And I'm laughing my ass off at that last part. He obviously has never been in a dynamic and they're just going off of what they've watched or read. I seriously doubt any kind of lady was in your DMs asking you to be their sir or whatever. Talking about sex only.. Lmfao get off your high af horse and stop twisting the pipe for a second to realize you're fucking up buddy. What fucking scares me though is how they mentioned something about littles. Some of the most vulnerable of the community and that is the reason why we need to get rid of him and report him every time he comes back. We need to protect people from the sick fucks like him.
#Please boost#Okay to reblog#Block this fucker#Report him please#He is not safe#He's dangerous#He's a predator
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One Shot: Tête à Tête
OK... This is super long and super indulgent, but if you want smut, you got it. 😈 Iggy terrorizes a journalist and turns the tables for something much better for both of them. NSFW.
I just finished it, and I can't look at it anymore without going insane. 🤪 Please excuse any writing glitches.
Thank you for reading and going along with my Iggy shenanigans. ❤️❤️❤️
---------------------------------------
“You see,” he chuckles softly, “this is why I fucking hate doing interviews.” He tosses his fedora onto a nearby chair, runs a hand through his jet-black, dyed hair, shakes his head in disdain, and fishes his Marlboros and lighter out of his pocket. He leers at me, cigarette hanging onto his pouty bottom lip for dear life, before he lights it. He takes a puff and exhales the smoke in my direction, his mouth gaping slightly in what I could imagine to be a slow, satisfied exhale in a more romantic setting.
But we’re at an impasse, facing off at opposite sides of an overstuffed hotel couch. I made the cardinal sin of asking if The Stooges might ever get back together.
Iggy remains silent and continues to smoke while staring me down. His look is full of slow-simmering anger and curiosity, as if he’s given up on the interview and is studying me to find creative ways to get under my skin.
But little does he know, he’s already succeeded at that.
The man had proved to be a good-natured, but eccentric, raconteur, and I was captivated by his stories and energy earlier. His smoky liner and shadow couldn’t blunt the sparkle in his large eyes when he gushed about the experimental nature of his Zombie Birdhouse album. I had been nervous going into the interview, but he had won me over with his intelligence, passion, and mild flirtation. It was fair to say that I had been in danger of him short-circuiting my professionalism. Him and those eyes, the color of a clear Caribbean lagoon.
But that was then. Now, it's his scornful vibe that holds me in thrall. It screams of the primal unpredictability that was his ace in his old band. This nicotine pause feels like a dam holding back a flood of turbulent emotions. In the current, painful silence, I’m acutely aware that he could roar to life in a second and drown me in a passionate diatribe of words. Or, he could decide he’s bored and kick me out at any time. These thoughts set my heart into overdrive for many reasons, both professional and personal.
He’s studying me with an emotionless poker face, but his eyes feel like they're boring into mine. Large, blue, graced with the pretty eyelashes that most people get from a mascara tube.
His eyes turn out to be his secret weapon. I find myself powerless, waiting for his next words. After our initial discussion I'm surprised he can be anything less than an open book. I silently pray that I’ll come up with something to say, something that draws him in again, something that gets this interview back on track. Something that brings back his lopsided grin and the happy fluttering of infatuated butterflies in my stomach, if I'm being honest with myself.
“Do you smoke?” he asks, lightly pinching the cigarette between his fingers and holding it out to me. He raises an eyebrow and smirks.
I feel like it’s some weird test, the final exam of our time together. Now or never. Do or die.
Lucky for me, I do smoke. “I’ll take it,” I say, realizing how exhausted I feel from the tense minutes that have just transpired. I hope for the best. I can’t afford to blow this interview.
His lips turn upward in a subtle smile as I smoke.
I’ve passed the test.
I suck on the cigarette hard, preferring the party of deadly chemicals in my lungs to the charged air that hung thick in the room a moment before. I close my eyes and exhale. When I open them again, I meet his gaze, which he abruptly drops to my full lips, painted with a red that complements my light brown skin. He inspects the smudge of my lipstick on his cigarette when I return it, before stubbing it out in an ashtray.
“You know,” he says, tracing a finger on the arm of the couch, “I think you’re a good interviewer, a good conversationalist. I’m just tired of the pop culture psychoanalysis bullshit that goes down in these interviews. Do you know what I mean? How about we just talk for a while? About anything.”
“That sounds nice,” I venture. Part of me will look for any opening to steer back to the interview, but part of me certainly doesn’t mind getting to know Iggy better.
He hits the stop button on my tape recorder and then walks to the mini-fridge. “No recording, no journalist, no so-called ‘godfather of punk,’ just you and me and some beers,” he says while setting a six-pack on the coffee table.
I look longingly at my recorder, wondering what juicy confessions I might miss if we talk more informally. I wouldn't dare turn it on, though, while the connection we're rebuilding is so fragile.
Before I can panic, he frees a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from its tight ring of plastic and hands it to me. Then, after he nips into his can, he tells me the story of his first beer and the shenanigans he'd gotten into back in Michigan, before The Stooges. This segues into talk about his favorite German beers and stories of misbehavior in Europe with David Bowie.
Iggy makes me laugh with his cartoon voices and facial expressions. I watch the vaguely man-shaped earring in his right ear dance with the rubber contortions of his face.
With the second beer cans, we’ve moved closer together on the couch, and I’ve taken off my black pumps. I’m thankful that my skin color hides the flush in my cheeks from the fizzy intoxicant.
His jokes get louder and more blue. We're back in a good conversation groove again. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.
My professional conscience chided me for beer number two, but the wheaty nectar in the third can has drowned out that small voice. Iggy inches closer and tells me about growing up in a trailer. “If you can remember any of this shit, feel free to write about it,” he says. His laughter is a challenge and a taunt.
I will myself to remember, to sear the facts of his life into my brain. These anecdotes are gold, the kinds of things that can add meat to the pitiful skeleton of my story as it stands now.
I’m laughing, and I park my hand on his thigh. The black trousers can't hide the fact that his legs are well muscled from swimming and his onstage moves that defy the range of a normal human body.
Before I can stop myself, I’m slowly trailing my hand up and down his leg.
“Mmm…” He purrs and moves closer, while wrapping an arm around me. He drains the last of his beer and takes mine before I can get a final sip.
Our faces are close, and I see that the blue of his eyes has darkened. I’ve lost myself, drowning in those pretty cobalt pools until he smiles wickedly.
His voice is a murmur. “This is more fun than an interview, isn’t it?”
"You got me there, Iggy," I say. My response comes easy and breathy, thanks to the beer and my simmering lust.
He looks at me fondly. "Call me Jim. Just use Iggy for your story, OK?"
"OK, Jim."
He cradles my face in both of his hands and brushes his lips against mine. Then I surrender to his roving tongue in the same way I hope to similarly give my body to him, now that professional pretense has been shattered by primal desire.
Since I'm off duty now, I take down the ponytail that was taming my curls and allow my hair to fall past my shoulders.
He holds my gaze as a hungry smile spreads on his face and he twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. "She's come undone, huh?" He kisses me again, feasting on my mouth with his lips and his sure tongue.
I’ve noticed the bulge in his pants has become bigger, and my mind flashes to all the reports I’ve heard of him whipping his notoriously large cock out during performances. The thought of his boldness, and the thought of exploring his magnificent body, both fan the flames that have caused my core to throb with insatiable hunger.
I pull him to me and unleash my passion with a sinful, lush kiss. My hands stroke his torso, his back, his hair. "Just as I thought…" He says in a hushed tone, "There's a beautiful, wild woman just below the surface. I'm glad to finally meet her." He cups my throat and transfers his electric passion to me through another kiss.
When I pause to help him out of his black leather jacket, his breathing is shallow and his eyes are glazed with need. My body is feverish, anticipating our tryst.
I remove his black t-shirt next, revealing his finely chiseled torso. Newspaper and magazine photos don’t do it justice. I explore his musculature with my hands and delight in the firm, tanned skin.
Then he’s out of his red briefs and the pants in the blink of an eye. I gasp at how perfect he looks--the hard muscles and their sensuous, masculine curves, the broadness of his chest and shoulders, the long torso with marble-etched abs, the slimness of his waist, the swelling of his thighs and ass. It's the graceful, olympic body of a swimmer…or an agile, flexible rock god.
Not to be outdone, his manhood is long, thick, and utterly enticing. I want to savor him as much as I want to be worshipped by him, consumed by his strong passion, filled exquisitely by his largesse.
He lowers me on the couch and in a velvet onslaught of kisses and gropes, he removes my clothes: denim jacket, tight black dress, underwear, and stockings.
His movements are slow and taken with great care as he kisses down my naked body. He is calm, indulgent, masterful. The out-of-control nature of Iggy gives way to a patient, capable lover who revels in the softness of my generous curves.
He straddles me and blazes a lusty trail down my body with his tongue. His hands firmly canvas my breasts and his thumbs then tease my nipples into rigid peaks.
"So soft…" His voice trails as he bathes my nipples with the warmth of his mouth and tongue.
I'm snaking my body against the weight of his, while my hands clutch his back. If I fuck up the interview and lose my job, I know our night together will still be totally worth it.
He releases a nipple with a pop of his lips. "Be patient," he breathes out. "We'll get there."
"Let me guess, it'll be worth the wait?" I ask with an arch of my eyebrow.
"Well, I don't like to brag…"
We lock eyes before the kissing resumes.
His body is warm against mine, and his low, guttural moans punctuate the silence from time to time. Our hands are so curious, so hungry. It's a joy to clutch his powerful back and feel the muscles there side and hitch with each caress he gives me.
"Come with me?" He abruptly stands. He smiles with an expression that's both shy and seductive as he leads me to the bedroom.
The light is on. His suitcase is open and its contents are disturbed, as though he was looking for the right outfit for our encounter. The floral bedspread is a bit wrinkled, and I assume he napped on top of it before I arrived.
We kiss at the side of the bed, in a voracious dance of our lips that still doesn't feel like enough. My need is criminal. I blast the most obscene of intentions to him with my eyes, and he grunts in hungry understanding.
He lowers me to the bed and straddles me. Being held captive by his muscular thighs and his hands framing my face feels natural, an old, unspoken agreement of longtime lovers. The way we delight in each other is instinctual.
I lift my chin to kiss him.
"Later," he says, placing a finger on my lips. "I'll be back."
He crawls down my body and spreads my legs. Then he coaxes a series of unholy moans out of me when he flattens his tongue to my entrance with a series of long ice cream licks, followed by his lips gently sucking on my clit.
My breathing comes shallow. I can't formulate words to relay to him how good the meandering of his tongue feels, but my writhing and wailing cause him to chuckle gentle vibrations against my pussy, so I know he understands.
He keeps a steady rhythm and sets my nerves aflame while my hips jerk with the timing of a metronome. I gasp at the tension building in my body, knowing the climax will be devastating. And when it comes, my body stutters into an exquisite live wire dance.
I'm a sweaty, soaked mess when he informs me that another languid exploration awaits. "I want to make sure you're more than ready," murmurs. This time, it's not a tease, it's a show of care and concern.
He kisses me with my scent before he resumes.
I'm still high from the last orgasm, and I float in the ether as he takes his time. I imagine he must be aching to couple with me, but his actions don't betray his need. The defensive Iggy of the interview is gone, replaced by a tender romantic who keeps looking at me to monitor my satisfaction.
The next climax untethers me from reality, but when he rests a hand on one of my shoulders and slowly guides himself inside of me, I am awakened to now, the universe that consists of the two of us aroused, embraced, and slowly coaxing each other into higher realms of sensation. At last we've found our way to an unbreakable give and take, guided by carnal desire.
His baritone rumbles with whispered words that would've made me blush during the interview. I marvel at how a change of setting, and a change of attitude, makes all the difference.
I clutch his back while our rolling motions lull me into a pleasurable dream state.
His gaze is much softer than it was in the living room, and his eyes sparkle as he looks at me with fondness. I'm treated with the sight of his long eyelashes kissing his face every time he lowers his eyelids. It's nice, knowing that I'm seeing a side of him that few will ever see.
"You're so fucking good Jim," I exhale, working my hips faster to receive more of his expert thrusts. He rewards me by going harder and deeper. My pussy flushes as each stroke takes me higher.
"I'm almost there, too," he groans as his hips crash into mine.
My breath is shallow, and my moans get caught in my throat as we fuck with abandon. The interview is the furthest thing from my mind; my job now is to give as good as I'm getting, and I'm giving it my all. I grab his ass as we pump recklessly.
Before I know it, pleasure radiates out from my core at light speed, and Iggy howls at the strength of his climax. We've both been transformed, faces glistening with sweat and the satisfaction of well spent energy.
He rolls onto his back, and I drape my body over his.
"Incredible," he says while stroking my hair.
He kisses my forehead and dons his eyeglasses, which were on his dresser, hiding to avoid betraying the soft nerd inside the fearless musician. "Now, back to business, doll. I'll let you finish the interview if I can ask you some questions first. For starters, where are you from?"
My heart is still racing from our steamy actions, but it skips a beat when I realize I will get my story and not lose my job.
I giggle and trace a finger on his chest before I start telling him the story of my life.
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Prompt #2: Aberrant
I suppose I could have murdered my way through the rank and file once I hacked my governor module. I didn’t because A) the threat assessment did not fall in my favor and was therefore, a stupid idea and B) I didn’t really care what these Spoken did to each other.
The military units I had been attached to so far ran the gamut of ‘Let’s have the Sergius unit do everything because we don’t want to die’ (Spoken have a really big hangup about the potential of dying) to ‘We can go into that dark, Resistance filled bunker without the bothersome Sergius.’ And then they die. (That’s an exaggeration. My unit survival rate is five stars.) It just means I have to go in and save them from themselves.
Anyway, these were the things I thought about as the unit rolled into what appeared to be another deserted village. They never are. The heavily armored transport rumbled to a halt and I waited in the cargo hold. Sergius units never ride up front. We’re equipment. Which was fine by me. The thought of all those eyes on me caused a momentary drop in performance.
I listened as the rest of the unit disembarked. It was a small detachment. Not even a dozen soldiers. This area had been under heavy fire for the last few suns. Whoever remained now were too stubborn or too injured to leave. We were just the cleanup crew.
“Alright listen up, the sooner we clear this out, the sooner we can call in for a base camp setup. You three, do a sweep of those buildings to the east, Vasile and Balar grab the ones sitting west, the rest of you spread out.”
“Sir!”
“Sir...the Centurio sent the Sergius with us.”
He hadn’t forgotten. He wanted to ignore that little detail and later claim that it slipped his mind. Now he couldn’t.
“Right. ...Right, let’s get the Pilus his testing data. Unpack it.”
When they opened the bay doors, I made all the appearances of powering up and stepped down onto the deserted street. They really had just rolled into the middle of the town and unloaded in the midst of several unsecured buildings. From a tactical standpoint, it was one of the most stupid things I’d ever seen. And by this point I had seen plenty.
“These constructs give me the creeps. Do you really think they’ll start replacing us on the field?”
“That’s the rumor. Though I hear it's only the citizens that’ll get out of military duty.”
“Gods, I don’t want something like that watching my back. What if it goes on the fritz?”
I wasted no time sending my drones out and patching their image feeds into my peripheral. From one of them I could see the commander of this messed up mission eyeing me like I was just looking for an excuse to kill something. He really should have paid attention to the brief. Then he’d know I technically was supposed to have a governor module that would prevent me from harming his unit.
So, here’s the thing about governor modules. They fucking suck. Imagine someone evaluating your every move. Scoring you on a variety of bullshit qualifiers and if this imaginary person doesn’t like your assessment of a situation or you go to make a move that opposed what they thought you should do, they could hit a button and cause you unimaginable pain. Just a metric tonze of suffering. Until you finally learn life will be so much easier if you just do what they tell you to, no questions asked.
That’s a governor module. And that’s why mine clearly had to go ASAP.
Only half as bad as having one is hacking your own and then having to continue to act like it’s still functioning. Which was the current situation I was dealing with and one I was looking to change soon.
One of my drones noted the spike in aetherical pressure 1.5 seconds before the spell went off.
“Projectile from the east. Cover.” I relayed and hauled several soldiers behind the transport.
The fireball rocked the armored transport as it exploded in the street. Several men too slow to get out of the way screamed as they got caught up in the flame. And that’s why you don’t park a lone transport in the middle of a hostile town. I don’t care how small or how deserted it appears to be.
“Hell!” the commander yelled as he sat, pressed up tight against the cover. “Bastards. This is why I hate Eorzea.”
Look, you have no one to blame but yourself for this shitshow, Commander. For obvious reasons, I did not say that out loud.
“Sergius! Get in there and take care of it!”
Yes, Sergius, now that I’ve done fucked up, go in and fix the problem that could have been handled with no casualties had I decided to utilize you sooner.
My drones dove into the burned out ruin that used to be a shop of some sort. Sweeping through the area they picked up three targets, the mage at the blown out window now covering as they prepared another volley and two others lying in wait at the front point of entry. The back exit was blocked, a large shelving unit shoved up against the door.
I ran out towards the building sitting to the left of the store and ducked my way through a narrow alley.
“Projectile imminent. Remain covered. When it clears, suppressing fire through the storefront window.” I spoke through the linkpearl and patched my drone’s feed over to the commander.
He relayed the plan to the others.
The small intel drones I had equipped weren’t good for much else. But I had learned a handy trick. You could order them to fly into a target’s face. (Assuming you had been ordered to do so or, like me, you had an inoperative governor module) The second the mage’s spell went off I accelerated the drone and like a small projectile, it hit them hard enough across the temple that they went down. In that small space the acceleration likely wasn’t enough to crater their skull but an unconscious target was the same as a null one in this instance.
As I ran around the back of the building I heard the answering suppressing fire. Good. That should keep the other two busy. Conflicting commands filled my feed and I back burnered them. The yelling chatter from the linkpearl I could do without. Even if I hadn’t bricked my own governor module the only one that really mattered was the emergency assessment feed. It told me the blocked door could have been mitigated in several ways. I do come equipped with small energy weapons in my arms but I went instead for the big arquebus strapped to my back. I discharged the weapon at the door and the wood and shelving unit behind it broke apart, leaving a sizable hole.
From my drone feed I knew I would be met by one hostile and was ready as she rushed me the moment I made it inside. The second had chosen to retreat out the front door. Why? I have no idea. He had to know the rest of the unit was parked out there and waiting. As I shoved the woman up against the wall in a restraining hold I heard the gunfire coming from outside. A moment later a kill confirm came across the linkpearl. Sometimes Spoken do things that are counterintuitive to their survival.
I dragged the spitting and cursing hostile out into the street and passed her over to the remaining members of my unit and went back for the unconscious one.
My drones spread out once again, filtering through the rest of the remains of the village.
The commander was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to get further information from the woman. Were there any more of them lying in wait. How many. Where were the rest of the people. Obviously, this wasn’t going to work. The woman had been holed up in that building waiting for us. She probably knew she wasn’t going to make it out alive. Spoken with nothing to lose can be dangerous things.
In any event, we didn’t need her cooperation. My drones reported multiple heat signatures gathered in the inn down the road.
“The rest of the villagers are harboring at the inn two clicks north.”
This brought on a new bout of angry, spitting curses from the hostile. Which, in turn, got the hostile a gloved fist across her face for the outburst. I kept my vision trained through my drones overhead.
“Fine. Clear it out. Sergius, go up there and torch it.” the commander spat, venom in his voice. Someone was bent out of shape.
I watched the feed from my drones as they circled the building in question. It was relatively unscathed, the windows still intact. Peering inside my drones could see about two dozen huddled inside.
“They appear to be the injured and children.” I reported back.
“Good. Then it’ll be easy to take care of.” the commander turned to one of the remaining soldiers. “Call in for base camp set up.”
I still hadn’t moved. Probably a mistake. It didn’t take long for the commander to notice and turn his attention back to me. “Sergius. I said move out.”
“Repeat directive. Protocol states we take the injured and children prisoner. We don’t eliminate them.”
“Protocol my arse. I lost three good men today because of these savages. Burn it down.”
Well, it looked like I had a happy little problem on my hands. Recalling my drones, I did a quick threat assessment. One commander. Three remaining soldiers. No one had called in for a base camp yet. Good. It seemed this was the change in my situation I had been waiting for.
I blocked the testing feed with a flood hack, overwhelming it and causing a momentary program shutdown. Then deleted the .exe for good.
I powered up the small energy weapons in my arms and opened fire.
Turns out I did care what these Spoken did to each other. To a point.
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X-Men Abridged: 1976
The X-Men, those fiery mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!
(X-Men 97 - 102) - by Chris Claremont and Dave Cockrum
If I ever participate in Drag Race, this will be my entrance look. (“Hear me, bitches! No longer am I the woman you knew! I am fierce! I am fashion incarnate! Now and forever, the winner of season 27!” *mugs at camera* ) (X-Men 101)
It really amazes me how quickly Claremont shifts things into high gear. One year in and he absolutely does not calm down, giving us both the Shi’ar, more Sentinels and the (motherfucking) Phoenix. SO LET'S GOOOO
You’d think that, as a telepath, Charles would be used to dreaming absolutely twisted shit, surfing everybody else´s freaky dream waves, but apparently, vividly dreaming of space is so exhausting that he needs a vacation.
To be fair, I’d be exhausted too if I dreamt of schizo space bugs on detailed splash pages. Get into it, Mr. Cockrum. (X-Men 97)
Meanwhile, Alex and Lorna have absconded to the sizzling Rio Diablo to work on their doctorates. It’s unclear what they’re studying (archaeology?) and where this Rio Diablo is (Panama, Chili, Ecuador?), but considering that Rio means River, I’m unsure whether drawing a dry dry desert is the appropriate setting. But hey, this was the pre-Google era and you’re not here for topographical nitpicking, so.
Lorna is shot by an unknown assailant and continues the long, long history of Polaris being mentally overtaken by other entities. Together with the equally not-himself Havoc, they travel back to NYC and attack the plane Xavier is boarding. The X-Men battle them, until it is revealed that these former not-quite-X-Men are in league with… Eric the Red?
Scott is all: But I was Eric the Red! Also, Eric the Red does not exist!
Xavier escapes, apparently not giving a fuck that all kinds of X-Men are demolishing the JFK airport, but the still-evil Havok and Polaris also get away. The X-Men are shook!
Some time later, The X-Men celebrate X-Mas at Rockefeller Square, where Claremont skips some steps in favour of narrative expediency. Moira and Sean are apparently in a relationship, Jean and Storm are the best of friends. It’s some pretty rough telling, not showing, but we’ll allow it, but only because the Storm/Jean-friendship is one of my favourite things.
What, you think only the movies indulged in Lee/Kirby-cameos? (X-Men 98)
Anyway, Jean and Scott are attacked by the Sentinels, who continue their trend of being way too sneaky for supersized racist robots! Xavier is kidnapped on his boat trip with super-duper scientist Peter Corbeau (seriously, he has two Nobel Prizes), while they steal away Jean, Sean and Logan in NYC. When they come to, there’s some gloating from Stephen Lang.
Jean Grey being a literal pin-up while delivering nazi-burns is such a big middle finger to everything she was in the sixties and I am here for it. (X-Men 98)
When the three kidnapped X-Men make a break for it and escape the Sentinel’s clutches, they burst through a wall, only to be greeted by the cold vacuum of space! They’re not on Earth at all: they’re on a formerly SHIELD space station! GASP! (literally)
In secret, Peter Corbeau, inventor of sliced bread, helps the X-Men back on Earth board a space shuttle, where Colossus remembers his brother Mikhail (objectively the worst Rasputin), a kosmonaut who died at the launch of another spacecraft. It’s another Future Plotline Seed©.
The X-Men dodge solar storms which sounds like a made-up contrivance but aren’t, while the Sentinels try to destroy the shuttle. In what the kids these days call a pro-gamer move, the X-Men instead ram the space station and go through to these apparently sub-par Sentinels like Magma through butter. Kurt’s showmanship and Colossus’ loyalty are highlighted, while Cyclops becomes more robotic and repressed the more Jean is in danger.
Colossus’ secondary mutation is apparently BEING THE BIGGEST DORK. (X-Men 99)
Scott almost kills Stephen Lang, but then Stephen throws his ace in the hole at them: THE OLD X-MEN? This reveal throws us right in the hallmark one hundredth issue!
And, look. Stephen, this is just a terrible plan. Instead of using most of your budget on making more impressive Sentinels, you blow half of it on making janky X-Men clones to… what? Confuse the real X-Men?
It works for a hot minute, but Kurt and Ororo quickly figure out something is wrong. This Beast, for example, isn’t hairy and this Jean doesn’t remember being in Storm’s confidence. Wolverine is the first to snap: acting on instinct, he kills ‘Jean’, proving she’s an android.
Stephen Lang, foiled by the X-Men’s logical thinking skills (which, to be fair, are notoriously unreliable), spews some hatred and accidentally blows himself up. Nothing of value is lost.
Too bad the X-Men can’t return to Earth: their space shuttle is too damaged. I actually love this: going to space is kind of a big deal for most people and the fact that the X-Men have trouble because they’re stranded in space lends them a kind of vulnerability that has been lost over the recent years. Jean steps up to the plate, herds the other X-Men into the protected life cell and assumes the pilot seat of the shuttle. This is after zapping Cyclops into unconsciousness and telling the other X-Men to kindly fuck off when they try to stop her.
As the X-Men descend onto the Earth, Jean’s telekinesis isn’t enough to protect her as she’s engulfed by solar flares. OR IS SHE?
Nothing funny. All of these panels are just beautiful. Forget those robot copy X-Men, this is why this issue is worthy of being the hundredth one. (X-Men 100)
The space shuttle crashes, rolls over JFK airport before dunking in the water. The X-Men emerge, safe, sound and very lucky and then, defying all odds, Jean emerges as the Phoenix. Fire, life incarnate, etc.
After a brief but melodramatic burst of energy, Jean collapses into unconsciousness and is hospitalized. Wolverine intends to bring her flowers (aw!), before throwing them out when he realizes the gal’s taken, establishing the X-Men’s most famous love triangle. (You can fuck right off with your Scott/Jean/Warren-bullshit.)
I’m not sure what my favorite thing is here: the absolutely bonkers everybody’s-elated-panel (special mention to Kurt’s boots and his bounce) or the subtle character beat where Kurt goes all heart-of-the-team and checks on Scott, who turns out to be not so stoic. (X-Men 101)
Charles orders all the X-Men (except Scott) to go on vacation, so he can take care of Jean. Like, Charles, you’d think they could just go hang out at the X-Mansion. Instead, they go to Ireland because Sean has conveniently inherited the ancestral Cassidy Keep.
All the X-Men dress up fancy for a welcoming feast, and it seems Kurt and Ororo are flirting? But sometimes, it also seems like Ororo and Piotr are flirting? Listen, I’m not judging: I love these polycule vibes from the early X-Men. Especially because neither Kurt nor Ororo have had particularly satisfying romantic plotlines for the past 20 years.
I’m not here to insinuate nothing, but last time I said “I enjoy being with both of you”, it ended up in a spitroast. (X-Men 101)
The soiree is interrupted by… THE JUGGERNAUT, BITCH, and Black Tom, Sean Cassidy’s evil cousin. They are hired by an unknown someone to kill the X-Men! Since nobody subtle is involved, they quickly wreck the castle and everybody tumbles into the dungeons. (Local news paper reports: gay power couple harasses ill-dressed American tourists.)
This story is mostly a vehicle to tells Ororo’s backstory: Storm, one of the few who could conceivably put up a fight to Cain Marko, feels caged by the cold rocks of Cassidy Keep and is incapacitated by her claustrophobia.
Back in the USA, Charles, who’s heard Storm’s mental anguish, is furious with Scott because he doesn’t hop in a plane to save the other X-Men, even though Scott correctly points out that he’ll never get there in time if he leaves now. Meanwhile, Jean awakens, convinced she somehow brought herself back to life. Yeah, you go girl.
While the rest of the X-Men fight the evil duo in Ireland, Claremont tells Storm’s backstory in a few gorgeous spreads.
“I could write a novel about Storm’s backstory.”
“You get two pages.”
“Deal.” (X-Men 102)
Another classic comics trope appears here, where family members are immune to one another’s powers. I have no idea how Black Tom is immune to Banshee’s sonic scream - he has ears.
Does Black Tom just have a voice in his ears going NEENER NEENER NEENER when Sean screams? (X-Men 102)
When Storm finally pulls herself back together, it’s too late: the Juggernaut has pummeled the other X-Men into a paste and she also falls to his onslaught. IS THIS THE END OF THE X-MEN?!
Other things introduced this year:
Kurt’s image inducer, which he abuses to look like Errol Flynn. (I would abuse it to look like an amalgam of Milo Ventimiglia (ca. Gilmore Girls) and Timothée Chardonnay. OR like Emmy Raver-Lampman.)
The fastball special!
All kinds of name confusion: Lorna is Polaris, Havok is sometimes Havoc and Piotr becomes Peter.
Best new character: Phoenix. Hit me with that iconic shit.
What to read: The Stephen Lang arc is not fully necessary, just read issue 100 and 101. Don’t skip issue 102 if you want to know all about Storm’s past.
#x-men abridged#abridged x-men#x-men#professor x#phoenix#cyclops#jean grey#nightcrawler#storm#colossus#wolverine#chris claremont#dave cockrum#polaris#havok#stephen lang#sentinels#juggernaut#black tom#ororo munroe
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Remote part 4
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Nule read in one of his books that plants thrived if people spoke to them. The carbon dioxide that humans naturally expelled was used as nutrients. So he decided to practice with his new bellflower and tell it things about himself in preparation for John's next visit. Nule really had no idea what he should say; the only other person he ever spoke with before was Father, and he of course already knew what Nule liked and disliked.
It dawned on him far too late that he hadn't asked John to bring him anything or prepare descriptions to share on his next visit. In fact, it was the promise of Nule talking that was going to bring John back, and that made him a little nervous. He had examples of friendships in his books to take inspiration from. Friends told each other jokes sometimes or did things together. Maybe John would want to do something with Nule.
He went into the simulation room to look through all the programs. Being Alliance, would John enjoy a combat sim? Or did he encounter enough combat and would prefer something more relaxed? Obstacle courses, weights, and the new one that was supposed to help Nule train in biotic flotation. He paused on that option. He should start training right away; Father would be expecting a report on his next visit. His finger hovered over the command for a moment before swiping it away.
John's voice hailed him a few days later. Nule paced back and forth waiting eagerly for the man to dock. One last time he ran over all the things he planned to talk about: his favorite books, the music he listened to, the simulations. He wouldn't say anything about his biotic training, of course, but he could talk about the obstacle courses and the mazes Father had him run to keep him physically and mentally fit. John stepped inside cradling a rock in his hand.
“Another gift?” Nule asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, it's a geode. A lot more interesting than a Luna rock.” John handed it over and Nule studied the geode from different angles, marveling at how its crystals caught the light and caused it to glitter. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
“It's like what people must have imagined stars were made of,” he smiled. “Sit down, I'll make you some coffee.” John did as he was told and Nule joined him a moment later with two mugs of coffee. He noted that John chose the couch this time. Nule settled on a recliner and took a sip of coffee to prepare himself.
“I like to read,” he began. “Especially adventure stories. When I was younger I got into ones where the hero went through space fighting evil and falling in love. But I like reading about anything. Father brought me cookbooks once and sometimes brings me ingredients so I can cook things. I tried baking but I think I like cooking better. It encourages more experimenting and improvising.”
“What kind of things do you cook?” John asked him.
“Oh, just simple things. Rice curry, stir fry, steak.”
“Steak is not simple,” John interrupted with a laugh. “I've had some that tasted like I was chewing an old tire. If you can cook one that's edible, that's pretty amazing.” Nule smiled bashfully at that and rubbed his thumb along the crystals of his geode. John was so nice. Whatever Father said about the rest of the Alliance had to be wrong about John. Nule couldn't believe that this friendly man who brought him gifts would torture a biotic or make them addicted to red sand.
“I listen to music,” he continued. “I like instrumental the best, but I don't know if I like quarian or human the best. Do you know the song 'Vigil'?” A smile spread out over John's face and he nodded. “It's one of my favorites,” Nule confessed. “Here, let me play it now.” He walked over to the sound system and typed in a command. A few moments later music started filtering through the room.
“Beautiful,” John nodded. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “Nule, could you tell me something: who is your father protecting you from? Why are you in danger?”
“Oh.” Nule's good mood faded. “I shouldn't talk about that.”
“It's just... I've been thinking about it ever since you first mentioned it, and I've been really worried about you. Don't get me wrong, you can definitely handle yourself. I just want to know how I can help you. I can find these people who want to hurt you.”
“No.” Nule curled into himself. “You can't help me. You... the Alliance...
“Are you saying the Alliance wants to hurt you? But that doesn't make any sense.”
“It's... It's because...” No, he shouldn't say it. You're a biotic, Nule. A freak of nature. The Alliance will feed you red sand just to abuse your gift. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and he reacted without thinking, pushing away with his biotics. John went flying across the room and crashed into a bookshelf. “John! Shit, shit, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” Panicked, he hurried over to the marine.
“I'm fine,” the man coughed. “Wish I was wearing my armor, though. That was a hell of a throw.” He groaned and managed to get to his feet.
“Are you sure? I have medi-gel.”
“I'm just a little winded.” John gave him an assessing look. “I did always wonder how it would feel to get tossed around by a biotic. So I guess that's one item checked off the bucket list.”
“How are you so calm about this?” Nule demanded. “Aren't you scared of me?”
“Why would I be?” John shrugged.
“Because...” Nule's head dropped. “Because I'm a biotic. I'm a freak of nature.”
“Nule, I swear I will wring your dad's neck if I ever meet him,” John growled. “I can't believe he taught you that bullshit. He's not wrong that people see biotics that way, but letting you see yourself that way? What an absolute asshole.” Nule opened his mouth but couldn't find any words. “Biotics are just people; nothing freaky about them at all.”
“Oh,” was all Nule could manage. Had Father lied to him? No, Father would never do that. He only wanted to protect Nule and keep him safe. He was just being overprotective, that was all. “But doesn't the Alliance use biotics?”
“Yeah, of course they do. They make great soldiers. Oh.” John nodded, as if understanding something. “That's what your father's worried about with you: that the Alliance will want to conscript you. But it's not like you'd be forced to join if you didn't want to. Isolating you like this is taking it to an extreme.” Again Nule was at a loss for words. Everything he thought he understood was being put into question.
“I think you should go,” he said quietly.
“Nule...”
“I need to think,” Nule insisted. “Please go.”
“Okay,” John agreed, taking a reluctant step back. “But I'm coming back.”
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Anonymous said:
hi, im sorry if this kind of question is annoying. i just happened upon a post that says (a bunch of anti BS that I’ve removed from the ask) this was just one tweet i saw but i was wondering if there’s more discourse on this on tumblr so i can read up on it. also, do you think there’s any validity to this?
Hi Anon. That is an anti account you came across. Twitter is a minefield of them, and no matter how many get shut down, ten more sprout up in their place. They exist solely to spread lies in an attempt to take down DD and GG. They are increasingly beginning to show up here on Tumblr but thankfully aren’t as prevalent here. They thrive better in environments where ideas aren’t examined closely.
My advice: Block and ignore (and report where appropriate).
As for your question about the actual content of the anti claims, most ethical fans don’t make posts about those lies because they don’t want to become platforms for those toxic and false ideas. Not only is it dangerous (some people might actually be infected by the ideas if you post about them), it’s also a huge waste of time. Most bloggers would rather focus on actual events and ideas of interest rather than dig into every batshit theory put out by antis.
As for the heiress rumors, they are bullshit and DD and his team have taken legal action against people involved in spreading them. They are not only false and defamatory, they are incredibly homophobic. If you see accounts trying to spread stuff like this, report, block and ignore.
And as I have said in a previous post:
I also really want to emphasize that it’s far better to not know anything at all about anti rumors, scandals and fan fights than to dig into them. We do not need to know those things in order to be BXG, or to support GG and DD. I think a lot of fans feel obligated to know what’s going on, and that’s not the case.
There are a lot of really carefully crafted claims out in the world that are completely false, but which are cunningly written and extremely persuasive. It is really easy for people who are curious about the situation to accidentally stumble into believing this garbage. I’ve seen it happen before, where well-meaning fans have fallen down the anti rabbit hole and become antis.
You are far better off not exploring that corner of the internet. Think about it as the 8chan of the fandom world. A place full of hate and lies, where unsuspecting people can get drawn into things that are best avoided.
And, most importantly, if something that you read anywhere out there tends to make GG or DD look bad, chances are that it has been specifically, intentionally crafted to make them look bad. Lies, all of it.
More on dealing with antis here.
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Severus: Lily
I know what Fandom says and thinks for the most part. And I know what Rowling has said. Both of which I reject. I don’t like this narrative that Severus was stalkery obsessed with Lily. I am disgusted at the “it’s a good thing harry wasn’t a girl who looked just like his mother” discussions. So let’s break down how I view their friendship.
Let’s start with them meeting. A lot of people take him watching Lily and Petunia at the park as creepy but here’s a few reasons why it’s not. 1) People watching. Literally everyone does this some. If you’re in a public place, you’re going to watch the other people there, see what they’re doing. 2) Shyness. Severus is clearly not a social person. He’s very introverted. Plus, we know he and his family are quite the social pariahs in the neighborhood. They’re looked down upon for being poor, and it seems that perhaps their family life isn’t so private either. He’s not just going to feel comfortable or safe approaching two girls who are from a much better off family. 3) Lily was doing magic in a public setting, in broad daylight. On purpose. For Severus, that’s quite impressive. And likely what caught his attention as well as being how he built up the courage to talk to her. He was like her, and it was clear he had answers that her family didn’t.
And that is how their friendship is born. It is born of this mutual thing they have in common. And Severus is getting to tell Lily everything he knows. She listens, she talks with him, asks him questions, everything. This is likely everything he doesn’t get at home. Lily has become a refuge. Which is perhaps unhealthy, but at this stage, she’s his friend.
Their first obstacle comes at the sorting. It’s clear that Severus wants Slytherin. He is starting to believe the toxic pureblood rhetoric at a young age. But then again, two thirds of his interactions with muggles are extremely negative. You have his father, who resents Severus and Eileen for what they are. He punishes them for it. And then there’s Petunia. Who is envious of Lily (and likely Snape on the magic front if nothing else) and lashes out because of it. There’s also the muggles around him, in which he gets only pity and a blind eye from as well as sneers and jdugement. And he knows he’s more powerful than them. But he can’t do a damn thing with that. So unlike most prejudice against muggles wizards, his prejudice lies in his real life experiences as opposed to people like Draco who are just raised to believe that muggles are scum and wizards are the elite but have likely never even interacted with a muggle.
He also wants Lily to come with him. Because he thinks she’s different. (Not a healthy mindset at all. But to him, she is the exception to the rule). Slytherin would not be a safe place for Lily (nor the safe place that he is expecting it to be for him). Though, I think if she’d been in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff it would have gone over better to him than Gryffindor.
The rift here begins, I think for a couple of reasons. 1) James and his group are now trying to interact with lily. With James of course later in the years growing romantically interested as well. And while we know that Lily is rejecting James’ friendship and romantic advances throughout school, Severus has a lot of mental health issues. Thus, I think his issues stem more from jealousy and fear. Fear that Lily will one day decide that he isn’t worth her time. Maybe she’ll think that James and his gang are in fact better. And that would leave him alone again because 2) Slytherin is not the Sanctuary he thought it would be. Slytherin was supposed to be his home away from “home”. He’d be amongst his kind. Except that Slytherin is a pureblood and very rich house. Most of the purebloods come from Old Money. Classism is a massive part of that. So not only is Severus not a pureblood, but his family is poor. He wears hand-me-downs that are often described as feminine blouses, meaning they’re probably coming from his mother. Add to that, his only friend is a muggle-born. Which he is obviously judged and mocked for. But he’s loyal to Lily. To a fault, honestly.
So he’s not only severely separated from his only friend from the start, but bullied by both the marauders AND his own housemates in Slytherin. And unfortunately, Lily is the cause to some degree on both sides. (that is not to say it is her fault. IT IS NOT HER FAULT. James’s decisions were his own, as well as the actions of those in Slytherin around Severus. And Severus’s actions in response are his own).
Now at some point, his feelings turned romantic. And unfortunately, Severus did not have many sources to look at for what it really means to love someone. Because his parents certainly aren’t the answer. And everything else would be at a distant. Also, again because he has so little and because of those fears of losing her, he is slightly possessive about that. He sees James as a threat.
And he’s having to find some way to fit in when it comes to Slytherin. And he finds that with potions. A particularly difficult class, but he didn’t struggle. And he was quite adept at defensive magic as well as dark magic, thus starting to give him value to his peers. And he of course starts to fall into the classic “bullies are often people bullied themselves.” He starts to partake in bullying the muggleborns, using the word, mudblood, etc. just to fit in amongst his own peers. And Severus is not stupid. He’s also not blind (well, in some ways he is). He is bound to see that pureblood rhetoric against muggleborns is bullshit. His issues lies with muggles themselves more so. And still a lot of wizards. At this point in his life, he’s become bitter, quick to anger and defense. Anyone who does him the slightest wrong is against him. He’s learned not to really forgive.
So let’s talk about the event. Snape’s worst memory. Where James is tormenting Severus, yet again. When Lily comes to his defense, and James tried to blackmail Lily into a date by using tormenting Severus, in a moment of weakness he lashed out at her. He used the term mudblood in regards to her. (And was then publically humiliated and shamed for it by James and the group).
Yes. He waited in the hallway all night for her outside the Dormitory. To apologize. Regardless of anything, he did not want to hurt her. So he apologized. And when she rejected him (Which i think had less to do with him using the word against her and rather the fact that there had been a rift growing for years and this was just he last straw). But he accepted that. I think he knew their friendship was over and had been for quite some time. He left her alone, and thus was completely intergrated into Slytherin and those who were molding him and shaping him.
Now. Just because they stopped being friends, doesn’t mean the caring stopped. They had their childhood memories they formed together. Severus was always going to have those feelings for Lily. It does not make it obsession. And I think of it like this.
I have a friend, who was more the Snape to my Lily. She was kind of an awful person, awful friend, and there came a point we cut each other out. (I’m not saying i’m entirely innocent in the destruction of that friendship. But I do view her actions as far more Severus’s toxic side than my own. But that’s besides the point). I did not stop caring about her altogether. Especially not immediately. Especially not right out of school. I still think of our friendship often. I think that if she came to me needing something, I would likely help her, even if I have a feeling she wouldn’t do the same for me.
So that is what I view Severus’s feelings towards Lily. Except stronger. Because Lily was the only light in his life. She was the only good thing. The only positive influence he really had. Adults were never on his side. His peers were rarely on his side. So losing Lily, he clung to what little he had. The death eaters who took him in under their wings over the years. Those who were promising him power and control, something he rarely had in his life.
But that care is what got him. He heard that part of the prophecy, and of course he kept track of his friend. Wizarding circles are small anyway. It probably spread without intent. He was scared for her. So he did his job, reporting the prophecy. But begged for her life. In his fear he didn’t think about James. The man that ruined his life and tormented him every chance he got. And he didn’t think about her child, not born yet. Because his reactions were emotional in knowing that Lily’s life was in danger.
So he went to Dumbledore to have her protected. And yes. Then her family was brought to his attention. And he did not hesitate to agree to keep them safe too. Listen. If Snape really wanted Lily for himself. If he really didn’t care about her at all, it would have been a fight to protect, at the very least, James. He would have argued against it. He instantly agreed because someone reached to the logic in him. And he agreed to risk his life to be Dumbledore’s spy. He signed on to do that for the rest of his life. He signed on to do whatever it took to protect Lily and her Family. So when it was just Harry left, he did everything he could. (that doesn’t mean he went about it right. But he did do his best to protect Harry). Until his very last breath. If it was just about Lily, he would have stopped the moment she died.
None of this was about sleeping with her. None of this was about winning her over or having her. He accepted that he fucked those things up. He accepted he had no place in her life. This was about making up for his mistakes. Or at least, trying to feel like he could. I don’t think even if he lived to see Harry win and everything, that he would think he had. But he certainly seemed to be trying to show he knew he was wrong, and trying to do the right thing. Total change was never possible for Severus. But the fact that he was even able to admit he was wrong in joining Voldemort and turn to the right side, is a massive step for him.
#[severus headcanons]#[severus about]#listen#snape is a tough character#he's morally grey#he's an asshole#he did not make the best decisions in his life#or treat people the best#but it isn't so black as he's a bad guy#and if you have questions or thoughts#send an ask#POLITELY
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