#*irritatingly american

[californiaquail]

the resident anti vax crazy lady tried to make me say something against masks and i said i love wearing masks :) i love not being seen :) and i think she almost combusted

[atyourmerci]

Gold wing, angel

meanloser!ellie X classpresident!r

CW: smut, MDNI, dom!ellie, sub!reader, v angsty, slight bondage, cunt slapping, fingering, cunnilingus, edging, orgasm denial, ruined orgasms, lite angel symbolism, no y/n, no pdor

A/N: actually surprised I finished a req (you all applaud me) this is inspired by “GOLDWING” by billie.

Ellie was a sick drug. Something not to be desired. She was the epitome of the allure of indulging in something you shouldn’t have, shouldn’t know, try at very least.

How did she get this way- who made her like this? Anger taken out through bodies of admission in an act of revenge. Taking back what was taken from her. Her pride regained by your submission.

You could have never fathomed the aggression the loser from AP American literature could obtain. You thought she’d beg on her knees for you. Worship your every move, starstruck by even getting the chance to touch you.

But she didn’t. She reveled in taking you off your high horse, got off on watching the student body president, proper and witty, utterly depraved by getting her cunt abused by a fucking moron.

-

98- A fucking 98, you did not deserve a 98 on the midterm paper. Your work was frankly sloppy, lacked comprehension. It made you ill knowing you were turning in something so lackluster with your name slapped across the front so proudly. The only thing that made you sicker was the thought of receiving special treatment- you had an image to uphold. You got to your position in this society from your own intellect, blood, sweat, tears and all. Kissing ass for a fucking 98 wasn’t in the cards.

The class began filing out as usual, like wild animals in a pack, shiny white teeth like daggers. Meshing together in their navy steam-pressed blazers, hair like defining fur, the only indication of individuality.

Except for her, sticking out like a sore thumb, the great big elephant in the room. Breaking many rulebook codes with her black nail polish, unkept hair to the standard policy, her white polo unbuttoned at the top two buttons that revealed her freckled chest. Despite her all around degenerate persona, she was irritatingly smart. Maybe if she had an ounce of charm she’d take your place.

With the rest of the class out of sight she stares at you. Not cutting off eye contact you both rise from your chairs you practically run to Mr. Stevens desk. The slap of two papers hit his desk, a 98 and a 90 shining in red sharpie ink on the white papers.

“I don’t deserve this,” comes out in unison, the sincerity in your voice cut open by the harshness in Ellies.

“Please one at a time, ladies.”

Before the words can even escape your lips Ellie rages, “I worked my ass off on this. I deserve better than a 90,” she spits out. “I know you can do better than this Ms.Williams, I expect more from you.” Ellie scoffs back at him, “this is bullshit,” she muffles but continues standing at his desk.

Mr.Stevens nods his head in your direction for your speech, you glance at Ellie with her arms now crossed, awaiting your protest. You brush off her insistence on staying and begin, “Mr.Stevens, I appreciate your grading and understanding my agenda for the midterm, but objectively this is sub-pare work. I think you may have given me someone else’s grade… maybe you mixed up my grade with Ms.Williams.”

He doesn’t skip a beat, “I don’t mix up grades, you earned it. Now if you two will excuse me,” Mr.Stevens directs you both to the now empty hallway.

Ellie storms out with rage, cheeks flushed and lips pressed closely, you follow behind. “‘ms Williams’? the fuck was that?” Ellie presses in a scowl, words echoed in a bare hallway.

“Look I read your paper, I think you deserved better,” you retort in an attempt to soothe her. You cant seem to keep your eyes off her cupids bow, the contrast of soft pink lips against her tired skin.

“Oh thats fucking rich coming from ‘ms I don’t deserve my grade’ you’re pathetic,” she points, eyes thinning.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a bitch more people would like you,” you attempt, heat rising in your own cheeks, heart thumping roughly in your chest.

Ellies cruel disposition contorts into a grin, inching closer to your body, “you’re fucking him aren’t you? Ms. perfect sucking off the teach so she can stay on top?”

A power so foreign comes before you, using force to push your wrist into her chest, though she doesn’t budge, “shut up.”

She returns your aggression, pushing your bodies flesh up against the brick wall behind you, ripping the breath from your lungs. Your hands instinctively grip into her shirt. Her eyes are wild, as if she was surprised she’d taken it this far, or rather puzzled by the fact you haven’t broken your grasp.

You both pant from the intrusion, glaring, waiting- waiting for someone to cave.

Like a dog on a leash you dragged her in, pulling her by her fabric until her lips met your own. A depraved act, met with open mouths and wandering tongues. Hatred in its finest form, digging into her as if you’d ever thought of it. A subconscious desire pulled from the depths of your cravings.

Before true indulgence she pushes you off, taking a moment to look at your hazy disposition, drunk on delinquency, “don’t ever do that again,” she pants out. Taking her thumb she wipes the saliva from your bottom lip and takes off without your response.

-

Time after time you went back. You told yourself you’d stop, never talk to her again. Yet there the keys were in the ignition, a path that you knew like the back of your hand. Leading, controlling your own fate of defacement.

“Can you please just open the door,” you plead on her doorsteps, mind and body corrupted- to only be pleased by the mental games, the destruction in forms of submitting to her.

Strung up like an old doll long forgotten in the attic, bound wrist behind your back and ankles tied to the head of her bed, vulnerable and needy.

“What now? Use your fucking words,” Ellie remarks before spitting on your neglected cunt. Your body winces at the sensation of the hot liquid dripping down the pulsing flesh, “please I promise I’ll do whatever you ask.”

She hovers over your squirming body, carful to not give you the satisfaction. Gripping your jaw in her hand, “do you ever pay attention to what I tell you? You don’t deserve to come,” cocking her free hand back to lay a purposeful slap to your slick folds causing you to scream out from the blissful pain.

She lays another one into the already beat red skin, a cruel grin growing on her lips as she hears you enjoying it. “You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” she asks glaring at your tucked in lip, eyes glossy. You nod back at her, signaling your approval for using your body as her personal vessel.

Somehow it was good enough for her, dropping down to your perked nipples and sucking it into her teeth as she uses her hand to cover your eyes. You’d learn very early on that you weren’t allowed to watch her use her mouth on you. In the odd occasion she’d let you have your cunt in her mouth shed have your face shoved in the sheets while she took you from behind. She never told you why- and you didn’t dare ask.

Your wrist wriggle behind your back as your chest arches into her mouth, hot and wet. You obsess over what it would feel like on your mouth again, most nights were spent only thinking of her mouth- foreign, an impenetrable fortress. You began to chase the chance of the feeling her again.

You feel as her mouth comes off of the swollen bud as she removes the hand on your eyes, “don’t look,” she says with no threat in her tone, but you don’t risk crossing her.

You shut your exhausted eyes, dropping your head back as you feel her wrap her arms around the meat of your thighs. She drags an antagonizing strip up your slit, jolting your body into the mouth.

She goes as slow as possible, providing as little pressure she can muster up to the swell of your clit, but from her slaps it wouldn’t take much. Your body akin to a fish gasping for air out of water, squirming under her touch. She digs her fingers deep into the flesh as a warning.

“If you ever want to come again Id advise you behave.”

“P-please,” you plead to her, legs shaking as you whimper her name over and over like a prayer.

“I said no, i swear to god I’ll ruin every fucking orgasm,” sliding her two fingers into your clenching hole she drives slow pumps as she returns her mouth to your clit.

Your face contorts in concentration, attempting to hold yourself back but you could only be held off for so long.

“Ellie- Ellie!” bursting at the seams, your body detesting her rules, letting the hot white cum coat her fingers. She only fucks you harder, faster through your orgasm. This is a game you weren’t to win, rather to allow herself to revel in your pain. She got off on destroying your mind, making it to where you can only be pleased by her punishment.

Ellie kept her word, working you up on the edge of finishing and stopping completely, laughing at your pathetic state, crying and begging to come.

Clipping your wings, she hung them on her walls as a trophy. Pleas echoing her room, come splattering her sheets, your lips chapped and neglected.

[passivenovember]

Being a dad is something he's always wanted. Call it a cliche, right, the all-American, golden boy who's caught up in the idea of four to six snot-nosed brats looking up to him as they try to make sense of all the big and small things because they have no other choice. You only get one dad, right?

He images them, crawling and then walking and then sprinting through the same ancient, brand-new stages of life. Six months, learning the kitchen-magic of how their fingers and toes bend on command. A year, stumbling Jello-legged down a hallway. Fifteen, slamming their bedroom door only to rush, crying, into Steve's arms when he works up the courage to rap his knuckles on the wood like the dad from Full House.

Maybe. It's all Steve's ever wanted. More than that signed Nicks basketball his own dad sent for him when he was twelve. More than Nancy Wheeler. More than his need for mountains, and oceans, and something else.

But then he meets Billy, and it's like all that other shit goes away for a while. None of it disappears, really, but he's got something to focus on, now. Something to work toward, with someone, and that makes it worse, in a way.

Billy finally lets him fuck, and Steve lays in bed that night with an irritatingly awful douchebag drooling a spot onto his chest, and Steve thinks. Knows--

Look, he won't admit it on the first fuck, but this is it for him. He wants to buy this dude house, and he wants wedding rings around the fat and bone of both their fingers, and. He wants babies, with Billy.

Aches Billy to love him.

He wants a life with this asshole. The whole nine. Steve runs his hand through Billy's hair and falls asleep imagining family Christmases, and vacations, and the fragile, shining hope that Billy will wake up tomorrow and swear that he's in love. That Steve is who he's waited 19 years for. That to each other, they'll always belong.

Obviously, that doesn't happen. Maybe.

If it does Steve wouldn't know, because Billy's not a lunatic. He's gone before the sky's fully blue. Leaves his phone number scrawled on the corner of Steve's mirror in Sharpie.

Steve's in love.

So. Immediately, he wants the impossible, but mostly, he just wants Billy. And by some giant, invisible, choking miracle he gets Billy. His body first, and then his thoughts. His laugh, genuine and biting and whole. Billy shares his memories, like pieces of bread dropped in water for hungry birds, for Steve. Achingly slow, he tells his hopes, his dreams, and.

Eventually, one night with his head on Steve's chest he says, "You terrify me. I never want it to end."

So. It's basically love.

Steve's a loose canon when it comes to this feeling. Pedal to the medal, he shoots through walls with bright red booming firepower until everything is cracked and bleeding and open around them. Until there's room enough to say, "I love you, move in with me."

So, Billy does. Impossible.

Wonderful and joking, even though it's not a joke when Steve's parents meet him on move in day and Steve's dad is thrilled that Billy knows shit about cars, and Steve's mom likes that Billy has a weathered recipe book that was, "passed down from my grandma, back in California," for her to find a place for in their tiny, warm kitchen while she unpacks.

"He's very nice," Steve's mother says, "Respectful. Handsome." In that same wistful, sleepy tone that she used when she first called Nancy wheeler sweet. Beautiful.

"He's a fine young man, son," Steve's dad tells him. "Try not to run him off."

Steve watches them reverse from the ratty, rocky, untamed driveway, with his heart in his throat. Imagines the day he and Billy will leave their kids, supported and loved fiercely, to make that wobbly step toward the brush-fire shore of their lives.

--

Steve's plan for the future lives and breathes in a small, tucked-away corner in his mind for months. He nearly chokes to death on it, several times a day, watching Billy relax into his routine.

Billy cooks dinner every night. They eat on the couch in their boxers, dishes left on the coffee table until Billy kisses him awake in the blue light of the television, "Let's go to bed, baby," he says. Steve always notices that the plates and cups are cleared away, the living room tidy for the dawn.

Billy buys a shovel and digs two holes in their patchy backyard. Steve watches him from the kitchen window, wondering what the cavities will grow with the start of spring.

Billy plants a clothesline. "My mom used to dry our clothes this way," He says, when Steve raises an eyebrow. He tacks sheets and sweaters to sway in the sunlight. Talks about laying a patio out there, so they can grill for people when it's warm.

Steve gets hard from the image of himself, in an apron, grilling hot dogs and hamburgers for their friends, first, and kids. Someday. A total dad.

--

Billy makes use of his library card and checks out every book about homesteading he can find. He learns about gardening, and bricklaying, and how to buff gashes out of hardwood floors. For his birthday, Billy hints at a Better Homes and Gardens subscription.

When Steve forks out the cash and the May issue arrives in the mail two months later, Billy presses a hasty kiss to his forehead and disappears onto the porch. He spends his Sunday afternoons with sticky notes and an overused ballpoint pen from that moment on, circling things that have no rhyme or reason, to Steve.

--

They've been living in their house for six months when Billy says, suddenly, "We should see if we can buy it." Like he's been planning his own version of their future.

It's Sunday, and he's just come up for air from Better Homes and Gardens. There's a cheese plate in his hands. He's parked by the front door, on his way out, looking startled as if the words escaped from a caged area buried deep inside of him.

"Huh?" Steve's more of the lay-around-and-rot-in-his-underwear-on-Sunday's type. He's eating ice cream out of the container, distracted by something Barney Fife says. He laughs.

"We should buy the place," Billy tells him.

Steve blinks, "The house?"

"It's our house," Billy says delicately, with all the weight of the world resting on him.

Steve looks up from the television set, shocked that Billy's hair is wet in some places and drying in others. As if he was being groomed by some large, impatient cat. He peers around Billy, out the screen door. "Is it raining?"

"Sprinkling," Billy says, "I have an umbrella."

"Your magazine's gonna get wet."

"I'm reading The Grapes of Wrath," Billy tells him, pulling a weathered copy out from under his cheese plate.

"Sure, but if the rain picks up, your book--"

"--The characters could use a little water," Billy says, "They're trapped in the dust bowl."

"I'm in love with you," Steve says. Like it's the first time he's ever admitted something like this out loud. So it's a surprise. "I like that you read. I like that you talk about everything like it's real."

Billy pads over to the couch and knocks Steve's legs apart. He settles on the arm of the thing, cold, wet toes pressing into Steve's thigh. Steve winces, sputtering when Billy feeds him a slice of American cheese wrapped in bologna.

He chews. Swallows. "I need to make more money, baby."

"Why," Billy asks, feeding himself.

"Because," Steve chokes on the next round Billy feeds him, heart soaring when Billy smiles, "Because if we're gonna lay a patio and grill for our friends I want to make sure you have decent ingredients."

"I don't mind the cheap stuff."

"You deserve better," Than what I can provide, Steve doesn't say.

Billy shrugs, feeding him another round of cheese and meat. "Well, if we're following through with the patio and the grill--"

"--And a porch awning," Steve says, feeding Billy a slice of cheese, "I'm adding that to the list. You can’t read your book and eat snacks while holding a fucking umbrella over your head."

Billy stares at him, swallowing and red cheeked. "I think any sort of permanent installment has to be cleared through the landlord."

Steve thinks about it, humming low when Billy slips off the armrest and settles, heavily, into his lap. "So, we buy the place."

"I need a better job, too."

"We'll look when the paper comes tomorrow."

They lapse into silence, eating cheese and bologna until it's gone, then they move to the ice cream Steve was working his way through, chuckling at The Andy Grifith Show.

It starts pouring rain, little hammers falling on the roof until the power flickers. "I want to make this house nice for you," Billy says.

Steve looks at him. "It's already nice."

"It could be better," Billy says, fiddling with the hair on Steve's chest. "We could have a garden. And I think the beige walls are boring as shit, we need to get some wallpaper. Or paint, or something."

"What else should we do?"

Billy shrugs, "The kitchen needs a rug. I saw this book at the library about how old men in Russia and China and shit learn to weave rugs on giant wooden looms. Some of them have seaters, and others hang them from the ceiling. Your car needs a new power steering pump--"

"--Sounds like you need a shed."

"Yeah, I guess so," Billy says. He grins, and then his brows furrow. "But. Steve, I want to build us a life, here. I want to start my life with you, I don't want to wait until we move to something we own, because I like this house, and I feel like when we start to grow our family, we can--"

Steve's heart stops beating.

His vision tunnels, all his focus collapsing on the words Billy says. Phrases that sound wonderful and impossible, all knitting together to equal nurseries built from two-by-four.

Billy stares at him cheeks red. "Sorry, I know we haven't talked about any of this. I get excited."

"I'm in love with you," Steve tells him, breathless.

"I know, dumbass, I'm in love with you."

Steve kisses him. Pulls away. "You really wanna buy a house?"

"Yeah. Not a house, this house."

"You wanna have my babies?"

Billy tugs on his chest hair, grinning when Steve yelps. "Maybe you wanna have my babies, instead."

"Sure," Steve tells him immediately, "Yeah, anything you want."

"I'm going back onto the porch," Billy says, "We'll start with the job listings in the paper."

Steve watches him go. Thinks he could be alright at this, being a husband and a father. Someday.

Right now, he's alright at being Billy's.

[desmon1995]

Luther's Echo of Chaos: How Incel Fantasies Fueled the Alt-Right Machine

Luther, in The Warriors (1979), was never meant to be anything big. He’s a pipsqueak villain—the kind of guy who creates chaos for the fun of it, then hides when the real action happens. His "that's it?" motivation feels almost disappointing, like finding out the monster is just some loud kid throwing a tantrum. He’s a symptom of the world around him, a reflection of how gang culture exploits and then spits out the very people it pulls in, but ultimately, Luther is more noise than threat. It’s not until 2024 that his character takes on a new, darker meaning.

In this reimagining, Luther isn’t just a chaotic brat. He’s a mirror to something deeply unsettling in our present-day society. He’s become the embodiment of the modern-day white incel and alt-right figurehead. A character who was once irritatingly one-dimensional now speaks directly to the dark undercurrents that have woven their way through the cultural landscape, especially after the 2024 election. In a world where certain voices get louder, Luther is louder than ever—and maybe even scarier.

In the original, Luther kills Cyrus just because he can. In 2024, he does it for a deeper reason. This time, it’s because Cyrus is a Black woman, a powerful Don whose unity-focused movement is chipping away at the very power structure Luther depends on. Her existence threatens him, but not just because she’s strong—because her power undermines the twisted worldview he clings to. Luther’s world depends on certain people being at the top, and in his mind, there’s no room at the top for a Black woman with that kind of influence. He’s willing to destroy her to keep his worldview intact, and he’ll scapegoat anyone to cover his tracks, starting with another Black woman he points to as a “convenient” enemy.

Luther is the ultimate 2020s grifter, not so different from today’s alt-right influencers. He’s manipulative, charismatic to those who follow him, and devoid of empathy. He leans into dog whistles and open racism, mocking the African American Vernacular English that Cyrus uses and reducing her to “girl,” a colonialist insult meant to deny her authority. His gang, the Rogues, doesn’t just follow him out of fear—they respect his audacity. They look up to him the way followers of today’s grifters look up to people who “say it like it is,” often without realizing the hate they’re consuming.

In a way, Luther’s story is timeless. White supremacy has always thrived on fear and the ability to dehumanize those who threaten its hold. It weaponizes trauma and division, and Luther—true to form—gets a kick out of watching other people destroy each other. His destruction of Cyrus’s vision keeps her community fractured and ensures people like him can stay on top.

But here’s the thing: even though Luther stands in the way of progress, he’s not invincible. Sure, he benefits from society’s structures that tell him he’s entitled to power and control. But he’s ultimately hollow. The moment someone confronts him—someone he can’t manipulate or scare into silence—he falls apart. Luther, like so many grifters, only has a facade of power. His strength lies in others’ fear and in the illusion of control. Strip that away, and he’s just another scared man clinging to relevance.

The scary part is that Luther's simplicity is what makes him so believable. Today’s culture often demands complex villains with tragic backstories, thanks to our obsession with “realism” in media. But let’s be real—people do horrible things all the time, often for no reason deeper than greed, fear, or pure, unchecked spite. Sometimes the simplest villains—the ones who hurt others because they can, not because they’re misunderstood—are the truest reflection of the world we live in.

Luther’s lack of complexity isn’t a flaw. It’s his most horrifying feature. And in a world where “freedom” often seems to mean “freedom to harm,” he’s the edgelord fantasy of a culture that wants power without consequence. But the thing about edgelords? They’re not immortal. Despite everything, progress keeps moving forward, bit by bit. And for Luther, that’s the one truth he can never destroy.

I think nothing encapsulates Luther more than his villain song "Going Down"

Luther unironically describes himself as a "Shooting Star"

Think about what a shooting star really is: a bright flash, blinding for a moment, but fleeting. And that’s the irony here—Luther’s convinced he’s this powerful, almost mythic warning to others. He believes his trajectory is like some epic, fiery descent. But as he sings about it, you realize he’s just a flash in the pan, a self-proclaimed symbol who’s ultimately bound to fade.

The brilliance here is that Luther doesn't even see it. He thinks he's part of this eternal constellation, when really, he's just passing by, burning up, destined to disappear. It’s like the lyrics give him this false grandeur, this sense that he’s important and tragic and somehow eternal. But the whole metaphor undercuts him: he’s just a momentary blaze that’ll flicker out long before anyone can even remember he was there.

[helpmeimblorboing]

I want to tell you my feelings about the Magnus Archives, because it sounds silly but I have been genuinely terrified of liking it as much as I do

Like I have spent so long compromising, settling for less - no such thing as perfect and all that - that when TMA came along I was genuinely scared for a moment

Scared of liking this new thing. Scared of finding something wrong with it, something that I didn’t like, like every other fandom I’ve ever been in (ILY Percy Jackson but your characters are almost irritatingly American)

And then I got into it. And it was good ? Like genuinely good ? Fully ? I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. It was like someone had plucked the idea of a perfect show right out of my brain

And that scared me. Because…. I don’t know why. But I’m terrified of it. Kind of like I’m constantly bracing for a punch that just won’t ever come

It’s a little bit ironic, I guess.

[hopelesslys-world]

50 SHADES OF FUCKED UP | CH. 3

TRIGGER WARNINGS!: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, reader is kind of a bimbo, heavily detailed smut, basically porn, loss of virginity, harsh language, anger issues, stalking, obsession, jealousy, controlling behaviour, DOM-SUB themes, BDSM Expand considered to be portrayed with incorrect/poor etiquette, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse/assault, statutory rape.

Tell me if I missed anything...( As you can see most of the warnings will appear in future chapters. )

I apologize for any grammar mistakes...

Y/L/N: Your Last Name

Y/M/N: Your Middle Name

Y/N/N: Your Nickname

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*𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙋𝙊𝙑*

┅┅

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐂𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂.

“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” Her curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.

“He was in the area.”

“I think that is one huge coincidence, Y/N/N. You don’t think he was there to see you?” she speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on business.

“He was visiting the farming division of WSU. He’s funding some research,” I mutter.

“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”

Wow.

“How do you know this?”

“Y/N/N, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the guy. It’s my job to know this.”

“Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”

“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”

“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”

“You can contact him?”

“I have his cell phone number.”

Bella gasps. “The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his cell phone number.”

“Er… yes.”

“Y/N! He likes you. No doubt about it.” Her tone is emphatic.

“Bella, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Christian Grey doesn’t do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Bella is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Bella didn’t do the interview.

I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief moment. Bella brings me back to the now.

“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular photographer, can’t. He’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of America’s leading entrepreneurs.”

“Hmm… What about José?”

“Great idea! You ask him – he’ll do anything for you. Then call Grey and find out where he wants us.” Bella is irritatingly cavalier about José.

“I think you should call him.”

“Who, José?” Bella scoffs.

“No, Grey.”

“Y/N/N, you’re the one with the relationship.”

“Relationship?” I squeak at her, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy, give me a break Bella.” I roll my eyes.

“At least you’ve met him,” she says bitterly. “And it looks like he wants to know you better. Y/N/N, just call him,” she snaps and hangs up. She is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.

I’m just leaving a message for José when Paul enters the stock room looking for sandpaper.

“We’re kind of busy out there, Y/N,” he says without acrimony.

“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.

“So, how come you know Christian Grey?” Paul’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.

“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Bella wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.

“Christian Grey in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?”

Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Is Grey? My subconscious asks me. I shut her down.

“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”

“Y/N, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.

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“But I do places, Y/N/N, not people,” José groans.

“José, please?” I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.

“Give me that phone.” Bella grabs the handset from me, tossing her silken red-blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Listen here, José Rodriquez, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?” Bella can be awesomely tough.

“Good. Y/N/N will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She snaps my cell phone shut.

“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” She holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.

“Call Grey, now!”

I scowl at her and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.

He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold. “Grey.”

“Err… Mr. Grey? It’s Y/N Y/L/N.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.

“Miss Y/L/N. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush.

I’m suddenly conscious that Isabella Clark is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.

“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.”

Breathe, Y/N, breathe.

My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”

I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone. “I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.

“I look forward to it, Miss Y/L/N.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his gray eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise?

I hang up. Bella is in the kitchen, and she’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.

“Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”

“Bella.” I whined. “You know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”

“Heathman, that figures,” mutters Bella. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”

“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open one of cupboards to make spaghetti and meatballs.

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I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding.

Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

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The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s.

José, Travis, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Bella is in her CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Bella has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article.

When she explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Christian Grey CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Grey is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason.

I suspect it’s Bella’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he’s putty in her hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.

It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Bella is in full flow.

“José, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” She doesn’t wait for his reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Y/N/N, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey know where we are.”

Yes, Mistress. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.

Half an hour later, Christian Grey walks into our suite. He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower.

My mouth goes dry looking at him… he’s so freaking hot. Grey is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His hazel eyes watch us impassively.

“Miss Y/L/N, we meet again.” Grey extends his hand, and I shake it, biting my lip out of habit.

Oh my… he really is, quite… wow.

As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.

“Mr. Grey, this is Isabella Clark,” I waved my hand toward Bella who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

“The tenacious Miss Clark. How do you do?” He gives her a small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Y/N said you were unwell last week.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid.

I remind myself that Bella has been to the best private schools in Washington. Her family has money, and she’s grown up confident and sure of her place in the world. She doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of her.

“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” She gives him a polite, professional smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his gray gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.

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*𝘾𝙃𝙍𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙄𝘼𝙉'𝙎 𝙋𝙊𝙑*

┅┅

Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me.

“This is José Rodriguez, our photographer,” Y/N says, and her face lights up as she introduces him.

Shit. Is this the boyfriend?

Rodriguez blooms under Y/N’s sweet smile.

Are they fucking?

“Mr. Grey.” Rodriguez gives me a dark look as we shake hands. It’s a warning. He’s telling me to back off. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

Well, game on, kid.

“Mr. Rodriguez, where would you like me?” My tone is a challenge, and he hears it, but Isabella intervenes and waves me toward a chair.

Ah. She likes to be in charge. The thought amuses me as I sit.

Another young man who appears to be working with Rodriguez switches on the lights, and momentarily I’m blinded.

Hell!

As the glare recedes I search out the lovely Miss Y/L/N. She’s standing at the back of the room, observing the proceedings. Does she always shy away like this? Maybe that’s why she and Clark are friends; she’s content to be in the background and let Isabella take center stage.

Hmm…a natural submissive.

The photographer appears professional enough and absorbed in the job he’s been assigned to do. I regard Miss Y/L/N as she watches both of us. Our eyes meet; hers are honest and innocent, and for a moment I reconsider my plan. But then she bites her lip and my breath catches in my throat.

Back down, Y/N. I will her to stop staring, and as if she can hear me, she’s the first to look away.

Good girl.

Isabella asks me to stand as Rodriguez continues to take snaps. Then we’re done and this is my chance.

“Thank you again, Mr. Grey.” Isabella surges forward and shakes my hand, followed by the photographer, who regards me with ill-concealed disapproval. His antagonism makes me smile.

Oh, man…you have no idea.

“I look forward to reading the article, Miss Clark” I say, giving her a brief polite nod. It’s Y/N I want to talk to. “Will you walk with me, Miss Y/L/N?” I ask, when I reach her by the door.

“Sure,” she says with surprise.

Seize the day, Grey.

I mutter some platitude to those still in the room and usher her out the door, wanting to put some distance between her and Rodriguez. In the corridor she stands fiddling with her hair, then her fingers, as Taylor follows me out.

“I’ll call you, Taylor,” I say, and when he’s almost out of earshot I ask Y/N to join me for coffee, my breath held for her response.

Her long lashes flicker over her eyes. “I have to drive everyone home,” she says with dismay.

“Taylor,” I call after him, making her jump. I must make her nervous and I don’t know if this is good or bad. And she can’t stop fidgeting. Thinking about all the ways I could make her stop is distracting.

“Are they based at the university?” She nods and I ask Taylor to take her friends home.

“There. Now can you join me for coffee?”

“Um—Mr. Grey, er—this really…” She stops.

Shit. It’s a “no.” I’m going to lose this deal. She looks directly at me, eyes bright. “Look, Taylor doesn’t have to drive them home. I’ll swap vehicles with Bella, if you give me a moment.”

My relief is tangible and I grin. I have a date!

Opening the door, I let her back into the room as Taylor conceals his puzzled look.

“Can you grab my jacket, Taylor?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He turns on his heel, his lips twitching as he heads up the corridor. I watch him with narrowed eyes as he disappears into the elevator while I lean against the wall and wait for Miss Y/L/N.

What the hell am I going to say to her?

“How would you like to be my submissive?”

No. Steady, Grey. Let’s take this one stage at a time. Taylor is back within a couple of minutes, holding my jacket.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He gives it to me and leaves me standing like an idiot in the corridor.

How long is Y/N going to be? I check my watch. She must be negotiating the car swap with Bella. Or she’s talking to Rodriguez, explaining that she’s just going for coffee to placate me and keep me sweet for the article. My thoughts darken. Maybe she’s kissing him good-bye.

Fuck.

She emerges a moment later, and I’m pleased. She doesn’t look like she’s just been kissed.

“Okay,” she says with resolve. “Let’s do coffee.” But her reddening cheeks somewhat undermine her effort to look confident.

“After you, Miss Y/L/N.” I conceal my delight as she falls into step ahead of me. As I catch up with her my curiosity is piqued about her relationship with Isabella, specifically their compatibility. I ask her how long they’ve known each other.

“Since our freshman year. She’s a good friend.” Her voice is full of warmth. Y/N is clearly devoted. She came all the way to Seattle to interview me when Isabella was ill, and I find myself hoping that Miss Clark treats her with the same loyalty and respect.

At the elevators I press the call button and almost immediately the doors open. A couple in a passionate embrace spring apart, embarrassed to be caught. Ignoring them, we step into the elevator, but I catch Y/N’s impish smile.

As we travel to the first floor the atmosphere is thick with unfulfilled desire. And I don’t know if it’s emanating from the couple behind us or from me.

Yes. I want her. Will she want what I have to offer?

I’m relieved when the doors open again and I take her hand, which is cool and not clammy as expected. Perhaps I don’t affect her as much as I’d like. The thought is disheartening.

In our wake we hear embarrassed giggling from the couple.

“What is it about elevators?” I mutter. And I have to admit there’s something wholesome and naïve about their giggling that’s totally charming. Miss Y/L/N seems that innocent, just like them, and as we walk onto the street I question my motives again.

She’s too young. She’s too inexperienced, but, fucking hell, I like the feel of her hand in mine. In the coffee shop I direct her to find a table and ask what she wants to drink.

She stutters through her order: English Breakfast tea—hot water, bag on the side. That’s a new one to me.

“No coffee?”

“I’m not keen on coffee.”

“Okay, bag-out tea. Sugar?”

“No thanks,” she says, staring down at her fingers.

“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you.” She shakes her head and tosses her hair over her shoulder, highlighting glints of auburn.

I have to wait in line while the two matronly women behind the counter exchange inane pleasantries with all their customers. It’s frustrating and keeping me from my objective: Anastasia.

“Hey, handsome, what can I get you?” the older woman asks with a twinkle in her eye.

It’s just a pretty face, sweetheart.

“I’ll have a coffee with steamed milk. English Breakfast tea. Teabag on the side. And a blueberry muffin.”

Y/N might change her mind and eat.

“You visiting Portland?”

“Yes.”

“The weekend?”

“Yes.”

“The weather sure has picked up today.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you get out to enjoy some sunshine.”

Please stop talking to me and hurry the fuck up. “Yes,” I hiss through my teeth and glance over at Y/N, who quickly looks away.

She’s watching me. Is she checking me out? A bubble of hope swells in my chest.

“There you go.” The woman winks and places the drinks on my tray. “Pay at the register, honey, and you have a nice day.”

I manage a cordial response. “Thank you.”

At the table Y/N is staring at her fingers, reflecting on heaven knows what.

Me?

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask.

She jumps and turns red as I set out her tea and my coffee. She sits mute and mortified. Why?

Does she really not want to be here?

“Your thoughts?” I ask again, and she fidgets with the teabag.

“This is my favorite tea,” she says, and I revise my mental note that it’s Twinings English Breakfast tea she likes. I watch her dunk the teabag in the teapot. It’s an elaborate and messy spectacle. She fishes it out almost immediately and places the used teabag on her saucer.

My mouth is twitching with my amusement. She likes her tea weak.

Enough of this preamble; it’s time for some due diligence in this deal. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Her brows knit together, forming a small v above her nose.

“Who?”

This is a good response.

“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”

She laughs. At me.

At me!

And I don’t know if it’s from relief or if she thinks I’m funny. It’s annoying. I can’t get her measure. Does she like me or not? She tells me he’s just a friend.

Oh, sweetheart, he wants to be more than a friend.

“Why did you think he was my boyfriend?” she asks.

“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” You have no idea, do you? The boy is smitten.

“He’s more like family,” she says.

Okay, so the lust is one-sided, and for a moment I wonder if she realizes how lovely she is. She eyes the blueberry muffin as I peel back the paper. “Do you want some?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No thanks.” Her voice is hesitant and she stares once more at her hands. Why is she so jittery? Maybe because of me?

“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” She frowns again as if she’s confused, and crosses her arms in defense. She doesn’t like being asked about these boys. I remember how uncomfortable she seemed when the kid at the store put his arm around her, staking his claim. “Why do you ask?” she adds.

“You seem nervous around men.”

Her eyes widen. They really are beautiful, the color is truly majestic. I should take her there.

“I find you intimidating,” she says, and looks down, fidgeting once more with her fingers. On the one hand she’s so submissive, but on the other she’s…challenging.

“You should find me intimidating.”

Yeah. She should. There aren’t many people brave enough to tell me that I intimidate them. She’s honest, and I tell her so—but when she averts her eyes, I don’t know what she’s thinking. It’s frustrating.

Does she like me? Or is she tolerating this meeting to keep Clark’s interview on track?

Which is it?

“You’re a mystery, Miss Y/L/N.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained.” Like any good submissive. “Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” There. That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply.

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

That’s not that personal, is it? “I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed.”

“I’m used to getting my own way, Y/N In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she mutters, and then wants to know why I haven’t asked her to call me by my first name.

What?

And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me? I tell her that no one calls me Christian, except my family…

I don’t even know if it’s my real name.

Don’t go there, Grey.

I change the subject. I want to know about her.

“Are you an only child?”Her eyelashes flutter several times before she answers that she is.

“Tell me about your parents.”

She rolls her eyes and I have to fight the compulsion to scold her.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”

Of course I know all this from Welch’s background check, but it’s important to hear it from her. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad.

“Your father?” I ask.

“My father died when I was a baby.”

For a moment I’m catapulted into my nightmares, looking at a prostrate body on a grimy floor. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“I don’t remember him,” she says, dragging me back to the now. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Raymond Y/L/N has been a good father to this girl. Her mother’s relationship with her, on the other hand—that remains to be seen.

“And your mother remarried?”

Her laugh is bitter. “You could say that.” But she doesn’t elaborate. She’s one of the few women I’ve met who can sit in silence. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment. “You’re not giving much away, are you?”

“Neither are you,” she parries.

Oh, Miss Y/L/N. Game on.

And it’s with great pleasure and a smirk that I remind her that she’s interviewed me already. “I can recollect some quite probing questions.”

Yes. You asked me if I was gay.

My statement has the desired effect and she’s embarrassed. She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? I can’t bring myself to ask her. If she says she is—then I have no hope. And I don’t want this interview to end. I’m enjoying myself too much.

I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. It’s obvious she loves him. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: his job (he’s a carpenter), his hobbies (he likes European soccer and fishing). She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time. Interesting.

She straightens her shoulders. “Tell me about your parents,” she demands, in an attempt to divert the conversation from her family. I don’t like talking about mine, so I give her the bare details. “My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”

“What do your siblings do?”

She wants to go there? I give her the short answer that Elliot works in construction and Mia is at cooking school in Paris.

She listens, rapt. “I hear Paris is lovely,” she says with a dreamy expression.

“It’s beautiful. Have you been there?”

“I’ve never left mainland USA.” The cadence in her voice falls, tinged with regret. I could take her there.

“Would you like to go?”

First Cabo, now Paris? Get a grip, Grey.

“To Paris? Of course. But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.” Her face brightens with excitement. Miss Y/L/N wants to travel. But why England? I ask her.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.” It’s obvious this is her first love.

Books.

She said as much in Clayton’s yesterday. That means I’m competing with Darcy, Rochester, and Angel Clare: impossible romantic heroes. Here’s the proof I needed. She’s an incurable romantic, like her mother—and this isn’t going to work. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch. She’s done. I’ve blown this deal.

“I’d better go. I have to study,” she says.

I offer to walk her back to her friend’s car, which means I’ll have the walk back to the hotel to make my case.

But should I?

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Y/N. It’s my pleasure.” As I say the words I realize that the last twenty minutes have been…enjoyable. Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. “Come,” I say. She takes my hand, and as we walk back to The Heathman I can’t shake how agreeable her hand feels in mine.

Maybe this could work.

“Do you always wear skirts?” I ask.

“Mostly,” she says, and it's another great information about her added to the list; she almost always wears skirts…I like my women in skirts. I like them accessible.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks out of the blue, and it’s the third strike. I’m out of this fledgling deal. She wants romance, and I can’t offer her that.

“No, Y/N. I don’t do the girlfriend thing.”

Stricken with a frown, she turns abruptly and stumbles into the road.

“Shit, Ana!” I shout, tugging her toward me to stop her from falling in the path of an idiot cyclist who’s flying the wrong way up the street. All of a sudden she’s in my arms clutching my biceps, staring up at me. Her eyes are startled; they’re beautiful, more beautiful this close. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” My voice sounds alien and distant, and I realize she’s touching me and I don’t care. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her breasts and her heat through my shirt is arousing.

She has a fresh, wholesome fragrance that reminds me of my grandfather’s apple orchard. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. When I open them she’s still staring at me, entreating me, begging me, her eyes on my mouth.Shit. She wants me to kiss her.

And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting. Her mouth felt welcoming beneath my thumb.

No. No. No. Don’t do this, Grey.

She’s not the girl for you. She wants hearts and flowers, and you don’t do that shit.

I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. “Y/N,” I whisper, “you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you.”

The little v forms between her brows, and I think she’s stopped breathing.

I step back and she releases her hold on me, yet weirdly, I don’t feel any relief. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand. Her expression clouds with humiliation. She’s mortified by my rebuff.

Hell. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

“I’ve got this,” she says, disappointment ringing in her clipped tone. She’s formal and distant, but she doesn’t move out of my hold. “Thank you,” she adds.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

And I want to tell her that I’m saving her from me…that it’s a noble gesture, but that’s not what she wants to hear. “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you.” Now it’s me that’s babbling, and I still can’t let her go.

I offer to sit with her in the hotel, knowing it’s a ploy to prolong my time with her, and only then do I release her.

She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed. “Thanks for the tea and

doing the photo shoot.” She regards me dispassionately and regret flares in my gut.

“Y/N…I…” I can’t think what to say, except that I’m sorry.

“What, Christian?” she snaps.

Whoa. She’s mad at me, pouring all the contempt she can into each syllable of my name. It’s novel. And she’s leaving. And I don’t want her to go. “Good luck with your exams.”

Her eyes flash with hurt and indignation. “Thanks,” she mutters, disdain in her tone. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” She turns away and strides up the street toward the underground garage. I watch her go, hoping that she’ll give me a second look, but she doesn’t. She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful blue eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall.

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[ series masterlist ]

DON'T BE AFRAID TO SPAM WITH LIKES AND COMMENTS. I WOULD ALSO APPRECIATE IT IF YOU COULD REBLOG THIS POST <3

[anincompletelist]

rwrb christmas recs! ❤️

hi all! :D i wanted to rec some festive fics for the holidays for fic rec friday this week!

I'm sure that I've missed some and that some are still to be posted, which will be included in the january rec if so! but here are a few that I've particularly enjoyed reading this month -- the holidays can be a difficult time for many of us and fic - both reading and writing it - can be such a wonderful distraction!

I hope all of you are doing well and being kind to yourselves and to one another this season. happy reading, and as always be sure to spread the love with a kudos, comment, or reblog if possible. enjoy, and happy christmas! <3

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fell apart (in the usual way) by @hypnostheory (E, 12k)

Henry is a mess around the holidays, and he's expecting to have a tremendously horrid time without Shaan. Fortunately, Alex has plans to make his Christmas both merry and bright. (Bodyguard!Alex Part 2)

When I Think About You by @clottedcreamfudge (E, 36k, wip)

Dream sharing is absolutely not a thing, even though Alex would very much like it to be. The magic of soulmates, however, means that someone you’ve never met – someone whose soul is tied to yours, in whatever way that manifests – can appear in your dreams, like an extra character who keeps popping up over and over again. They won’t be having the same dream as you, and you won’t actually meet, but whatever you remember from the dream can start to take shape in your waking hours; you can figure things out, bit by bit, dream by dream.

Gonna Give You Something (So You Know What's On My Mind) by @affectionatelyrs (E, 4k+)

With the help of a white elephant gift, Henry learns that maybe the whole being-in-love-with-his-roommate thing isn’t as one-sided as he thought.

Every Day's a Holiday (When I'm Near To You) by bleedingballroomfloor (E, 30k)

I know this is a long shot, but if anyone’s going to Texas/anywhere south for the holidays and is crazy enough to drive there instead of fly, I’m looking for a road trip buddy. We can split gas money and snacks if you pick good ones. DM me if you’re interested. And Henry knows he's about the make the most idiotic decision he's ever made in his life. [Or, Henry impulsively tags along with Alex on a road trip to Texas with absolutely no plan. Surely this won't backfire.]

The Christmas Guest by @omgcmere (E, 17k)

Alex is looking forward to a relaxing winter break catching up with his sister after her semester abroad, but June's gone and ruined everything by inviting her insufferable international student friend to stay with their family for a real American Christmas experience. Henry is irritatingly gorgeous with a completely obnoxious superiority complex, and Alex is prepared to hate every single second he's forced to spend in his presence. As Alex starts to get into the Christmas spirit, however, he finds that maybe there's more to Henry than meets the eye - and maybe, just maybe, this will actually be the best Christmas ever

❤️ and if you finish all of these or don't see something you like, be sure to check out this wonderful collection!

New Traditions: A Red, White & Royal Blue Advent Calendar Event

featuring so many beautiful and lovely works by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @adreamareads @lizzie-bennetdarcy @whimsymanaged @raysletters @sparklepocalypse @thinkof-england @littlemisskittentoes and more!

❤️ as well as a few rwrb holiday fic roundup posts I've seen floating around:

cricketnationrise's holiday fics / @cricketnationrise chamel's holiday fics / @cha-melodius railmedaddy's holiday fics / @rmd-writes allmylovesatonce's holiday fics / @three-drink-amy clottedcreamfudge's holiday fics / @clottedcreamfudge

❤️ and, last but most definitely not least, a wonderful and thorough rec from @roseharpermaxwell (thank you for all you do!)

RWRB FirstPrince Holiday Recs

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happy reading friends! :D

xx

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 7

Read on AO3. Part 6 here. Part 8 here.

Summary: The longest stay you've ever had from home is about to become much longer.

Words: 5000

Warnings: Medical trauma

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Cowritten with @bastillia <3

Off we go into the field! We are loving your comments, your thoughts, your excitement and engagement in the story - truly, we are so lucky. I hope you continue to enjoy what we have planned for the future!!

Please credit all of Grace's letter to Bastillia and her genius. Also, please thank Bastillia for her newly formed fixation on the American Revolutionary War - it's because of this we can't help but bring in actual historical figures like they're our blorbos as well, HAHAHA. It's been a lot of fun learning about history and integrating it into the fic (even if The Patriot was not always hyper-concerned about this LOL)

Love you so much! <3

The letter was crisp, addressed in handwriting that swirled across the page like fairy dust. Grace’s penmanship, for certain—something you’d always envied when comparing it to yours, which bore more resemblance to cresting waves in a storm than anything meant for man’s eyes. It had been dated for a little over a week prior.

“Thank you,” you said to Goddard. “You said this was given to you by whom?”

“Major Ferguson,” he said, stepping further into the kitchen. Then, upon glimpsing your expression and perhaps realizing you couldn’t have possibly known who in God’s sweet Holiness that was, he continued bashfully, “The Major, er, commands another unit that was deployed into the backcountry. Lord Cornwallis ordered most of us to return here to Charleston about a day ago.”

You nodded, turning the paper over in your hands. “I see.” What you wanted to ask but didn’t: Does that include Colonel Tavington, then?

It’d been about two weeks since you’d last seen him in his office. You supposed he’d made good on his intention and set out from Charleston that evening. But he’d been in the field since then, and the status of your parole hung in the balance. Ghoulishly, a part of you had hoped he’d been killed in action. Perhaps even more ghoulishly, another, hungrier part of you had wished for him to return.

You’d tried to sate that part with nightly hand-feedings proffered between your legs—but still its appetite rose anew and greedy every morning.

“Who is it from?” said Lottie. “Your sister?” She peered over your shoulder, her red curls bouncing into her face.

Goddard gave a playful frown, running his hand through hair that matched his sister’s in color and texture. “I suppose I’m not offered a greeting?”

Lottie laughed, moving around you and throwing herself into his arms. “Welcome home, Benny.”

You grinned. “Yes,” you said. “It’s from Grace.” You peeled open the wax seal and started to read.

June 10 1780

My Dearest Sister,

Though I write this on only the sixth day since I bade you farewell, I feel it has been a lifetime. You will be glad to know that I was yesterday evening delivered home in most agreeable fashion by the company of a Major Ferguson, who attended to my utmost comfort and happiness the whole journey from Charlestown ; a great improvement, I say, upon the accommodations granted to me thence.

It has been made plain to me that the disruptions we endured, Sister, were the most unfortunate results of misunderstanding. A pity that though I beseech God to upend time, He does not heed me. Impossible notions vex and bedevil my sleep night upon night—would that I might stay Death’s hand before he took Mary and Nathaniel and Elijah and Adam. I can hardly bear to think of them, yet it is with shame and difficulty that I place my thoughts anywhere else.

In my most fitful hours on the road—

“I hate to interrupt,” said Goddard, very irritatingly interrupting. “But I fear the hospital may soon be teeming. We skirmished with militia on the road, and our field medic couldn’t attend every man.”

“Oh!” Lottie looked at you, her brown eyes wide with concern. “We should certainly go and help, then.”

You frowned. You were already feeling a little concerned about Grace’s inclination to Loyalist sympathy in the letter. “Can I not have ten more minutes?”

Goddard shook his head. “The colonel already wishes to depart this evening and needs every possible man made fit.”

So Tavington was back in Charleston. For now.

“Out again?” Lottie said. “But you all only just returned.”

“Yes.” Wincing, Goddard stepped past you both to grab a cloth hanging from the stove. As he wiped his face, he sighed. “Lord Cornwallis is holding a council of war. Colonel Tavington is in attendance with the other commanders, but he hopes to gather more cavalry and depart again by nightfall.” He looked apologetic. “You know how he is.”

You pursed your lips, folding the letter and stowing it in one of your skirt pockets. You know how he is, he’d said, as if everyone in the room all had the same experiences with Colonel Tavington, and everyone in the room all held the same opinion about his demeanor, body, face, hair, hands, and eyes.

And mouth.

“A council of war?” you asked, pushing thoughts of all of William Tavington’s body parts to a corner of your mind that you’d revisit in the evening. “What ever for? I thought the Continental army had left South Carolina.”

“Most of them,” said Goddard, plucking a peach from a bowl on the counter. “But they aren’t the problem. Evidently there’s been a disaster involving a group of Loyalists that the General sent north.” He bit into the fruit and sighed, savoring it.

“What sort of disaster?” Lottie asked, her eyes great dark pools of worry.

Goddard shrugged. “Men died,” he said around a mouthful of peach flesh before swallowing. “Lots of them. Don’t know the specifics. I expect we will be receiving new enlistment quotas, though, especially with these militia pestering us now.”

Lottie frowned. “Perhaps we should—”

“Have you had many encounters with militia?” you asked, your pulse picking up. “They seem to have amassed rather quickly.”

“Putting it lightly,” said Goddard, sighing. “Even with Charleston back under the Crown, it seems the rest of the colony remains determined to resist. We even found a small holdout of Continentals up the Santee.”

“Continentals?” you pressed, struggling to maintain a neutral facade. “I query why they would not have rejoined their forces in North Carolina by now.”

“Seems they received a dispatch following the Waxhaws battle, and stayed.” Goddard shrugged and took another bite of peach. “Tenacious, those men, I’ll admit as much.”

“I’m sure it’s all very interesting,” Lottie said, waving you toward her. “But if the hospital—”

“Did your forces engage them? How many were there?” You spoke just a little too quickly, but you were finding it harder to restrain yourself. “What was in the dispatch they received?”

Goddard raised a brow and glanced at Lottie. You consciously corrected your posture so that he might not think you liable to lunge at any moment. He relaxed.

“I, er, I can’t be certain what it said,” he replied. “I never saw the message.”

You exhaled in frustration. “I imagine you were unable to capture the messenger himself, then.”

“Actually, we were able,” Goddard said. Your heart leapt into your mouth. “Colonel Tavington became nigh on feverish in his pursuit.”

Your next question hung like a noose from your tongue, your body rigid as a gallows. “Who…” You swallowed. “Who was the messenger?”

Goddard furrowed his brow and shook his head, like he couldn’t fathom why you were so interested. “Some boy.” He waved his bitten peach through the air. “A… ‘Martin?’”

You nearly sagged in relief, instead bracing a hand against the kitchen table and affixing a passive expression to your face. “Oh.”

“The colonel made a…” Goddard winced, “compelling example of his family.” He paused, grimacing again. “And of their property.”

“I don’t want to hear of such dreadful things,” Lottie interjected. “Anyhow, we really must be off.” She grabbed your wrist. “Let us not stay the King’s men their care.”

“Yes, of course,” you said, forcing a nod. Though your worry was assuaged, your curiosity was very much not. You had, however, pushed both too far. “Let’s be off, then.”

The morning air was already ripening with heat, sticking to your tongue as you breathed it in. You were glad to be rid of your sling, sweltering thing that it was, before the summer’s wrath descended in full. In the smallest of ways, it was freeing. Even if your shoulder did still twinge with pain from time to time, it grew stronger each day. One less restraint upon your body. And one less reason for anyone to insist you couldn’t be of use.

You had welcomed the introduction of hospital labor into your routine. It hadn't been necessary, but staying in the Goddards’ home on your own only chafed your invisible shackles. Without a distraction, you imagined yourself as an anxious dog pacing in a barren cage. Working in the hospital also gave you the opportunity to collect information while wearing one of the most innocuous disguises available.

And besides all of that—you were good at it.

“I hate that the colonel keeps Benedict away so frequently as of late,” Lottie said as you followed her on the cobblestone. “I worry about him.”

You nodded. “I'm sure he worries about you, too.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, sighing through her lips in a blubbering sound. “He knows I languish in his absence. It’s so difficult. The loneliness, I mean.”

“The loneliness?” You frowned. “You don’t keep busy?”

She laughed. “Of course I do! But it’s no replacement for companionship. Especially of family. You know as much.” With a playful smile, she added, “Benedict tells me it’s all the more reason for me to be married.”

“Is he pushing you to marry?”

“Not in so many words,” she said. “He does seem invested in introducing me to his fellow officers as often as possible.”

You couldn’t imagine doing the same to Grace. She had been your primary companion in life since your mother had passed—in some ways, more your responsibility than your father’s. After all, for those first few years, you were the only one able to tend to the animals or the crops, you were the only one able to make the meals, or sweep the floors. You would climb into bed with her, hours after she’d fallen asleep, after your father had emptied his glass of gin and you’d gotten him to his room.

Thankfully, your father eventually put down the gin. You didn’t think it was possible to put down responsibility. You didn’t even know if you wanted to.

“I see,” you replied. “Are they kind, at least?”

Lottie snorted. “No,” she said. “Most of the Green Dragoons are utter villains.” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “I’m much more inclined toward Major Ferguson’s corps. He only oversees men of honor.”

There was that name again, said with the same dreamy insistence that Grace had tried and failed to conceal in her writing.

“Major Ferguson,” you said, as if recalling a long-forgotten acquaintance. “I keep hearing that name today. Do you know much about him?”

“Oh, I dream of it.” She giggled with all of the secrecy of a girl with a crush on a church boy. “I think—besides my brother, of course—he might be my favorite officer of all His Majesty’s soldiers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“I promise you,” she said, “you have never met a man with greater wit, charm, or passion.” She laughed and gave a teasing smirk. “I think he could convince General Washington himself to throw down his arms and pledge allegiance to the King if given half a chance.”

“I will take your impressions under advisement,” you replied, grinning. You suddenly had an idea who was likely responsible for Grace’s shifting sentiments.

When you arrived at the City Hospital, Lottie dipped off to check on the sick she’d tended to the day prior. You, personally, didn’t see the purpose in conversing with those you had no duties to and decided to sit and read through more of Grace’s letter.

In my most fitful hours on the road, when grief seemed to me a dark and terrible ocean without shore, I was sought by the gracious Major Ferguson, who told most diverting stories and drew from me laughter of a mystifying source. I query whether he may be adept with some beguiling magick to have so oft performed a vanishment of my tears. He is a clever and skillful man as well as kind.

You, I am sure, would think more highly of him than you did Nathaniel, though I fear I am now far ahead of myself, Sister, and must stay my pen lest my flights of fancy make off with me, as you know they are apt to do. I am besieged now by shame to even write it, and know that were you here, Sister, you would soothe me by turning my mind to practicalities. As such, and to ease the pain of your absence I feel again coming upon me, I shall address them. I know the welfare of our home indispensable to your peace of mind, so let me assure you of it.

Despite your growing suspicions surrounding Ferguson, a smile crept over your face as you read Grace’s report on the farm. She listed every crop that had needed tending on her return, the condition of each chicken and goat by name, and included an effusive exaltation of your neighbors who had kindly fed them in your absence.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence—

The delicate clearing of a throat resounded from somewhere to your side.

You snapped from the letter, looking up to see a bashfully pleading Lottie leaning around a doorframe. This version of Lottie was becoming all too familiar given the short time you’d worked alongside her. You let out a sigh.

“Now?” you protested, raising the letter to emphasize that you were occupied.

“Please, oh please,” she stepped into full view to clasp her hands in adjuration. “There’s so much blood, it’s horrid, and the bone is broken, and—”

“All right, Lottie.” You couldn’t help yourself. You smiled. “I’ll help.”

Down the hall and into the ward, a dolorous assault slammed your senses. Injured men groaned out in chorus, and the scent of blood hung in the air like coppery vapor. Lottie ducked her head and led you over to the hospital physician—Dr. Moore—who was hovering over a badly wounded man. From what you could tell, he was a young infantry soldier, his coat removed and head wrapped in bandages. Blood smothered his face, dirt smattered his legs, and his right arm was stripped of clothing.

At least, you believed it was his arm. In its current state you couldn’t imagine it being of much use for any purpose other than occupying a dog’s mouth.

“Go on,” Lottie murmured, urging you forward. “I—I’ll be ill.”

Moore caught you both approaching and adjusted the spectacles over his nose. “Charlotte,” he said, testing with his fingers what some might call flesh, but you’d probably call meat. “Where were you? I need your assistance setting the bone.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I, um, I…”

He frowned. “He doesn’t have all day, Miss Goddard.”

She elbowed your ribs, and you hopped forward with a wince. “Actually,” you said, “I’ll assist in her stead, doctor.”

“Hm?” He looked up, squinted at you. “Poultice girl?”

You nodded, even though you'd introduced yourself multiple times. “My name is—”

“Fine, yes. Come now. Hold this for me. Just there above the wrist.”

As you stepped to assist, Lottie quickly backed away, turning pale beneath her freckles as she watched you support the bloodied, blue-mottled limb. “Oh, yes, thank you so much,” she said, turning away, “I’ll be right, ah, right down that way, so, not too far!”

“Hold on, Charlotte,” said Moore. “We still might need you.”

She whinged. You weren’t fully sure how she served in medicine when she halfway lived in fear of it.

Standing by Moore, you propped up the soldier’s wrist and elbow. He stiffened and groaned through his teeth, seeking out reassurance in your eyes. Why yours, you didn’t know—you had no words of wisdom to offer him and didn’t particularly care to think of any, especially when he was impeding the work with his wooden limbs. Lottie swept to his side and patted his other shoulder, keeping her focus on his face.

“It’s all right, sir, we’re going to take care of this quickly, I promise.”

He winced, nodding, and loosened in your grip. You glimpsed her for a moment, her gaze like a deep, warm embrace. This part came as naturally to her as yours did you.

It ached, how much she reminded you of Grace in that moment. The last line you’d read of Grace’s letter—I do not wish to be alone—pricked your heart like a needle. You did not wish for her to be alone, either. You did not wish to be here, in Charleston, spending time gathering scraps of information when you knew she waited as the tender, vulnerable center of your home.

Moore started to work, and you stood still, bracing the soldier’s arm as he wiped away the blood. Even if granted leave, however, you were uncertain if you wanted to return home. The threat of the British grew greater in South Carolina, and under the supposition that both Grace and you were Loyalists, you could maintain a semblance of safety. Especially with your father’s condition still unknown and Tavington still itching for the opportunity to wring all of your necks.

Behind you, the clicking of heels. “And this is our most esteemed physician, Dr. Henry Moore.” It was the matron of the hospital. “Dr. Moore?”

“A bit busy right now,” Dr. Moore said. The soldier groaned as Moore palpated the skin on his forearm, coaxing the severed halves of bone together beneath.

“Can you take a moment?” she asked, before walking toward the other end of the ward. She tossed over her shoulder, “Colonel Tavington wishes to speak with you.”

Your eyes widened. You turned, met Tavington’s gaze and flinched, jerking the soldier’s arm. He howled in pain, and you grumbled, grabbing a wad of unused bandages and stuffing them in his mouth. He whimpered into them. Dr. Moore sighed, manually readjusted your grip, and got back to work on his sabotaged bone setting.

Tavington, meanwhile, regarded you as you imagined he might regard a body climbing to its feet after he’d gutted it. His right hand flexed absently at his side. All you could do was stare at him completely normally and not at all like a bolt of excitement had zipped through you at the sight of him.

He cocked a brow, his focus flicking over you before he turned to Moore. “Dr. Moore—”

“Busy.”

“—the British legion requires your services immediately.”

“I’m sure you believe your needs to be of great importance, Colonel, but—”

“The field medic I’ve currently retained is indisposed.”

“—as you can see, Charleston keeps me preoccupied as is.”

“You should be prepared to depart as early as this evening.”

Moore paused with a sigh, and turned to face Tavington. “Colonel, I make no assumptions regarding the frequency with which you hear this word, but no.”

Tavington’s eyes fluttered as if the doctor had clapped in front of his nose. “Perhaps you believed me to be making a request, doctor,” he replied. “I was not.”

You pinched your lips between your teeth. Moore had stopped his work on the soldier’s arm entirely. Silent, you caught Lottie’s attention from the corner of your sight, and found her face flush with anxious warmth.

“Colonel,” Moore said, with even more exasperation than the previous time, “I am the only physician in Charleston—perhaps all of South Carolina—at present. I cannot abdicate my duties here to ride with cavalry all night.” He stared at Tavington, who did not move or even shift his expression, like Moore was a fussing baby. “But I can—all right. Listen.” Moore looked at Lottie, then back to Tavington. “Miss Goddard here will be able to serve your needs adequately, and she has the added benefit of having no additional responsibilities aside.”

Lottie tensed, her gaze darting between Moore and Tavington. “M-me, doctor?” With a nervous smile, she said, “Of course, it would be my honor, but… would it be possible for my friend here to join me?”

“Your friend?” said you, the doctor, and Tavington at the same time.

“Please,” Lottie whispered, looking at you. She turned to Dr. Moore. “She’ll be a great help to me.”

Moore sighed and grabbed two splints, lining them up along the man’s forearm. You didn’t blame Lottie for wanting you there. But this would mean you wouldn’t return home. It would mean more time Grace would spend alone. You pinched the splints together, and the soldier whined, muffled by the bandages. As he twisted his head, blood trickled down his cheek, right in Lottie’s line of sight. She choked, turning to try and cough away her clear growing nausea.

“If you insist, Charlotte,” Dr. Moore mumbled as he started the bandaging process.

Tavington, who was watching with winnowing patience, looked at you. “Unfortunately,” he said, “your friend’s freedom does not extend beyond the borders of Charleston.”

You frowned. “But my intelligence was valid.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it did not produce the promised results.”

“A dispatch rider was found and detained, was he not?”

Tavington’s brows raised fractionally. “What was not found was a certain Captain Michael—“

“I am not my father’s keeper,” you growled, shifting more to face him. The soldier whined again and you shot a leer at him. “Shall I next beseech the pagan gods to divine his location, Colonel?”

Lottie glanced at you wide-eyed, alarmed at the tone you were using with a colonel of the British army. “She’s overworked from all of the injured we need to treat,” she offered. “She doesn’t mean that, Colonel Tavington.”

“She does,” he said, still focused on you. He stepped forward, voice lowering. “Divine? No. Reveal—given the insight you possess—yes.”

You snorted. Moore grabbed another roll of bandages and started using it to constrict the soldier’s arm. “If you are still unable to locate my father after everything I’ve told you, I hardly—”

The man groaned in agony, and you realized you’d started tightening your grip as you spoke. You relaxed, and he groaned louder.

Tavington sighed. “Do shut up, Private.”

Your face scrunched, almost amused. The man settled, and you took a breath. “I hardly believe that’s an issue with which I need concern myself.”

“I would say your investment in your father’s life concerns you a great deal,” he replied.

“Alas, but I cannot serve as your prophet, though you flatter me with the notion.” You shrugged. “All of those men under your command, and no success. Perhaps there’s a deficiency somewhere you need to address.”

Lottie hissed your name under her breath. “Please don’t make this harder on me.” Then, turning to Tavington, big brown eyes pleading, said, “I beg of you, Colonel. She’s simply tired. I’ll vouch for her myself!”

“Do you want to take them or not, Colonel?” Moore was tying off the second round of bindings. “If not, I’ll ask you to kindly and politely depart the ward so I can continue getting work done. You may have noticed this, but we’ve a couple dozen of your men here who need my assistance.”

Tavington’s tongue rolled in his mouth, and his eyes met yours. There you found the curiosity you’d spied while in his office, familiar glimmers of interest as he studied you. You swallowed, holding his gaze, wondering what exactly was going through his mind, wondering if he could see your speeding pulse. His head tilted, his chest fell in an exhale.

“And you… You wish to come.”

That really was the question. Your participation in this war had already dumped guilt onto your back as you unceremoniously condemned strangers to suffer and die. The thought of going along with Lottie brought a new deluge of emotions, some of which you worried would war fiercer than the soldiers in the field.

A terrible guilt for abandoning Grace. An even more terrible sadness that you wouldn’t know when you next would see her. And perhaps the most terrible excitement at the thought of waking daily and sleeping nightly within the domain of the most despicable bastard you’d ever met.

Despite it all, you knew that if you kept up the Loyalist facade, Grace would remain safe at home. Your father was the one in danger. And if you were out in the country with his primary—and deadliest—pursuer, you had the highest chance of protecting them both.

All you had to do was stay alive.

“I do, Colonel,” you replied.

“Both of you,” he said, with some amount of dread.

That wasn’t a question, but Lottie nodded anyway. “She’ll be an asset to you, Colonel. A great asset. I promise!”

“I somehow doubt that very much,” he mumbled. “Very well.” He turned to Dr. Moore, who still couldn’t be bothered to look at him while he wiped off the remaining blood from the soldier’s hands and face. “Send them along to the barracks at once. They’ll need to be briefed and supplied before we depart.”

Moore nodded. “Right away, Colonel,” he muttered.

Tavington’s eyes found yours a final time. Whether there was want or warning within them, you couldn’t discern. He turned on his heel and left the ward.

Your shoulders sagged, weight dropping to the ground that you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. Lottie provided you an expression you would’ve described as contrite if there wasn’t so much relief hidden behind it.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. She rubbed the soldier’s back as he stood and swayed, his arm properly stiff at his side. “Off you go, sir. Get yourself a bed.” Turning back to you, she frowned. “I’m not sure if I can put my appreciation into words, really. I know how badly you wished to return home.”

“Thank you, Dr. Moore,” you said as he stood and moved to the next man. As expected, he did not reply. You shook your head and shrugged to Lottie. “It’s better for me to be doing what I can to serve His Majesty.” You hoped that didn’t sound as contrived as it felt leaving your mouth.

She pursed her lips, waiting for when Moore was out of earshot to whisper, “You have a funny way of showing it, the way you speak to Colonel Tavington!” The horror of your conduct had pinkened her cheeks. “Were you trying to get yourself hanged?”

You frowned. “Of course not.”

“Well, be more careful, then!” She huffed, crossing her arms. “I won’t always be around to rescue you.” She shook her head and brushed her hands down her dress like that would shoo the gore from her person. “Or perhaps he just favors you.”

Your next breath lodged in your throat, and you coughed. “I’m sorry—” You coughed again, straightening. “He what?”

She laughed, nudging you gently. “Oh, you are funny. Imagine, Colonel Tavington favoring anyone,” she said through giggles. “If you’d seen your face…”

“Right,” you said, bizarrely disappointed.

With a sigh, Lottie adjusted her sleeves. “I’ll tell Mrs. Smith that we need to be departing. Oh!” She gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth in delight. “This means that I’ll be in the field with Ben!” With a smile, she skittered over to the matron as she attended an ailing woman.

You tried to grin, but strained your cheeks, deciding to settle into the seat where the soldier had been instead. If you were to be departing with Tavington’s legion tonight, you needed to finish Grace’s letter. You pulled it from your pocket.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence and I must admit that I dread his absence. Already once he has made a most welcome visit to certify my welfare. I told him I was indeed well, but that I should like very much to know the condition of my dear Sister. Though I with most indocile nature demanded his intelligence on the matter, he remained to me gentle and courteous. He wishes it was in his power to oblige me but it is not. He suggested however that should I wish to write you, that he may deliver you my Letter when next he is called to Charlestown. A gallant and charitable offer indeed!

Despite Papa’s endless grievances of the British army I believe he construes them all unkindly. Perhaps every one he encountered was akin to that murderous devil we so unfortunately met. In that case I should understand his misgivings.

A sense of irritation grew in your chest. You decided you didn’t particularly care if this man Ferguson was in fact Jesus Christ himself rose from the dead. The fact he was busy using your sister’s naivety to his advantage made you want to crucify him despite it.

Murderous devil, perhaps, but at least Tavington…

You paused. You couldn’t think of anything he’d done that wasn’t, in fact, worse.

But enough of wars and men. Never have you and I been apart so long, nor our home so reminiscent of a cavern. How clamorous the sound of my pen in this silence, dear Sister. Pray write me when this letter finds you. Until then I shall look each day to the South road and hope to see you return. Do not fret that I am well. Mrs. Jones has called upon me to come for supper and company, she insists, whenever I feel the pangs of solitude too keenly. For this I am grateful.

Ever, ever I remain

Faithfully and Lovingly Your Sister, Grace

P.S. I am sorry for the words herein whose inking is damaged. Mr. Mouser trod upon this Letter and entreats me now with uproarious meows to attend him.

You smiled as you finished the letter. But your heart wilted. You weren’t sure when you would be coming up the south road, or when you’d be able to unburden Grace of solitude. You knew only that you were making the choices you felt were right to keep her safe. Just as you’d always done.

Dr. Moore had left some parchment out on the table with the medical supplies. You grabbed a few pages of it along with his pen. The letter wouldn’t be long, but you could at least let her know that she did not need to worry. That you wouldn’t be returning home, but you would promise to find her, to see her soon.

You dipped the nib in the ink. You started writing.

[the-whispers-of-death]

New Guy

A/N: Python's introduction to Ghost!! Note that this OC will eventually be with Ghost.

*****************************************************************

Ghost finished up his workout in the base gym, grabbing a towel and wiping off the sweat on his neck. He waved goodbye to the few soldiers he knew, heading out of the base gym and towards the barracks.

As he walked, he heard whispers of an American joining one of the task forces as their medic. Supposedly it was because the task force needed a medic and there weren't any SAS medics who could be spared.

He huffed at the thought, wishing a silent good luck to the task force that was unlucky enough to have an American medic.

Ghost opened the door to the barracks which were assigned to everyone in the 141. As he entered the barracks, he expected it to be empty since he knew the rest of the 141 were away training or doing paperwork. However, as he stepped inside, it wasn't empty.

There stood a tall, shirtless man who had to be no taller than six-foot-six and had light brown skin that seemed to be covered in tattoos. With his back towards Ghost, he was the process of putting on a shirt, his head covered by a black balaclava, and Ghost could see the full sleeve tattoos of snakes and a large tattoo of a snake spiraling up the man's back. The man was burly, muscular with a thick layer of fat on top of the muscles.

Ghost snapped out of his stupor, remembering who he was and clearing his throat. "You're in the wrong barracks, mate," he said, annoyance lacing his voice as he stared at the irritatingly mouth-watering man. "These barracks are for the Task Force 141."

The man finished putting on his shirt, somehow managing to do so without disturbing his balaclava and mask, before he turned to face Ghost. He had on a black hard-plated mask which had gold etchings of a snake coiling all around the mask.

"No, I'm in the right barracks," the man said, Ghost noting the American accent and the way the man's voice was deep but harsh. "Captain Price showed me where to go."

At that words, it clicked in Ghost's head that this was the American medic he had heard about on his way to the barracks. The task force that got said medic was the 141. Great.

"So you're the medic that has the whole base alight with gossip," Ghost grumbled, stepping closer and eyeing the man. His eyes settled on the man's mask and it ticked him off how much they looked similar. "Why do you wear a mask?"

The man seemed unperturbed by the way Ghost was eyeing him warily, as if he was bored. "For the same reason you probably wears yours. For anonymity," he replied. "Call me Python."

Ghost raised his eyebrow underneath his mask, not that Python could see it. "Python?" He tested the callsign on his tongue before huffing in annoyance. "That's a mouthful."

"Yes, but it's not like I chose the callsign myself." Python lifted up his duffel bag with ease and set it down on the bunk that wasn't being used. He definitely sounded bored. "Any other burning questions?"

"Why do they call you "Python"?" Ghost asked, ignoring how rude Python was being. It wasn't like Ghost was being nice either.

"You going to tell me why they call you "Ghost"?" Python shot back, turning back around to face Ghost and crossing his arms.

Ghost scowled beneath his mask, crossing his arms as well. "Don't do that, don't be cagey with me." His irritation was rising steadily. "I'm the mysterious one in this task force."

Python surprisingly laughed, his laughter deep and lacking any actual amusement. He stepped closer, making Ghost step back instinctively. "I guess you're not the only mysterious one here anymore, Ghost." He sucked his teeth. "Deal with it."

Python then turned away from Ghost again, the sharp change of movement making his medical bag clack against his uniform, drawing Ghost's attention to it.

"You have a shitty attitude for a medic," Ghost muttered underneath his breath, glowering at the man in front of him now.

"I didn't think the great and all-powerful Ghost would cower at a little bit of attitude thrown his way." Python taunted, glancing back at Ghost before unzipping his duffel bag to take out something. He then took a big sniff of the air before making a sound of disgust. "You should shower, you stink."

He zipped up the duffel bag again and then moved past Ghost, leaving the barracks to go God knows where. One minute he was there and the next, Ghost was alone, staring at where Python had been.

Ghost blinked once and then twice, his eyebrows furrowing. "I'm going to have Price transfer him," he grumbled to himself before making his way to the communal bathroom.

*****************************************************************

A/N: I didn't know this OC x Canon relationship would be rivals to lovers (I don't think we can classify them as enemies, not even sure if we could classify them as rivals really), but as Python likes to chant in my head, "Stone might be a bigger bitch, but I'm still a bitch!" (I don't know why he likes to chant that in my head.) So um, this is just how Python is, I guess.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and request something! (Check the rules in "Rules for Requesting NSFW" before requesting.)

[richincolor]

We've got a little something for everyone this week! Have you checked out these new releases yet?

I'll Be Waiting for You by Mariko Turk Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Natalie and Imogen are inseparable, and wildly different—Imogen is infuriatingly humble and incredibly intelligent, while Natalie is brave, jumping into danger and new adventures. Still, one thing ties them their love of the supernatural. Every summer, they vacation with their parents at the famously haunted Harlow Hotel. Imogen is a true believer, while Natalie sees ghost stories as nothing but pure fun. Then, Imogen suddenly passes away from an undiagnosed heart condition that no one saw coming, and Natalie is left to take on the summer before senior year alone. Without Imogen, Natalie throws herself into her senior project. Her passion is still horror, so she plans to spend her summer back at The Harlow Hotel recording fun fake footage that will get her on the teen ghost hunting show of her dreams. And her plans would be a lot less complicated if Leander, her irritatingly attractive arch rival from school, wasn’t working on his senior project at the very same hotel. The longer Natalie stays at the Harlow Hotel, the more she realizes that Leander might be helpful for her project. After all, she could use an extra hand to help record her fake footage. But, when strange things start happening at the Harlow, Natalie wonders, could there really be something to these ghosts after all?

The Notes by Catherine Con Morse Crown Books for Young Readers

Claire Wu isn’t sure that she has what it takes to become a successful concert pianist. It’s the fear of every student at Greenwood School of Performing becoming a washed-out performer who couldn't make it big. And Claire's no Rocky Wong, the ace pianist at their boarding school. Then Dr. Li shows up. She’s like no other teacher at mysterious, sophisticated, fascinating. Under Dr. Li’s tutelage, Claire works harder and dreams bigger than ever. And her crush Rocky finally seems interested. Maybe she’ll even be "Chinese enough" to join the elusive Asian Student Society. Everything is falling into place until eerily personal notes about Claire’s bond with Dr. Li appear. Claire starts to feel the pressure. But she isn't the only one. Everyone is feeling the strain. Especially Rocky, whose extreme perfectionism hides something more troubling. As the Showcase tension crescendos, Claire must decide if she’s ready to sink or swim. She may discover who she really is as a Chinese American and learn if she’s ready to give her all for a shot at greatness.

The Poisons We Drink by Bethany Baptiste Sourcebooks Fire

In a country divided between humans and witchers, Venus Stoneheart hustles as a brewer making illegal love potions to support her family. Love potions is a dangerous business. Brewing has painful, debilitating side effects, and getting caught means death or a prison sentence. But what Venus is most afraid of is the dark, sentient magic within her. Then an enemy's iron bullet kills her mother, Venus’s life implodes. Keeping her reckless little sister Janus safe is now her responsibility. When the powerful Grand Witcher, the ruthless head of her coven, offers Venus the chance to punish her mother's killer, she has to pay a steep price for revenge. The cost? Brew poisonous potions to enslave D.C.'s most influential politicians. As Venus crawls deeper into the corrupt underbelly of her city, the line between magic and power blurs, and it's hard to tell who to trust…Herself included.

Prom Babies by Kekla Magoon Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

A compelling, multi-generational novel from the Coretta Scott King and Printz Honor-winning author of How It Went Down, Light It Up, and The Minus-One Club, Prom Babies chronicles the stories of three teen girls who become pregnant on prom night. Eighteen years later, their three babies, now high school seniors, are headed to prom and facing their own set of complicated issues and questions. Mina, Penny, and Sheryl have the typical expectations of prom night in 2005: dresses, dancing, and of course some coming of age moments. None of them plans to get pregnant, but when all three do, they band together as they face decisions that have the power to shape the rest of their lives. In 2024, their three children--Blossom, Amber, and Cole--are high school seniors, gearing up to go to prom and facing some big decisions of their own. As they seek to understand who they are and who they want to be, they grapple with issues that range from consent to virginity, gendered dress codes, and the many patriarchal, heteronormative expectations that still come along with prom. A generation later, will this prom night change lives too?

Sound the Gong (Kingdom of Three #2) by Joan He Roaring Brook Press

From New York Times and Indie bestselling author Joan He, comes the dazzling and sweeping conclusion to The Kingdom of Three duology, Sound the Gong, the breathtaking sequel to the critically-acclaimed Strike the Zither. All her life, Zephyr has tried to rise above her humble origins as a no-name orphan. Now she is a god in a warrior’s body, and never has she felt more powerless. Her lordess Xin Ren holds the Westlands, but her position is tenuous. In the north, the empress remains under Miasma’s thumb. In the south, the alliance with Cicada is in pieces. Fate also seems to have a different winner in mind for the three kingdoms, but Zephyr has no intentions of respecting it. She will pay any price to see Ren succeed—and she will make her enemies pay, especially one dark-haired, dark-eyed Crow. What she’ll do when she finds out the truth—that he worked for the South all along…

The Vanishing Station by Ana Ellickson Amulet Books

Eighteen-year-old Filipino American Ruby Santos has been unmoored since her mother’s death. She can’t apply to art school like she’s always dreamed, and she and her father have had to move into the basement of their home and rent out the top floor while they work to pay back her mother’s hospital bills. Then Ruby finds out her father has been living a secret life as a delivery person for a magical underworld—he “jumps” train lines to help deliver packages for a powerful family. Recently, he’s fallen behind on deliveries (and deeper into alcoholism), and if his debts aren’t satisfied, they’re going to take her mother’s house. In an effort to protect her father and save all that remains of her mother, Ruby volunteers to take over her dad’s station and start jumping train lines. But this is no ordinary job. Ruby soon realizes that the trains are much more than doors to romance and they’re also doors to trafficking illicit goods and fierce rivalries. As she becomes more entangled with the magical underworld and the mysterious boy who’s helped her to learn magic, she realizes too late that she may be in over her head. Can she free her father and save her mother’s house? Or has she only managed to get herself pulled into the dangerous web her father was trapped in?

What's Eating Jackie Oh? by Patricia Park Crown Books for Young Readers

Jackie Oh is done being your model minority. She just hasn’t told her second-gen Korean American parents yet. They would never understand her unconventional dream to become a professional chef. Just ask her brother Justin, who hasn't heard from them since he was sent to Rikers Island. For now, when she isn’t avoiding studying for AP World History, Jackie is improving her French cooking techniques and working at her grandparents’ Midtown deli Melty’s. Then the most unexpected thing Jackie gets recruited for a casting audition for the teen edition of Burn Off!, her favorite competitive cooking show. Even more unexpected, Jackie becomes a contestant. Jackie is thrown headfirst into the cutthroat competitive TV show world filled with psych outs, picky mom critiques, and dreaded microaggressions to lean into her heritage. All Jackie wants to do is cook her way. But is her way to cook traditional French cuisine? Lean into her heritage? Or is it something more? To advance through the competition, Jackie must prove who she is on and off the plate.

Where Was Goodbye? by Janice Lynn Mather Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

A teen girl searches for closure after her brother dies by suicide in this breathtaking novel from the author of Learning to Breathe and Facing the Sun. Karmen is about to start her last year of high school, but it’s only been six weeks since her brother, Julian, died by suicide. How is she supposed to focus on school when huge questions Why is Julian gone? How could she have missed seeing his pain? Could she have helped him? When a blowup at school gets Karmen sent home for a few weeks, life gets more things between her parents are tenser than ever, her best friend’s acting like a stranger, and her search to understand why Julian died keeps coming up empty. New friend Pru both baffles and comforts Karmen, and there might finally be something happening with her crush, Isaiah, but does she have time for either, or are they just more distractions? Will she ever understand Julian’s struggle and tragedy? If not, can she love—and live—again?

[kings-highway]

haikyuu esl accent headcanons ig miyagi prefectural edition

Karasuno

- Kageyama and Hinata are both idiots and barely pass english to begin with but I like to imagine Karasuno has an english teacher that studied/came from somewhere in Canada, so they (and all of Karasuno) end up with a classic mix of American/British vocabulary

- Daichi s u c k s at english and can barely pass the class but his accent is PERFECT and when he manages to put together an actual sentence you wouldnt believe he was esl

- by contrast Suga BREEZED through english classes, absolutely nailing the written, aural and reading portions but got <10% on his spoken exam because he's absolutely incomprehensible and cannot get his accent down

- Tsukishima and Yamaguchi get the highest grades in english out of all of Karasuno, but both of them inexplicably picked up a british accent (southern more, london area) and they refuse to admit that it's because of the sheer volume of Great British Bake-Off they've watched/had on in the background while doing homework.

- Noya and Tanaka both failed english their first year but realized if they convinced Suga and Daichi, separately, to tutor them, they could get a passing grade

- somehow Suga and Daichi have never considered helping each other

- Asahi is not the best at english but he is their english teacher's favourite

Shiratorizawa

- Ushijima obviously speaks with an american accent when speaking english bc he practices most often with his father (west coast american accent, then)

-as a result the whole of Shiratorizawa kinda does the same because of subconsciously trying to mimic Ushiwaka

- with the exception of Tendou (who ends up bastardizing his english with a french accent??? he ends up damn near a polyglot but is incomprehensible in every language)

- and semi, who ends up with a more british accent (from the north, though) due to the british guitar teacher he takes lessons from. the rest of shiratorizawa absolutely tear him apart for this but he doesnt even realize he's doing it and has picked up british slang (trolley, jumper, lift) when speaking english

- Stz's english program is Very Good but their professors are all very old and mean and as a result most of the team developes a deep hatred of studying english/going to language classes in general

Aoba Johsai

- I like to imagine Aoba Johsai has a really fantasic english teacher/program, but they partnered with an abroad exchange to do so and have a disproportionate about of New Zealanders and Aussies teaching

- So the third years are all pretty fantastic with their english but the other schools hear them speak and are like "that CANNOT be right" because they all have heavy kiwi accents that the others have never heard

- inexplicably Kyotani has a much more distinct North American accent (probably somewhere eastern, great lakes area) and he Will Not explain himself until he begrudingly admits that he's actually started learning english when he was really young from an American teacher and is VERY GOOD but has been intentionally throwing tests so that nobody would ask him to tutor them

- first/second years ask him to tutor them immediately upon learning this and he refuses

- Oikawa is irritatingly good at languages, and has to force Iwaizumi to study. Iwa is usually pretty good with keeping on top of school work but he just HATES conjugations and tenses and has no memory for it.

- once Oikawa realizes the other schools are making fun of their english accents/professors, he works out the dialects of thr other english countries and just switches between then depending on who he's speaking to. the rest of seijoh hates this because when he's not using the kiwi accent they cannot understand him.

[milehighmegs]

'Rivals': A Real-Time Reaction

So, if you've been living in David Tennant purgatory (like so many of us have), you'll be happy to know that his latest show, 'Rivals,' has just had an entire season dropped on Hulu (in the US) and Disney+ (everywhere else). Since I've only really seen David in 'Good Omens' and bits of 'Staged,' I decided to switch from my Michael Sheen binge for just a bit and give our soft Scottish hipster gigolo a little love.

Having been inspired by Danny Motta, I'll be live-reacting to the first episode of 'Rivals,' though instead of on YouTube, I'll be doing it here in the Tumblrverse amongst all these wonderful DT fans. I hope it's at the very least entertaining. Enjoy 😁

OMG only 4 SECONDS in and there's already nekkid bum!!! I was told this would be racy, but GAWT DAYUM

ooooooooh spicy David Tennant... your Crowley is showing

AIDAN. TURNER. yummmmmm

I am loving everything about Caitlin's style. I want that sweater, like, yesterday

AIDAN TURNER SHIRTLESS AIDAN TURNER SHIRTLESS AIDAN TURNER SHIRTLESS OMGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Maud is soooo awesomely cringe, I love the total lack of filter on her

I've already decided that the soundtrack is loaded with bangers

Ooh, an American character! And she's a total BADASS!!!

Just that momentary flash in Tony's eyes... DEMON FIRE

The setting really is almost irritatingly beautiful and I'm here for it

Attention shoppers, we have full frontal peen on aisle 3, repeat, we have FULL FRONTAL PEEN on aisle 3

Oof, damn, that's a helluva strutting entrance...

Oh shit, his name is ANTHONY??! I'm diggin the parallels...

"I'm not paid to have opinions." 😆😆😆

The Gong!!! yaaaaassss

Lounge versions of New Wave pop

I don't get this thing everyone seems to have for Rupert. He's arrogant, vile, & obvious, and (I'll probably get skewered for this) not all that attractive. How in the world Maud's practically on her knees for him already when she's got Declan right there is beyond me

"Birdie Song?" I always thought it was called "The Chicken Dance..." is that just in the US then?

Hahahaha, you DESERVED THAT, ya bastard!!!

Oh no. nonononoNONONONONONO

Ah, well, that makes a few things make sense...

Yup, that's pretty accurate... sadly...

Well. THAT was awesome. And insane. And I'm loving Every. Single. Second of this. The question now is: to binge, or not to binge? I'm gonna go take a very cold shower and make up my mind afterwards.

[sweet-s0rr0w]

For the top five ask game - Top Five... of your own fics, please

Nor All That Glisters (Drarry, E, 111k) because it's the first thing I've ever written, and I loved writing it, and everything fandom came from this fic. It's still the fic I think I'm most associated with, and as well as the original amazing art by @fantalfart and @deancebra-art, it now contains art and calligraphy by @bluebutter-art and @squintclover, and the bound copy from @emmalovesdilemmas is the first thing I wrote that I've got to hold in my hands! Plus, I still think it's the coolest concept of all my fics!

Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.

But before long he finds himself with a thriving business, a nice flat, some actual (albeit irritatingly Gryffindor) friends, and a very satisfying sex life. What’s more, no-one is hexing him in the street. And Harry Potter is single, and gorgeous, and giving Draco decidedly interested looks.

Stop taking the Felix? You must be joking…

Dreaming Skies (Dron, E, 21k, co-written with Tacky) because it's the only fic of mine I've reread properly, and more than once, and I love it more - especially Ron - every time. Writing it (in 13 days!) with one of my all-time favourite authors, and writing it for @sitp-recs, was a dream.

Draco's life is going nowhere, so when Charlie Weasley offers him a job out on his reserve, Draco doesn't think twice before booking a Portkey. After all, it's not as if he has many other options. But when he arrives in Romania, he realises that nothing is quite what he expected...

(a story about dragons and baking, friendship and little kindnesses, putting down new roots and falling in love)

Silhouettes (Dronarry, E, 17k) because I was so proud of how this one came together. I love the triple POV, the challenge of it, and I love how it skirts the line of some tough difficult topics but stays pretty light. Also, it has one of my two favourite smut scenes I've ever written (other is in Waking Up Slow).

Draco's trying to fix the Burrow, Ron's trying to grieve, and Harry... well, just what is Harry actually doing, anyway?

A tale of grief, gardening, and ghouls, bad memories, bad puns, and bad flirting, and nudity both accidental and very, very deliberate.

Crash (Into Me) (Drarry, T, 14k) because writing this was hilarious (poor @graymatters trying to American-pick it), this was my first time properly writing Ron, and although it's one of the silliest things I've ever written, I think it's a really good concept (Drarry falling for each other during a 24-hour Quidditch match!)

Harry’s done plenty of ridiculous things for charity over the years, but Robards’ latest scheme really takes the biscuit. Or rather, the teacake.

Good job Malfoy’s there to suffer alongside him this time, eh?

Thameslink, the 07:29 from Luton (Drarry, G, 1k) because I think this is a very neat and fast paced little micro which came out well. I also remember chatting to you (Tacky) as I was writing this very quickly and last minute for @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm's birthday, and - it was just one of those fics that wanted to exist, iykwim.

He gets on at Harpenden, you think, although it might have been earlier.

[training4theapocalypse-backup]

On Her Majesty’s Supersonic Service (Adrian Chase x Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7K

Warnings: SMUT, Descriptions of murder, Descriptions of violence, Verbal Humiliation, Light bondage, Duct tape, Tent sex, Accidental voyeurism, Bodily fluids, Dubious consent, Characters mistakenly assume non-consent

Summary: Immediately after the attack on the Glan Tai bottling plant, Task Force X sets up camp overnight to rest before the road trip home. Vigilante offers to help you, an MI6 agent working under Amanda Waller, find creative ways to navigate drawbacks of your new superpowers.

A/N: Not a fan of Y/N so there's an original character with powers sort of similar to the DC comics Black Canary

Masterlist

Chapter 1: For Your Ears Only

“Pretty please do it again?”

Vigilante is cross-legged opposite you on the other side of the bonfire. He eagerly lines up empty beer bottles and looks at you expectantly. You don’t hate him exactly but you do find literally every single aspect of his personality annoying. He is so irritatingly enthusiastic and let's face it, a psychopath. Your poor eyes have never rolled so much or so often when you spend time with Vigilante.

He’s like a golden retriever puppy personified- if puppies were armed to the hilt and trained to kill with zero regard for human life. And despite your alias, you’re more like a black cat than a Blackbird. Cautious, quiet, sometimes deadly- you possess a distinct lack of tolerance for dogs like Vigilante.

Tonight though… tonight you have a little more patience for him than usual. Perhaps it’s the fact that he saved your life just hours earlier. Or maybe it’s just the beer you’ve been sinking since your very close brush with death. Normally you’d turn your nose up at American beer, but you definitely needed a drink after today’s mission.

He is waiting expectantly and even though you’ve never seen his face before, you can tell that he has a goofy grin under his mask.

“Will you leave her alone for five minutes?” Harcourt finishes the bottle she’s been sipping and tosses it into the rubbish pile. But she’s less stern than usual, the massacre today brought your team closer together and the mood is still light.

“Yeah, Blackbird, if you need me to kick his ass just yell,” says Adebayo

You smile and raise your eyebrows.

“Uhhh, right. The supersonic scream thing. Well, come bang on the side of my tent if you need me.”

She strains as she tries to stand up with difficulty. Adebayo had had a narrow escape inside Glan Tai - a giant gorilla had knocked her aside and she severely sprained her ankle.

“You won’t be kicking any ass tonight Adebayo, not with that injury.” says Economos, pulling her up. She wraps one arm around Economos’ shoulders and her other around Harcourt’s. “G’night you three,” he says. You lift your hand to give them a short wave in return. They help her limp to her tent before retiring to their own respective ones.

You hope she’s okay. Out of this team of Americans that Waller has ordered you to team up with, you find Adebayo to be the least grating.

You, Vigilante and Chris remain by the campfire. Vigilante rests his face on his cupped hands and looks at you. Like a psychopathic masked cherub.

“C’mon Birdie, just these three bottles? Please?”

You roll your eyes again- you’re going to pull an eye muscle if you spend any more time around Vigilante- his incessant chatting makes you grind your teeth. Mostly because it’s extremely irritating but also because you’re a little bit jealous. Your fellow MI6 agents used to complain that you talked too much and gave each other significant looks whenever you went on and on. 

But of course, that was before your accident. Who would have guessed that stealing a prototype supersonic jet on behalf of Her Majesty’s Secret Service would end up with you being royally fucked? You woke up weeks later with the world’s most deadly sonic vocal cords. The icing on the cake was MI6 ordering you to join Amanda Waller’s investigation into the butterflies, probably as punishment for failing your previous mission.

You take a deep breath and quietly murmur a gentle, low note. The ground vibrates and the first empty bottle of Budweiser shatters. You concentrate hard and hum a second note and the next bottle cracks in a perfect straight line down the middle, the two halves fall apart. Another inhale and you let out a soft whisper- the third beer bottle is blasted backwards into the air by a sonic wave.

Vigilante leans back to rest on his elbows and looks at you appreciatively. “Never gets old.”

There is a moment’s pause as the three of you stare into the fire. “I never asked anyone at Corto Maltese but what does it feel like, having… abilities?” asks Chris “My sonic boom helmet is pretty cool but it must be scary as fuck having it inside your head.”

You shrug. You preferred life before your powers. Before MI6 had sent you here as punishment for failing to retrieve that jet and nearly getting yourself killed. You miss when you could sing Natasha Bedingfield on karaoke and laugh ‘til you cried without shattering every window in your flat. 

“She misses not being able to talk. I get it Birdie, it feels good to open up and get your feelings out.”

“Vij, stop making shit up. You don’t know that she misses talking.”

“Uh- I think I know how my second best friend forever is feeling. I can read her body language.”

Second best friend forever? Is that sarcasm? As far as you could tell, Vigilante doesn’t really understand sarcasm, nevermind make sarcastic quips himself. So does he actually think you’re friends? 

He may be a borderline stalker that follows you around like a little puppy but the fact that he is super observant comes in handy. It’s probably why you work so well together- even if you don’t like to admit it. In combat, he watches your every move and responds and adapts so quickly that it feels like you’re in sync. 

“Tell me he’s talking out his ass,” says Chris

You give a small shake of your head and Chris still looks confused. You pull out your phone and open the notes app.

‘He’s right.’ You type and hold up your screen reluctantly.

“See!” Vigilante points at you enthusiastically. “I can but she hates to admit it! I’m a mind-reader, baby. No wait, better than a mind-reader, a body-reader! And damn, I love to read that body.”

You exhale through your nose, scoffing silently but you take a much longer swig of beer. You really do hate admitting that he’s right. What does it say about you that the only person in the team who can’t pick up on most normal social cues can read you like a book? You remind yourself that his body-reading really did save your backside when you were fighting the butterflies earlier. 

One of them had snuck up on you from behind and clamped his hand over your mouth, stopping you from emitting your sonic scream. He had a blade against your throat, ready to sever your vocal cords to stop you from killing any more of his comrades. But Vigilante threw a knife at his head with precision, the blade inches from your face, leaving you soaked in blood, breathless and lying on your back staring up at him, blinking in disbelief, adrenaline coursing through your veins. His towering figure hoisted you back up to your feet with such ease… it actually looked kind of hot. Not that you could ever tell him that.

“Hey Birdie,” you look up at Vigilante and can tell by his sing-song voice that he’s still smirking under his mask “Have you ever been fucked so hard that you brought down an apartment building?”

“Jesus Christ, Vij!” scolds Chris

This time you don’t make a sour face or give him an eye roll. You flush involuntarily and end up looking down at your crossed legs, praying that neither Vigilante nor Chris can read your expression. Your domino mask only covers part of your face so you hope the bonfire makes the heat rising in your cheeks less noticeable. 

He’s touched a nerve. Yes, you miss laughing and singing but there’s something you miss even more. You haven’t even touched yourself in over a year, nevermind had sex, just in case you make any noise. You’ve had sex dreams that turn into nightmares, always ending the same way- a moan of pleasure that becomes a horrified scream as your sonic waves blow the brains out of the faceless lover in your dreams.

You look up and they’re still staring at you expectantly. You shake your head.

“Shit,” exhales Chris “I thought I had it bad in prison but a vow of silence and abstinence? You’re for sure getting into heaven.”

You smirk. You’ve killed way too many people to get into heaven.

“Say the word and I’ll help you out, Birdie,” says Vigilante. 

“Come on Vij, I said cut it out,” Chris interjects.

Your eyes don’t leave Vigilante, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach. But you wait for him to finish.

“I saw how that butterfly left you defenceless earlier when he had his hand over your mouth. Just blink twice and I’ll do the same thing, babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-”

“Okay - that’s enough!” Chris gets up and hoists Vigilante to his feet by the scruff of his suit. “Blackbird is just trying to fuckin’ have a beer and you think you can harass her?”

You sit in stunned silence, momentarily distracted by Chris’ profound moment of self-growth. It was only last week that he was sexually harassing your waitress in Fennel Fields, and according to Harcourt, harassing her in a bar just days ago. You bite your lip, your gaze returning to Vigilante and you can feel the flush on your face spreading down your neck and to your chest. You’re grateful that your leather suit doesn’t leave any skin below your neck exposed.

“I’ll take first shift. I’m supposed to be watching for butterflies,” says Chris and he roughly lets go of Vigilante. He points two fingers at his eyes and points them at Vigilante. “But I’ll be watching you too.”

“Aww come on! I’m not a creep.” Vigilante holds up his hands in protest and you find yourself noticing how large his hands actually are. “But I do have duct tape,” he adds, glancing over at you. You’re glad when he turns 180 degrees and positively skips off towards his tent so he doesn’t notice your chest heaving as you try to steady your breath. Calm down.  

You continue to watch him on his way to the far side of the camp as you finish your drink. You throw the empty bottle in with the others in the bin. You nod to Chris and point your thumb at your tent.

“Sleep tight Birdie. I’ll keep an eye on Vij for you.”

You smile and wave your hand away, It’s fine don’t worry about me, but Chris totally misreads your body language.

“Yeah, I’ll push him away like that-“ he mimics your hand wave “Read you loud and clear.”

You thought your signing and expressions were obvious but Chris reminds you again that Vigilante is the only person you’ve met who can read your movements like he’s reading your mind.

In your tent, you begin to peel off your skintight black leather suit. The dried blood from earlier cracks and flakes as you peel it off. You’re thankfully uninjured. Just a few aches and bruises, and a small scratch where the butterfly held his blade against your neck but you’re grateful you got off lightly. You strip to your plain black cotton underwear and sports bra and use a bottle of water and washcloth to get rid of the remaining blood and sweat from your body, trying your best to get it out of your hair. You need a real shower but this will do for now.

You crawl into your sleeping bag and as you had expected, you can’t get comfortable. Almost immediately you start to toss and turn. It’s unreasonably hot in here, despite the cool night air outside. Your skin feels like it’s on fire and when you lie still you can hear your heartbeat. 

You unzip your sleeping back, exposing your skin to the cool air and lie on your back, hands resting on your tummy. You trace your hand upwards, imagining Vigilante’s much bigger hand moving up past your throat to cover your mouth. You press your knees shut, trying to ignore the low hum of frequency buzzing between them. Your other hand seems to have a mind of its own and reaches down to lightly graze your swollen clit over the fabric of your underwear. You accidentally let out a single agonising groan. The hard ground vibrates and the fabric of the tent whooshes. Pausing, you hold your breath to see if anyone is stirring.

Nope.

You sit bolt upright. Fuck, it is so fucking frustrating being worked up with no release- ever. 

Breathe. 

Come on, you think, you can do this. You’ve gone over a year without this. Self-preservation. World preservation. You’ve taken down a group of five butterflies with a single, ear-splitting scream- who knows what sonic shockwaves would occur if you orgasmed?

And yet. 

Could Vigilante be right? The butterfly had rendered you helpless with one hand. Could the solution to your frustration be as simple as a strong hand over your mouth?

“I do have duct tape.” 

Heat sears between your legs. You kneel in front of the canvas entrance of your tent. You reach out tentatively to unzip your tent. Your hand hesitates. What if Chris or one of the others sees you?

On second thoughts, you sit back onto your heels, acutely aware of the way your underwear has felt increasingly hot and sticky since Vigilante skipped off to his tent. You place one hand over your mouth and slide the other one into your underwear.

When you close your eyes, the memory of Vigilante standing over you to retrieve his knife from the butterfly's skull enters your mind. The way his strong arms practically scooped you up and out of your stupor. How he firmly placed his hands on each of your shoulders and looked you over to make sure you were uninjured.

“I’ll do the same thing babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-” 

Oh for God’s sake. You’re furious with your own lack of self-control as you decide you need to find out how that sentence ends. You unzip the door slowly, quietly and poke your head out into the dark night air. To your left, Chris is still beside the fire, looking out towards the horizon, his back facing the small group of tents. You look towards the right- at Vigilante’s tent. It’s the furthest away from the rest of the group- about thirty or so metres away from yours.

You’ve never moved so quickly and so cat-like in your life. You tiptoe barefoot and half-naked out of your tent and creep silently towards Vigilante’s. You unzip his tent door and hastily climb in. 

“Fuck!” Vigilante scrambles around and sits up in his sleeping bag, he shines both a torch and a gun in your face, blinding you. You furiously press a finger to your lips to try and get him to shush. “What the-?” He blurts. Looking at the torch, you make a barely audible “Shh” and the bulb cracks. Everything in the tent goes dark.

“Birdie?” he whispers “I nearly shot you- I thought you were a butterfly.” You both look at the tent opening with bated breath, waiting to see if anyone has noticed the commotion. They don’t. The only sound is the canvas door moving gently in the cool night breeze.

With each blink, bright spots appear in front of your eyelids as your sight adjusts after being hit with the torch light. The dim moonlight barely penetrates the green canvas of the tent. You turn and see that Vigilante is only wearing a pair of teal boxer briefs- he is unsuited and unmasked. He’s no longer faceless and your eyes widen with the realisation that he is the busboy from Fennel Fields. Chris’ friend's brother- Adrian Chase. Adrian’s mouth opens in realisation as he brings a hand to feel his face, reading the recognition crossing yours.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers and tries to jam the mask back over his head but it gets caught on his glasses. “I can’t sleep with my mask on. I knew it would come back to bite me in the ass.” You reach out and grasp his arms firmly to stop his panicked movements. You let go and hold up your arms in an exaggerated shrug. He stops. “You’re right B bird. You were the only one left in the group who didn’t know my secret identity and you’ve seen me now.” And he tosses the mask aside. 

Your stomach does a little flip as your still-adjusting eyes take him in. Wow- he’s handsome. Thank God. Thick wavy black hair, green eyes, glasses and a muscular, lean body littered with scars.

His glasses are askew and he adjusts them- you can’t help but look at the veins on his muscular forearms as he does it. He halts and looks back at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion “What are you doing here? Shit- did Chris spot something on his watch?”

Fuck. 

You pause. He doesn’t know why you’re here. He was joking. Of course, he was- he never stops joking. He was probably just making fun of you. 

You try to make your expression blank and unreadable and all sorts of wild excuses flash through your mind. You hold up a finger, signalling for him to wait and bring up the notes app on your phone.

‘I heard a wolf’ you type and show him the phone screen.

“And you came in here rather than deal with it yourself? Alright-” he cocks his gun and starts crawling towards the open tent door. You wave your hands, telling him to stop and you zip the tent door blocking his exit. You quickly type on your phone again

‘Gone now. Can I sleep here in case it comes back?’ 

He looks up from your phone screen. “Birdie? Scared of a wolf? Damn, I thought you weren’t scared of anything!” He laughs quietly and you scowl. “Okay, okay- I won’t tell the rest of them you’re scared of wolves. Pinky swear.” He extends his pinky and you grasp it with your own. You wonder if he knows that there aren’t any wolves in these woods.

“Make yourself at home.” He waves across the surprisingly tidy tent and you’re secretly pleased that he’s scrubbed himself clean of (most of) the blood and dirt from earlier. He looks around the tent and his eyes land back on you and for the first time, he realises you’re wearing underwear and a sports bra. It’s not your sexiest lingerie but you feel a jolt of satisfaction as his gaze lingers a fraction too long. 

“Jeez, you must be freezing,” he says. Oh. Were his eyes just looking over your goosebump-covered skin? “You take the sleeping bag”

You can’t believe that after his comments earlier he is actually being a gentleman. This is not going to plan at all. He has no idea that his throwaway flirtatious remark momentarily shattered your worldview. 

Maybe this is why you find him so maddening. He is everything you aren’t. Everything you can’t be. He’s loud, he’s openly flirtatious and he’s unserious. The quieter you are, the more you recede into your shell. You can’t flirt anymore because you need to suppress all your sexual desires. You can’t even let out a sigh of laughter without causing a serious injury so you feel like you’re gradually losing your sense of humour.

“Hey, Birdie? Are you okay?” He looks into your face, concerned. 

That motherfucker. Of course, he’s caring too. You can’t stand it. You grasp his worried face and wrestle him into a kiss. 

Take that, you think as you bite his bottom lip.

It takes him a beat to realise what is happening but when he does he surges forward hungrily, his hand curls a fistful of your hair. He smells like the 5th of November. The bonfire smoke lingers on his skin and underneath the burnt gunpowder scent, there’s something fresh and citrusy- like bergamot. 

You taste his warm tongue as it enters your mouth and you trace your hand down his chest. He makes a noise low in his throat in response and using his hand to hold your jaw open he kisses you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue. You pull apart to get some air. Your masked eyes meet his bright green ones. His glasses are askew again and his cheeks are flushed.  

“Holy fuck- I’ve thought about kissing you every day since the moment I first saw you Birdie but I thought you hated me?”

You shrug and he laughs.

“Aw, I get it. Poor B bird, you’re just mean to me because you’re all frustrated. But I know deep down you like me. ”

You scrunch your nose, mockingly and your fingers continue downwards to graze his cock. But- wait a minute. Your eyes widen as you get a better feel for what you’re dealing with. Your hand grips round his thick cock through the fabric of his underwear. You rip your gaze away from his green eyes to look down and almost do a double-take. You thought they called him ‘ Thimble ’.

“Oh,” he says “Chris gives everyone a dick-based nickname. He gave me mine when I was 12.”

You continue to look at him incredulously.

“It was in a locker room, it’s a lot less weird than it sounds. Alright… maybe it is as weird as it sounds.” He pauses “Fuck is it also weird that your surprised reaction to my dick is making me even harder? The ol’ bait and switch.”

You’re trying very, very hard to keep your eyes unrolled. Your hands travel back up to his pecs and he lets you push him back so that he’s lying on his sleeping bag. You swing your leg over his body to straddle his hips and pull your sports bra off in one swift movement. 

“Holy fuck.” He groans like he can’t believe his eyes, grabbing your tits lecherously. “Your tits look even better than they do in that little black suit.” 

Perv.  

The scars on his body practically beg you to kiss them and so you start working your way down, slowly planting kisses on a healed shrapnel wound on his neck, a small scar on his sternum, following a trail of scratches down his abdomen and your lips meet the trail of dark hair below his belly button. You tug his boxers down, revealing his cock. You feel a rush of heat between your legs as you see it’s hard, leaking and desperate to be sucked.

He adjusts his glasses and looks down in anticipation. You slowly lick the underside of his cock and he lets out a quiet whimper as you circle your tongue over his head. You open your mouth ready to take him in when he sits up on his elbows. “Wait-”

You pause and look at him, eyes wide and mouth open, your tongue resting on his frenulum. 

“Is it safe?” he asks. There’s a glint of something in his eye. Fear? Is Vigilante actually afraid of something- you? You nod reassuringly in answer to his question. “You’re sure you can do it without making any noise?” You nod again, your tongue still on him and his cock bobs with your head movement. “Okay” he acquiesces but he remains on his elbows, looking down at you as you open your jaw as wide as you can and try to take all of him in.

It’s been at least 18 months since you did this but you don’t remember it being this difficult. Your lips feel stretched as you take in as much of his length as you can. Your tongue slides up and down the underside of his penis and you feel his head hit the back of your throat but your lips aren’t even close to the base. 

“Fuck, you were so mean before. And now you’re being such a good girl for me- what happened to you Birdie?”

Good girl. Ugh, why does that make you melt?

You concentrate hard and you desperately want to moan but you can’t make any noise with your vocal cords. The only sound is the obscenely wet slurping of your saliva as you swirl your tongue around his length.

You look up at him again and see he has the same glint in his eyes as before. And you realise it isn’t just fear, it’s excitement. 

Sick fuck.

He’s excited at the danger - that you might accidentally blow him to smithereens while, well, blowing him.

“Wait… wait…” he groans and cups your chin. Oh no- maybe he’s realised the life-threatening position he’s in? “I’m gonna blow my load if you keep doing that.” 

Yes! You think with satisfaction.

“Just looking at your pretty mouth- oh fuck- that dangerous little mouth that just killed an entire swarm of butterflies. Fuck- it makes me wanna cum.”

He’s deranged. But you’re desperate to please him, give him that release he deserves for saving your life earlier. You nod with your mouth still full, giving him permission to cum down your throat.

“I can’t,” he genuinely looks anguished “Because I still wanna fuck you. And I really wanna taste your pussy… will you let me?”

You reluctantly remove his cock from your mouth and purse your lips with worry. You shake your head.

“You don’t want me to go down on you? Isn’t that why you came in here B?” You crawl up towards him and lie on your side, facing him. Adrian turns on his side and looks into your eyes. Your eyes are wide, pleading that he understands. 

“You think it’s too dangerous for me to go down on you?” You give a small embarrassed nod. 

“Hey, what did I promise you?” He tilts your head up. “I promised you I’d put one hand over your mouth…” He covers your mouth with his left hand and you’re forced by the sudden weight of him onto your back “... and the other…” His right hand pulls your underwear off and he gently glides over your wet folds with his fingers. The pads of his fingers lightly graze your throbbing clit and you fight not to buck your hips greedily. He leans in to whisper, his lips touching your ear and his breath hot “...deep in your cunt.”

Adrian sucks two of his fingers and then sinks them deep into your aching pussy, curling up and hitting the spot you crave, his palm rubbing your clit. You arch your back as he presses his fingers inside you.

“Oh man, you are so fucking wet already. Is that just from sucking my cock? Or is it from when you were in your tent coming up with that wolf story?”

Fuck - he did know. 

“Just look at you- squirming and totally fucking defenceless. I could do whatever I wanted to you and you couldn’t even stop me because my hand is stopping your one power.” Your eyes roll back in your head- for once not in exasperation but in pleasure. 

Please, Adrian, do whatever you want with me. 

You feel your pussy getting wetter thinking about how he’ll split you in half with his fat cock after this. Your head is already spinning and he’s only using two fingers.

“I never thought you’d be like this. I never thought you’d be a little slut that creeps into my tent in the middle of the night. I thought you were stuck up but here you are, getting off on being held down and finger fucked by the guy you hate.”

Fuck, he really can talk.

Adrian’s theory is put to the test as you feel a soft moan try to escape your throat. You’re worried that your own head might explode. But nothing happens. The sound is dampened against the palm of his hand. He feels the vibrations against his palm and realises that he was right. It spurs him on to go faster and he lowers his head to your pussy. You feel his hot tongue lick between your folds. He finds your clit and starts moving his tongue in quick firm circles. His fingers continue to curl and press upwards, tapping a beautiful rhythm as your muscles squeeze round his thick digits.

“Oh, Birdie I’m gonna make you cum all over my fingers then I’m going to fuck this tight, wet little pussy.” His mouth returns to your clit but you’re already past the point of no return. His words, God damn his words, sneak up on you and push you over the edge, your first orgasm in over a year and it arrives quicker than it ever has before. Blinding, searing heat rips you apart from inside out as you’re hurled headfirst into your release. The walls of your pussy flare and contract around his fingers, you see stars as your chest heaves and you give another muffled desperate moan into Adrian’s hand. 

Fuck, you can’t believe you’re cumming for Vigilante. 

He gives a few slow licks up the entire length of your slit, releases his hand from your mouth and crawls up towards you. His arms on either side of your head, he gives you another slow, deep kiss. 

“Did you like that, B?” Even if you could use your vocal cords, you’re not sure you’d be able to speak. He laughs as you gaze at him through heavy lids. “You are so adorable when you’re satisfied” he gently pinches your cheek “But I’m not done with you yet.”

He clambers off you and rummages around in his duffel bag and your abdomen clenches with delight when you see he’s holding duct tape. “I need to warn you that this might hurt when you take it off.” He regularly kills people for doing graffiti but looks genuinely concerned at the idea of duct tape causing you discomfort. Maniac. You nod and point to your mouth, encouraging him to seal your lips.

He straddles you, peels a short length of duct tape and rips it off the roll with his teeth. “Ready?” Using his large, gentle hands he firmly presses the duct tape over your lips. Fuck, you feel constricted but it’s turning you on even more. A wicked idea flashes across your mind. You put your wrists together and eagerly extend your arms towards him.

He gasps in mock dismay, and then a wild smile crosses his face. “You are such a little slut for me, pretty Birdie. Are you normally this kinky?”

You flush bright pink. You’re not. But tonight you want to give Adrian total control, so you wait with your arms out, eyes pleading, and he obliges. He wraps the duct tape around your wrists and once again uses his teeth to detach the length from the roll of tape. 

“Holy fucking shit” he tosses the roll back into his bag and looks at you hungrily. He takes your tied arms and moves them above your head to give him a better view of your tits. “All those times I’ve dreamed about you naked in my bed, I never thought you’d be gift-wrapped.” 

You look up at him and feel truly helpless. Adrian’s head drops down to give the contour of your neck a long drag of his tongue, slow and hot and gentle. He trails kisses along your jaw and stops when his lips are almost touching your ear. “If there’s anything you don’t like, baby, just let me know. Hit me or something.” He whispers.

This brief shift in tenderness and his consideration for your enthusiastic consent simply leaves you in a puddle. You nod and hold your breath waiting for his next move.

He starts to work down, kissing your neck, your collarbone and then you feel your blood burning fire through your veins as his lips envelop your left nipple. He squeezes your tits, cupping them with both hands and his teeth gently graze your sensitive skin. Your back arches and he lifts his head up, watching you writhe. His calloused fingers pinch both of your nipples and he plants sloppy, wet kisses across your chest. Adrian’s kisses then land on your ribs and trail down your stomach.

You’re already soaking fucking wet again. You try to move your legs apart, eager to let him see how ready you are but his knees on either side of yours block the way. Your pussy is slick, swollen and desperate for him to fill you up again. 

“Patience, Birdie.” He kisses just below your belly button and when his eyes close and he moves back up to suck your other nipple you let out a muffled whine. 

“Fuck, your skin is so soft,” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent “And how do you smell so good after kicking ass all day? Like leather…and lavender..”

You wriggle out from underneath him impatiently, pulling your legs up to your chest and wrapping your ankles behind his waist. He pulls his head away from your neck and looks at you with impish delight. You bring your tied wrists over his head and behind his neck so you can better leverage your body into his. He kisses the duct tape across your lips. 

“So demanding.” His whisper chastises you with a cocky smile.

He moves back, untangling himself from you so he can get a better look at you lying flushed and naked on his sleeping bag. You draw your knees up to your chest so he can see how desperate and soaking your pussy is and he holds your legs above you by the calves. Adrian surveys the sight before him appraisingly and slaps the meat of your thigh with an open palm. 

You whine into the sticky covering on your mouth and in response, he traces his fingers gently up and down your soaking-wet entrance.

“God, you have a beautiful pussy. It’s like it was fucking made for me to be in it.”

He puts two fingers inside your leaking cunt and slowly draws them back out. You look down and blush at how wet you are as he takes himself in his now wet hand and strokes his length with your slick. 

Adrian lets go of your calves, catches the backs of your knees, and spreads your legs, pulling you towards him. He kneels in front of you and runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds. A jolt of panic sears through you when you feel his thick head at your entrance. You grab a fistful of Adrian’s wavy hair, and force him to look in your eyes. Be gentle, your eyes plead. It’s been a long time since you’ve had sex and you hope he has the sense not to fucking destroy you with his cock.

“I’ll go slow” Adrian presses his forehead against your head and stares deeply into your eyes as if reading your mind. He pulls back and tenderly brushes your hair away from your masked face then he returns his hand to guide himself into your pussy.

And then- pressure. Blunt and thick as he breaks you open over his cock. 

Your hand grabs his hair as if by instinct and Adrian watches your face intently as you squeeze your eyes shut. Come on, you think to yourself, you’ve literally been stabbed multiple times- you can take a fucking cock.

“This okay B?” You nod determinedly as he pushes deeper. “Fuck, you’re so warm. And so… fucking…tight.” His words are as slow as the incredibly controlled way he pushes himself into you and you feel like your insides are being rearranged. Fuck, you’re know you’re going to ache for days after this.

You let out a deep exhale and at the same time, he groans as he fully sheathes himself into you. You’re grateful for the respite when he pauses and you can tell from his furrowed brow and shaking arms that he’s struggling not to cum already. 

He’s only paused for seconds but his self-restraint sends waves of arousal washing over you. You wriggle again, this time moving your hips in tiny circles, feeling him throb as you squeeze around him as hard as you can.

“Such an impatient little Birdie,” he says, gritting his teeth as you squirm underneath him. “Trying to make me cum first.” Your wriggling has given him newfound determination to make you cum again- before he does.

He starts to ramp up his pace so in return you squeeze your muscles tightly and move your hips, attempting to fuck yourself back into him, even though the stretch of him feels searing.

“Is this what you needed? Needed the fucking you’ve dreamed of - since even before you got your powers?”

His words do something to you. You let out an involuntary whine into the duct tape and he laughs. “Yeah, this is what you needed baby.” 

How does he switch like this? So sweet and then just so, so filthy, so degrading . You remind yourself again that Vigilante is probably a psychopath. But you can’t deny that the way he talks is really, really turning you on - and he knows it. 

Adrian’s hands thread through your hair and his biceps are at either side of your face. For the first time, you wish your mouth wasn’t covered with duct tape so you could kiss his arms and feel his tongue in your mouth again. You plant your tape-covered mouth into his neck anyway, inhaling the scent of smoke and his bergamot fragrance. 

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since I met you Birdie. The way you roll those pretty eyes at me. I knew I could make you like me. And I know you really, really like how my cock is filling you up. The others would never believe how much you fucking like me now.”

The sound of his thrusts become shamefully wetter in response to his words. 

“Fuck, I felt that. Who knew you’d get so wet hearing me talk. You. Pretty. Little. Slut.”

Your toes curl as he punctuates the last four words with brutal thrusts. He takes your tied wrists and pins them above your head, they brush the zips on the tent door. The silhouette of his broad shoulders and outstretched arm makes you notice the size difference between you. His head drops down to your throat and he sucks on your neck as his fingers dig bruises into your forearms.

“Thank God your mouth is covered or the whole team would know that you’ll be spending tonight cumming all over my cock.”

He moves his other hand down between your bodies and you exhale pitifully at the canvas ceiling when the tip of his finger starts rubbing small firm circles on your clit. Oh fuck, this is it. The same flicker of warning from earlier as he continues to thrust inside you. 

“Y’know I’d gladly let you fucking decimate my entire apartment building if it meant I could hear you cumming for me.” 

From anyone else, this would be a joke but Vigilante is a fucking lunatic and you know he’s being sincere. Is there anyone you could be with who would honestly let you do that? You feel tears swimming in your eyes and you start to see stars. You’d be audibly sobbing with lust and relief if you could.

“Fuck yeah, come on, fucking cum on my cock,” He whispers in your ear, his tone becomes gentle. “Come on, pretty Birdie, do it again for me.” 

Everything surges hot and molten while he keeps pounding himself into you. You cum and the moan that escapes you is so fierce that the masking tape on your face vibrates. Your fingers search wildly behind your head and grab onto the nearest thing- the tent zipper - as your walls convulse and squeeze around his cock in pleasure. 

Adrians hips stutter “Holy shit you get so tight when you cum.” You give him another squeeze “Oh fuck, I’m gonna— I’m- wh-where? Do you want me to cum on your stomach?”

You don’t have time to grab your phone and tell him on your notes app about how your supersonic accident was permanent birth control. So instead you shake your head, wrap your legs even more tightly around his waist and lift your hips off the ground pressing yourself to him tightly. 

Inside. Please cum inside me, Adrian. 

He understands, like you knew he would, and the desperate pull of your legs makes him plow his hips deep into yours. His whispered moans jump up to a fortissimo as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he empties his load inside you. “Fuckfuckfuck” his curses turn into an incomprehensible stream of consciousness. His hips shudder, he gives a final loud groan and you feel his cock throbbing as the hot ropes of his release coat your insides. 

He’s heavy on top of you but comfortable. Like a muscular weighted blanket. You could lie here forever, he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck and his warm cum leaks out of you, making a mess of his sleeping bag. 

Your masked face is damp- tears have been streaming down your cheeks. A build-up of emotions passes over you like a wave. You’re just honestly grateful that you met someone as reckless as Vigilante. How many people could say they had someone willing to risk their life just to please them?

Suddenly- footsteps. Fuck, Adrian had been loud. 

“Blackbird? Fuck! Her tent is open and she’s not here!” Shit- that’s Chris’ voice.

“Peacemaker, over here!” yells Harcourt and you can hear her voice only feet from your head. Damn she was stealthy.

You and Adrian barely have time to look at each other before the tent door is wrenched open, and Agent Harcourt is pointing a gun inside. 

Chris and Harcourt stare open mouthed in shock. Adrian on top of you, flushed, sweating, glasses askew. You with tears in your eyes, masking tape over your mouth and your hands bound and stretching for the tent door. You and Adrian come to the same realisation as you lock eyes. 

You wave your hands at Chris and Harcourt wildly, in a ‘Stop!” motion. Chris, as usual, misreads your meaning entirely and seems to think your waving means ‘Help!’ .

“God damnit Vij!”

Adrian looks up, horrified “No, no, no, no. This is so not what it looks like!” 

“I’m not gonna enjoy kicking your ass,” says Chris, putting his helmet on “But someone has to do it.”

Fuck. 

You rip the duct tape off of your mouth- your eyes squeeze shut in pain as you feel your top lip split. “Chris, stop!” you whisper urgently and Chris is hit by the sonic wave, sending him flying into the air and landing on his back over ten feet away. You all watch as he sits up slowly, dazed but uninjured.

“Holy shit,” laughs Adrian in amazement “I didn’t know you had a British accent.”

Idiot. 

Chapter 2: Bird After Reading

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Moodboard by @softhecreator

Don’t Blame My English Blood For This American Heartache

Chapter Six: Take U With Me

AO3 info prologue one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve

All my work is 18+.

I try to resist, but the light’s getting low to a glow till you’re touching my lips. I wanna stay when I shouldn’t, wanna go but I wouldn’t, wanna say no but I couldn’t. So meet me in the dark; kiss me in the shadows of every spark.- Marianas Trench, Rhythm of Your Heart 

October, 1984

Hogsmeade, Scotland

The Scottish weather wasn’t too cold yet, and most people got by without any sort of coverings whatsoever, but Sera was a Californian, so she needed something to keep her warm.

She quickly discovered that she very much liked Hogsmeade. It didn’t have the warming charms that the castle did, but it was a cute little village with a bunch of magical stores. Most of the other people there were decked out in that fancy wizarding shit they all wore, but the so-called Muggleborns—what a ridiculous concept, blood purity; as if it mattered—were in regular clothes the way she was. She liked her knee-length black dress; it was fairly low cut and had a little V-shaped thing that she kept closed with a tie, and she wore black leggings, an old pair of Converse, and a long knitted purple sweater.

So yeah, she was protected from the fifty degree weather adequately enough to enjoy a deliciously sweet—and slightly alcoholic—drink at a small bar-slash-inn called The Three Broomsticks. She was listening to her Walkman, humming along to Freddie Mercury singing about how girls with big butts—such as herself, which was nice because, like, how many songs actually praised her body type?—apparently made the world go round. She honestly doubted his claims, but he was Freddie Mercury, so who was she to argue? 

Anyway, point was, she was enjoying her sweet drink, snacking on the magic candy she’d gotten at a place called Honeydukes, and leafing through one of several magical books—mostly romance novels, if she were honest. She’d never had sex and she was curious, alright?—she’d purchased at the local bookstore. It was peaceful.

Until, that is, someone with an irritatingly long body sat down in the chair across from her. She looked up from her book, yanking her headphones down around her neck with a sigh of annoyance.

“What do you want, Regulus?”

He grinned that sickeningly attractive grin of his. “Nobody else who claims to dislike me calls me by my first name, you know.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “What am I supposed to call you?”

“My surname is the standard.”

Sera pursed her lips. “Your surname is normal. Your first name is weird. I prefer to point out your weirdness.”

He frowned. “My name isn’t unusual in my family.”

“Neither is inbreeding,” she said flatly. “Again: what do you want?”

“To spend time with you, of course,” he said with a grin.

Sera scowled. “No.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Did you get my letters?”

“Nope.”

Regulus hummed, drumming his fingers on the wood of the table and looking very much like he didn’t believe her. “Pity. I sent you a birthday present.”

Yes, I know. You sent me a fucking family heirloom, you goddamn weirdo.

“What are you wearing to the Christmas ball?”

She stared at him. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

He frowned. “You don’t? Why not?”

“I’m Jewish.”

He thought for a few long moments. “Is that a religion?” When she nodded, he hummed, looking at her consideringly. “The Malfoys aren’t religious.”

“My parents converted before I was born,” she explained. “I’m not fluent in Hebrew or anything.”

“I see,” he said slowly, and she wasn’t entirely sure that he did, but whatever. Most people didn’t understand shit about Judaism. After a long moment, he decided, “Well, you don’t need to celebrate Christmas in order to attend the ball.”

She scowled at the thought of the last ball she’d attended. “I don’t particularly want to dance with you again.”

“Why not?” he asked, flagging down a waitress to order a drink of his own.

“Because you’re a dick,” she informed him bluntly.

He snorted. “I do so enjoy your language, you know. Most witches titter and blush during a courtship. You don’t.”

“I don’t know how I’d behave,” she said slowly, “as I have never gotten an offer to be courted from someone I’d actually consider saying yes to.”

“You’re already being courted, darling,” he explained, an amused smile playing at his too-perfect lips.

She sipped her drink. “I don’t understand why you’d want to marry someone who doesn’t even like you.”

He hummed thoughtfully, accepting his drink from the waitress with a smile when it was brought over. “You don’t treat me the way most people of my acquaintance do,” he said slowly, “you’re intelligent and magically gifted. I’m unused to being around witches like you, and I find you fascinating, to be perfectly honest.” After a brief pause, he added, “And you’re exceptionally lovely. As for not liking me, I’m winning you over already.” She glared at him, but before she could say anything, he pointed at her novel and asked, “What are you reading?”

“A book,” she snapped, flushed and prickly with embarrassment at the compliments.

“I can see that,” Regulus drawled. “What kind of book?”

“Fiction.”

“Let me see.” Before she could object, he snatched it from her hands.

“Hey!” she griped.

Ignoring her, he read for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. “I never would’ve thought you the type!”

“It’s interesting!” she snapped. “I’ve never read magical novels before!”

“So you choose the ones with sex, do you?” He was smirking, the dickhead. “If you’re interested in it, my dear, just say the word—“

“Even if I was, it wouldn’t be with you,” she hissed, her face bright red.

He chuckled again. “All in due time.”

Regulus showed up on Hogsmeade weekends a lot after that.

One afternoon, they were having a relatively normal conversation when he suddenly asked, “Have you ever been involved with a man before?”

Sera coughed on her own spit. “Gag me with a spoon, what the fuck—“ she sputtered. “That is none of your business.”

He frowned. “I just want to know how to behave with you, that’s all.”

Glaring viciously at him, she crossed her arms and declared, “No, I haven’t. I’ve never met a boy who wasn’t either ugly, stupid, a wastoid, or a super fun combination of the three.”

He looked amused. “A wastoid, hm?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

Okay, so maybe she liked him a teeny tiny bit. Seriously, though, it was only a little. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. People got meaningless crushes all the time, and it honestly wasn’t even her fault. She really, sincerely could not be blamed for wanting to French him just a little. She’d never done it before, and she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And Regulus… Well, he reportedly knew what he was doing. He’d probably be pretty good at it, right?

So being around him was getting kinda awkward for her on account of her rapidly growing attraction to him. She was really trying not to like him, but he was so fucking dreamy, and she’d started noticing things about him and couldn’t seem to stop.

His hair, for example, hung in super soft-looking curls, falling over eyes that looked like the ocean after a storm. His lips were pink and perfectly shaped, and he had the most pronounced jawline and cheekbones she’d ever seen, even in movies. The point was, Regulus made Tom Cruise look unattractive.

To make matters even worse, he’d taken it upon himself to start cursing around her and calling her by her first name, citing “adequate familiarity”, whatever the hell that meant. The way his mouth looked when he formed the syllables of her name, the way ‘fuck’ rolled off his tongue— it shot sparks down her spine. 

He was so fucking sexy, and she really didn’t appreciate him getting all close to her and making her already-made decision to continuously reject him all the more difficult. The horrifying reality was, if he kissed her, she’d probably let him.

November, 1984

Hogwarts

Scotland

“Where are you going?” Yarrow asked one Saturday evening in November after even most of the seventh years had snuck back into the dorms. Sera zipped up her black dress and turned around, examining the way the leather made her ass look in the mirror. She had fishnets that went up to her thighs and were held up by garters, as well as her favorite pair of black combat boots, which Beo was currently rubbing against. She wasn’t thin or muscular the way most people seemed to find attractive, but it was a Queen concert, and dammit, she was gonna feel good about her appearance for a change.

She waved a hand around her, casting a quick warming charm to stop her from getting cold on the walk off the grounds. Taking out a tube of bright red lipstick, she addressed her friend. “I’m going to a concert.”

“How are you even leaving the school?”

“Uh, doy, I’m sneaking out.” Sera rolled her eyes. “I’ve been turning myself invisible since I was, like, fourteen. It’s whatever.” She applied the lipstick, tapped her lower lip once to charm it so it wouldn’t smudge or fade, and decided she was satisfied.

“Isn’t your beau coming to visit tonight?”

Sera turned slowly towards her friend. “What?”

“Uh, yeah,” Yarrow said, gesturing towards the pile of letters on Sera’s desk that she liked to pretend she’d never read. “He told you in the most recent one he was coming up for a visit. Said if you didn’t meet him, he’d come find you or something. Flitwick probably wouldn’t mind, but I’ve honestly no idea how he could convince Dumbledore.” Yarrow shrugged. “Whatever, I suppose.”

“Fuck,” Sera gasped. “Did he say when he was coming?” 

“No,” Yarrow said, delicately turning a page in the book they were reading.

“Better see if I can beat him, then,” she decided, and off she went.

Unfortunately, just as she passed the school gate, there was Regulus. 

Fuck.

She’d made herself visible again, which, in retrospect, was a bad idea, but making herself completely invisible was actually pretty difficult.

“Sera?” Regulus frowned, looking her up and down. “What’re you wearing?”

“Go away,” she snapped, irritated. “I’m busy.”

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “You’ve come like I asked, so—“

“I didn’t know you’d asked,” she told him impatiently. “I have plans.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Plans that require you to sneak out of the castle at night?”

Sera glared up at him sharply. “Yes.”

He tensed, examining her outfit again. “Those are your Muggle clothes, yes?”

She pursed her lips and didn’t respond.

“Are you…” He gulped. “Are you meeting a Muggle boy?”

She stared at him in disbelief. She was so annoyed by his audacity that she sniffed and said, “In a manner of speaking.” Regulus looked so displeased at this that Sera couldn’t help but groan. “I’m going to a concert, you wastoid.”

“Oh.” He instantly relaxed. “I’ll come with you, then.”

She lurched back, though he wasn’t particularly close to her to begin with. “You most certainly will not.”

He hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Where are we off to, then?”

She scowled at him, marching past him and away from the school gates to get outside the wards so she could relocate. 

“I don’t have my usual friends,” she snapped. “I last saw these guys a couple years ago, and I can’t go with my friends the way I did back then, and it sucks.”

“You can go with me,” he pointed out. 

“You’ve never even heard their music.” She paused. “Which is so fucking weird, by the way. Literally everyone’s heard Queen.”

“Why don’t you show me, then?” he asked. “I might like it.”

He sounded so hopeful that she just didn’t have it in her to turn him down. And, well… she actually enjoyed spending time with him, even though she’d never tell him that.

“Fine,” she eventually decided. “I just do magic to get in anyway. It won’t be hard to get you in, too.”

He fell into step beside her, his eyes wide. “Really? That’s illegal, you know.”

She shrugged. “All the best things are illegal.”

He looked down at her in bewilderment. “Are you quite certain you’ve never been involved with a man before?” he asked.

She glared up at him wordlessly. Once they were outside the wards, she said, “Shut up and hold still.” With that, she grabbed his arm and transported them off to London.

Sera charmed everyone who might otherwise get in their way with basic confusion spells, the same way she and Ta had always done. Her non-magic friends never understood how she and Ta got away with everything they did, but nobody ever questioned it. Not when the two of them could get away with damn near anything. 

When Freddie Mercury took the stage, Sera screamed, jumping up and down. 

She admittedly wasn’t paying much attention to Regulus, but he’d been looking at her for most of the show. She actually noticed some when he watched her dance and shake her ass to Fat Bottomed Girls (along with everybody else; it wasn’t like she was particularly special), but other than that, she didn’t think about him much.

Until the last song of the encore, halfway through Somebody To Love, when she had her eyes closed and was singing along with Freddie when he said, “Someday, I’m gonna be free.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she was turned around, a hand was in her hair, and lips were on hers.

Sera’s eyes snapped open in shock, but… but Regulus was kissing her. He was kissing her like he was dying.

She was frozen for a moment, and she really should’ve pushed him away, but there was alcohol buzzing in her veins, so she could do nothing but arch into him, clenching her hands in his shirt and trying her best to kiss him back.

Regulus pulled away after what felt like a delicious eternity of his mouth on hers, cupping her cheek with one hand, the other on the small of her back. His eyes were hooded and fixed on her lips, and Sera could only look up at him, breathing heavily and wishing he’d kiss her again.

They stumbled, giggling, up against the wall of a random building in the city.

“God, Sera,” he groaned into her throat.

She hauled his mouth back to hers wordlessly, winding her arms around his neck. Now that she’d given in, she couldn’t really recall why she’d bothered fighting this to begin with.

“We should— we should talk about this—“ he said between gulps of air.

“God, shut up,” she complained. “Just kiss me.”

“I’m supposed to be a gentleman,” he muttered, mouthing wetly at her throat. “You just make it so fucking difficult in these sexy little outfits. Damn near show me your arse, fuck.” He grabbed her ass then, squeezing it roughly. She took a sharp intake of breath, arching into him, her breasts against his chest. “But we have to talk about this.”

“Ugh,” she grumbled in frustration, shoving him away from her. Her head thunked on the brick wall of the building she was leaning against, and she fixed him with a glare. “What do we have to talk about?”

“Us,” he explained, sounding terribly impatient for reasons that most likely directly related to the large tent in his pants. “I’ve been trying to court you properly for months, and tonight, I— I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You are just…” He exhaled, his eyes roving over her form, pausing briefly on where the zipper of her dress revealed her cleavage. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, so I kissed you. Sorry. It wasn’t how I planned to…” He took a deep breath. “Look, Sera, I fancy you. More than I have done anyone so quickly before. I would very much like it if you would seriously give my offer some consideration.”

“Your offer?” she asked, raking a hand through her curls, still dazed by the kiss, the way he’d touched her.

“I’m not proposing,” he said slowly, carefully, “but if this continues, if you allow me to kiss you again, touch you again, I…” He looked down. “If there is no chance of you ever consenting to marry me, tell me now.”

She was silent for a long moment.

She really did have feelings for him, didn’t she? She was falling for the prick. 

Oh, fuck it.

“I dunno how all this courtship stuff works,” she admitted quietly, “but I do like you, Regulus. A lot. Normally, that’d mean, like, dating. Here, I guess it means—“

“An engagement,” he said flatly. “It means an engagement, if your aunt agrees as your Head of Household. It’s generally… expedited in the event of genuine interest between prospective spouses.”

“You said you weren’t proposing,” she pointed out shakily.

“I’m not. But if you allow me to, I’ll court you with that goal in mind.”

“I thought you were just getting to know me,” Sera recalled.

He nodded once. “I was. I’m satisfied. I want you.” She blushed to the roots of her hair at that, but he continued, “If you’ll allow it, I would like to court you properly with the intent of marriage.”

“I mean…” She gulped, anxiously twirling a curl around her finger. “That’s kinda what all dating is, if it’s serious.”

“This is serious,” he informed her, his voice stern. “Do you want me?”

She looked at his feet, the fancy shoes that were somehow spotless despite having just attended a fucking concert. “Y— yeah.”

He cupped her cheek, lifting her face up—up, up, up. Fucking hell, he really was a tall bastard, wasn’t he?—to his. “Agreeing to allow me to properly court you is to agree to marry me, assuming all goes well. Do you agree?”

She looked up at him with wide, nervous eyes. It was just like they were dating, right? He’d just be her boyfriend. That wasn’t a big deal, really. After a moment, she breathed, “Yes.”

He kissed her before the word was fully out of her mouth.

Yeah, a Queen concert, we’re ignoring what the set list was and the exact date that Queen was in London, okay, cut a bitch some slack and lemme be self indulgent here

Big thanks to @lilmaymayy for betaing!

Tag list:

@ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence @timmymyluv @oddlyenoughiamweird @leecrunchybones @s-we-e-t-t-ea @almostg @leespparker @bubblebuttwade @glizzymcguirex @starberry-cake @camille-1019 @lixzey @shycreationdreamland @gossamer19

To be added, please ask 💗

[cantsayidont]

(Edited to reflect the remainder of the season, but still more more haterating than hollerating, TBF.)

SUNNY (2024): Weird, exceptionally abrasive A24/Apple TV+ sci-fi black comedy about an entitled and resentful white American expat in Kyoto, Suzie Sakamoto (Rashida Jones), whose Japanese husband (Hidetoshi Nishijima) and young son have apparently died in a plane crash, leaving Suzie with one of his company's domestic robots (the titular Sunny, voiced by Joanna Sotomura), an irritatingly chipper, reflexively manipulative, passive-aggressive, possibly dangerous device whose cutesy CGI design suffers very serious uncanny valley problems throughout. In between clashes with her disapproving mother-in-law Noriko (Judy Ongg), Suzie stumbles into a mysterious conspiracy involving the Yakuza, accompanied by a blue-haired bartender named Mixxy (singer-songwriter annie the clumsy), who's the closest thing she has to a friend.

Adapted by Katie Robbins from a novel by Colin O'Sullivan, the show does a poor job of establishing its sci-fi conceits (homebots like Sunny are apparently fairly common, but we don't ever see any others for long enough to put Sunny's odd behavior in any perspective); Jones is unbearable in an incredibly unsympathetic lead role; and the convoluted plot (which ends on a very weak cliffhanger) can never make up its mind whether it wants to be taken seriously or not. Even after 10 episodes, it's still unclear what the show is trying to be, except that its determination to sideline its Japanese characters in favor of its grating American protagonist is very off-putting. CONTAINS LESBIANS? Mixxy is gay, although her obvious desire to get in Suzie's pants suggests that she has absolutely terrible taste in women. VERDICT: I was mildly intrigued by the odd seriocomic tone, but the muddled, frequently irritating story goes nowhere, and the focus on Suzie makes it an ordeal.