#141-Piece

[temeyes]

a very adorable kirby!141 c/mm for @tapioca-milktea1978!

[honeyhobbs]

Made a wallpaper of Gaz's new skin!

[syoddeye]

down the hatch

141 x reader, featuring a smidgen of soapgaz in this bit. ~1.5k words.

part one | two | three

tags: poly141, soapgaz depicted. reader is a little cuckoo for coco puffs after being alone for three months. voyeurism. half-assed masturbation. a gun. kind of crackfic, kind of not.

banner from @/cafekitsune

“we’re not gonna hurt you,” ballcap insists, crouching to open the cupboard under the sink.

“just a little,” dry bones adds, not bothering to lower his voice.

“he’s lying, kitty, swear we won’t hurt you.”

holed up in the surveillance room, you listen over the crackling feed through the attached headset, absolutely fuming. panicking, too, but the door is shut and locked. the seal blends with the maintenance room’s panels, and the button to open it is hidden in the electric panel. the bunker’s build, many cameras, and folding bunks in the second bedroom suggest the austrian had long-term plans to repopulate earth or intended to abduct others but ran out of time.

either option would’ve blown, but now, his paranoia and apparent voyeurism came in handy. the stupid, unwashed idiots look dumb as hell crawling around looking for you.

after a while, they assemble in the kitchen and spend the next hour taking inventory. they are not impressed by the yanni collection, but they are intrigued by the bed you stopped making and the half-completed puzzle of the eiffel tower. you snarl as ballcap completes one of the corners. fucking uncivilized freaks, trampling all over puzzle etiquette. if you didn’t have the external feed and a pile of hardened ooze for proof, you’d know the world had gone to hell in a handbasket. depraved.

eventually, scragglebeard rustles up dinner. it’s obscene, the amount of food he uses. the men lounge and luxuriate in your kitchen and your living room. it doesn’t look like they’ve struggled for much. they eat like a pack of feral dogs when presented with a stew and mash. mohawk produces a half-full bottle of liquor, and the four nitwits have the nerve to toast the discovery of their new home.

a growl from your stomach tempers your outrage. you didn’t consider supplies when you hid. just survival.

the men laze after their meal.

“gonna go have a shower.” mohawk announces, slapping his thighs as he stands.

“thank christ.” dry bones jeers.

“join me?”

you straighten in the swivel chair. that's unexpected.

“nah, i’ll go later.”

“is it an open invite?” ballcap asks.

“always.”

“warm it up for us, then.” 

you won’t use the cameras that the austrian installed in the bathrooms—that’s crossing a line. then, a minute later, ballcap follows mohawk, and walks right past the three-quarter-finished eiffel tower. you think, vive la france, joie de vivre, or whatever.

a pity the cameras in the bathrooms don’t have speakers. the lens is a bit foggy, but the view is decent. the men waste no time stripping.

the camera sits in a vent, points through the grate, and into the showers. they’re in the stall closest to the door, convenient. mohawk pins ballcap to the slick tile, his hands gripping the other man’s hips so tight you see his knuckles whitening. desperate thing.

it’s kind of boring after a few minutes. mostly mohawk sloppily kissing and nipping at ballcap’s mouth and lips, occasionally detouring down his neck. their junk is mostly hidden at this angle, presumably slippery from the shower and all the dry-humping. wet-humping? ballcap kneads the fat of mohawk’s ass, his eyes fluttering when a particular patch of his throat gets attention. 

fuck, okay, maybe this is more titillating than you originally thought. you adjust in the chair, finding the seam of your jorts (craftily fashioned from men’s jeans you found in a closet), and slowly grind along it. it’s lazy, but you’re not gonna stick your hand down your pants if this is all you’re getting.

and as if reading your mind, mohawk breaks from ballcap’s grip and sinks to his knees. his juvenile haircut flops flat under the water, but ballcap’s dick sure doesn’t. even through the sub-optimal camera feed, you know it’s pretty. the way mohawk immediately hones in confirms, licking up the underside and palming his sack. when he finally gets his mouth to the good part, you unbutton your fly, shove two fingers in your mouth, and lean back. 

near-constant masturbation lost its novelty around week three, but it's like riding a bike. you manage a few good, firm circles, beckoning heat out of hibernation when sudden movement on the camera startles you right out of a lovely, burgeoning haze.

fuck bucket. ballcap has mohawk hoisted by the armpit, their abandoned cocks practically wagging. he’s rapidly speaking and pointing right at the fucking vent. how the hell he spotted the tiny red light, you don’t know, but dry bones and scragglebeard stumble into the bathrooms moments later. 

dry bones disappears beneath the frame, and the camera shakes slightly as the vent cover comes off. he steps back, mouth moving beneath his mask, and the four men exchange looks.

scragglebeard speaks as the naked men hastily dress, then start a second sweep of the bunker. this time, armed with the knowledge that somebody’s watching, they don’t split up. they move as a unit.

you watch in horror as they upend the bunker. they move furniture, poke outlets, and empty all the shelves to feel for switches and levers. distantly, you think you would’ve made for a decent escape room operator in the before times. you stifle a mad laugh at the idea, nearly choking when they finally enter the maintenance room.

hand pressed to your mouth, you breathe shallowly as they search. they’re more careful, skipping the electric and valves altogether, probably afraid if they fuck with anything too much, the power or water will go out. they check the ridges between the panels, and you hold your breath as dry bones runs his fingers along the hidden seal.

he stops and peels off a glove. pressing his palm to the secret door’s front, he hums. he glances over his shoulder, directly into the camera, then at scragglebeard. 

“the wall’s warmer here.”

“think there’s something behind it, lt?” mohawk asks. 

lt. initials?

mohawk shoulders dry bones out of the way, pressing his full cheek to the panel and paws at the metal. you freeze, unsure if you’re breathing at this point.

“think it’s residual heat from wiring.'' mohawk finally concludes, pulling away with a shrug. ‘lt’ looks unconvinced, and scragglebeard itches at his namesake.

“it’s gettin’ late. let’s bed down, look again in the morning.”

“you’re not worried someone’s watching us, sir?”

sir? ooh, is it like that? kinky.

“no. if they are, they know we’re armed and in good health. ‘sides. we’re going to cover them.”

your mouth dries. no. no. no. no. fuck, your one advantage. 

the men file out, and lt leaves last. he fishes a strip of cloth from a pocket and stuffs it around the camera’s base, obscuring its view.

“gonna find ya.” he mutters.

one by one, they cover the cameras they’ve found, leaving you with only three. thank you, austrian freakshow, for not skimping on surveillance. you still see the living room, a sliver of the kitchen, and the maintenance hall. it’s not much, but it’s enough to inspire a plan.

you watch the men turn in for the night. you’re not stupid, though. you wait an hour and a half until there’s no further movement, and the bunker’s dark. it’s now or never.

sneak out. grab food, water, and a kitchen knife. flee the bunker. easy.

if it’s still standing, your old one-bedroom rental is a short distance away. you’ll fortify it, then work on luring the rats out of your nest.

tiptoeing past the bedrooms, at least two of the men saw logs. ugh. didn’t miss that in the apocalypse. 

in the kitchen, you gather supplies. tins of tuna, soup, and vienna sausages. the last potatoes. some protein bars. a reusable water bottle. salt and pepper. (spices and seasonings are on the top of your scavenging list.)

satisfied, you tie the corners of your makeshift bindle together and turn to head to the entrance point when your eyes drift over a small shape in the dark. there, atop a side table in the adjoining living room, is a handgun.

in theory, you know how to use it. you logged a good thousand hours on goldeneye 007 as a kid. loads more effective than the paring knife in your hand.

you creep toward it, eyes widening and heart racing. could use on the interlopers while they sleep. but how would you get their bodies out of the bunker? you don’t want to training montage until your muscles swell, not with their corpses doing the same thing in the spare bedroom.

no. much more useful out there. you reach for it.

and somebody reaches for you.

a hand closes around your forearm, squeezing hard to force you to drop the knife, and another wraps around your head, hand clamping over your mouth before you can cry mon dieu. 

the wrapped cans clatter and smash to the ground in the struggle. a deep voice, harsh in your ear and tinged with insufferable smugness, whispers. 

“told ya i was gonna find ya.”

[sobasicallyimpoppee]

Imagine them wearing this shirt 🫶🏾

[jumbojazzcats93]

I'm Not Nice - Ghost

Summary - A Queen driven to resent her King by his lack of consideration for her in relation to his mistress.

Tags/Warnings - royalty, infidelity, love to hate, angst, inspired by Please, Please, Please by Sabrina Carpenter

Banners by @/saradika-graphics @glossysoap @quietlyignoringyou @lordlydragon @grizzersmamma @ivymarquis @violet-phantoms @gremlingottoosilly

"Your Highness... you should not delay any further."

The poor attendant... he's too old to be subject to stressors such as this.

"Do you suggest I enter without His Majesty?"

The question wasn't meant to be discourteous, but the attendant dabs a handkerchief at his forehead nonetheless. You purse your lips. He's with that woman. You know it. He knows you cannot enter alone without there being damage to your influence as the queen, yet still, he's late. You close your eyes as they sting with tears of frustration and look up. Deep breaths. You cannot be seen as having been bothered by this. It'll just make you look weak.

"A decision, Your Highness?"

You steel yourself and smooth your hands over your dress. Swallowing hard you announce, "Five more minutes. We must afford His Majesty some more time before we make any brash decisions." The attendant simply bows. "Yes, Your Highness."

Clenching your jaw, you face away. Late to his anniversary ball... Simon Riley... please don't bring me to tears when my makeup has been done just so.

The fairytale books made no mention of scheduled nights to lay with your husband. Neither did your mother, your tutors, or your ladies in waiting. There you sat on the bed of your marital chamber. The doors were shut, but it didn't stop the conversation right outside the door from leaking in. You listened to her beg him, your husband, not to lay with another woman.

Another woman.

As if you weren't her queen. Her monarch. The servants and guards were surely waiting with baited breath to share the news of the Kings mistress interrupting his time with the Queen once again. You knew that where the begging and sweet words failed, the tears would win. For the last several weeks Simon had rebuffed you in favor of her. Within minutes of his entrance to the marital chamber, the guards would announce her arrival and request for a moment of his Majesty's time.

But you would not be rejected again tonight.

You stand from the bed and slip your robe back over your chemise. You pay no more mind to the conversation outside the door as you drink down the rest of your wine and make your way across the room. Yet before you've even made it half way, the door opens and Simon appears. "My Queen, let-" "No need, my dear husband." The title of husband has carried a sour taste as of late. "I shall retire for the night and leave you to your affairs." Glancing behind him you see no one but the guards.

"You're leaving?" Surprised, you look back to Simon. For him to look so disheartened.... it saddens and angers you. You clench your jaw and swallow. "You clearly have other things to attend to. I will not keep-" "I turned her away." Simon rushedly cuts you off. "My Queen. My wife... please stay." You feel your pride fizzling away. Your eyes are wide and your body shivers. How could you turn down such a request? It's all you've wanted since your wedding. The attention of the man you were raised to love and adore.

"Of course I'll stay."

"Who has approved of this!?" You cry out. "Surely not His Majesty, The King!"

The squire begins to confirm to you, that it was indeed the king, but you stand and cross the room before he can finish. You're out the door before your attendant can even rise from his seat in your office. A choruses of "Please, wait!" and "Your Highness!" echo after you in the hall as you beeline for the King's office. The guards cannot even finish announcing you before you're opening the doors and storming in.

"Your Majesty, surely you've sent me this request in jest." The document is placed squarely in the center of the desk over the rest of his papers. "Surely you do not intend to build a palace for your mistress with funds from the queens allowance."

It's only then, in horror, that you notice her. As Simon opens his mouth to answer you, a woman's voice interrupts. Her voice. "Your Highness, it is very uncouth of you to arrive in such a way unannounced." She acts completely scandalized as if she is the owner of this palace. It makes you sick, but you must maintain a semblance of composure in order to save face among the servants. "My Lady, I'd like to speak to my husband in private. Would you please leave us?" Being in her presence is the only time you address Simon so informally in public. It's a desperate act to remind her of her place that never seems to work. She looks at Simon. He works his jaw for a moment before dismissing her with a nod. The audacity to ignore you, The Queen, as if she has some position over you by being holding some of The Kings affections. Your blood pressure spikes at the exchange.

At the sound of the door shutting Simon sighs and leans back. "My queen... your allowance was barely cut into. Why would such an insignificant amount of gold provoke this type of reaction?" "Your Majesty, do you feign muteness to drive a reaction from me?" His expression gives nothing away. He must genuinely think this okay. You take a deep, shaking breath. "My husband... can you truly see no issue in taking from your wife, to give to your mistress?" His jaw shuts with a click of his teeth. Its a disgusting realization. That he must think of you as only The Queen, not as his wife.

You feel a familiar burn in your eyes.

One hand reaches and brushes it's fingers along the edge of his desk. "I believe I will be retiring early for the day, Your Majesty." Your hand retracts and folds in front of you again. "I'll be taking my evening meal in my chambers, you'll not be seeing me." As he rises from his seat he begins to hurredly speak. "My Queen-"

Your voice raises slightly, "I pray your evening is pleasant." And with an elegant curtsy, you take your leave.

"Your Highness, the delegation has arrived in the banquet hall."

"Thank you, madam."

Your hands are wringing in your lap. He better not be late this time. You've worked on this treaty for months and for you to be embarrassed on your first meeting with the delegation would be the final blow to you pride. All you can do is sit in the Solar and wait, though. Your irritation growing by the minute. Even your lady's maid looks anxious. You decide to quietly ask, "Where was he last seen, Madam Dia?"

She hesitates and it answers the question before she even utters a word. "His Majesty was last reported to be in her chambers, Your Highness. Im sorry." The pity in her voice makes your stomach turn, but the anger that fills your chest overtakes your embarrassment like a tide. You take in a breath to calm yourself, so deep it hurts, and stand up. "I cannot wait this time. We must enter the banquet hall and greet the delegates." "Yes, Your Highness. I will notify the attendants." She begins to hurry to the door, but it abruptly swings open before she can reach it. Simon swoops into the solar with haste. Your lady's maid bows deeply before hurrying out the door. He looks at you out of breath. "Your Majesty, you must be truly set on fraying away every last one of my nerves."

Cringing, he responds, "Lady Tanya, kept me longer than I anticipated. Please forgive me." To utter her name in front of you... he must truly have taken leave of his senses. It enrages you even more. Your eyes flare and the anger loosens your tongue to a dangerous extent.

"Dear Husband, I could handle personal slights and dismissals, but for such important public events..." Your breathing is shaky, but carefully controlled. You approach until you're chest to chest, fixing him with a brutal glare. "Heartbreak is one thing, my ego is another. I beg you do not embarrass me today."

He's floundering for words as you walk past him and head for the Banquet Hall's entrance.

[daily-xisuma]

[141] Hermitcraft x Odyssey crossover au where for no good reason this interaction happens

[beaulesbian]

A really sweet moment of this filler arc (ep 141), with Usopp making food and going: "There's nothing I can't do" & "I lived alone for a long time and all." (which is so bittersweet, but partly I love thinking he's still has interest in cooking and from time to time he helps to cook alongside Sanji, who's happy to have someone competent beside him in the kitchen)

[pettyprocrastination]

as much as I love 141 medieval au's here the reader is a noble lady saved from her marriage or some lone townswomans rescued by the group of knights (looking @ my own nun!reader in this) I do love the notion of a lady knight.

A badass woman with no name or backstory that's taken up the life of a sellsword- who scoffs at the notion of "honor" when spilling blood on your blade- death is death. Honor means nothing for God or king.

Her hair is cut close to her scalp, because it's all too easy for somebody to grab a handful of those soft locks and be at the perfect position to slit her throat in a fight. Covered in scars and carried by aching bones that broke years ago but never quite healed properly.

Maybe Price is a king who sees this helmeted figure fighting at a tourney for his name day and asks for their name- their noble house only to learn you have none. Simply a desire for the money awarded to the winner.

Maybe Gaz is beloved prince who often sneaks out from his guards nose to mingle with the common folk- who enjoys sitting in a tavern with others and singing songs while drinking ale with a pretty little thing on his lap until he's walking back to the palace and finds a blade at his neck in a dark alley as you warn him that noblebloods should never walk unaccompanied- it makes the job far too easy.

Maybe a beautiful noble lady is sent to stay under the eye of a royal family in discussion for marriage- when the house offers to gift her one for their personal guards of the 141, she insists she more than happy with her own- you. The silent armor-clad figure standing close to her side. (yes I miss domentzia. she's my wife and always will be).

[vicariousresearcher]

rn I just need to be held by Ghost. i need it to be post-mission where it was such a shit storm and there was so many close calls that the adrenaline crash getting back to base is bone-crushing. the kind where when you lay down in your bed you can feel your soul just melting out through your pores. constantly wondering if you had died out there would it have mattered? who would've cared? noticed? anyone aside from the team that relied on your abilities? you came back to this base again- not to a mother or a husband or friend or even a fucking cat. no, you came back to this base where you’re just another number in a nameless room. 

you know you’re not the only one who feels the pit in your lungs that slowly spreads its infection with each breath you take. it’s why Price is always out at the pub after a mission and why Gaz is always scratching for a new thing to spend the night with. all just trying to stave off that feeling that threatens to drown.

it’s how you find yourself in Ghosts room for the first time. 

You doesn’t even realize how touch-starved you are until you feel your throat close up even just in anticipation of it. the click of the door, a flick of the lights, thin laces unravelling between your fingers as you pull your boots all lighting up every nerve in his body. fight or flight igniting at the same time. barely dampened by the bone deep want to be touched.

neither of you quite able to sooth that need naturally. unable to just go out to the bar and find someone willing to smooth away the mission like how everyone else could. it was easier this way. you already knew and trusted each other. with a stranger, he’d have to spend just as much of the time disarming them as you would enjoying himself. 

doesn’t matter how dark the room is, you still hear that sharp hiss of air he sucked through his teeth when you settled down on the mattress next to him. part of you is wondering if he can hear your pulse pounding through your head.

two bodies squeezed into the small military-issued bed, scratchy blankets and all. and for the first time, you see Ghost hesitate. looking unsure. 

worried.

you have to tuck into him, one leg slotting between his and the other curled over his hip. his hands hovering above where they should go. paralyzed by the feeling of warmth against his body. 

his heart rabbits against his ribcage like a scared animal. a chained dog so used to its leash that once it’s unclipped and faced with freedom it freezes. as much as it hated that fucking yard there was comfort in its familiarity.  

this was not familiar.

it takes some time for his strung-up muscles to settle. hand cradling the back of your head. your hands snaking around his wide waist to slide under his shirt. scratching circles with your cracked nails.

the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his being so soothing it makes him wonder if this is what infants seek when they cling to their mothers.

You left your heart in his jaws you realize a bit too late. pulsing and oozing. soft. vulnerable in ways you abandoned in your childhood bedroom among the stuffed animals and stained carpet.

you doesn’t even know that he defanged himself as soon as you walked into his room. maw bloody and forgiving as his body lets out shaky breaths to accommodate the splintering gap in his chest

when was the last time you was touched like this? in a way that wasn’t clinical or corrective? willingly touched as a human rather than as an embodiment of training and skills? 

it's as scary as it is unpredictable. yet you and Ghost stay like that until morning. waking up to untangle limbs and shared, gooey viscera. 

you walk out of that room pretending to not know what it sounds like when his heart slows or what his hands feel like carding through your hair. 

just teammates when you walk out the door. strangers to each other's beds. 

until that itch to be held like you matter comes up again.

[buttdumplin]

One week post hysterectomy and you're ready to pull out your hair and theirs. Ale and Rudy can help.

cw: poly!141 x transmasc latine!reader, established relationship, mexican slang, spanish-speaking reader word count: 1620

You don’t often have to remind yourself how much you love your partners, how you cherish them, because it comes so naturally. But with the hovering and the near constant check-ins and the way they won’t let you even walk on your own, you have to recite a mantra about it so you don’t pull out your own hair.

“Yall realize that 6-8 weeks of recovery does not mean 6-8 weeks of being bed bound, right?”

John is almost too quick to answer, “Hasn’t even been a full week yet. You need to take it slow.”

“None of you ever take it this slow when you’re injured.”

“None of us have to deal with that major of a surgery usually.”

There’s plenty of pillows around you, you can chuck one at his head without it affecting your posture. You spend a second looking for the right one to throw, but the pillows John bought you are slightly bigger than what you can currently lift. Motherfucker has the gall to grin at you, proud of himself.

Needing to at least exit the room, you wiggle around in the nest of pillows as much as you can without hurting yourself. A too hard lunge makes you gasp and Simon appears at your side, reaching in with strong arms to pull you free from the tender trap. You sit him down once you’re on your feet, motioning for him to stay there. You can make the walk to the bathroom. You should make the walk to the bathroom. You need to make the walk to the bathroom.

“Remember not to strain yourself,” he calls from the bed, edge in his voice making it clear that he’s only barely able to stay where you left him.

Any other time, any other one of them, you’d be turning and mocking them with an “okay mom.” In fact, you still want to with all the careful tiptoeing, but when you turn and find those big brown eyes full of soft concern, the anger dissipates. Simon is in uncharted waters, feeling helpless and clinging to what he can do for you. His hands clutch the bedding under him, knuckles turned white.

You answer him softly, “I will Moncho, thank you.”

As silent as he is, you know he’s standing outside the door the moment you close it, waiting for your call should you need him. It’s usually not a problem, but having to swear to no locked doors for the foreseeable future makes you move carefully in the bathroom. The last thing you need right now is to grunt a little too loudly and scare Simon. 

“You know you don’t all have to stay housebound, right?” you try to keep your tone friendly as you open the door. “Yall can take turns stepping out for groceries or snacks.”

“Everything delivers now, love,” Kyle sounds a little too smiley for your liking right now.

“I just don’t want yall to get bored, cooped up.”

Johnny’s laughter drifts in from the kitchen, “Please, we’d stay home every day if we could. Delighted we can now.”

There has to be fucking something. They’re sweet, they’re lovely. The surgery and recovery would be impossible without them. But there has the be some fucking way to not have all eyes on you every minute of every day. You ease back into the plush nest made for you, trying to drum something up. Thankfully, the sound of the doorbell saves you from spiraling deeper into your frustration.

“Damn, yall really did order everything for delivery.”

Johnny sprints for the door, excitement in his eyes, “This might be one of the things we ordered for you specifically.”

Swear to god, if they ordered more of those impossible compression socks, they’re never gonna hear the end of it. At least it’s been a good day. You’ve got clean sheets and bedding, you showered with little to no pain (Simon insisted on joining you to help), and the incision sites are healing well. The bladder pain you could do without, though. 

“Special delivery,” a new voice sings. Two?

“Ale! Fito!” you surge forward to stand, but too many men shouting in protest sits you back down. “What are yall doing here?”

They make their way through the pillows to greet you properly, facial hair rasping against your cheek. Thank fuck for that shower earlier. Can’t be too mad about this being orchestrated now. 

Ale smiles bright, plopping down next to you, “Un pajarito medio nalgón-”

“Cuatro,” Rudy interrupts, taking a seat much more gently, “Cuatro pajaritos bastante nalgones.” 

“Simón, Simón. Cuatro nos pidieron un favor.”

“We did say ‘special delivery’.”

They each place a white box in front of you. No labels or tape, just folded closed gently. The folded pieces bloom open in their hands, revealing a giant ziploc bag full of lots of little somethings in each. You can make out little star and flower shapes, all coated in a clumping white powder.

“Are these my tía’s cookies?” 

Ale sucks his teeth, wrapping an arm around you, “Clarín cornetas, mi niño.”

“Which of you did she flirt with?”

“Both,” Rudy chuckles, “We got that bordertown charm.”

It’s then that you remember your tía’s bordertown and their bordertown are on opposite sides of Texas. Not only did they have to deal with her shameless flirting for who knows how long, sweet fools must have gone so far out of their way to get these. And the sheer care they must have put into the transportation. These cookies are frail and yet so few of them are broken. They even accounted for the lard used in them, little ice packs peek out from underneath the large ziploc bags. Tears blur your vision, their voices going out of focus as they give you updates on your family.

“There is one condition though,” Rudy hands you a tissue. “One bag is for you, and the other is for them to share.”

Johnny comes running in from the kitchen again, “Wait, just one for all four of us?”

“That’s what Tití said.”

“Fuck, I really thought she liked us,” Johnny stands completely still for a minute, clearly reviewing the interactions they’ve had with your tía in his mind, cookies forgotten. 

Kyle takes their bag, diving into it immediately and coating his chin in the powdered sugar falling from the cookie. It doesn’t take long for the other 3 to converge around the bag after that. They’ve only had these cookies once before, at your youngest cousin’s quince, which was full of too many “so exactly how are you related?” questions. Your tía says she saves them for special occasions, but you know that the labor that goes into making them is too much for the cookies to be in regular rotation. Either way, they’re a true gift. Your cousins must have helped her this time, the start and flower shapes are just off enough to not fit into your tía’s perfectionism. It won’t take a whole lot of convincing to get Simon to use his fancy calligraphy to write them a thank-you note.

“We were also promised grilled goods upon arrival?” Ale speaks loudly over the cookie commotion.

John perks up at that, faint surprise on his face.

Kyle makes an excited noise around a mouthful of cookie, speaking from the corner of his mouth, “Right, and we’ve got everything set for the chef.” He wrangles John towards the backyard. 

Simon looks worried as Johnny approaches him, clearly meaning to take him to the backyard as well. He’s been firmly by your side since they brought you home from the hospital. He looks over at you, tracing your figure slowly, double-checking every inch of you. Taking a deep breath, he stiffens.

“We’ll look after your boy,” Rudy says softly.

“Aquí te espero, amor.”

He nods, your words enough to ease him through the door. 

With all the prep before the surgery, a couple of really intense weeks where you all worked to prime the house for recovery, this is the first chance you’ve gotten to exist without them being in the same room. And it’s so fucking nice. You couldn’t ask for better partners, but it’s almost relieving to not have to worry about accidentally setting one of them off and launching them into motherhenning. Rudy and Ale have clearly been given the task of looking after you, but even just having new faces to talk to is refreshing.

“Which one of them set this up?” you ask them.

“It was less a request and more a suggestion from us,” Rudy says.

“Bien los conocemos,” Ale adds. “Te quejas, pero bien chiple que te tienen.”

You grin, not even trying to deny it.

It’s muted, but the sounds of the boys chatting drifts into the room. Some back and forth about marinating and time, some laughing about sneaking around. You can’t quite see them from your window, but it’s reassuring to know that this time is helping them relax as well. 

Ale and Rudy tell you more about their trip to visit your tía, passing along the greetings and well wishes your family sent you. It’s an easy rhythm: one talks, the other corrects, and you get to giggle as you listen. Then you swap: you talk, Ale listens, Rudy shushes him. It’s soothing in a way that reminds you so much of home, the ruckus everywhere and laughter echoing. When the tension in your shoulders has finally slipped away, Ale turns to you, curious and serious.

“So about this recovery period,” he says.

“And a grueling schedule before the surgery?” mischief lights Rudy’s eyes.

You groan, their cackling drowning out the sound of you swatting at their chests. 

[shotmrmiller]

(so not too terribly dark, but still wanted to give the warning just to be safe)

but say that one of the boys get a pet. and they can't stop gushing about how cute and perfect you are, how you look so pretty in his collar. especially when they're on missions, you're all he can talk about. hundreds of photos of you, as his screensaver and lockscreen and everything in between. they show their brothers-in-arms the innocent photos of you. maybe the ones bordering on indecent, but nothing of your body or how you look underneath him, taking his cock and being stuffed full of him. absolutely does not show them the videos he has of you alone, the ones you send him for when he's away on missions to keep him company where you're whining and mewling and sobbing for him because your toy can't compare and you miss his cock so badly. definitely also doesn't show them the videos he has where he bends you over the counter, the sink, the couch, his cock fitting so perfectly in you, or the ones where you're on your back and your eyes are so glassy, so full of love and warmth and safety.

you meet the boys at the pub, after you've been with him for a couple months (more or less, depending). and they love you. coo and fawn over you, your ears and tail and the collar that sports your handler's name proudly. pressing up against him, all shy smiles and sparkling eyes and fitting into their little group seamlessly.

well, all except one, who spends the evening holding his tongue and masking his sneer, this darkness consuming him and eating him from the inside out as he watches your handler press soft kisses to your skin, plays with the charm on your collar and keeps you tucked safe to his side.

he hates you. your handler is supposed to be his.

and so he starts his game of getting your handler to distrust you, make him suspicious and wary of you.

you don't actually love your handler, he says. how could you move her into your flat after only knowing her such a short time. so trusting, too trusting of you, when you could be out playing with others while he's gone, fucking and fawning over someone else and maybe even bringing them back to his.

you're no good for him. he feels it in his gut, that there's something off about you. and your handler knows just as well how important gut feelings can be. they've saved his life — and his mates' — more times than he can count. maybe he's just blinded by you. it is a little suspicious how perfect you seem, never seem to put up much of a fuss and practically never disagree with him.

and slowly, your handler starts to let these thoughts bleed into his own. he's known his mate for so long — far longer than he's known you — so he'd be amiss to not trust his judgement. he'd do the same if he were in his comrade's position.

your handler starts to change. out with the boys longer, changes his lockscreen to something else — his favorite team, him with his friends, an actress he fancies. he's not as open with his affection. doesn't want to play as often. doesn't kiss you as much, doesn't bring you out with his friends anymore.

and you don't understand. because now his words are colder, harsher. and you cry and beg and plead for him to tell you what's wrong, what did i do please i don't understand but he won't give you an answer because this is another one of your tricks, manipulating him.

it comes to a head after a mission that took months. he didn't text you as often, definitely didn't call. you offered to send him videos, film some before hand for him, but he waved you off and told you there was no need. and then he comes home and he cuts your collar right off and he still doesn't tell you why.

but you're not his anymore, and you wonder how long you haven't been his, and it breaks something in you. but you eventually move forward — definitely don't move on. not yet, not now. maybe not ever, because you were so in love with him and you've never been so happy. didn't even think you could feel that kind of happiness before.

but you try. go out with your friends, maybe get more drunk than you should. and one evening, you and your group go the bar that he frequents. maybe he's gone, maybe he won't be there.

but he is, because of course he is. he doesn't see you. but you definitely see the arm he has wrapped around his mate, the kiss he presses to his jaw like he used to with you. and he sees. gives you a wicked, satisfied smirk as he leans more into your former handler's touch, makes you watch as he gets a kiss and pulled in closer, until your eyes travel down to where his throat is, and a collar rests there, your handler's name proudly etched.

Ah. I thought you were gonna send something about non-con or something spook.

yikes. im about to be dragged to the slammerrrr. anyway.

ouch. my heart.

TW: thoughts of death, suicide? drinking far too much alcohol and vomit, er anything else lmk

There is nothing left for you there. You simply accept the bitter truth. No point in hanging around where you aren't wanted. It hurts, of course it does.

But he is a part of your past, now. He's moved on, clearly. There's no telling yourself some self-soothing nonsense like how karma will get the new pet because you don't believe in that.

What you do believe in, is that the world is unfair, and there is just no changing that.

Every day, you wake up and there is no color in your life. Everything is just grey. Dull. Lifeless. Kind of how you wish you ended up, sometimes.

Occasionally, you see them both out in public. The ache is there in your chest, eating you alive, threatening to swallow you whole. You watch them for maybe a couple of seconds and turn your attention elsewhere because to do anything other than that is foolishness.

The truth will either come to light one day, or it'll be shrouded by the dark forever.

It is what it is.

Your body at this point, is just trudging along. Moving through the motions of staying alive.

How miserable.

You go out with your friends again, simply humoring them because 'you just look so sad, let's go out and have fun', only to see him there again. This time, you barely even glance in his direction.

Shot easily turns into shots until you're acting sloppy. Not in a violent sense, mind you, but your inhibitions are lowered. If you can't open your heart back up again, opening up your legs will do for now.

Stumbling inside the bathroom, you pull the random you're with inside, and shut the door, using your heeled foot to keep it closed.

He's pawing at your chest too rough. It hurts, yet it reminds you that you are still here. Alive. Finally, a different type of pain than the one in your sternum.

Your fingers are fumbling with his belt buckle, only for the flimsy door you're both behind is almost broken off of the hinges, and the random is ripped off of you.

You don't recognize who's interrupted you because you're seeing double, and you're far too pissed to try and resist the hand that grabs your wrist and drags you out.

Your head is starting to spin violently, or maybe it's whoever is manhandling you that's pirouetting, but it doesn't matter because your mouth is starting to salivate heavily, and there's an acrid taste on your tongue.

"I think...I think I'ma throw up."

Now you're definitely being tossed around because there's a hard, blunt pressure on your stomach, and the world is now upside down. Your skin is clammy with cold sweat, and you can physically feel liquid coming up your esophagus.

"P'me down. Put m'down. Now."

There's a harsh sound of a door being slammed open, and then you're outside. The frosty air bites at your flesh, pricks stinging at your arms and legs, and you're quickly placed on your feet, where you pivot and hack up all the shots and sugary drinks you've had all night.

The brick wall digs into your palm where you hold yourself up with a trembling arm as you empty your stomach on the grass and over your heels, and you can vaguely feel your hair being pulled back, away from your face.

You wipe the strings of saliva that hang from your lips away with the back of your hand, close your eyes, tilt your head up, and take in a deep, shuddering breath.

You are too sloshed to be coherent, and you try to slur out a thank you when the person who brought you outside cooly responds.

"Didn't think you to be the type. In the bathroom of a dingy bar? Really?"

A tiny rush of clarity runs through your body, and you're frozen in fear? shock?

It's your ex.

You dig your nails into the wall painfully, grainy stone stinging your fingertips.

"T'wha' do," you pause to swallow the excess spit in your mouth as bile tries to come up your throat again, "do I owe th' horror?"

He sounds sober, clear. Much unlike yourself.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

What were you doing, indeed? Nothing. Suffering. Poisoning yourself. Wishing you weren't alive. Hating him. Hating his new pet. Feeling nothing. Drowning in your own misery. Wishing you were drowning in water instead.

"Wha' y'want?" you slurred.

"You're proper pissed. Let's take you home." He grabs your wrist from behind you, and the bottle that held all of your emotions spills. Your reaction is visceral, turning around to look at him as you rip your wrist out of his grip.

"Don't touch me!" you shriek, "Don't fuckin' touch me!"

The shout was so vicious it scraped your already hoarse throat, and it sends you into a coughing fit.

He takes a step forward, attempting to reach for you but you flinch back and away from him, tripping over a mound of grass and falling onto your behind.

"Get, no, stay away f'me, yeah? You're no' needed."

You won't cry. Not in front of him. So you bite your tongue, and let your agony turn into a burning fury.

"Go away! G'the fuck away from me!"

His hands come up in a defensive stance, like someone trying to pacify a cornered animal.

"Will y—" You don't let him finish, instead you start screaming. It's blood-curdling, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. And it does exactly what you wanted.

You get people's attention.

A group of strong, burly men forcibly haul him away— far away— from you.

Other women come running to your aid, crouching beside you and patting you down, making sure that you and your clothing are intact.

You start to feel overwhelmingly dizzy; your body is going slack and then there's nothing.

--

Your head pounds furiously inside of your skull, and you can't unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

Where are you? is your first thought, quickly followed by, I need water.

You attempt to sit up, only to lie back down with a loud groan when you feel a hammering inside of your temples.

"You're finally awake."

Who the fuck is that?

"You met me back when you used to wear a collar around your neck, doll."

Oh. You said that out loud.

You recognize that nickname. Definitely one of his little friends. Pressing the heels of your palm into your eyes, you let out another groan.

"How chivalrous of you, taking a drunk girl home, but you—" his tone is stern as he cuts you off.

"I know what happened."

Sigh.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do."

"I know why he cut off your collar."

"Is that why you brought me here?" you irritably asked. "You brought me here to gossip?"

You hear shuffling and his voice sounds farther away when he speaks again.

"There's water on the nightstand, also two pills for your headache."

You snort. "Not a whole bottle?"

"If I was sure that you wouldn't try and swallow the whole thing, sure."

Of course.

"Get some rest, I'll bring you back some soup for your hangover later."

His gentle tone as he offers to take care of you makes you irrationally angry. "You're not my fucking owner." What a Freudian slip.

"I could be if you gave me the chance," he offered. You don't move until you hear the door clicking shut.

What the fuck?

[temeyes]

been working all day, have some Bois!

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Pack Kortac - Werewolf! König Headcanons

Tags: monster au, werewolves, gore, body horror, general lore

-He wasn't born a wolf, but bitten. A status held with high regard amongst the lycans. Those bitten rarely have the fortitude to survive their first change. Their bodies too weak and unfamiliar with the shift, minds too easily lost. To change shape is a powerful thing…not all the wolves in the forest were born that way.

-The young boy had always found solace in the woods. No one to look at him. No expectations for him talk. He could simply exist here. In the safe and quiet. At least he had thought. Teenage König had been bitten and abandoned in those very woods. Terrified. He stumbled home, wrapping the raw wound with trembling hands and refusing to tell his grandmother. Who would believe him? That a hulking beast on hind legs had sank its teeth into him?

-Scrawny, nervous König, who drug himself back out into the same woods when the nausea and pain became to much.  Who screamed and cried as his bones began to bend and break. Clawed viciously at human flesh that burned like acid. König who awoke and looked to the sky with new eyes. To shimmering stars and the scents of prey animals trembling in the underbrush. 

-König had hid since childhood. Had trained himself to be small and still when his teachers and grandmother barked at him for his squirming and clumsiness. Nothing he did seemed right. But here? Everything was right.

-He didn't have to hide here. Under the trees he could run and howl, delight in the crunch of bones between his teeth. The wind in his fur. This. This is what he was built for. He grew taller, became bulkier. Signed himself away to the military with a white lie the very next morning.  Never to look back on the life he had before.

-Bitten wolves, despite popular belief, are less instinctually motivated. Unlike born wolves, who's instincts are firmly integrated, Bitten wolves can maintain a degree of seperation. As a human their needs for bonds are less intense. Bitten's are also less temperamental , having been socialized traditionally as human.

-König, behaves with a savage brutality in and out of the shift. Simply because he is just like that. Not because of instinctual forces outside of his control. He only needed the shift to truly find himself.

-König wore the hood at first to cover the scars on his face, the gap in his cheek that revealed a small glimpse of stained teeth. His first change had been rough, fangs and jaw crunching and tearing through soft human flesh. His scars had been self inflicted, harsh lines from where he had frantically torn at burning flesh too prematurely to reveal the wolf underneath. These scars, along with a significant line along his spine, are what remain as evidence of this change.

-While being Bitten is largely seen as a significant sign of strength there are some disadvantages. While shifts became easier, they will never be as smooth as a born wolf.

-While his body has adjusted quite a bit, but he still needs accommodations to dull his senses while human, such as earplugs.

-König revels in the change. Even without the scars his veil had become a necessity on the field. Even as he got older, controlling his shifts were tedious. He trembles with pure energy in the heat of the fray. His teeth ache, pulling and sharpening. Grey-blue eyes shifting into something icey and glowing. Claws tear through leather gloves. The veil helped to avoid questions from his human teammates.

-Overtime this became too tedious. König strikes me as the intro-virtuous type. Having big “I don't want to do it but I'm the only motherfucker here, so I guess I'll handle it” energy. He absolutely maneuvered himself into a position of leadership out of sheer annoyance this way.

-König had long convinced himself that having a pack is not suited for him. He lacks the know how. Feeling lost without the more obvious instincts to guide him into finding pack mates. Deep down it eats at him.

-He buries it though, building Kortac, and recruiting fellow bloodthirsty monsters that resemble a pack. It lacks true bonds. But it gave König the space to let his wolf run. He resolves that's all he needs for now. Addicted to the rush of blood under his nails and flesh in his teeth.

Descriptions of König inspired by floweryanarchy's piece: x

[cod-dump]

*the team is playing manhunt in the woods at night at Price's property*

Soap, radioing Ghost as Ghost looks for him: You'll never find me

Ghost: Wanna bet on that?

Soap: I am beyond the mortal realm, hidden away to never be found

Ghost: So you're not hiding behind this tractor?

Soap: You'll never find me! I am a phantom in the night! A shadow! Who you once known as Soap is no more-

*Ghost shines a flashlight on Soap in the middle of him monologuing into the radio*

Soap: *makes goblin noises into the radio as he runs away, only to trip and fall onto Gaz who was hiding in a bush*

Gaz: DAMN IT SOAP

Ghost: Ah! Two for one!

Alejandro, on the radio: You may have gotten Soap and Gaz, Ghost, but I am untouchable- RUDY NO

*Alejandro can be heard screaming through the woods as Rudy finds him*

Price, who heard everything on the radio: Boys, time for bed you're starting to get weird

[sobasicallyimpoppee]

You know what, make that Mary Sue!Reader insert, give into the demons. Don’t let nobody give you shit for it bitch. It’s your DESTINY, it’s what the Prophecy foretold. Fulfill it right NEOW.

[every-monkey-d-luffy]