i think the hill i'm going to die on here is that lasting anti-fascist activism begins and ends with unrestricted social services.
protests are great. kind of indispensable right now. but in times when we can be less reactive, you want to know what you're protesting *for*, not just against.
today i saw a post elseweb saying "why aren't white women fleeing maga? they have to know by now that tradwife means sex slave". and like... it's very simple. they can't leave because they would end up like me.
they're, we're, deliberately made unemployable so that we'll have to marry whatever mediocre white man picks us out. as it happened, i was unappealingly intersex, fat, butch, and autistic, so none of the mediocre white boys of my generation ever took a second look at me, but that didn't give me job skills or career connections.
i knew multiple women whose husbands divorced them and took the house as part of their midlife crises. they had to send the kids to live with relatives and take dead-end jobs like bagging groceries because they were in their forties with zero job experience. if they'd rejected the worldview, if they'd alienated their families and what few friends didn't victim-blame them for the divorces, they'd have had nowhere to turn.
it's been over twelve years since i got out. psychologically, medically, i'm healthier. but i've chased a fresh start through half a dozen states. i spent my inheritance getting a degree. none of it helped. there are no supports for abandoning (or being abandoned by) your support network.
you won't defeat fascism until my people are free to leave the cult if they realize they want out. until we can access free housing to get away from financial abuse, free comprehensive job training and placement services to help us start careers, national healthcare so we can flee across state lines if necessary without losing any medical care we're lucky enough to have access to, protections for children and teens so they can flee without needing a parent's help... universal basic income would be really good but there are smaller steps that could help with financial independence.
and it all has to be available to everybody, including people you think are "unworthy". people who hold the wrong opinions. drug addicts. people whose husbands or parents make too much money. people who aren't from around here. unrepentant bigots. if they want out, you have to give them a path out. minds can change later, once people are less scared and less pressured.
(i'm ex-catholic. do you want to hear about what happens when you force people to profess certain beliefs in order to access basic assistance? i have two thousand years of examples.)
"but if they really wanted out they'd do the Right Thing and leave without support!" Better to be one man's sex slave than turning tricks on the street. "staying just proves they're actually evil and there for the bigotry!" Live in your car for six months in 100°F heat, twice, and then talk to me again. There's no virtue in cutting yourself off from society just to prove some kind of moral point. All that does is get you dead or worse.
("JT, you're not dead" I'm a fucking cockroach. Most people would be dead by now. Survival bias goes both ways; we're not all the same model of airplane.)
The world’s largest sand battery has started working in the Finnish town of Pornainen
Capable of storing 100 MWh of thermal energy from solar and wind sources, it will enable residents to eliminate oil from their district heating network, thereby cutting emissions by nearly 70 per cent.
Launched just as Russia cut off gas supplies in retaliation for Finland joining NATO, the project was a timely example of how renewable energy could be harnessed in a new way.
Finding a way to store these variable renewables is the crux of unleashing their full potential. Lithium batteries work well for specific applications, explains Markku, but aside from their environmental issues and expense, they cannot take in a huge amount of energy.
Grains of sand, it turns out, are surprisingly roomy when it comes to energy storage.
It’s quite a simple structure to begin with, Polar Night Energy said of its prototype. A tall tower is filled with low-grade sand and charged up with the heat from excess solar and wind electricity.
This works by a process called resistive heating, whereby heat is generated through the friction created when an electrical current passes through any material that is not a superconductor. The hot air is then circulated in the container through a heat exchanger.
The sand can store heat at around 500C for several days to even months, providing a valuable store of cheaper energy during the winter. When needed, the battery discharges the hot air - warming water in the district heating network. Homes, offices and even the local swimming pool all benefit in Kankaanpää, for example.
“There’s really nothing fancy there,” Markku says of the storage. “The complex part happens on the computer; we need to know how the energy, or heat, moves inside the storage, so that we know all the time how much is available and at what rate we can discharge and charge.”
In Pornainen, Polar Night Energy has found a sustainable material in crushed soapstone; a by-product of a Finnish company’s manufacture of heat-retaining fireplaces.
"Tulikivi is a well-known and traditional company,” says Naskali. “The soapstone they use is a very Finnish thing.”
You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader
Part I
This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.
And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.
The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.
Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.
It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.
And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.
Which was so unfair.
Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.
And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.
A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.
God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?
Which is how you ended up here.
At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.
You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.
It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.
You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.
... And now you were sweating.
You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.
"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."
Just pilots.
Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.
And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.
This was going to be a disaster.
You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.
It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.
Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.
You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.
So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.
And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.
Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.
Silence.
Pure, excruciating silence.
You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.
Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.
He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"
Oh, great. His voice is hot too.
You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.
With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.
At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.
“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”
A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."
You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.
You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.
As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”
Solid. Real professional.
You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.
Nope. Not looking at him.
You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.
With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.
“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”
Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.
“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.
“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”
You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.
“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”
“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”
“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.
You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.
“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”
The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.
“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”
A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.
“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”
Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”
Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.
You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.
“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."
Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.
Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.
“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”
Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.
“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”
A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.
“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”
Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.
“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”
The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.
Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.
“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”
There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.
“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.
The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.
You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.
So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—
“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”
You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”
Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.
“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”
You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”
His stare didn’t waver.
“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”
“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”
Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”
Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”
You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.
Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”
Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”
“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”
You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.
Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”
You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”
Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”
You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?
this can help with doubts, general questions, blockages, so forth.
did you know, neurologically, your brain treats “self” and “other” differently?
when you think about yourself, areas such as mPFC (the medial prefrontal cortex) lights up due to the fact it’s tied to self-referential thought, your identity aaaand internal judgement!
when you think about OTHERS, the very same region partially overlaps with empathy circuits! examples being the temporoparietal junction and anterior insula. if your pretty little brain learned that “me” = danger, failure, or shame (through trauma, criticism, or unstable caregiving), that self-network becomes hostile territory.
your brain isn’t BETRAYING you per se, it’s just… protecting you in the only way it knows how!
this is why when you shift perspectives, when you trick it into empathy instead of judgement, it starts to listen instead of defend.
“but nikolas, what the fuck does shifting perspectives mean?? ELABORATE! are you high again?!?!?!”
NOT TODAY!
the activity is simple!
send yourself an ask—preferably relating to an issue YOU have, a doubt, or just a question—anonymously, and answer it as if it were another person.
you can add theatrics aswell! sob stories, lore, quirks to this special anon, which can once again help us. our mirror neuron system makes us feel others’ pain VIVIDLY. it fires when you see someone hurt just like when YOU are hurt. this can give more motivation, a more sincere response!
you get to be both the mentor and the mentee. you’ll realize mid answer, “holy shit, I DO know what I’m talking about?!”
this not only avoids you from asking another blogger a question you’ve asked 6 others (give or take), but it also proves you have everything within.
you don’t need anyone else to tell you what to do. you’re just as capable.
it’s never been about lacking answers. it’s about trusting your own voice enough to listen, and listen to me when i say this; every “guru” you’ve ever asked is just a louder echo of what your gut’s already whispering.
this is a cool little trick, because if you were to simply tell yourself…
“I’m gonna research for myself and find the answer on my own!”
that could work, but I’m preeetty sure half of you would procrastinate it or just forget it.
with this, you may end up giving yourself better advice than half the people you’d normally ask.
because who knows your patterns, fears, and habits better than YOU?
Or how the creeps comfort you after a nightmare
Characters: Jeff, EJ, Masky, Hoodie, Toby, HABIT.
Cw's: None
Proofread: Nope, but, it was spellchecked, as always if something slipped through the cracks let me know!
Jeff
Jeff is much softer in moments like these.
he’s not really a words of affirmation guy, but it’s in every single action of his.
Whatever you need to fall back asleep he’s doing it
He has a playlist of videos of the nights you're too scared to go back to sleep, he keeps a collection of funny ones he finds on youtube with ben, he claims it’s just some shit he’s saved and it doesn’t matter, but it’s labeled with your name on it.
he’s not a huge cuddler, it’s just never been his love language, but, he will hold your hand as you sleep
Overall he’s a good carer, and you can maybe even sneak some pet names out of him.
EJ
Per my headcanons, Ej doesn’t sleep, but he will lay with you as you sleep.
He will often wake you up if you're having a nightmare, he can sense it the minute your heart rate rises.
Usually when he manages to catch it it’s in the perfect stage, he’ll wake you for two seconds and then you’ll fall directly back asleep.
but assuming you have a pretty bad one, or he somehow misses waking you up, he’ll make sure to soothe you back to sleep best he can
He’s very much an act of service guy, he’ll go get you some water and maybe a little snack.
If you want to talk about the nightmare, he's a perfect person to do so. He rubs your back as you do so, and reminds you that you're safe.
he’ll offer to read to you as well, from whatever book he usually is deep into, his voice is nice and soft, and it soothes you perfectly back to sleep.
Masky
He sleeps really fucking lightly, so if you’re stirring you’ll likely end up waking him before you wake yourself up.
however he has this at least 30 minute window where he’s kind of all instincts. Which is usually where you land.
So, your gonna have a lot of times where he will get up check the house and come right back to lay beside you
he’s not huge on psychical touch, but it’s one of those rare times he’ll hold your hand as you both drift off
If you're still awake by the time his sleepiness fades, he’s happy to turn on some Disney movie to lull you both back to sleep, he’s partial to Cinderella.
if it’s really chronic and starting to affect you a lot, he’ll offer you tips, he’s been there, the two of you can’t stay up together, chasing your respective demons away.
Brian.
-also a hugely light sleeper, but he can go from asleep to awake in seconds. Unlike Masky
the minute he hears you crying his arms are around you kissing your nose.
He is very big on affection when it comes to you in general, but when it comes to comfort it’s his go-to.
If you want to talk about it, he's absolutely ready. He’ll nod along, making sure you know he’s engaged.
He has a little playlist of country songs for y'all to listen to, and insists that it’s not the right soundtrack for bad shit to happen.
He gives you a little stand in plushy for when he’s on mission, it’s a little brown bear with slightly curly fur in a mini version of one of his outfits. He even sprayed his cologne on the bear to make sure it smells like him.
Toby
He’s a surprisingly heavy sleeper, *if* He can sleep.
So you’re really gonna have to try and wake him if you need him and he’s passed out.
But if he’s having one of his usual nights where he's up, he’s immediately comforting you.
He knows a surprising amount of breathing exercises, and will walk you through them, helping to get you calm in record time.
Due to his tics, he often doesn't like to cuddle you to sleep, but he’ll get you some weighted blankets and such to help fill that void, and if you really need it, he’ll give in.
His go too for comfort videos to help you fall back asleep is food network shows, he favors competition shows but he will also live with something simple if that’s too stimulating
Habit
As much as he likes to pretend that he's above nightmares, and in some ways he is. He does have faint memories of when he could experience that kind of fear.
He’s kind of an asshole about it, he uses the night to get most of his *Hobbys* done. So you'll have to get out of bed to get him.
And per any kinda comfort, it comes with hims teasing you, when you tell him what's been bothering you.
He’ll also fake being insulted that you don't think he can keep you safe.
He will however offer to watch you sleep. It's surprisingly comforting
Play your cards right and he might lay down and cuddle with you, but it's a heavy might.
Secretly in the back of his mind he worries that somehow, the Operator will get to you like it did him. And you’ll end up like him.
Tomura wasn’t sure when it began, nor was he sure if he’d ever stop this affair. The league says he’s being irrational, to him it’s networking. Besides it’ll work out in the end, would it not? When he kills that hero husband of yours — you’d take his side, wouldn’t you? It’s not like you love the man.
Cw: implied arranged marriage, implied neglectful partner(?), cheating(?), reader and unnamed hero are not actual overs.
A/N — tldr, tomu starts liking the partner of a pro hero. Becomes an affair partner(?) and then plans to kill your husband. Some league talk, I haven’t played in a while so the reference might be outdated. NOT proofread + small blurb thingy for a maybe full series.
• • • ─────── • — • ─────── • • •
Tomura didn’t think he’d get this far. It was morbid curiosity at first. A pro hero’s lover being an informant for Giran? How couldn’t he be intrigued?
It was supposed to be small. A tiny check in, a way to learn why people betray their own. You were married, a popular hero — not too popular — but enough for the general public to know that name.
Tomura dumbed it down as curiosity. If he wanted to be a better leader, he had to know the reasons, the signs when someone is leaking intel.
Your first ever conversation with him led to more questions than answers, the next felt far worse. He couldn’t get a read no matter how hard he tried. Spinner said to drop it, but to Tomura this was just networking, was it not?
If he wanted to bring hero society down, he had to get better at bringing people to his side — and so, he started with you.
It started small, it always did. Too little, too quiet, a festering rot that even he didn’t notice at first. Only realizing until that rot practically engulfed him whole.
He’s in your bed, he shouldn’t be. Your husband’s coming home, or maybe he wouldn’t? Tomura wouldn’t put it past a hero to miss out on his own anniversary.
Tomura never thought he’d ever be an affair partner, yet here he was. Did it count? If the marriage was arranged did it count?
This thing between you two — was it real? Tomura wasn’t sure he’d be ready for the answer.
At first, he came here for more insider info. To get the whole truth out of you, instead of whatever chopped up bits and pieces Giran gave him.
Now he’s found himself coming here just for the smallest reasons. A keychain, an arcade toy, random objects he found that made him think of you — then he’s there — at your place because you just happened to cross his mind.
“I don’t know, wouldn’t Vayne be the best league character?” You muttered, snarling Tomura out of his thoughts.
“Are you fucking serious?” He scowled, drowning out his earlier inner ramblings with this conversation.
It was simple, easy, Tomura never felt as free as he did now. Which he shouldn’t be feeling. You’re married, so why was it so nice with you?
“Vayne has high stats, yeah, that just means you don’t need skill to play her.”
“But doesn’t having her in a game practically guarantee a win? She’s so strong.” You didn’t play league, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered to Tomura was you trying to engage in this discussion with him despite your lack of expertise.
It wasn’t even just sex anymore. Tomura liked you. Liked you more than he thought he would. He came out of curiosity, sex just sort of happened, to downright being in love with you.
He wonders how long you both could keep this up, how long you’d stay with that hero — most of all, how willing would you turn to him when he kills that husband of yours.
synopsis: you could have loved her so easily if she let herself have it.
pairings: jenna ortega x reader
genre: angst, some fluff
warnings: sexual themes (alluded to), sad stuff, jenna is kind of an asshole in this lowkey (but i tried to make her mature as possible). not proof read.
A/N: first jenna fic!!! i’ve loved her for such a long time but never really humored the idea of writing for her…. also! was lowkey planning for a different ending to this but then i kept replaying the ‘down bad’ bridge and in my head i was like damn i kinda want it to be a bit like this. so believe it or not this was a kinder ending to the one i had originally planned where jenna goes full a-hole mode. anyways happy reading! please let me know your thoughts.
read part two here
WC: 3.3k
please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.
from the very beginning, you knew this was never going to last.
jenna ortega didn’t date. not really. not in any way she’d care to let the media know about. if she’d ever even say anything. you can’t even remember the last time you heard of her being seen out with someone hanging off her arm.
she was too obsessed with her work. a chronic workaholic. too busy to even entertain the idea of a possible future with someone. you were no exception to this rule. of course you weren’t.
you weren’t entirely a nobody. just some up-and-coming indie director who had one movie that managed to make waves amongst festival circuits. but you weren’t anything compared to the way jenna was hollywood’s next goth darling. the woman of the hour. the girl who had stayed on everyone’s screen since she had debuted as this generation's wednesday.
you were invited to the vanity fair oscar party by a producer who helped fund your last movie– a mentor of sorts, who said coming along would be “good networking”. you attended, putting on the sharpest outfit you owned, just to completely skip the red carpet altogether.
the same producer who invited you introduced you to a guy who worked on an a24 project that filmed in hungary. and by a thin thread that felt too accidental, that’s how you met jenna.
somehow, someway, she’d found a small interest in you. she was surprisingly easy to talk to if you ignored who she was for just a second. she told you she’d attended a screening of your movie in new york. then she talked about it as if she’d reached into your brain and traced every intention behind every detail.
you’d found her charming, though it was hard not to be. and she was uncharacteristically funny in ways you’d never thought you’d hear. let alone from someone so sparkly and shiny like her.
you only met her very briefly. a ten-minute conversation before her publicist whisked her away to talk with someone else.
you had no idea she’d have such an impact on you then.
jenna followed you on instagram a few days later. that was followed up with a reply to your story within the same hour. you didn’t post anything spectacular, just a simple photo of your computer screen playing, the cabinet of dr. caligari.
jennaortega replied to your story:
taste, i see. have you seen asphalt?
somehow, someway, those exchanged texts led to her inviting you out for drinks.
it started discreetly, and it ended in the same way.
she’d take you to places no one would bother to look too closely into. exclusive restaurants that had strict no-cellphone policies, and places you could only get into by referral from someone else.
looking back at it, maybe that had been the first crack in the glass.
you didn’t mind her want for privacy. maybe she was just highly protective of the people she hung around. maybe she just wanted to go out with a friend without having cameras shoved into her face.
but it was not lost on you how she could be spending her time on something else–or someone else–rather than taking you to fancy dinners.
“i don’t really do this,” she said one night. her finger circled the rim of her glass of wine as her eyes flickered up to yours. she smiled at you chastely, her eyes twinkling above the candlelit table. like she’d already had a pre-established notion of how this night would go if she played her cards right.
you didn’t have to read between the lines to know what she meant. these were no friendly dinners.
a glass of wine later, and you were en route to her la penthouse.
the ride to her place was smooth. a blur of neon lights and tall buildings. she didn’t say much except when her eyes briefly met yours in the dark of the car, and she’d smile.
on the elevator ride up, you knew you’d be stepping into the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows and marble finish countertops. and once you’d arrived on her floor, her penthouse was anything but what you expected it to be. if anything, you expected a lot of whites, and greys, and emptiness.
instead, you found it to feel lived in. an empty mug sat on her kitchen island, a pair of doc martens lay sprawled in a corner next to her couch, and there was a scatter of candles and books on her coffee table.
jenna dropped her keys on a table right by the door, then, barefoot, strolled across her living space with a different ease than the one you’d seen before. like she’d immediately shed off a skin just by walking through the threshold.
she switched on a lamp next to her couch, immediately drenching the white walls of her apartment in a warm amber.
“you like?” she asked, plopping herself down onto the couch. she tapped softly on the space next to her. you could tell just by looking at it, it wasn't the kind of couch that was stiff and hard to break in.
you raised an eyebrow at her, then smirked. “a penthouse in the city?” you sit down next to her. “i'm impressed.”
“yeah, well, don’t be fooled,” as she tucked her feet beneath her. “i spend more time in hotel rooms than i do here.”
jenna was different here. she felt easier. her body was more relaxed, and her laugh sounded loosened. she confessed to loving weird sides of the internet and how the internet archive was her true best friend.
she made jokes about scientology and how there have been more than a few times when she’d almost gone down rabbit holes of different kinds of cults and how one would join them. she laughed when you told her that if she’d ever created a cult herself, you’d join without question.
“it’d probably be about german expressionist movies,” she said. half joke, half truth.
the chaos of the city below felt unreachable here. you told her a joke, she laughed, and somehow ended up closer to you than when you first sat down. now, her side was pressed against the backrest of the couch, directly facing you.
when the laughter and conversation died down, she pulled back only by a few inches. her arm was propped on the top of the backrest, so it made it easier for her to lay her head against her knuckles.
it got a little silent, and you almost debated calling it a night then. thinking maybe the night was over. then you saw the way she looked at you, quietly. a twinkle in her eyes as if she’d decided days ago your company was worth a little trouble. you saw the exact moment she’d decided to stop waiting, all with the flicker of her eyes to yours.
she started it.
in a swift move, her hand had curled around the back of your neck to bring you closer. she paused only for a brief second, her eyes flickering from your lips to your gaze, then she kissed you.
it was soft, but it was also firm. like she knew very well how much she wanted this, but only if you wanted it to. you did, of course. she continued to kiss you, and you let her. your hands found purchase on her sides, your right one sliding up to caress the side of her face.
her hand behind your neck slid down towards the front of your chest, enough for her to push you back against the couch and climb over you. it was heady and hot. and you didn’t push her for more unless she initiated first.
one kiss turned to two, and two turned to, well…
a lot of your summer belonged to her. and jenna never bothered with the private fancy dinners after she took you to bed that night in late may. it was always “come over, i’ll cook something instead.”
you were never outside with her. not in a way that would matter.
you didn’t push for more than she gave you. it was enough for you, or it had to be. and it wasn’t like you were just a side piece she’d call every time she was free. at least that’s not what it felt like to you.
sometimes you two wouldn’t even do anything. she’d just invite you over, you would make out a bit, then she’d talk your ear off about whatever little thing was on her mind. you’d share a bottle of wine over tuna rice bowls she’d make. and she’d insist on a third glass of wine even if she knew you had to drive back home, then she’d invite you to spend the night with her.
her apartment in the city became a small corner of the world that belonged to you. a piece carved out away from unwanted prying eyes.
there were days when she’d go radio silent. a text left unread when you’d ask her if she’d like to come to a movie screening you got invited to. or if it was just to ask how she was doing.
she’d never answer, but you’d wake up the next day to find out she was in new york or london or somewhere far away from you. a photograph at some event, posing for crowds, hanging around whatever shiny person was seen there as well.
you tried not to let it get to you. jenna lived a completely different life from the one you had. she lived out of hotel rooms ten months out of the year, she was all private flights to foreign countries, and huge film sets you could only dream of being on.
you were still you. a girl just starting to break into an industry that still wasn’t taking her seriously enough. your name didn’t matter unless you had some bigger name attached to it, or if you’d somehow conjured up enough money to finance your next film. your small window of fame could only take you so far.
it wouldn’t matter in the end. jenna would text you back days later. she’d say she was on a flight home, that she’d like it if you were at her apartment by the time she got there. the front receptionist in her apartment complex would let you up, and you’d be there waiting when she got back.
you’d forget all about how she didn’t text back until her flight back home. or how she only ever wants you when it’s just you and her in the comfort of somewhere hidden.
she would never mention the obvious. just let out a lazy smile as she’d walk through her front door, talk to you about how she’d been in five different time zones over the last week, then ask you how you’d been.
you pretended like it didn’t hurt that she’d fractured a bit of you only days ago and never noticed.
you’d spend whatever time you had left with her in an ignorant bliss.
sometimes she’d kiss you like it was breathing and pull you by the collar of your shirt just to kiss you mid-sentence. a laugh against your lips every time she felt your surprise. it became almost impossible to act like this wasn't just some hook-up.
it was easy to believe maybe you could change her mind. like maybe she’d be willing to make space for you to fit into her chaos.
once, she let you browse through her vinyl collection.
“a lot of these are from my grandpa,” she said when you pulled out a neil sedaka record.
she sat there with you on her living room floor in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. her chin was propped on one of her knees, looking at you with something in her eyes she probably didn’t mean to show.
it was easy to want to memorize all of her when she’d pull you closer on her couch and tuck herself into you. or when you’d thread your fingers through hers every time she offered them. it was easy to pretend when she’d murmur confessions late at night.
“you just make everything feel so quiet,” she whispered against your collarbone. her sheets pooled at your waist, but she was wrapped in you to compensate for it. then she moved just an inch to place a gentle kiss on your neck, and you tried your best to control the beating of your heart, knowing she’d be able to feel it.
you practically lived in her unwashed sheets and had barely spent any time in yours. even if you were adamant about getting work done.
“i have a deadline to reach, jen,” you said to her over the phone.
you didn’t have to see to know she was rolling her eyes at your answer when she replied with, “well, you can reach your deadline from my place. i have really good wifi.”
there was a time during early july when you spent three days holed up in your little corner. she only left once for a meeting, then came back with a shy smile, asking you to read a script she was attached to.
it was only half-written, and she had agreed to be cast for it only if they gave her a producer role as well. she’d asked for your thoughts on it, if it seemed like a good idea to attach her name to a script that hadn’t even been finished yet. then she handed over her laptop with the pdf open. she looked at you with an antsy gaze the whole time as you read. like your opinion mattered more to her than her own judgment.
it was hard not to want all of her when it already felt like you’d seen most of her.
but regrettably, even the sweetest of things do end.
it was the night before she left for europe for a couple of weeks. you were sitting side by side on her couch. both her arms had trapped your right arm between them. a mess of limbs between your bodies. you could feel the way her left hand held onto yours while her right one grazed the skin of your forearm.
something was playing on her tv. it was old, black and white, a western with cowboys and stagecoaches. neither of you was really watching it, though.
“i’ve got this promo tour for wednesday,” she says, sparing a glance at you. her grip on your fingers tightens slightly.
you half-hope it’s her about to ask if you’d join her for a couple of days. or if maybe she’d say something about missing you too much, that she’d call the whole thing off if she could.
she didn’t say either of those things.
“i won't be around for a while,” but at least she had the decency to say that she was leaving. all you did was nod. it’s all you could do. what she’s already given you was everything you needed, right?
by mid-august, it already felt like she had started to pull away. the stretch between texts grew longer.
you told yourself that this was expected. that her life was hers to live, and you didn’t have any say in that. she had built something no one could touch. it shouldn’t have been a surprise to you that this was happening.
she told you, hadn’t she? “i don’t really do this.”
her words from that night ring out in your head. she had practically laid it out on a map for you. but you had laughed at the time. charmed by her honesty and the fact that jenna ortega, of all people, had plucked you out of some list and created a bubble only you could ever exist in.
she had given you just enough to dream with. enough for the hope of it all that she’d save some space in the daylight for you.
when she finally did call, it was during a short break between her press tour. she was in paris for two days and had come in at five am that morning. she asked if you’d come over as soon as her mom left in a few hours. you froze at her question in the moment. you don't know why.
but you do. her mom. it almost felt like jenna had mentioned her just to rub it in your face. deep down, you knew it wasn't even that. it was all you getting in your head. her mom. the irrefutable, ugly feeling that you wouldn’t even know what it would be like to meet her parents. to be taken in as someone who officially belonged to her. you weren’t allowed to step into that part of her life.
and you knew it was dumb to even think that as a possibility.
you end up at her penthouse the way you always do. she kisses you like she always does, and somehow it feels heavier this time around.
her hair was damp from the shower, and she wore an oversized sweater that ended right before her knees. there was something different about her that day.
she tucked her legs underneath herself and sat across from you, her face unreadable for a long, stretching pause. then she let out a breath that sounded final.
“i leave again in three days,” she said, pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve. “this second leg of the press tour runs right into the next shoot. after that, another project starts almost immediately.” her voice tightened. “i’ll be gone…basically the next eight months.”
you blink at her words. you weren’t surprised. maybe you’d been waiting for the blow along. this was something simply only she had control of.
her eyes flickered up to yours, and in them you found the final crack in the glass. “it’s probably best if…we stop now.”
and that was it. no softened rough edges. nothing to warn you. nothing to soften the blow of the truth you knew would come someday.
you should have known not to get too comfortable. from the night of her saying, i don’t really do this. she had told you in her own way. she had been honest for someone who lived half-lives borrowed on stolen moments.
but she could have been kinder, no?
and maybe, just maybe, it would have hurt less if she had been clearer. if she had said, this isn’t going to last. i want this, but i can’t promise anything beyond tonight. even if she had wanted it to work, even if she had meant the summer to be real in its own small way, she could have spared you the ache of believing.
you should have known. but she could have made it hurt less.
and now here you were, sitting across from her, mourning a life you had no right to in the first place. you weren’t even in love with her. not even close to it. but the months shared in this bubble with her showed you how easily you could have loved her. maybe that’s the worst part.
you swallow. muster the kindest smile you can and look at her.
“it was fun,” you said softly. almost wistful.
she looked at you then. a look you’d caught on her a few times. soft, kind, like it did feel real for her, but wasn't hers to keep.
“it was,” she nods.
you stood first. not wanting to overstay your welcome, but also because staying longer felt like asking for a different ending.
she rose too, slowly, and for a moment you thought she might reach for you. her hand twitched like it remembered the curve of your wrist, the warmth of your palm. but it stayed at her side.
at the door, you paused. you turned back, because some part of you needed to.
