#Detail shots incoming

[screampied]

gojo had a dream you died.

it was partially the reason why he woke up in a cold sweat… it was horrid.

he could still hear your screams, the life leaving your eyes, but more importantly, he remembered your final words that were murmured to him. “satoru, don’t… cry, i’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.” and he believed you, that everything would be okay. despite tears filling his eyes, labeled the strongest at that moment, he couldn’t have ever felt so weak.

the dream felt so real, that was the scary part. he remembered each and every detail. from the feeling of you giving his wrist a light squeeze, the sweet smell of your natural scent.. the eerie sounds of your irregular wheezes as you were clinging on your final moments.

“don’t leave me,” he mutters, he remembers saying that. three simple words, yet his dilated pupils spoke a thousand. he started to repeat it. again and again as if it was a mantra. his words, his tone broke the more he spoke to you. that cute smile of yours never left your lips, it remained there. regardless of your inevitable incoming fate, he sobs, “you’re…you’re all i have left. i don’t wanna be left alone again, just stay. please, baby.”

“i’m not going anywhere, ‘toru,” you’d reassure him, a single tear drop of his falls onto your cheek.

after that moment, gojo wakes up. trembling, yet the dream wasn’t that feared him the most. it was him waking up with you not next to him..

cold, everything felt cold.

he shot up immediately from his dream. the cold sweat that forever continued to race down his back as he panted.

he was so used to your warmth taking up part of the bed. albeit, in this case though. it felt empty,

isolated.

it was near the middle of the night, gojo was drowsy, rubbing his eyes to blind his vision with imaginary stars. feeling for the bed, it was frigid.

“baby?” he’d grumble, white lashes partially open. silence called back to him, if it was anything about gojo, he hated being alone.

oh, he loathed it,

yet whenever you came into his life—he didn’t have to worry about that. you were always besides him, no matter what.

until now.

it takes him a split second before it dawns on him. your fatal death, it wasn’t another one of his silly surreal dreams. it was nothing but mere reality.

a breath gets caught in his throat once he realizes, being brought back into harsh realness. you were gone.

it’s been years, speaking of which…

it was your anniversary with him. the same exact day he proposed to you. he remembers it vividly, getting down on one knee with the goofiest grin. he didn’t even say, “will you marry me..?” instead, he snorts a sheepish, “let’s get married, heh.”

“i always forget around this time,” gojo sighs to himself with a soft tone, his voice was a bit raspy from abruptly waking up. intaking a sharp inhale, he goes towards your side of the bed and he reaches into his pocket.

“it should have been me,” and he doesn’t even care he’s talking to himself, it’s like for whatever reason, your presence was near him. “our marriage,” and then with a brief sniffle, he glances down at the ring you once wore proudly. he strokes it with a thumb before huffing out a shaky, “our marriage, it was supposed to last us for infinity…”

but it didn’t.

with hot tears streaming down his face and stuck a power he wished he’d never have, in the end, it couldn’t save you.

he couldn’t save you.

and now…

the strongest, the most brave to ever live and walk could easily be mistaken as the weakest.

[verstappenverse]

Pairing: Camgirl!Reader x Obsessed!Max

Authors Note: NSFW still working on the details for the upcoming fic but having fun with the concept. Let me know what you think or send any additional ideas 😉

Max can’t remember how he found your page—maybe it was a suggested post on Instagram, or maybe some random link caught his attention. It doesn’t matter how it started, what matters is that now he’s addicted.

At first it's just curiosity, he wasn’t the type to watch cam streams or really spend any time on adult content, but something about you was different. You weren’t like the over-the-top, hyper-curated content he’d expect from this kind of thing. You were sweet, soft-spoken, almost shy in the way you interacted with the camera. And Max sitting alone in his Monaco penthouse couldn’t look away.

He tells himself it’s just a passing distraction, a way to unwind, but then he starts getting… attached. His obsession grows quietly at first. He subscribes to your page, buys your exclusive content, and sets notifications for your streams. It doesn’t matter if he’s at a racetrack, a sponsor event, or a hotel halfway across the world - when you post about your next stream, he checks the time difference and tries to plan his schedule around it.

The first time someone else drops a high tip and you thank them by name, Max feels it. That sharp, irrational sting of jealousy. He knows it’s stupid, he’s one of thousands of viewers, but the way you smile for them? It makes him want to punch a wall. So he does the only thing that makes sense - he outbids them.

When you say his username in that soft, teasing tone and add ��Thank you so much, you’re incredible!”—it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to his chest.

It starts small a few high donations here and there, but soon enough he finds himself spending more of his income on you than he’d ever care to admit. From there it spirals, he’s tipping more, requesting more, even messaging you privately. You respond graciously of course, you always do, but Max convinces himself that your replies to him are different. More personal.

Custom videos, private streams - whatever gets him a little closer to feeling like he’s the only one you’re looking at. He tells himself it’s harmless. He can afford it after all.

It doesn’t take long before his obsession starts creeping into the rest of his life. Between races, he’s refreshing your page to see if you’ve posted. During long-haul flights, he’s watching your videos on repeat. Even at the paddock while his team is running simulations or tweaking the car setup he catches himself checking for notifications.

There are nights he barely sleeps staying up to catch you live, even if he has an early training session the next day. Between races he’ll watch your older streams on repeat, memorising the way you speak, the way you smile. Max knows he’s in too deep, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop.

His spending ramps up. When someone else tries to steal the spotlight in your chat, he doesn’t just outbid them—he obliterates them. He’s dropping tips that make everyone else look like amateurs, just to keep your attention squarely on him. And it works. His messages get bolder and more desperate too.

I can’t stop thinking about how good you’d look in my bed.

It’s torture watching you touch yourself, knowing I could make you feel so much better.

Tell me I’m your favourite, just once.

You should be sitting on my lap right now instead of talking to them.

Do you know how hard it is to sit here and watch you, knowing I can’t touch you?

The things I’d do to you if you were mine… you wouldn’t be able to walk the next day. Your lips part in surprise at that one, and you quickly cover your flustered reaction with a laugh. “Well, that’s… quite the statement,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. I never make promises I can’t keep.

But it’s not enough.

The idea of being just another fan starts to gnaw at him. Max Verstappen isn’t “just another” anything. But Max is nothing if not competitive, and the idea of being just another fan doesn’t sit well with him for long. He’s used to winning, to being first, to having the best. He wants to be the one you think about when the stream ends.

He wants to know you in ways the others never could. Where you live, what you liked to do when the camera was off, whether anyone in your life treated you as well as you deserved.

What would it take for me to get your attention?

And when you reply, laughing softly, “You’ve already got it,” it’s game over for him.

Max is playing a dangerous game. Balancing his life as one of the most recognisable athletes in the world with his growing obsession for someone who doesn’t even know who he really is. But that’s the thing about Max - when he wants something he gets it. And right now, there’s nothing in the world he wants more than you.

[finalgirlmorgue]

𓉸⁺‧₊˚ AFFECTION ROTS 𓂃🦇

„⤵ MILD ANGST „⤵ 1 / (?) PARTS „⤵ JASON TODD X READER Highschool sweethearts aren't meant to last, but Jason wants to change that, even after his ressurection.

After April 27th everything that once tasted sweet became bitter. Teenage romance is a ticking time bomb. It's a promise of flesh not made to last— meat rots over time, affection rots over time— and eventually, it all becomes rancid and sour.

Maybe that's what happened when Jason died. When your eyes met, a countdown began, ticking relentlessly toward its end. His time was always borrowed, and the clock, merciless as ever, simply ran out. The world the two of you shared stopped being his, and in the wake of it his memory became merely something to drive the day forward. Everything you couldn't be motivated to do was slapped with the statement "But Jason would've wanted you to" It was like a toxic parasocial relationship. His corpse dragged you in and out of pits of guilt and grief, while your body remained stagnant his ghost became restless inside of your head. Eventually, until you started to lose him in pieces.

Briefly, you would visit the box in your basement that contained some of his things. Hoodies and novels he read. You would smile at the annotations he made with sticky notes. Saving quotes that probably sounded deep and emotional to a teenage boy. A stuffed animal that smelled vaguely like him, or his cologne anyway. That box was where the memories of his existence stayed, buried under the blanket you had placed there. Admittedly sometimes you didn't want to think about him. It felt wrong to think of it that way. Grief is fatal to the mind. It's a disease. And maybe, on the worst days, it’s easier to let the infection run its course than to keep cutting into yourself trying to clean the wound.

You did a lot in the time between his last breath and now. life moved on, whether your sweet innocent Jason was beside you or not. After graduating high school, beginning your freshman year of college, and getting your first apartment it became easier. His cardboard grave sat there untouched, collecting dust, holding pieces of him you didn’t need anymore. Whatever you hadn’t already discarded, you packed away and left in the past.

yes, it still stung. Not like it used to—no longer sharp and unbearable. Instead, it lingered, dull and constant, a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. Jason became irrelevant, just another detail in your coming-of-age story. Dating other men still felt like cheating. Still felt like betrayal. He'd probably be jealous if he saw you at those college parties. He was the type of boy to fight for you until his knuckles bled. Maybe he didn't have enough time to get the words out, but the sentiment would have been there. Even in death, you were his.

Your room grew up with you. The calendar you'd gotten as a white elephant gift was months behind. Your bedsheets kept the theme you chose for your room years ago. You barely even slept in it properly. There were bookshelves full of classics and poetry that were untouched. It wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a mausoleum. More often than not you would leave empty fountain soda cups on your desk like ornaments of the slump you were in mentally. The only things you'd done in this place were sleep and stare at your phone screen.

You ordered food hours ago. You couldn't be bothered to go and collect it yourself, but your driver never arrived. You took that as a hint. You simply weren't meant to eat tonight. It hurt to know how little you were spending on your own needs and desires. But you could hardly complain when you were living off the kindness of strangers. Your bills were paid by societies focused on providing for low income students. This money didn't come from nowhere. So why did you spend it on fatty junk like fast food? Your appetite was gone by now. But as a heavy thump reverberated through the wooden door on your apartment you shot up in hope of fatty junk fast food. Your hopes fell quickly as soon as the sounds from behind the door faded into nonsense dance of shuffling and pacing. You turned off your lamp. Maybe it was some drunk who had the wrong address. he would obviously realize this wasn't the right crack house, even though the decor suggested otherwise, and he would leave. You were tired and ready to turn in.

You heard it again. It seemed louder this time. You got up, stepping up onto your toes to look through the peephole. You were only met with the chest of this unwelcome visitor. You unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the door open slowly. Whoever it was was clearly out of it and angry. They didn't wait around for you to greet them. They barreled past you, knocking you against the door frame. They crashed into the kitchen counter. Folded over like a crumpled rag doll, holding their ribs.

The figure was large. Tall. Male obviously. Uncanny.

Some kind of muscular walking frankenstein of a human form.

You reached for the house phone. Should you call 911?… was this some kind of botched break in? It didn't look like he had any weapons.. but he probably had enough surface area from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers to cover the entirety of your neck.

Before you could move, a hand slammed itself onto the table and you flinched away. The stranger looked back into your eyes, the whites of them so bright they nearly glowed like headlights.. the pupils dilated and narrowed.

"Who are you?" you whispered, your throat sore and dry, "What do you want?" You couldn't make out his face in its shadow. But it looked like someone very familiar…. Someone you knew well but couldn't quite remember in your stupor. You shook your head slightly to clear the haze.

He took slow, deliberate steps toward you, dragging his massive body from the kitchen island to where you still stood, frozen in place, pinned against the doorframe. The wind whipped harshly behind you. He closed the door gently, no longer slamming it. No longer banging. His arm went around your shoulders as he pulled you close. His breath warmed your ear.

"You… grew up without me.. You got really pretty. Just like i thought you would.." He breathed out, his lips brushing your hairline. You were still. In shock, you didn't dare react at all. "…I missed you." His grip tightened.

You felt the skin on his fingertips pulling against your arms and shoulder. You were too terrified to make a noise. Almost too terrified.

"You're dead." You said, pushing against his familiar warmth, trying to escape whatever strange force held you there. It didn't budge. "This is a really fucked up dream.. Jason wasn't this tall- or strong-" You broke off, swallowing thickly. Tears blurred your vision. He squeezed you tighter. You couldn't tell if you were imagining it or not. You weren't sure you were awake. "Let go!" you cried out. He frowned.

"Please… let me have this. just for a minute." He pleaded. "It's been too fucking long.." you could hear him begin to sob. There must have been something in the air that made your stomach twist and churn unpleasantly, until you sighed shakily.. giving in and relaxing as best you could against him. You weren't sure what exactly was happening- this wasn't real, right? What were these feelings you were having? Fear? Regret? Anxiety?

As you allowed your head to rest atop of his chest, you stared at the floorboards beneath your feet. You tried to calm yourself down. Your hands were trembling uncontrollably.

It was clear. The affection he held for you had not withered. It was as fresh, as raw, as it had been back in March, before everything fell apart.

Jason couldn't rot. He wasn't meant to.

...

Haha I'm so evil. Comment + Reblog? Where should the story go from here?

[ptergwen]

req incoming… peter with photographer reader pls pls pls!!! its so crazy personal to me im literally a photography major

cute, cuter, cutest

ask box  |  taglist  |  blurb masterlist  |  main masterlist

w/c: 698

warnings: none! just cute n shy peter

a/n: omg such a cute concept i hope i did it justice for u! also i made a new taglist so if y'all wanna be tagged in my writing go add yourself :) keep sending reqs too <3

"y/n, nooo! i don't look good right now!"

"oh stop it, you look so cute! can i just take one picture?"

"it's never just one, and you know it."

okay, it's true, you do take a lot of photos of peter. but who could blame you? he's absolutely adorable without even trying. you can't help but to want to capture every moment of it, of him. as a photographer, it's your natural instinct.

"c'mon, i’m not gonna do anything with it! i don't even use this camera for work! it's just for me."

you pout out your lip. peter groans lightheartedly as you hold up your polaroid camera.

"okay, okay. you can take one photo 'cause i love you and i’m such a good boyfriend."

"the best."

you peck peter's cheek, sitting up on your knees. he smiles despite himself.

peter is sprawled underneath the covers, shirtless and his hair a mess. he'd just woken up. sunlight peaks through the curtains and highlights the little details of peter's face; freckles dotted along his nose and cheeks, so faint you miss them if you aren't looking closely enough. his one slightly uneven eyebrow. the rosy hue that seems to always be on his cheeks when he's with you.

peter pulls the covers over him so you can't see his face. you don't even have to see it to know he's grinning a big, goofy smile.

"okay, i'm ready."

"nuh uh. what're you doing hiding under there?"

"i told you, i look bad! my hair's all messed up, and i haven't shaved yet."

you move the blankets off of peter's face.

"i think you look pretty."

"really?"

"really. it's authentic," you smile and kiss the tip of peter's nose, making it crinkle. "it's you."

peter looks up at you with puppy eyes, conceding. you readjust the covers so they're around his lower half. you straddle his waist to get the angle you want for the picture.

"stay just like that."

"should i smile?"

"if you want to."

peter rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs tracing circles.

"hard not to smile when i’m looking at you."

"that was so cheesy. you're so cute."

"stop saying i’m cute, you're gonna make me blush!"

"you're being such a diva, mr. parker. very difficult to work with."

peter chuckles and squeezes your thighs.

"take the picture, lady, will ya?"

you hold the camera up to your eye, lip bitten in concentration.

"ready?"

peter hums. he gives a half smile to the camera. you look through the viewfinder to make sure you like the shot first. it's peter from his waist up laid against the pillows, showing your legs and his hands on them. satisfied, you press the button and capture the photo. it prints. peter takes it out and hands it to you. you look at your picture, beaming.

"what do you think?"

you give peter the polaroid photo. he looks it over with an aw.

"that's a really cute photo," peter compliments. "i know you hear it a lot, but you're so talented, y/n. you even make me look good."

"stop being so mean to yourself. that's my boyfriend."

you tickle peter's side in mock punishment. he lets out a laugh that's more like a giggle.

"i was joking, i was joking! you're such a cutie."

peter's hands find your waist. he lays you down next to him, turning onto his side to face you. you grin.

"and before you say it, nope. you're cuter and the cutest."

"fine, but i love you more and the most."

"i love you the mostest."

"damn it."

peter leaves an arm draped around your waist, reaching for the covers. he pulls them up and over both of you this time. you laugh, letting peter tangle your legs together and hug you closer. you can still just barely make out his features even under the blankets. peter looks so cozy, so relaxed and content, hooded eyes gazing into yours lovingly.

unable to resist it, you quickly snap a photo. it catches peter by surprise when the flash from your polaroid camera illuminates the dark space.

"babe!"

"you didn't really think i’d just take one, did you?"

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[kayhi808]

First Crush - 8

Your dinner & movie date was great! Dinner came out well. Bucky enjoyed it. He hadn't had a home cooked meal in a while. Bucky helps you clear the table, "I'll have to give Abby a bath & get her ready for bed, but if you want...to hang around for a bit..."

You feel his hands on your hips as he turns you around. "Yea, I think I can do that." He leans in & kisses you softly. His lips, soft but firm makes the butterflies in your belly take flight. You take his bottom lip between your teeth & tug, eliciting a soft moan from Bucky's throat.

"Mama?" Bucky jumps back, looking over his shoulder at Abby standing 3 feet away. "What doing?"

"Hey, Baby. I was on my way to get your bath started. Can you pick out your pajamas for me? You can also pick out 2 stories for tonight."

"Mama?"

"Yes."

She waddles over to hold Bucky's hand, "Can Bucky reads me a story"

You both look at Bucky. "Sure." He smiles down at her.

She claps & bounces up & down. "One story for Buckys & 2 story for yous."

"What? No, ma'am. You only get 2 stories. One for me & one for Bucky."

Abby bends over cackling, "I almost tricks yous."

"Nice try. Go find your pajamas & stories. We'll be right there." Abby skips out of the kitchen and then you're able to crack a smile. "She's only 3! By the time she's a teenager, she'll be too smart for me." Bucky drops a kiss at your temple as you pass him to get Abby's bath ready.

*****

Your evening didn't end like you would have hoped. Abby wouldn't fall asleep as long as Bucky was there. She came outside for water, monsters in her closet, monsters under the bed, to ask very important questions about Moana's Chicken if it knew how to swim in the ocean...Her interruptions were endless. Bucky left because Abby wouldn't go to sleep otherwise. Cockblocked by your own child!

You and Bucky decided that once he returns from this mission, you'd set time aside for a real date. Just the two of you. You've been so limited to lunches in your office or phone calls after Abby goes to sleep. You're dying to go on a grown-up date with Bucky.

Wednesday morning started like any other day, until an alert came in that Bucky's mission went sideways & the team suffered injuries. The med bay had to be alerted & prepped for the incoming quinjet. Bucky had been shot and one of the other agents under him was in serious condition.

It was hard for you to concentrate on work knowing Bucky was hurt. This is exactly what scared you about starting a relationship with Bucky. The fear you'll feel with every mission he leaves on. You both have kept it professional at work, but Bucky's friends know you've been seeing each other. You weren't assigned to Director Fury today, so you aren't abreast with details of the mission.

Sam drops by your office, "Hey."

Leaping up from your desk, "Sam! What happened? How is he?"

"He'll be fine. They're checking him out now. It was a through and through.

"And the other agent?"

"He's in surgery now, but it looks good." You nod, biting your bottom lip. "Want me to take you up?"

Tears fall, "I'm still working. I don't want Fury..."

Sam laughs, "Fury already knows EVERYTHING that happens here. It'll be quick. Once you see him, it'll put your mind at ease."

Wiping away your tears, "Please?" Sam nods & as you pass him, he puts his arm around your shoulder giving you a quick squeeze.

*****

You get to the med bay and Bucky is on a bed, his side patched up with a large bandage & his arm in a sling. You gasp & cover our mouth with your hands, trying to silence yourself. "Buck." It's the first time you've seen him without a shirt, you see the way his Vibranium arm in attached to him. The scars.

It's overwhelming. The abuse his poor body has taken.

"Hey, Doll." Sam nudges you towards the bed & leaves to give you both privacy.

You brush his hair off his forehead & drop a kiss on his brow before placing one on his lips. "Can I get you anything?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head clasping your hand in his, "Nope. This is good."

You know he's medicated, so you stay until he falls asleep before you leave him.

*****

You made arrangements with a neighbor to pick up Abby from daycare, so you can visit with Bucky after work.

When you get there, Natalie, Clint & Steve are there joking with him. He looks much better than this morning.

"Hey, doll! What are you still doing here?"

Lingering in the doorway, "I asked my neighbor if she could get Abby from daycare because I'd be a little late. I wanted to check on you before I left."

Clint teases, "You don't have to worry about him. He's like a cat with nine lives. Thankfully he's able to put himself in harms way to save the day, with his super serum."

"Shut up, man."

Natasha sees you flinch, "He'll be good as new. The serum does accelerate the healing process. There's nothing to worry about."

You give her a small smile, "Yea, that's good to hear."

"Y/N?" Bucky hears the strain in your voice.

"I'm glad you're feeling better. I...I wanted to know if you needed anything before I left but looks like you're well taken care of."

"Could you guys give us a minute?"

"No, I can't stay. I need to get Abby. I don't want to be an inconvenience; you know how Abby gets. We'll talk later." You quickly go to him & drop a kiss on his brow & turn to leave, giving a small wave to the others.

*****

The following morning Director Fury had you with him in meetings. When you got back to your office, you found Bucky sitting there waiting for you. "Bucky? What are you doing here? Did they release you already?" You notice the bruise and scrapes were already healed. He still had his arm in a sling though.

"You didn't answer your phone last night."

"I'm sorry. I texted you this morning. Abby was in a mood and I fell asleep early. I was real tired." Bucky just stares at you and it makes you nervous. "Did you want me to pick up lunch for you?"

He shakes his head & continues to stare at you until you finally make eye contact with him. "Talk to me, Y/N." He waits out your silence.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever's bothering you, we can talk it through. We can figure it out. At least give me a chance."

"I don't even know where to start."

"The beginning works best," getting comfortable in the chair, signaling he's not going anywhere.

"Abby's father. He was a fighter pilot with the Air Force. He had a dangerous job but he didn't die in the line of duty. It was because he was reckless. He was careless & lost control of his plane. He did that to himself."

"And you see him in me?" You see his jaw clench.

"I don't know. I know that i'm scared now. I feel more connected to you, than I did to Jason in the short time I've known you. My daughter absolutely adores you." You see a cocky smile on his face. "Those aren't good points, Bucky." Frowning at him, "Your job is dangerous and you risk your life to save others. I can't have someone else in my life who puts me & Abby second."

"And you think I'd do that?"

"I do. Clint said that because you're a Super Soldier, you take extra risks because you know you'll recover. You take a bullet for someone on the team because you know you'll survive and they will die. That's brave and heroic and I commend you on that."

"Y/N."

"But if I'm honest and selfish, if I let myself fall in love with you, where does that leave me? Abby? I don't think we have a place in your world. Your team, Mankind, will always outrank us."

"It's like you've got this all figured out."

Shaking your head, "I don't. And that's what scares me. If it was just myself I had to think about, my concerns would be different. I'd be willing to risk more." Taking a deep breath, "I'm protecting Abby the only way I know how."

"And if I promise to put you & Abby first?"

That wasn't an option you were expecting. "I don't understand."

Bucky stands and leans on your desk, "If I swear to put you and Abby first. Will you give us a chance?"

"How?"

"Let me work it out. I'm asking you to trust me? Can you do that? Can you give me time?" You silently nod as he pulls you in for a kiss. The chill of his vibranium hand on the nape of your neck giving you goosebumps. Or is it just the kiss itself?

Next chapter

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[gold-pavilion]

Ivan, falling stars and other metaphors for Till

An overview of the metaphors in Ivan's songs that allude to Till (or his feelings for Till), cause I wanted to have a comprehensive & updated list of ways he thinks about him, the way they are styled and the keywords that are used.

So, a little bit of visual metaphors and a LOT of lyric analysis incoming!

Firstly, I should start from the most well-known and the only one that's a VISUAL metaphor (afterwards, I'll be focusing on text): falling stars.

It'll help with the written parts a lot and it's good to get into context, so!!

At first, a night sky with falling stars is shown to be a sight Ivan is entranced by (moved to tears, even), a bit of beauty in the midst of his awful early childhood.

Eventually, though, they become associated with something else:

The many shots of falling stars alternated with Till facing the segyein "dog", an unreasonable but brave struggle, show that Ivan saw that same entrancing beauty in Till and began equating HIM to stars.

The way that, as he watches Till, stars appear on his eyes while his pupils dilate further establishes that connection.

The next sample appears on this flashback, during their escape attempt:

Ivan's eyes aren't shining brightly under the star shower, but only when Till proves to be unable to leave everyone at Anakt behind and backtracks their escape.

At such a moment, as he watches him go, Ivan appears to be bittersweetly appreciating the strange beauty in Till's nature again.

Do note that the visual cue at this point has evolved from detailed stars, to a bright white glow overtaking Ivan's pupils, but the meaning remains the same.

The same glow is displayed on-stage. The stage itself features a star shower, but Ivan's eyes don't consistently shine from it; they only shine when he's actively reviewing that memory with Till (and looking emotionally affected by it), and lose the glow when he's recomposed himself.

In other words!! Stars or a centered glow in Ivan's eyes = actively thinking of Till, the traits about him that Ivan is entranced by and the feelings he evokes. It is a visual metaphor and also a signal of strong unchecked emotions.

A handy comparison to show it properly:

With that good old visual covered, I can move on to text/lyrics!! My actual point for this post LMAOOOO.

A disclaimer: I said "Ivan songs" and not "songs by Ivan" intentionally. It's not quite relevant how each song was written in-universe; Black Sorrow, CURE and Nowhere are still songs through which Ivan's character is represented to us viewers. They are assigned to him and convey his POV. So, "Ivan songs".

Now, when it comes to lyrics, in Black Sorrow itself Till isn't alluded to as "star" or "sky" in text, but rather skipping right to "light"/"shining" (what the visual metaphor evolved to).

Here's an overall view of the lyrics with that first Till metaphor in green! 'Cause I find that color-coding different things I'm studying helps.

As for what's in red, these metaphors allude more to Ivan's feelings about Till, than Till himself. His "black sorrow" being the overall circumstance of loving hopelessly and "dark sea" an alternative description, which seems to describe the pressure of his feelings increasing whenever Till is close.

I've bolded "where your eyes reach" for later, hehe, as it is an incomplete reference in Black Sorrow alone.

Aaaand I've grayed out the mentions of "story" because they're common in Ivan songs (it's a character thing, very in line with his rationality, to see his own life in such a way and repeat this keyword), however, it's ambiguous whether he refers more to his story with Till or his life overall, and in this song I lean towards it being more personal than relationship-oriented.

To present it another way:

Looking at what the lyrics of CURE have next.

Here, instead of sticking to light/shining there's a literal appearance of "falling stars". Being consistent with Black Sorrow, this would again hold the meaning of the feelings Ivan holds for Till (though it is interesting that Till is the first to sing it; a lot could be said about the distribution of lines, but I'm sticking to my Ivan POV right now).

The keyword of "a story" is not ambiguous at all here, but turned into "our story". Again, it's a very Ivan thing, but the meaning is definitely shared this time.

Nowww Black Sorrow's "where your eyes reach" and CURE's "in your gaze, where I'm seen" tie in nicely to the repeated visual of Ivan looking at Till & Till not looking back that's been going around in the videos + side material, but by… pretty much denying that its an absolute.

While a common assumption in fandom is that Till simply never "looks back" at Ivan, these mentions in the lyrics make emphasis on the times (maybe scarce, maybe brief, maybe not) when Till DOES see him. And the weight these times seem to hold in Ivan's perspective.

Nowhere is much more about Ivan and his view of himself overall, but it does of course contain a few allusions to his feelings for Till, which are an important part of his life anyways.

Going ahead with a little bit more color-coding~

The "in love with you" intro is literal, not metaphorical, so nothing to add to that LOL. But hey, it's there and we know who he thinks about when it comes to love, so.

It's noteworthy that this audio plays in the background of the whole song, steadily, always present.

Anyway, other metaphors: first, the "my sky". It's debatable whether this is a valid Till metaphor, as Ivan thinks of Till more specifically as a night sky full of stars or the stars themselves, so it's not clear if it's just "sky". I'll leave that up to anyone's interpretation.

A stained history (or specifically, stained with blood) is, again, more of a personal Ivan metaphor for his life and unavoidable death, ambiguously tied to Till on occasions, non-ambiguous just in CURE.

"Nowhere, dyed in black" brings back the metaphors of Black Sorrow, wherein things going black or dark alludes to the weight of his feelings of love. Nowhere makes emphasis on Ivan's view of himself as stained and twisted, so this meaning is pretty consistent.

hat's it for the content of the 3 Ivan songs so far!

So here's a metaphor summary!!

Stars, falling stars, light, shining (& sky?) (visually: stars or a bright glow in the pupils) = Till, from Ivan's POV

Black sorrow, dark sea, going dark or black = Ivan's love in itself

A story, history, stained story, stained with blood = Ivan's view on his own life and destiny, ambiguously related to his relationship to Till

(Our story = definitely related to Till)

Where your eyes reach, in your gaze where I'm seen = Till looking at Ivan, another shared theme

While for example mizisua use a flower metaphor, comparisons to God and the keyword hope, ivantill use a star metaphor and very different keywords come up, such as light & dark. All pairs involve different themes, after all. It's interesting to look at and keep in mind, for me.

I think not a lot of credit is given to the lyrics in ALNST and how subtle but consistent they are with some things! It's nice.

A lot more that could be discussed about them, but this is all I wanted to go through for now.

(Can you tell I had fun color-coding stuff tho?? lmao)

[irradiatedsnakes]

dialtown object head model masterlist

looong post incoming! i've been on a hunt to have a full list of what every dialtown character's head is, kind of as an extension of my own phone (and printer) collecting irl. these were compiled with the help of a very kind handful of people, most notably @germaaaaaaaaaa who has a real knack for sniffing models out! photos are from the sources linked as well as my own personal collection.

phonegingi/callum

3D models based on this specific Ericsson Bakelite 1507, as shown in the extras menu (see first photo below). Note the broken plate on the front where one would put the number card, which is reflected in both Gingi and Callum’s models (Gingi’s has it facing downwards, and Callum’s faces upwards):

typegingi

3D model based on two typewriter models: the overall shape is that of a 1948-1949 Royal Quiet Deluxe, while the keys, carriage, and various details (like the color indicator dots to the side of the keyboard) from an Olympia SM9. Jbhusker on r/typewriters identified that for me :]

oliver

Telecom Eireann Slaney, the Irish version of the BT Relate 200, in color “oatmeal”. He also has a removable plastic standee part on the back that allows it to be hung on the wall, which we don’t see in his sprites but we do see in an image Dog posted of the back of the phone (which is how we know he's in oatmeal, since it's noted on the sticker- the photo below of my slaney is actually in alpine white, it's just become a similar oatmealy color due to age), as well as in the crowd shot during Roger’s presentation, with someone else with the same head.

karen

3D model that is primarily based on a Canon Pixma ts202 (thanks to Smooth in phonecord for that ID!), but has significant differences in shape and color. She’s one of a kind!

randy

Nokia 3410, which came in a couple colors (the Randy aqua we know, silver, and rarely red).

bigfoot

A disposable camera without its outer plastic shell or paper labeling, this Renault one or something similar (maybe different branding? I swear dog mentioned he got bigfoot’s camera at a zoo.). Smooth on the discord found this one.

norm

norm's head is made of meat. here's his hat (which he wears backwards in his sprites). (i never wrote down who found this one and i can't re-find it in phonecord search, sorry. like a 90% chance it was germa)

mingus

Salvage the cat. Salvage the cat is a very unique model of cat.

roger

FeTAp 791-1, in orange (apparently hueshifted- in real life he’s red, but there ARE orange versions of this model, they’re just harder to find than some other colors). This model came in a bunch of colors- please enjoy this one that looks like it’s made of meat and gristle. Far as I can tell, these were mostly German, but also popped up fairly frequently in the Soviet Union. Mine is an Argentinean release of the same model.

peter

Western Electric Model 500, the most widely-produced rotary phone in history, in red. Note also that Peter has no lettering or numbering on his head, which is edited (it’s not possible to sand off a 500’s numbering because it’s actually filled-in plastic vice paint on top). Due to the color & clear plastic wheel, Peter’s model is from 1956 or later.

god

Emerson 11P50. Here’s the specific stock images that his sprites are of, too. byrdffv on phonecord.

jerry

Bell JO-4 or JN-4, same make, different color. Jerry is the same solid color all-around. I’d assumed he had to be custom-painted- I haven’t seen a single Jerry or almost-Jerry that’s the same solid color he is on the internet besides his OG stock photo (since, as you can see on mine, the metal and plastic parts are always different colors), but it’s not a well-documented series of models, and according to Dogman he’s seen ones like him IRL. Here’s the stock images used for Jerry. See also, his wheelchair, a LAWC001 (that one’s credit to Germa).

mr. dickens

K6 Telephone box. Not much more to say, there aren’t a massive amount of red UK telephone box models.

and with that, i've reached the 30-image limit per post. i'll continue this in a reblog, or you can view the rest of them at the google doc i've set up here!

[blossombriefs]

Agora Hills | A Goku OneShot [NSFW]

Authors note: hey guys! Be sure to drop a follow and a like! The support goes a long way! I'm also happy to take requests - please be following me and shoot me a message. I can work of prompts such as songs, locations, colours, scents. Give me a brief description and the characters you'd like. This also has potential for a fully smutty part 2 so if that's something you'd want to see let me know! Prompt: Doja Cat's song 'Agora Hills' "who's that man with the big strong hands?" "You're the one you're the only man, me and you on my OnlyFans" Summary: The reader is an OnlyFans model and after being threatened at a party has to come clean to her boyfriend, Goku Content: afab!reader x Goku, mature themes, blackmail and drama (Vegeta being a total asshole), mentions and details of anxiety, story heavy, soft smut near the end Word Count: 2836 words

Times had been a bit financially straining on you since you tried to settle down with Goku. You both shared a lovely home and with plans to start a family together, you needed to find a source of income to start planning ahead. Goku was constantly off either fighting insane battles on faraway planets or was off training with his friends. Sure, you could have just looked for something in your local area like in a store or on a farm, but when Bulma encouraged you to look into the site OnlyFans, it piqued your interest. Bulma is the best source of motivation you have. You were a little unsure about it but with her lovely compliments toward your appearance, you couldn't help but try it.

You had set up a tripod with a ring light in the corner of your spare room to get the perfect shots, using your phone to capture so many pictures of you in cute lingerie sets you had. You also used a couple of your boyfriend's t-shirts for a baggier look on your body. Your income was plentiful as your platform grew and grew. It covered bills, put food on the table and even left some over for you to treat yourself and Goku. However, one question always lingered in the back of your mind.

"How long can I keep this hidden from him?"

You hated keeping secrets from Goku, transparency was such a huge foundation your relationship was built on. He was always honest with you, would this hurt his feelings?

On one of the evenings he had free, Goku had invited you along to a gathering at Krillin and Android 18's home. Everyone was going to be there and you could tell from his eagerness that he was excited for you to finally meet the rest of his friends. You felt that it had been a long time coming and you put so much effort into how you looked while Goku sported his traditional orange gi. Hopping onto the nimbus cloud, he held you tightly as it whisked you toward the Kame House. As you approached your destination, you were both greeted by waves as everyone gathered outside on the beach. You nervously held onto your boyfriend's arms as he waved gleefully to them all, keeping the same wave and smile through your descent. You both bounced off together, greeting everyone. Going around everyone, you were introduced to his friends one by one.

"Y/N this is Krillin and 18," he extended his hand toward a slender, tall blonde woman and her opposing counterpart. You smile as you shake their hands and introduce yourself. Gradually he made his way around the rest of his friends; Master Roshi, Piccolo, and Yamcha were part of the introductions. Finally, your attention was directed to Bulma and her partner, who you hadn't yet met. He stood beside her with his arms folded over a buttoned up blue shirt, his aura nothing short of intimidating.

"Y/N, you haven't met my husband Vegeta yet have you!" Bulma chirped, taking his arm and yanking him toward you and Goku. You smiled at him timidly, admitting you were kinda afraid of him wouldn't have been the best first impression in your mind. You could sense him looking you up and down, choosing to address you with a scoff.

"So this is Kakarot's harlot, yes?"

You looked to Bulma in disbelief as her hand slapped his shoulder harshly. Goku was quick to wrap his hand around your waist as he spoke up, "Hey, c'mon Vegeta you know that's not very nice!"

He simply huffed in your direction as he followed the rest of the group inside, Bulma not far behind screaming an earful toward him. You felt uneasy, Goku rubbed your arm to try and ease you. You weren't someone to take comments like that to heart but something just didn't feel right. You all took your seats in the living room and for the most part the evening was going well. You all shared some drinks, had a laugh, shared some food. You hit it off so well with everyone that you felt like you were part of the family... all besides one person.

Crossing paths in the kitchen, Vegeta glared you down as you look a fresh glass from the cupboard. When you sat it down again to pour another drink you glanced back in his direction, "Can I help you?"

"Don't think I don't know your secrets," he slowly walked toward you, you felt as if he hadn't uncrossed his arms from your initial introduction. If looks could kill Vegeta would've buried you 100ft underground. "You know your vulgar acts aren't suited to him, that clown deserves a woman with a bit more self respect."

"What the hell are you talking about?" you retort. Your hands shaking as you unscrew the lid from the top of the bottle. Deep down you knew what he was referring to but how did he know?

"That woman runs her mouth to me about everything," his reply was cold. He turned his back to you and began walking toward the door that led to everyone else. "You tell him or I will."

A shudder ran down your spine. The tension left behind lingered with his words. Your heart raced, the weight of your secret growing heavier on your shoulders. You took a moment to collect yourself as you decided Vegeta couldn't be the one to tell Goku. Just as he was about to reach the doorway, you spoke up and the tone in your voice was full of determination.

"Wait, Vegeta please." you plead as you set the bottle down. He turned to look back in your direction with his arms still crossed and his expression staying cold. You look to your feet, "I'll tell him but please could we continue this conversation outside."

Vegeta continued to eye you for a moment, his pride more than evident, but eventually he nodded. Hoping you had cracked him he turned away and led you out the back door to the beach, the soundtrack to your serious conversation being the crashing waves of the sea. You lowered your voice and spoke soft, revealing your own vulnerability beneath what you were portraying as tough, "I never intended on keeping anything from Goku. It's just complicated and I never knew how to bring it up."

His response was a shake of his head and a scoff as he stared you down intensely, "He deserves to know what kind of person he's with, that woman refuses to tell him. I don't even understand what it is you're up to! Y-you're lewd-"

"I have an OnlyFans account," you confess with a deep breath. "It's just a way to bring in some money for us and I just didn't want him to worry about our future. I never intended on disrespecting him I-"

As his scowl deepened and his silence remained, you could tell he was taking in what you were telling him. Wether he'd allow you to tell him yourself or not was on the table was another story. He grunted and without allowing another word to leave your lips, he turned and walked back inside with you close on his heels. Your heart felt heavy with what could follow. You didn't know what would be said. You reentered the living room, Goku glanced at you with a sweet smile, blissfully unaware about the conversation you had just had as you took your seat beside him.

The living room buzzed with conversation and laughter but as you cuddled into Goku's strong arm the weight of the conversation with Vegeta was weighing on your mind, you could feel his intense gaze follow you from the other side of the room as you tried to settle in. A silent threat that you had to tell him sooner rather than later.

As the evening continued, you'd engage in small talk with the others to try and keep your composure but what made your heart feel warm was seeing how happy Goku was. He's an incredibly social person, much more than your average person, and was more than happy being in the company of his friends. After a while, Bulma pulled you into the kitchen. She had noticed how reserved you had become throughout the night and was growing concerned, "Is everything okay?"

You nodded with a forced smile, "Just a little burned out and tired, that's all."

She looked at you with sympathy, placing her reassuring hand on your shoulder, "You sure? You know you can tell me anything, right? If it's because of Vegeta's comment earlier I can always talk to him?"

You shook your head and smiled gently, "Thank you Bulma, honestly, but it's fine! I didn't take it to heart."

You lied through your teeth but she bought it, patting your back as she left you alone with your thoughts. Your anxiety was gnawing at you, you knew what loomed ahead.

As the night gradually wound down, Goku yawned and stretched as he turned to the remaining few people left. With a thankful smile he suggested that you both head home. He stood up, spinning you in his arms to face him. "You look beautiful. You're perfect. Your dress you picked is so beautiful I just can't wait to get back home."

You beamed looking up at him, placing a delicate kiss on his lips. He smiled as he kissed you back in return. However, your loving moment was interrupted by none other than Vegeta.

"I bet you won't be the only man to see what's under that dress tonight, Kakarot," he smirked.

You looked up, witnessing the glee in your boyfriend's face shift into shock. The panic surged through your body as you clung to him tighter, Vegeta's words hanging in the air. You looked towards him with a disapproving look but Vegeta remained totally unfazed, his arms crossed and a sly grin plastered on his face.

"What are you talking about, Vegeta?" Goku furrowed his brows, his hands slipping from your waist.

His response was sharp, leaning in with a wicked glint in his eyes, "Oh, nothing, Kakarot. Just saying that some things... or some people... aren't as pure or nice as they appear."

The air was heavy with tension, your throat was running dry as tears began filling your eyes. Bulma stepped in between the two men swiftly, placing a hand on her husband's chest, "Vegeta enough. Stop it! There's no need for this you're making the poor girl cry!"

Goku's face was still taken over with confusion, turning his attention from Vegeta to you. You could hear his own worry take over, his eyes like a puppy's, "Baby what's going on? What does he mean?"

You were hesitant and unable to string your words together. Again, stealing your opportunity, was Vegeta, "Ask your precious partner about her little online endeavors. She's not as innocent as she appears."

You sigh, placing a hand gently against his chest as you look up towards him. Taking a deep breath and your voice was trembling, "Can we talk when we're home about this Goku, please."

The arrogant Saiyan prince wasn't done. It wasn't good enough for him. Purely with a sarcastic tone he chimed in once more, "Oh, how touching. Wanting to keep things private now? The woman who claims she loves you oh so much is selling herself online for a few extra zenies! Showing herself off to other men, tarnishing your trust."

Unable to process what he was being told, he hung his head as he let go of you entirely. Your arms dropped from his shoulders. He sighed gently, "I'll be outside Y/N. When you want to come home come meet me. We'll talk about this at home."

"Goku plea-" your words couldn't stop him from leaving, slamming the door behind him. You couldn't do anything but tremble. You knew why Vegeta did this, he loved seeing Goku weak or vulnerable. You also knew Bulma wouldn't let him live this down. You smiled sadly in her direction and thanked your hosts, leaving behind a now perplexed group of friends. Sat in the sand outside, creating little patterns in the sand with his finger, was your boyfriend who sat in an overwhelmed silence. You took a deep breath, shuffling in the sand beside him which left your dress covered. The beach was serene at night, the waves crashing against the shore heavy at the other side. "Please, let me explain,"

He sat in an almost child-like silence, his eyes fixated on the shapes he had drawn. The gentle sea breeze carried your tension and sadness. You had never seen him so hurt, it was all your fault. He looked up at you with tears starting to form in his eyes, "I can't believe you'd cheat on me with Vegeta..."

"Goku what?" you said, shocked. "I just met him today?"

"Look, Y/N, I love you. I don't want to lose you. If you've been chatting with him online and-"

This is where everything clicked, Goku had no idea about OnlyFans and what the site was. He took Vegeta's words at face value. You shook your head and cupped his face in your sandy hands. "Baby no, it's not that. I have an account on this website where I sell some pictures of myself and it brings us in lots of money."

Goku wiped his eyes, blinking back anything else that could spill. "What do you mean?"

"These men that buy these pictures don't see me in person. They don't touch me. We don't have sex. It was just an easy solution to our money problem and I'm sorry I wasn't honest. Vegeta knew because Bulma told him. I can't be angry at her for that..."

"So-so you're not sleeping with other people. He made it sound so filthy."

"I can show you what I do when we're home." you reassure him. His face softened as the weight of the misunderstanding started to lift from his shoulders.

"I should've trusted you, I'm sorry." he whispered. You held him close to you, you thought through that night you could've lost him.

"I should've been honest from the start, I just didn't want you to worry. I'd never have wanted to have hurt you."

As he gently pulled back from you he summoned his nimbus cloud. Kissing your forehead gently he softly spoke, "I just want to understand everything. We can move forward together afterwards can't we?"

You nodded gratefully at his understanding words. Together, you climbed aboard your transport home. You could tell from the way he held you that he was still skeptical and his emotions were mixed. You wanted to do your best to help him understand.

Once you arrived back to your house, hand in hand you led Goku upstairs to show him the tripod and ring light set up in your spare bedroom. Sitting him down on the bed, you ran through how the site worked. He nodded along taking in every drop of information. You shown him how much income you brough in each day and explained what everything went to. Finally, you handed him your phone to look through the photos. His eyes widened in a gleeful way as he began to flick through them.

"Babe, you look smoking hot in these!" he beamed. You could feel the negative tension lift off your relationship and a new tension start to brew. Looking up with a smirk, "Can I help sometime?"

"You wanna help?" you gently smile. He nodded his head fast. His hands wandered to the front of your strappy dress, carefully slipping it down to reveal your bouncy, perky tits to him. You flushed red a little. Once your phone was propped up on the tripod, you posed for a few photos with your ever supportive boyfriend. You tried letting him control the ideas, however his Saiyan instincts were close to kicking in and wouldn't leave much time for many pictures. He stayed behind you in most of the shots, cupping your breasts with his big, strong, calloused hands or encouraging them down to play with your pussy. You hadn't done anything sexual on your account yet and allowed him to assist with teasy photos. His hands grabbing your ass, his hands squeezing your thighs. He was giving you the content that could only grow your platform more.

He gently left little bites and bruises on top of your breasts, neck and shoulders. With a cocky grin and a chuckle, he whispered in your ear, “Now they’ll know you belong to me.”

Finally, he took some of you sitting on top of him. You gently straddled him as he slipped his fingers in your mouth for the final shots, your spit dripping down his hand as he looked up at you in pure amazement.

"That's my girl," he said with a gently slap to your ass. You tilted your head gently as you looked down at your strong, sexy boyfriend pinned under your thighs.

"Do you have any other questions?"

"When can I fuck you for all your fans to see?"

[baronessvonglitter]

Darlin’ Cowgirl

Jack Daniels x f!reader | WC: 3.1K

Summary: looking for a way out of a bachelorette party, an accidental butt dial becomes a booty call

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit and Mature, friends/coworkers to lovers, reader is at least 21, tipsy flirting/dancing, improper use of a mechanical bull, semi-public sex, fingering, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, smut, dash of romance with a happily ever after, no use of y/n, reader has hair and wears a dress

Author's Note: this was the first one-shot I'd ever written on AO3 and decided to post here as well 🤠🥃

JACK DANIELS MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

You aren't looking forward to the bachelorette party. You don't even like weddings, yet somehow you've been roped into being part of your old college roommate's wedding party simply because you ran into her at the grocery store a few months back. It was only when you had the bridal shower that you realized you were one of thirteen bridesmaids. Great. Now you'll feel even more invisible than you already do.

You've been in a slump lately, and the only thing bringing out of it is your devilishly handsome coworker Jack Daniels, aka Agent Whiskey. You're an Information Security Specialist for the Statesmen, an ultra-secret espionage agency, so naturally you keep the details of your job pretty hush-hush. Whiskey, as you affectionately call him, is one of your few confidantes, despite the fact that he flirts with you at every turn. You admit to yourself that it's a nice distraction from your loneliness, even if you feel his flirtatiousness is just a bit of fun for him, his own distraction.

You take your time in dressing up for the night: a spaghetti strap black minidress with a plunging neckline and silver cowgirl boots. At the bar you meet up with your fellow bridesmaids and the bride-to-be, who are all in shades of pink and white, near exact replicas of each other, nearly indistinguishable. You stick out like a sore thumb and you know it.

The bridesmaids want to take shots so you take some with them, hoping your anxiety will dilute just a little. Your inhibitions are lowered just a little, but not enough to go out to the dance floor with the others. You watch as others watch them, in admiration as they laugh and gracefully (despite the Buttery Nipple shots they'd all consumed just minutes ago) and wish you could be part of them. You hang back at the bar, politely declining offers to dance from men who come by to not-so-subtly ogle you. You feel like a piece of meat. Perhaps it was a bad idea to come out, knowing you hate places like this. However, just as you're about to order a Lyft, you get an incoming call from Whiskey himself.

Confused and blushing you go to a quieter place of the bar, which is still very loud. "Hello?" you practically shout into the phone.

"Hey darlin'!" you hear Jack's voice on the other end. "You called me?"

"Um.. no, I didn't.."

He chuckles, warm and low in your ear. "Yes you did, darlin'. I was hopin' you were okay."

You quickly check your call log and sure enough, you'd called him about fifteen minutes ago, when you and the bridesmaids were doing shots. "I must have butt-dialed you," you shout back, giggling.

"Aw, lucky me," he drawls. "That pretty ass was thinkin' about me?"

You're too flustered to reply.

"Where are you anyway? Loud as hell over there."

"I'm at a bar for a bridesmaid party."

"That one you were talkin' about earlier today? No invite, huh?"

You giggle again. "It's for women only."

"Exactly! That's my kinda good time!" You hear him chuckle again.

"Actually it's kinda lame. I'm thinking of calling it a night."

"Don't you dare," he says with mock authority. "Wait there a minute and I'll be on my way. Text me the address."

You hang up and text him, wondering what he's up to. You've never hung out with him after work, even with all the flirting you've both done. You think it's strictly professional with a touch of playfulness, but you've never been one hundred percent sure.

You hang out at the bar, wanting to be visible to him when he arrives, but it's only after you're returned from the ladies' room checking your makeup, outfit and hair, that you see him, well the back of him, and he's mingling with some of the bridesmaids, who are obviously taking a much-needed alcohol break from dancing.

You gently touch his shoulder. "Hey there, stranger."

He turns, smiling, and the look in his eyes becomes one of pure lust. He drinks you in, unabashedly. "Damn darlin', you look so good it hurts," he drawls.

You glance at the bridesmaids, most of whom are checking him out with flagrant interest. "Did you meet everyone? Kaitlyn's the bride-to-be," you introduce them.

"I have, and her husband's one lucky sonofabitch, if I may say so," he places a gentlemanly kiss on the bride's hand and she in turn blushes. "Who's your friend?" she asks.

"A coworker," you say mysteriously, glancing at Jack, who has now turned his whole attention to you.

"You wanna dance, darlin'?" he asks, extending his hand to you.

Your stomach drops, just because you're pretty shy about dancing, and if anything you'd like to leave him with the impression that you can at least move in rhythm. "Maybe the next song," you suggest. "But first, how about a couple of shots? On me."

He smiles and shakes his head. "Darlin', I can't allow that. My treat," he insists, and orders a couple shots of whiskey for you and him.

"Had to be whiskey, huh?" you tease him, taking the shot glass in your hand.

"Of course." He lifts his glass to yours for a toast. "To coworkers getting to know each other better," he says, and there's a twinkle in his deep brown eyes that's hard to miss.

"To getting to know each other better," you grin and down the shot. It's like fire in your throat and stomach.

"Too much for ya to handle?" he teases, having downed his with ease.

"Depends.. which Whiskey are you talking about?" you tease back, feeling a little surge of confidence that either comes from Jack or from the shot.

"You're a little firecracker," he says in a low voice, his eyes blatantly going over every line and curve of your face, and downwards to eyeball your neck, the curve of your breasts. You wonder what he's imagining.

"Firecrackers are fun but dangerous," you warn him with a cheeky smile.

"We both know I'm all about that danger. Ain't nothin' I can't handle.." a subtle lift of his brows suggests he means more than mere flirtation.

"Is that a challenge?" You step closer to him, and the scent of his cologne, notes of leather and tobacco, catches your attention.

He notices your stance, the way you've shifted from a sweetheart wallflower to a provocative temptress. "What if it is?" he whispers into your ear, his breath tickling your skin and raising goosebumps on your flesh.

You follow his lead and whisper into his own ear, your lips grazing his cheek. "Then I accept.." you keep the ghost of a kiss upon his freshly shaven cheek and slowly pull back, looking into his eyes and seeing a newly effected desire there. "Dance with me." You bring him out to the floor, having completely lost sight of the bridesmaids. Nothing exists now but you and Jack and this chemistry that's been building between you.

His hands are on your hips as "Neon Moon" starts to play, a slow and soulful song that suits the mood you're both in. The colored lights sweep across the room, casting blue and scarlet and amber glows across the crowd. You're lost in each other, in the touch of his hands on your hips, the way he caresses them, loving their shape. You rest your hands on his broad, strong shoulders.

"You're a good dancer, Jack. You know what they say about men who are good dancers," you tell him suggestively.

"Really? What do they think, Gorgeous?" He pulls you even closer so your bodies are practically flush together.

"That they're good in bed," you answer with an arch of your brow, as if to imply it was beyond your belief.

He looks at you like a man looking at his first meal in a week of starvation. "Do you want to find out just how good of a.. dancer I am?"

Heat blooms across your body, and your pussy clenches in response. It only takes a moment to imagine what it would be like, riding this cowboy. You see him and you realize you have him right where you want him. "There is something I've been dying to ride.." you gently tug his shirt to bring him closer, as if in a kiss..

For a moment he looks like he's going to melt from the heat coming off you. "Oh yeah, darlin'? And what exactly is that?" he smirks.

Your face lights up. "That mechanical bull!" You grab Jack's hand and lead him across the huge barroom to the line to ride the bull. Sneaking a look at his face, Whiskey looks bewildered, but manages to cover it just in time. "That stupid thing? I can think of something more fun to ride," he smirks again and you resist the urge to drag him outside and let him have his way with you in the alleyway.

You only smirk back at him as the operator calls you to come forward and get atop the bull. Getting on top is easy, but staying on will be hard. As soon as you're situated, the bull starts spinning and bucking, slowly at first to let you get your bearings. You laugh and hold on, your body moving with the bull, anticipating its every move. Your hips grind down to the leather, thighs locked tight as you move your pelvis forward. Catching Whiskey's eye you blow him a kiss.

Seeing that the ride is winding down, he goes up to the operator and pays him to let you go again. This time, apparently on Whiskey's orders, the ride goes slower, allowing you to continue your little show for Jack. Keeping eye contact with him, you imagine it's him beneath you. Suddenly you gasp as you realize the bull is moving faster, and you watch as Jack's expression turns dark, lustful. You bite your lip as the speed increases. Pleasure pools in your belly, more specifically between your thighs, and the first stirrings of pleasure begin to radiate outward to your limbs, You rear your head back, face pointed up in ecstasy, and a rolling thunder starts in your veins.

You don't realize it until it's happening but you're being led away by Whiskey to a small corridor where no one can see you, and buries his face in your neck. "Tell me to stop if that's what you want," he says, his voice strained. "But by all that's holy, you are the hottest god damn thing I've ever seen."

But by then your leg is already hooked around his hip, shamelessly rubbing against him, the pleasure from the bull ride still fresh in your body. "I don't want you to stop," you whisper.

He growls low in his throat, which you dare to kiss, grazing your teeth across his skin. He gives a sharp hiss, and when he presses against you you feel proof of his desire, as if you needed any more. His hand goes beneath the hem of your dress and slides up, finding the edge of your lace panties. "Black?" he murmurs, his lips still against your neck.

"How did you know?"

You feel the curve of his smile against your skin. "I always know." His fingers trace your inner thighs before dipping into your heated, slick cunt. "Christ woman, you're soaking wet. For me." With his fingers inside you he kisses you, and you tip your face up to lean into his kiss, He slowly pumps two thick fingers inside as he slips his tongue into your mouth, mimicking the movements, earning a deep moan then a whimper from you.

"Watching you ride that bull, I just know it was me you were thinkin' of," he whispers huskily against your ear. "God damn if you aren't the most gorgeous thing I ever laid eyes on,, been wantin' you a long time, darlin'."

Through the haze of desire you smile, finding the temerity to feel touched by his words. "Took you long enough to show it," you tease, cupping the back of his head as you kiss, leaning against the wall as he fingers your wetness.

He groans again. "As much as I want to continue, I'd like to find a more comfortable place to fuck you." He pauses to look to you for consent. "That is, if you still want this."

You reply by palming his rigid cock, already threatening to poke through his tailored trousers. "I absolutely do.."

In a flurry of movement he brings you outside. The bachelorette party is the last thing on your mind, if you even still remember it, All you can think of is being with Jack. He leads you to his truck, the spacious backseat warm and inviting. He's on you again as that door is closed, His mouth finds yours, tongue claiming you. "I want to be gentle, but I don't think I have it in me right now," he admits.

You shake your head. "I'm not asking for gentle, I'm asking you to fuck me, Jack."

You've never called him by his name before, never been so informal with him, but the look in his eyes tells you it's perfectly all right by him. He lays you down on the seat. "Can I get a little taste of ya, darlin'? Been wonderin' what you'd taste like since the day we met."

This draws a sweet whimper from you, to hear he'd always wanted you. "God yes, please.."

He gingerly removes your panties, kissing his way back up your calves and thighs once they're off. You blush when he breathes in your scent. His hands cup the backs of your thighs, hooking them over his shoulders and you can't help but feel exposed. "Christ.. woman, you're gonna be the death of me," he mutters before taking off his hat and leaning in to devour you.

You give a sharp gasp as you lean your head back against the seat, hands mussing his hair as he laps at your wet cunt, licking up your folds and dipping his tongue inside you. He gently laps at your clit, using more pressure with each lick until he cups his lips around it and sucks, listening to how much you like it, how much more you need.

"Fuck!" you shout, a victorious roar as you feel yourself so close to that edge, and Whiskey is happy to let you use him for your pleasure. His tongue draws shapes upon your clit, alternating between swiping with his tongue and suckling it. Only when you come and he sweeps across every fold to drink up your juices does he stop.

You practically push him down, effectively trading places with him as you kneel before him. "My turn.."

His gaze turns dark even as his face lights up. "Hell, I'm not sayin' no to that, darlin'."

Smiling, you undo his trousers and pull them down with his briefs. His cock springs out, thick and long, perfectly curved, smooth, perfect. "God, I just knew you'd have a big dick.." you whisper, tracing with your tongue from root to head.

Whiskey exhales, watching you work on him. He palms the back of your head but doesn't urge you any further than what's comfortable for you. You use your hand to stroke his base while getting the first few inches of him into your mouth, daring to deep-throat him, wanting to see that look on his face, wanting to see him go crazy for you.

"Jesus, darlin'. I'm so on edge right now I might just burst if you keep doin' that," he chuckles. "Get on up here and ride me, gorgeous."

You feel your heart pound in every extremity of your body, especially your cunt, as you get up and straddle him, hiking up your dress. He stops you a moment and caresses your cheek. "This okay with you, darlin'? I have protection if you prefer.."

You smile and shake your head. "I'm on birth control, and I'm clean."

He smiles back. "Ah good. I'm clean too, darlin'." You know it has to be true, as the agents do periodic physicals and are prohibited from missions for the slightest findings.

Kissing him, you rise over him, using your hands to find him and bring him into you. He slides in without any resistance, and you take your time trying to get as much of him inside as you can. "Fuck, Jack," you whisper as he fills you.

Through the pleasure of connecting your bodies he smirks. "Is that an order?"

You giggle a little. "Looks like I'm the one doing the fucking." Just as you say that, he pushes up from under you, moving you up, filling you up just a little bit more. "God!!"

Sinking his teeth in to his lower lip he grabs onto your hips and moves you how he wants, watching your body for clues on what you like and what you want more of. He pulls the front of your dress down and frees your breasts, suckling on each nipple at a time as you melt on top of him, inadvertently letting more of him inside. He's fucking you and you're fucking him.

You grab his hat from the seat next to you and put it on yourself, riding your cowboy. Whiskey watches you, whispering your name, calling you his Cowgirl, bucking his hips up into you until he bottoms out, then lifting you with long strokes until you push him down to grind down. His thumb flicks over your clit, swirling the letters of your name and his, hearing your wild moans and shuddering sighs. You've never come so hard or so fast. You feel the first fluttery feelings deep within, and they shoot through your veins, lighting up your entire nervous system, and you scream his name as your cunt clenches spasmodically around his cock, and soon you feel him spill his cum deep inside you, spurting its warmth to your insides.

It takes a moment for you to come back to earth, and when you do, Whiskey is kissing you, tenderly, with the remainder of the passion you two just shared. "That was.. wow," you sigh, feeling shy around him now, of all times.

"It was spectacular, darlin'. I hope you know I'm gonna want you again," he puts his forehead to yours.

"Is that so?" You blush with elation.

"Of course darlin'. I'm hopin' to make this a long-term association, if you're so willin'. But on one condition."

You raise a brow. "Already calling the shots, huh? What's the condition?"

"That the only thing you ride is me. Ain't no way I'm being upstaged by a damn mechanical bull ever again."

You laugh, and he loves the sound of it. "We'll put a pin in that conversation."

He strokes your hair. The electric light from the bar sign lights up the inside of the truck, magenta and cyan. "You comin' home with me tonight, Cowgirl?"

You smile and give him a soft kiss. "You bet, Cowboy."

divider by @saradika-graphics 👑

[sematarygirls]

꒰ sonny carisi x doctor!reader — mentions of blood & violence, doctor/patient relationship, copious medical inaccuracies ꒱ 𝅄

  ／ the fluorescent lights of the trauma bay reflected off the linoleum floor at mercy general hospital as you readied yourself for an incoming ambulance.

the paramedics rush into the e.r, pushing a man on the gurney. his shirt had been cut open by the paramedics in the ambulance, blood glistening on his skin. a pressure dressing had been applied to the wound, the blood soaking through and staining it crimson.

"gsw, through-and-through to the right shoulder. no visible arterial bleeding. his vitals are stable, but there’s significant blood loss," one of the paramedics informed you, stepping away to let you and the other doctors work.

you quickly moved to his side, your eyes scanning over the wound as you listened to the paramedic's report. you snapped on a pair of gloves and carefully peeled back the blood-soaked dressing. the entry and exit wounds were clean, but the muscle tissue was torn and bleeding.

"how bad is it, doc?" the man groaned, wincing as you peeled back the dressing.

you glanced up at him, offering a reassuring smile. "well, it looks like the bullet passed through cleanly, but we're going to need to get some images done just to be sure," you explained, transferring him from the gurney to a hospital bed with the help of some other doctors.

he groaned, pain flaring up during the move. he gritted his teeth, trying to stay still as a low groan fell from his lips. once he was settled on the hospital bed, you applied a fresh bandage to keep the bleeding under control.

he watched you carefully, his face contorted in pain, but his eyes glimmering with curiosity. his gaze lingered on your face as you tend to him. despite the throbbing ache in his shoulder, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful you were. his gaze fell to your badge, reading the name in his head before echoing it aloud. "that's pretty."

"thanks," you said absent-mindedly, brows furrowing in concentration as you grabbed his arm, tying a tourniquet onto his bicep briefly to accentuate his veins, so you could insert an iv. if you weren't in work mode, you probably would have gotten flustered. you weren't blind. you could see how incredibly attractive he was, but it was hardly appropriate to flirt with a man who had a hole in his shoulder.

he held still, his heart racing not just from the pain, but from the closeness of your hands on his arm, the warmth of your touch seeped into his skin, and he felt himself relaxing ever so slightly in your care. as you worked, he studied your face, committing every detail to memory.

he probably should've been much more focused on the fact that he had been shot, but something about you drew him in. he found himself wanting to know more about you, despite how wildly inappropriate the situation was.

"so... doc," he began, wincing as you gently inserted the iv into his arm. "how long have you been working here?" he asked, desperate to keep his mind off the pain and his eyes on you.

you looked up at him, raising an eyebrow at his casual, conversational demeanor, but you decided to humor him. he was the one suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. "a couple years. i just finished my residency."

he hummed, nodding as if he had any idea what that meant. his forte was law, not medicine.

"alright, let's get you to imaging just to make sure everything is all good before we patch you up," you gave him a small smile, beginning to wheel him toward the imaging room.

he gripped the bed's side rail tightly with his left hand, his knuckles turning white as the motion jostled his shoulder painfully. he hissed through his teeth, trying to mask the pain. "so, uh, what do you like to do for fun, doc?" he asked, trying to distract himself.

"patch up talkative detectives," you teased him with a playful grin, carefully pushing the gurney through the doorway.

he chuckled, the sound a little strained as the movement sent a sharp pain through his shoulder. "well, i'm glad i can provide some entertainment for you then," he said, looking around the imaging room as you prepared to get him settled onto the table.

"alright, try to sit still. we're just gonna take some pictures really quick," you said softly, your expression filled with care and warmth.

he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the movement. he bit his lip, trying to stay silent as you and another doctor helped him onto the table. the pain was intense, but your gentle touch and soothing voice made it bearable.

you gave him one last smile before heading into the little viewing room, a row of glass windows allowing you to see him. your eyes stayed trained on the computer screen as you waited for the images to come up.

"no fractures, looks like the bullet missed the bone and major vessels. some soft tissue damage, though," one of the other doctors thought aloud.

you nodded, studying the images. "alright, let’s clean the wounds and get him stitched up. he’ll need a sling and antibiotics to prevent infection, but he got lucky." you reentered the room and moved him back to the gurney, once again, with the assistance of the other doctor. "you're gonna be just fine, detective," you reassured him with a smile. "we're gonna stitch you up and get you settled in a room."

he let out a sigh of relief, his body relaxing as the tension ebbed away. "thanks, doc. i owe you one," he said, his voice soft as he gave you a grateful smile. his pain seemed to be lessening now, probably because of the pain drugs you'd administered.

"i'm just doing my job," you laughed softly, wheeling him back to the emergency room to patch him up.

as you got him back to the e.r and worked on stitching up his wounds, he couldn't help but stare at you again. "you know, for a doctor, you're really pretty," he blurted out, the pain meds making him a little loose-lipped. "i mean, not that i was checking you out or anything. just... noticing."

you grinned, laughing softly. it wasn't the first time you'd heard that from a patient hopped up on drugs, but something about him saying it made your heart flutter. "thank you."

he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "sorry. i'm normally smoother than that." he grimaced as you tugged at his skin to tie off another stitch. "and i swear, i wasn't hitting on you. well, not intentionally, anyway."

"good," you smiled, glancing up to look into his eyes. "because, as your doctor, that would be wildly inappropriate." you said it, but there was no real conviction behind your words.

he looked into your eyes and felt his heart skip a beat. there was something about the way you were looking at him, something warm and gentle that made him feel all sorts of fluttery inside. "right," he said, his voice a little shaky. "doctor-patient relationship and all that."

"mhm," you hummed, continuing to stitch him up with practiced efficiency.

he couldn't help but stare at you as you worked. the concentration on your face, the gentle touch of your hands. he found himself wondering what it would be like if those hands were touching him elsewhere.

"alright, all done," you said, pulling him from his inappropriate thoughts as you finished off the last stitch and pulled away. "now, i'm just gonna wrap you up with a bandage to keep it all clean and catch any residual bleeding," you explained, turning to grab a fresh bandage.

he watched you carefully, his eyes following every minor movement with interest. he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that you were almost finished with his arm. he wanted to keep talking to you, keep feeling your gentle touch on his skin. "so, doc... do you ever go out?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"do i ever go out?" you laughed at the silly question, turning back to him, bandages in hand.

"yeah, you know, date. have a life outside of the hospital." he grinned, watching as you began to wrap his arm. "i mean, not that i have room to talk, being a detective and all, we work crazy hours."

"honestly," you said, wrapping his shoulder carefully, trying not to let your gaze linger on his chest, which was glistening with sweat. "i don't remember the last time i was on a date."

"well, that's a crime," he joked, his eyes wandering over your face.

"you would know, huh?" you fired back, a grin on your face. the playful banter was something you hadn't experienced in a long time, and you found yourself craving more time with him.

he chuckled, liking the easy back-and-forth with you. "yeah, i'd know," he said, his gaze drifting to your lips. "so, doc, what do you say to me taking you out on a proper date?"

you bit your lip, pulling away as you finished up. "well, i would say that's incredibly unethical." you were trying to maintain a professional demeanor, but truthfully, you wanted to go out with him more than anything.

"right," he said, nodding. "but once i'm all healed up, i won't be your patient anymore. technically." he grinned hopefully at you. "come on, doc. let's go out. let me take you to dinner."

"one date," you relented, smiling at him. though, you were sure you'd probably end up agreeing to many, many more dates. you knew it was unethical and wrong in probably about a dozen ways, but you couldn't resist his charm or his boyish good looks.

he grinned broadly, his face lighting up. you noticed how his eyes crinkled and his dimples deepened. "one date," he agreed. "and who knows? maybe i'll get shot again, and we can make it two."

"as your doctor, i'm going to have to strongly advise against that," you laughed. he opened his mouth to say something else, but your pager cut him off. "shit," you muttered. "i've gotta go, but," you grabbed a pen and the first thing you could find, which just so happened to be a clean bandage—ironically fitting—and jotted down your number. "here's my number. call me when you're all healed up," you paused, giving him a stern look. "and not a second before."

"yes, ma'am," he nodded, smiling widely as he took the bandage from you, his gaze darting to take in the sloppily scribbled number before looking. back at you. his eyes followed you as you rushed away, his smile never faltering. he couldn't wait for his shoulder to heal.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Like My Father

Part 1: Introductions

Warm and deep brown eyes look at you from the doorway, a pair of arms folded across a chest that was all too familiar to you. You don’t have to turn your head to know who it is, all you would have to do is look at the reflection in the mirror.

He's standing there dressed up in a well cut black suit with a simple button down shirt beneath the jacket. You watch him through the reflection of the mirror, his brown eyes purposefully and ravingly studying you from head to toe. 

“You’re going to be late,” his smooth english accent is lilted with a toying nature, a teasing quality that you are far too accustomed to.

“I already got a lecture from my mother, Gaz. I don’t need to hear you droll on and on.” You turn your back to the mirror and stand a distance away from him. As you turn the skirt of your modern ballgown turns with you, and the motion captures his attention. 

The dress your mother chose for you is a deep red ballgown that’s fitted around your bodice and waist before billowing into a full tulle skirt. The material is embellished with delicate sequins that make the dress sparkle under the light, with a small amount of lace detail on the sleeves. The dress is beautiful and your mother had chosen a ballgown that was well suited to your figure with a sweetheart neckline and a thigh high split. It maintained it’s femineity while conducting the image that you were grown and ready for a mate—according to your mother’s own words.  

“I’m offended, sweetheart. I thought you liked the sound of my voice.” He pushed himself off the doorframe and began walking toward you, the scent of the alpha was enticing yet now overpowering like so many you’d seen met before. “Lying straight to my face, yeah?” 

“Come off it,” you rolled your eyes and scoffed at your friend and confidante, knowing that he was only here on behalf of your mother. Because she knew you wouldn’t listen to her and her nagging, not that you would exactly concede to Gaz either, but it was worth a shot. “You cleaned up nice, my mother’s choice?” 

“Yeah, you like it?” Gaz’s charming smile had always eased you, ever since you had met him. 

“You look great but your tie isn’t straight.” You make the observation, the silk tie slight off centered, not so much that it makes the entire suit look cheapened. “You did that on purpose.” 

“Gotta rebel somehow, love.” Gaz winks at you and closes the distance between you two, the sound of his shoes clacking against the marble floors was just one of many senses that you’d attuned to. 

Of the others, the lights of the incoming vehicles was another. The shimmering bright lights of imported vehicles and limousines as they approached the front doors of this castle, was nothing more than a reminder. 

Of what was going on tonight. 

Your father was the alpha and king of a thriving kingdom, mated and married to your mother, dedicated and helplessly in love with her. He was a good alpha, one that was respected by both the people and the royal court. Of course your father had done what most alpha’s were drawn to do, mating and raising a family. Your family was a small yet tight knit unit with your parents, two brothers and yourself, a perfectly balanced homelife that meshed with your father’s royal duties. 

Your brothers were older than you by five and six years, and had gone and mated with omega’s of your own—with members of allied kingdom’s. Your sisters-in-law's were inviting and wonderful, and any chance you had to visit them you would take it. They were successful in creating their own packs, loving families and respectful reputations that could have only come from honest and loved parents. 

However long and loving your parents were with each other, and how well they were at ruling side by side in the kingdom, you knew your father wanted to retire. He had been the king for many years, earning himself a reputation as a great king that was loved and adored. It was time, in his eyes, for him to enjoy time with his darling mate without the weight of the kingdom upon their shoulders. The decision was made to officially announce his retirement and the advocation of the throne. There had already been rumors, and the royal court was abuzz with which of your brothers would come home to succeed in your father’s place—never once giving the thought that the remaining child of your father’s could have taken over. 

But you were an omega, and in the royal court’s eyes, omegas were for marrying and mating, and ruling was something they had anticipated would be too much for an omega. And surely, the council wouldn’t expect your father to hand over the duties of ruling the kingdom to an omega. 

That would be too forward thinking for the members of the court that were so obstinate in their views. 

“Come on, the sooner you get down there the sooner you can leave.” Kyle’s warm hand upon your lower back is the catalyst that pulled your attention off the approaching guests of tonight’s ball. 

You had turned your head to look at him, to observe your closest friend and confidante, the alpha that had been there for you through thick and thing. Kyle Garrick, Gaz as he had liked to be called sometimes, had formed an instant connection with you from the start. The day you met, when you were shy of 18 and he was 20, was the first time you had felt so drawn and completely taken by an alpha. He was charming and warm, he was someone who had abstained from treating you like you were glass because you were a princess. Your friendship had formed and beneath the surface, lingering where no one else could see it, you had formed feelings for him. It was impossible to not feel drawn to Gaz, to be so blissfully enamored by his warm brown eyes. His bright smile and the air of sarcastic humor that made you laugh with little effort was undeniable. 

“Or we could just stay here...” You had countered his suggestion with one of your own, shirking your responsibilities your father had laid out for you, in favour of staying in your bedroom watching bad eighties movies. 

"Avoiding your duties, sweetheart? Not very princess like of you, is it?” Kyle teased you with that husky dulcet voice of his as the two of you stepped outside your bedroom. 

You could hear the sounds radiating from the party in one of the grand ballrooms, and the heady mix of scents that were overpowering in their own right was overwhelming. That was your real issue with going to these grand parties and having to mingle with the crowds of invites guests. The scents were too much, they were too stimulating, and they had resulted in your needed regular breaks where you could get clean and fresh air. 

Often you would slip out to the garden, choosing to be surrounded by the smell of nature instead of the cacophonous amount of scents binding together. It was enough for you to be an unmarked and unmated omega mixing among a crowd of various designations. However being unmarked and unmated had often left you vulnerable to the whims of alpha’s scents. The alpha’s who were unmated themselves, would make an attempt to lure in other unmated omega’s by intensifying their scents. 

Like male peacocks with their bright tails that were meant to attract mates, and steer away predators, their scents would unknowingly or unwittingly become headache inducing. 

Regardless of whether you wanted to go or not, you knew that this was one party you couldn’t avoid. It wasn’t just a gala your mother was hosting for no reason, it was about the fate of your kingdom’s future and you couldn’t avoid it. 

Your heart races as you start walking down the steps with the material of your dress gathered in one hand, with Gaz walking side by side with you. He was standing to your left, not just acting like your best friend but also as an alpha who was guarding you. It was his tall and strong stature that you had leaned into as you walked down the steps. 

The entrance to the ballroom where the party was held had been marked by two waiters holding trays of champagne. Before you had even made it to the entrance, your attention was drifting away from the party toward the newest arrivals. Of course there was security and they were standing guards as they checked the invitations, the slow crowd that had started to pool in were buzzing with conversation. It was exhausting more often than not, to have people whisper about you, to have tabloids and gossip networks talking about your family. 

It could be something as simple as the mundane articles about what you had for breakfast when you went out to get fresh air. Or the fashion ridicule you might have faced for not being completely put together when you wanted to relax. It was a part of being a royal and you knew that, you had to accept it, especially in the modern age. 

“You look beautiful, Y/N. Don't think about them.” Gaz had leaned into you, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand began slowly brushing up and down your back. It was a soothing gesture, one that you’d appreciated from an alpha like him, and you’d willingly followed him into the party. 

Once you had entered the party space, like you expected, the scents were muddles and heady. It was a mix that had already began to hurt your nose, causing the slightest sting in your nostrils as you contended with the assault. You had turned your head when passing a few alpha’s standing near the bar, giving yourself the slightest relief. 

Some alpha’s scents were stronger than others, some were so brazen and bold. It gave you the impression that they were attempting to push their scent upon anyone that passed for the sake of trying to stand out. 

“There’s your father,” Gaz’s voice was soothing and comforting, his hand was held tightly at your back, as he still acted as your escort and guard. “We should go talk with him.” 

Your fingers ran over the bodice and waist of your dress, running your fingers over them. You found the act of touching the sequins sewn into the dress grounding for you. There was so much going on in the ballroom, between the music and chatter, to the mixing pot of scents that would surely give you a headache. It was a lot, it was too much, and you were damn grateful that Gaz’s scent was so soothing. 

Upon reaching your father near the head table of the ballroom, you were momentarily confounded by the presence of three alpha’s you’d never seen before. Of course you could have pegged it on not knowing everyone who was in your father’s inner circle. However in the last few months your father had been stressing the importance of you attending the council and court sessions more often than not. 

And that had made you far more familiar with your father’s advisors and close staff than not. 

Before you could even say a thing, your father had begun introductions, starting with the alpha to your left. 

“John Price, an alpha who will be an advisor for you when you take my place.” Your father spoke his name and you looked over him quickly. His blue eyes were studying you just as you studied him, his eyes rakish as they took in the image of you. 

John Price was an alpha with a complex scent, the notes of cigar smoke from a habit he clearly had, had blended well with the faint aroma of some kind of aged wood. He had a muttonchop style beard that would have looked disingenuous on anyone else but it looked good on him. He was a broad alpha, tall with a solid and well built muscular frame, the kind of alpha that most omega’s would immediately cower to. 

However his size was nothing compared to the alpha on the left of John price, the one with his arms crossed over his chest. This second alpha had made John Price seem small in both broad width and size, and that was obviously no easy feat. Though you couldn’t detect the features of his face due to the black balaclava he wore, you could make out the colour of his eyes—brown and deep, yet not nearly as warm in tone as Gaz’s. 

“Simon Riley, known as Ghost, will be one half of your personal guard.” Your father spoke to you, addressing Simon with a wave of his hand in the direction of the beastly alpha. 

If John Price’s scent was complex, then Simon’s was rather simple in no less of an enticing way. Leather, cigarette smoke, bourbon and a glimmer of citrus, rich and consuming, had clung to the dark eyed alpha. 

“Johnny Mactavish, the other half of your guard.” Your father had introduced them all, all of them staring at you with an intensity that made your heart race. 

And the final alpha that you had never yet met was one that was just as broad as Simon Riley, just as tall as John Price, however he seemed to be far more relaxed than both. On his face was a cocky grin that reflected the lightness of his blue eyes, the playfulness that was just as natural as breathing. Unlike Simon Riley, you could see him clearly and you made out his features with curiosity—light eyes, a mohawk with close cropped hair on the sides, a slightly crooked nose, a scar above his lips on the right side, and a tattoo partially hidden on his bicep. 

This third alpha’s scent reminded you of the sea after a storm, the mix of freshness with the saltiness of the ocean was both addictive and relaxing. It was well meshed with the other alpha’s, even Gaz’s, and you were pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t nauseating as others. 

“Y/N,” your father redirected your attention to him as he pulled you into a hug, a familial and tender hug that you’d loved since you were a child, “you are such a beautiful woman. Your mother and I are so proud of you.” 

You had relayed your father’s hug with one of your own, preening under your father’s loving gesture. Once you had pulled away from your father and had stood amongst the three unknown alpha's, your mother was quick to join your father, beaming at him. The way your mother’s gaze had been focused on your father was endearing, it was a true sign of her devotion and absolute adoration. They were mates who were perfect for each other, an alpha and omega who were so closely bound and hopelessly in love, it was what you wanted to strive for. 

“Have you told her yet?” Your mother had leaned against your father’s side, her gown glittering in its own right, and the fabric designed to match your father’s eyes. 

“If you’re talking about the upcoming retirement announcement, I know.” You clasped your hands together, the knot in your stomach tightening. You got the sense that it was so much more than you had anticipated that there was more than just a retirement announcement coming. 

“Y/N,” your father had grabbed your hands, loosening one from the other, and slowly turned your body to face the alpha’s standing nearby, the ones that were so unfamiliar, “your mother and I love you. We want the best for you and the royal court will try everything in their power to undermine the rule of an omega.” 

Your father smiled at you, crow's feet by his eyes and the graying hairs were a sign of his age, of his tiredness and the willingness to just be with your mother. 

“An omega, even the future ruler, needs to be protected by mates.” Your father spoke softly, encouragingly and with all the love heralded for you. “They will be your guards, your advisors and friends, but also your alpha’s.” 

Your eyes immediately locked with Gaz’s, his brown eyes still brimming with warmth and the endearing charm that you loved about him. But now there was more, pride and a sense of unwavering dedication. 

It was clear now what your father was planning on doing, the announcement that was to be made was not just about the future of the kingdom. It was an announcement about you as well, the decision being made was meant for the betterment of your kingdom and yourself. 

You would rule the kingdom as an omega, and these 4 alphas would be mates to keep you safe, guarded and grounded. 

John, Johnny, Simon and Gaz... 

Your Gaz, with three other alpha’s, aiding you in taking on this role. 

You understand why it was necessary, once the council and the court had heard your father’s announcement, it would be an uphill battle for you. 

Without support, without the strongholds mates could provide, you would have no chance of success.

[gravedwe11er]

Echoes through the cosmos

My friend @cosmique-oddity had a brilliant idea about mecha AU Coswave and I had to write my own take on it. Make sure to check out his wondeful writing/art for this concept too! We're posting our works in tandem, so by the time you see this, it should be on his blog.

Aaanyway, this was supposed to be a short one-shot. It is not. Part two and three will be coming soon. As always, based on the Mecha AU by @keferon.

When he was a kid, the first book he’d ever gotten was a children’s space encyclopedia.

Secrets of the cosmos, it was titled, and he’d fallen in love with it at first glance. It talked about planets and stars and the possibilities of alien life, and he’d carried it around everywhere for years, so much so that it earned him the nickname Cosmos from his peers. It might have been a little mocking at the time, but he’d refused to take it as an insult - quite the opposite, really, and eventually, it stuck.

On clear nights, he’d sometimes sneak out of his house after bedtime, lie down on the grass and just look at the sky. He’d watch the stars flicker, thinking of distant planets filled with cool alien people. Imagined himself meeting them one day, leaving Earth behind for greater adventures and new friends, and whenever he saw a shooting star, only one wish ever came to mind – “I want to meet an alien someday!”

In retrospect, perhaps he should have wished for something else. Chocolate cake for breakfast, maybe.

Because the aliens came. And unlike in the movies, they came with little fanfare; no dramatic declarations of war, no menacing signals sent over the airwaves or bright lights in the sky. They just dropped down from atmo and started ripping humanity to pieces.

Cosmos, who at that point had been in his last year of college and working an internship at decently large observatory, got pretty much front row seats to the first planetfall. The quintessons hadn’t bothered to hide. Hadn’t needed to, really – they’d had too much of an upper hand to worry much about human defense forces.

Life after that was a bit of a blur. The shatterdomes sprung up in a matter of months, humanity started fighting back and actually winning sometimes. Cosmos graduated and got hired immediately as one of the many, many people monitoring satellite data, watching for any incoming quint dropships.

And while yes, even a few minutes of warning ahead of an incoming enemy drop could save thousands of lives, it was never quite enough. New mecha were being made constantly, but such things take time, and the losses kept mounting. Clearly, something else needed to be done.

Which is how Cosmos finds himself here, orbiting some twenty thousand kilometers away from Earth in a haphazard little shoebox of an observation station, all alone in the void between worlds.

Well, to be fair, the actual scientific equipment of the station is top of the line. It’s just the everything else that his bosses on Earth skimped out on. The interior is cramped, dull and grey, with only the bare necessities needed for his long-term functioning as a glorified space cameraman. His days are fairly monotone too – exercise routines to keep up his muscle and bone density twice a day, interspersed with long hours of going over telescope footage, checking for enemy signals and keeping an eye out for any potential anomalies.

Now, despite his occasional grumblings about the quality of life here, he’s not really bothered by most of it. Besides, he gets it – there’s only so many resources the world can spare. He’s fulfilling his dream and helping save lives in the process, so he can put up with a little discomfort. It’s still better than his old college dorm, that’s for sure.

He is in space. Actually in space. That little detail sort of makes up for a majority of the gripes he has about the station.

All except one.

When he signed up for this mission, he knew he’d be alone up here. He just didn’t know how much it would ache.

For the record, it’s not like he’s completely cut off from others- that’d be a one-way ticket to madness, and even the most heartless of higher-ups know it. They’d given him a fast internet connection and permission to make as many video calls as he needs, as long as it doesn’t affect his work. He has his parents back on Earth, and his fellow watchmen are usually up for a quick chat, but- It’s not the same. It’s not nearly enough.

Nothing can replace seeing another living being with his own eyes, a casual pat on the shoulder or just the simple warmth of a person existing in your general vicinity. The longer he stays here, the more chill seeps into his bones, into his very soul.

Soma days, it’s as if there’s a layer of frost underneath his skin, and he’s not sure how long he can take it before he shatters.

Cosmos is sipping on his breakfast coffee when the main console pings, the custom alert he’s set for this specific anomaly making him scramble for the railings immediately. Floating over, he goes to check the data, and- yeah, there it is again.

These signals have been a mystery for the past month now. As of yet, the only thing anyone knows about them is that they’re not from the quintessons and are seemingly completely random. Mission control stopped caring about them once they figured out they’re not of enemy origin, but he and a few of his fellow watchmen have been trying their best to learn more. Command hasn’t told them to quit it yet, so Cosmos assumes they don’t mind, at least.

Not that they’ve really gotten anywhere. A few times a day, the signal will originate from seemingly nowhere, just barely strong enough to be noted, bounce around a few satellites and disappear. No pattern that they can see, no changes in strength or even any indication as to its purpose. It’s just- there.

So far, it looks like he’s not figuring it out today either. Still, he logs the data into his personal file and straps himself into his chair; might as well get to work, since he’s already here.

The quintesson warships have their drop off point on the edge of the asteroid belt, about halfway between Jupiter and Mars. Same place every time. Scientists down on Earth have been throwing around theories as to why, talking about wormholes, string theory and weak spots in the time-space continuum, but it’s more speculation than anything for the most part. Faster than light travel was supposed to be the stuff of fiction after all, but here they are. One moment there’s empty space, and next there is a warship. Really exciting stuff, really! It would just be a lot better if it wasn’t being used to ruin his home.

The quints’ sub light engines reach some impressive speeds as well, but they’re still slow enough to give the people on Earth half a day’s notice before they make planetfall, provided they’re informed the moment the ships appear. Which is why Cosmos is here, watching both the space around both the planet itself and the drop-off zone, warning of incoming attacks. Or, well, to be more precise- he’s mostly watching over the equipment doing all those things, and making sure it keeps doing them no matter what. The human failsafe, so to speak.

It's a bit of a hurry up and wait sort of job. The few days after a drop, it’s constant reports and data being sent back and forth, trying to decipher enemy comms and a simmering worry in his gut as he hopes the pilots down there manage to fend off the quints without heavy casualties. Then, it’s back to long silences and practically twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the chaos to erupt once again.

Which brings him back to the signals. They’re something to break up the monotony, something to occupy his thought on the days when the systems have nothing else to report, like today. Or the past two weeks.

That is why, when a small group of quints suddenly peels off from behind Earth’s mass, heading full speed in his general direction, Cosmos nearly suffers a heart attack. The station’s sensors scream at him, and he may or may not begin panicking a little. He’s a sitting duck here- the station has no defensive capabilities, and no shuttle could get to him fast enough. That is, if they even bothered to try in the first place.

But- as he’s trying and failing to open a last call to his family with shaking fingers, he notices the quintessons slowing down to a stop, still nowhere near his position. Instead, they seem to be targeting - he types a few commands into the sensory array with clammy hands - a communications satellite? It looks like any of the thousands of others like it, ESA make, if he had to guess, so why-

And then the satellite- moves. Parts of it shift around each other, forming what looks like limbs and a head, and- no, okay, what?

The satellite, which is now very much not a satellite anymore, opens fire at the quints. Cosmos watches the scene through several sets of digital eyes, mind reeling as the small enemy platoon is- well, torn to shreds, to put it mildly. Whatever this mech is, it’s incredibly efficient, dodging between enemy strikes and dealing devastating blows of its own. His own? Is there a pilot in there? He doesn’t think so; if such technology was in use, he’d have known about it.

Then again, it could be a prototype of some sort. A secret project, maybe? That sounds slightly more plausible, but still- look, Cosmos is no mecha engineer, but even he can recognize something for being wildly out of human technological scope when he sees it. Which leaves only one remaining option, really.

Whatever this is, it’s not from Earth.

And yeah, alright, shit. That’s- well, it’s probably not a bad thing? Seeing as it just sliced through a bunch of quints like a knife through butter, it’s safe to assume it’s not aligned with them. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? God, Cosmos certainly hopes so, at least.

As the last of the quintessons die, their bodies floating off into the distance, the station’s alarms turn off one by one. All except his custom one, that is. The cheery little chime keeps on ringing, one screen off to the side showing the same odd signal he’s been tracking for weeks now, only stronger. Much, much stronger. Having started the moment the satellite changed shape, the signal keeps going, now recognizable as a multi-layered frequency and coming directly from the alien mech itself.

He's not sure if it’s the adrenaline, his innate curiosity or just plain madness, but Cosmos does something very, very stupid. With still shaking fingers, he tunes into the frequency, puts his headset on, and calls out.

“Unknown craft, this is Cosmos of the Hermes-9, please-“ his voice hitches. Swallowing tightly, he continues, “please identify yourself. I repeat, this is Cosmos of the Hermes-9, unknows craft, please identify yourself. Over.”

For a few moments, the silence is deafening as Cosmos waits for an answer, fear and anticipation mixing in his gut. Then, the mech turns around. Two glowing red optics look straight at him, as if bypassing the hull of his station and piercing through his very soul. His screens black out one by one in rapid succession, words draping themselves across the darkened expanse like stars against the endless void of the universe.

[Designation: Soundwave.]

[besidekick]

'Merry Christmas' and Other Similarly Unconvincing Lies by @tierfal

This is part of a big group of Fullmetal Alchemist fanbinds I undertook in late 2024 and finished in February 2025 to send to the author.

Title font is Gill Sans, originally designed in 1926 and hugely popular in British print culture ever since, including on the covers of old Penguin Books, which I have unrepentantly mimicked here.

This is a post-manga/FMAB story but with the divergent details that *SPOILERS INCOMING* Ed keeps his alchemy and doesn't get together with Winry, instead maintaining his military enlistment to support Mustang's long-term goals *END SPOILERS*

Find this fic on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134615

See the rest of my Tierfal binds here.

Images of the interior below the cut.

This typeset is intended to mimic the minimal designs of old Penguins. Body text is EB Garamond, which was a popular choice in midcentury fiction publishing—at least based on the vintage paperbacks in my collection.

This fic is a one-shot, so no chapter headings.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

All the books I reviewed in 2024

I reviewed 26 books this year: 15 novels, 5 nonfiction books, and 6 graphic novels. Even though I feel perennially behind on my reading (and objectively, I do have 10 linear feet of "to be read" books on the shelf), I think this is a pretty good haul.

Books are pretty much the ideal gift, if you ask me. Of course, I'm biased as a former bookseller and library worker, and as an author (of course) – I had three more books come out in 2024 (see the end of this post for details).

I started a lot more than 26 books this year. Long ago, I figured life was too short for books I wasn't enjoying, and I'm pretty ruthless about putting books down partway through if I think they're not going to reward finishing them. I probably start 10 books for every one I finish. However, I do review more than 90% of the books I get through. It's rare for me to keep reading a book all the way to the end if I'm not enjoying it enough to unconditionally recommend it. I rarely review books I don't like – there's not really any point in cataloging the list of books I think you won't enjoy reading, and most books I don't like very much are broken in ways that are too banal to comment upon.

The list below is pretty great, but if you're looking for more, here's the haul from 2023:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/01/bookmaker/#2023-in-review

NOVELS

I. Cahokia Jazz by Francis Spufford

A fucking banger: it's a taut, unguessable whuddunit, painted in ultrablack noir, set in an alternate Jazz Age in a world where indigenous people never ceded most the west to the USA. It's got gorgeously described jazz music, a richly realized modern indigenous society, and a spectacular romance. It's amazing.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/04/cahokia/#the-sun-and-the-moon

II. After World by Debbie Urbanski

An unflinching and relentlessly bleak tale of humanity's mass extinction, shot through with pathos and veined with seams of tragic tenderness and care. Sen Anon – the story's semi-protagonist – is 18 years old when the world learns that every person alive has been sterilized and so the human race is living out its last years.

The news triggers a manic insistence that this is a good thing – long overdue, in fact – and the perfect opportunity to scan every person alive for eventual reincarnation as virtual humans in an Edenic cloud metaverse called Gaia. That way, people can continue to live their lives without the haunting knowledge that everything they do makes the planet worse for every other living thing, and each other. Here, finally, is the resolution to the paradox of humanity: our desire to do good, and our inevitable failure on that score.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/18/storyworker-ad39-393a-7fbc/#digital-human-archive-project

III. Jonathan Abernathy You Are Kind by Molly McGhee

A dreamlike tale of a public-private partnership that hires the terminally endebted to invade the dreams of white-collar professionals and harvest the anxieties that prevent them from being fully productive members of the American corporate workforce.

We meet Jonathan as he is applying for a job that he was recruited for in a dream. As instructed in his dream, he presents himself at a shabby strip-mall office where an acerbic functionary behind scratched plexiglass takes his application and informs him that he is up for a gig run jointly by the US State Department and a consortium of large corporate employers. If he is accepted, all of his student debt repayments will be paused and he will no longer face wage garnishment. What's more, he'll be doing the job in his sleep, which means he'll be able to get a day job and pull a double income – what's not to like?

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/08/capitalist-surrealism/#productivity-hacks

IV. The Book of Love by Kelly Link

If you've read Link's short stories (which honestly, you must read), you know her signature move: a bone-dry witty delivery, used to spin tales of deceptive whimsy and quirkiness, disarming you with daffiness while she sets the hook and yanks. That's the unmistakeable, inimitable texture of a Kelly Link story: deft literary brushstrokes, painting a picture so charming and silly that you don't even notice when she cuts you without mercy.

Turns out that she can quite handily do this for hundreds of pages, and the effect only gets better when it's given space to unfold.

It's a long and twisting mystery about friendship, love, queerness, rock-and-roll, stardom, parenthood, loyalty, lust and duty.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/13/the-kissing-song/#wrack-and-roll

V. Lyorn by Steven Brust

The seventeenth book in Steven Brust's long-running Vlad Taltos series. For complicated reasons, Vlad has to hide out in a theater. Why a theater? They are shielded from sorcery, as proof against magical spying by rival theater companies, and Vlad is on the run from the Left Hand of the Jhereg – the crime syndicate's all-woman sorceress squad – and so he has to hide in the theater.

The theater is mounting a production of a famous play that's about another famous play. The first famous play (the one the play is about – try and follow along, would you?) is about a famous massacre that took place thousands of years before. The play was mounted as a means of drumming up support for the whistleblower who reported on the massacre and was invited to a short-term berth in the Emperor's death row as a consequence.

The plot is a fantastic, fast-handed caper story that has a million moving parts, a beautiful prestige, and a coup de grace that'll have you cheering and punching the air.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/09/so-meta/#delightful-doggerel

VI. Till Human Voices Wake Us by Rebecca Roque

A teen murder mystery told in the most technorealist way. Cia's best friend Alice has been trying to find her missing boyfriend for months, and in her investigation, she's discovered their small town's dark secret – a string of disappearances, deaths and fires that are the hidden backdrop to the town's out-of-control addiction problem.

Alice has something to tell Cia, something about the fire that orphaned her and cost her one leg when she was only five years old, but Cia refuses to hear it. Instead, they have a blazing fight, and part ways. It's the last time Cia and Alice ever see each other: that night, Alice kills herself.

Or does she? Cia is convinced that Alice has been murdered, and that her murder is connected to the drug- and death-epidemic that's ravaging their town. As Cia and her friends seek to discover the town's secret – and the identity of Alice's killer – we're dragged into an intense, gripping murder mystery/conspiracy story that is full of surprises and reversals, each more fiendishly clever than the last.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/16/dead-air/#technorealism

VII. The Steerswoman by Rosemary Kirstein

Randall "XKCD" Munroe pitched me on this over dinner: "All these different people kept recommending them to me, and they kept telling me that I would love them, but they wouldn't tell me what they were about because there's this huge riddle in them that's super fun to figure out for yourself. "The books were published in the eighties by Del Rey, and the cover of the first one had a huge spoiler on it. But the author got the rights back and she's self-published it."

How could I resist a pitch like that? So I ordered a copy. Holy moly is this a good novel! And yeah, there's a super interesting puzzle in it that I won't even hint at, except to say that even the book's genre is a riddle that you'll have enormous great fun solving.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/04/the-wulf/#underground-fave

VIII. Moonbound by Robin Sloan

Moonbound's protagonist is a "chronicler," a symbiotic fungus engineered to nestle in a human's nervous system, where it serves as a kind of recording angel, storing up the memories, experiences and personalities of its host. When we meet the chronicler, it has just made a successful leap from its old host – a 10,000-years-dead warrior who had been preserved in an anaerobic crashpod ever since her ship was shot out of the sky – into the body of Ariel, a 12-year-old boy who had just invaded the long-lost tomb.

This is doing fiction in hard mode, and Sloan nails it. The unraveling strangeness of Ariel's world is counterpointed with the amazing tale of the world the chronicler hails from, even as the chonicler consults with the preserved personalities of the heroes and warriors it had previous resided in and recorded.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/11/penumbraverse/#middle-anth

IX. Fight Me by Austin Grossman

Aging ex-teen superheroes weigh the legacy of Generation X, in a work that enrobes its savage critique with sweet melancholia, all under a coating of delicious snark. The Newcomers – an amped-up ninja warrior, a supergenius whose future self keeps sending him encouragement and technical schematics backwards through time, and an exiled magical princess turned preppie supermodel – have spent more than a decade scattered to the winds. While some have fared better than others, none of them have lived up to their potential or realized the dreams that seemed so inevitable when they were world famous supers with an entourage of fellow powered teens who worshipped them as the planet's greatest heroes.

As they set out to solve the mystery of the wizard who gave the protagonist his powers, they are reunited and must take stock of who they are and how they got there (cue Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime").

The publisher's strapline for this book is "The Avengers Meets the Breakfast Club," which is clever, but extremely wrong. The real comp for this book isn't "The Breakfast Club," it's "The Big Chill."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/01/the-big-genx-chill/#im-super-thanks-for-asking

X. Glass Houses by Madeline Ashby

Kristen is the "Chief Emotional Manager" for Wuv, a hot startup that has defined the new field of "affective computing," which is when a computer tells you what everyone else around you is really feeling, based on the irrepressible tells emitted by their bodies, voices and gadgets.

Managing Sumter through Wuv's tumultuous launch is hard work for Kristen, but at last, it's paid off. The company has been acquired, making Kristen – and all her coworkers on the founding core team – into instant millionaires. They're flying to a lavish celebration in an autonomous plane that Sumter chartered when the action begins: the plane has a malfunction and crashes into a desert island, killing all but ten of the Wuvvies.

As the survivors explore the island, they discover only one sign of human habitation: a huge, brutalist, featureless black glass house, which initially rebuffs all their efforts to enter it. But once they gain entry, they discover that the house is even harder to leave.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/13/influencers/#affective-computing

XI. The Sapling Cage by Margaret Killjoy

A queer coming-of-age tale in the mode of epic fantasy. Lorel wants to be a witch, but that's the very last of the adventurous trades to be strictly gender-segregated. Boys and girls alike run away to be knights, brigands and sailors, but only girls can become a witch. Indeed, Lorel's best friend, Lane, is promised to the witches, having been born to a witch herself.

Lorel has signed up for witching just as the land is turning against witches, thanks to a political plot by a scheming duchess who has scapegoated the witches as part of a plan to annex all the surrounding duchies, re-establishing the long-disintegrated kingdom with herself on the throne. To make things worse (for the witches, if not the duchess), there's a plague of monsters on the land, and the forests are blighted with a magical curse that turns trees to unmelting ice. This all softens up the peasantfolk for anti-witch pogroms.

So Lorel has to learn witching, even as her coven is fighting both monsters and the duchess's knights and the vigilante yokels who've been stirred up with anti-witch xenophobia.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/24/daughters-of-the-empty-throne/#witchy

XII. Blackheart Man by Nalo Hopkinson

A story that will make you drunk on language, on worldbuilding, and on its roaring, relentless plot. The action is set on Chynchin, a fantastic Caribbean island (or maybe Caribbeanesque – it's never clear whether this is some magical, imaginary world, or some distant future of our own). Chynchin is a multiracial, creole land with a richly realized gift economy that Hopkinson deftly rounds out with a cuisine, languages, and familial arrangements.

Chynchin was founded through a slave rebellion, in which the press-ganged soldiers of the iron-fisted Ymisen empire were defeated by three witches who caused them to be engulfed in tar that they magicked into a liquid state just long enough to entomb them, then magicked back into solidity. For generations, the Ymisen have tolerated Chynchin's self-rule, but as the story opens, a Ymisen armada sails into Chynchin's port and a "trade envoy" announces that it's time for the Chynchin to "voluntarily" re-establish trade with the Ymisen.

The story that unfolds is a staple of sf and fantasy: the scrappy resistance mounted against the evil empire, and this familiar backdrop is a sturdy scaffold to support Hopkinson's dizzying, phantasmagoric tale of psychedelic magic, possessed children, military intrigue, musicianship and sexual entanglements.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/20/piche/#cynchin

XIII. Julia by Sandra Newman

Julia is the kind of fanfic that I love, in the tradition of both The Wind Done Gone and Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead, in which a follow-on author takes on the original author's throwaway world-building with deadly seriousness, elucidating the weird implications and buried subtexts of all the stuff and people moving around in the wings and background of the original.

For Newman, the starting point here is Julia, an enigmatic lover who comes to Winston with all kinds of rebellious secrets – tradecraft for planning and executing dirty little assignations and acquiring black market goods. Julia embodies a common contradiction in the depiction of young women (she is some twenty years younger than Winston): on the one hand, she is a "native" of the world, while Winston is a late arrival, carrying around all his "oldthink" baggage that leaves him perennially baffled, terrified and angry; on the other hand, she's a naive "girl," who "doesn't much care for reading," and lacks the intellectual curiosity that propels Winston through the text.

This contradiction is the cleavage line that Newman drives her chisel into, fracturing Orwell's world in useful, fascinating, engrossing ways. Through Julia's eyes, we experience Oceania as a paranoid autocracy, corrupt and twitchy. We witness the obvious corollary of a culture of denunciation and arrest: the ruling Party of such an institution must be riddled with internecine struggle and backstabbing, to the point of paralyzed dysfunction. The Orwellian trick of switching from being at war with Eastasia to Eurasia and back again is actually driven by real military setbacks – not just faked battles designed to stir up patriotic fervor. The Party doesn't merely claim to be under assault from internal and external enemies – it actually is.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/28/novel-writing-machines/#fanfic

XIV. The Wilding by Ian McDonald

McDonald's first horror novel, and it's fucking terrifying. It's set in a rural Irish peat bog that has been acquired by a conservation authority that is rewilding it after a century of industrial peat mining that stripped it back nearly to the bedrock. This rewilding process has been greatly accelerated by the covid lockdowns, which reduced the human footprint in the conservation area to nearly zero.

Lisa's last duty before she leaves the bog and goes home to Dublin is leading a school group on a wild campout in one of the bog's deep clearings. It's a routine assignment, and while it's not her favorite duty, it's also not a serious hardship.

But as the group hikes out to the campsite, one of her fellow guides is killed, without warning, by a mysterious beast that moves so quickly they can barely make out its monstrous form. Thus begins a tense, mysterious, spooky as hell story of survival in a haunted woods, written in the kind of poesy that has defined McDonald's career, and which – when deployed in service of terror – has the power to raise literal goosebumps.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/25/bogman/#erin-go-aaaaaaargh

XV. Polostan by Neal Stephenson

Not a spy novel, but a science fiction novel about spies in an historical setting. This isn't to say that Stephenson tramples on, or ignores spy tropes: this is absolutely a first-rate spy novel. Nor does Stephenson skimp on the lush, gorgeously realized and painstakingly researched detail you'd want from an historical novel.

Polostan raises the curtain on the story of Dawn Rae Bjornberg, AKA Aurora Maximovna Artemyeva, whose upbringing is split between the American West in the early 20th century and the Leningrad of revolutionary Russia (her parents are an American anarchist and a Ukrainian Communist who meet when her father travels to America as a Communist agitator). Aurora's parents' marriage does not survive their sojourn to the USSR, and eventually Aurora and her father end up back in the States, after her father is tasked with radicalizing the veterans of the Bonus Army that occupied DC, demanding the military benefits they'd been promised.

All of this culminates in her return sojourn to the Soviet Union, where she first falls under suspicion of being an American spy, and then her recruitment as a Soviet spy.

Also: she plays a lot of polo. Like, on a horse.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/04/bomb-light/#nukular

NONFICTION

I. A City on Mars by Kelly and Zach Weinersmith

Biologist Kelly Weinersmith and cartoonist Zach Weinersmith set out to investigate the governance challenges of the impending space settlements they were told were just over the horizon. Instead, they discovered that humans aren't going to be settling space for a very long time, and so they wrote a book about that instead.

The Weinersmiths make the (convincing) case that every aspect of space settlement is vastly beyond our current or reasonably foreseeable technical capability. What's more, every argument in favor of pursuing space settlement is errant nonsense. And finally: all the energy we are putting into space settlement actually holds back real space science, which offers numerous benefits to our species and planet (and is just darned cool).

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/09/astrobezzle/#send-robots-instead

II. Dark Wire by Joseph Cox

Cox spent years on the crimephone beat, tracking vendors who sold modded phones (first Blackberries, then Android phones) to criminal syndicates with the promise that they couldn't be wiretapped by law-enforcement.

He tells the story of the FBI's plan to build an incredibly secure, best-of-breed crimephone, one with every feature that a criminal would want to truly insulate themselves from law enforcement while still offering everything a criminal could need to plan and execute crimes.

This is really two incredible tales. The first is the story of the FBI and its partners as they scaled up Anom, their best-of-breed crimephone business. This is a (nearly) classic startup tale, full of all-nighters, heroic battles against the odds, and the terror and exhilaration of "hockey-stick" growth.

The other one is the crime startup, the one that the hapless criminal syndicates that sign up to distribute Anom devices find themselves in the middle of. They, too, are experiencing hockey-stick growth. They, too, have a fantastically lucrative tiger by the tail. And they, too, have a unique set of challenges that make this startup different from any other.

Cox has been on this story for a decade, and it shows. He has impeccable sourcing and encyclopedic access to the court records and other public details that allow him to reproduce many of the most dramatic scenes in the Anom caper verbatim.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/04/anom-nom-nom/#the-call-is-coming-from-inside-the-ndrangheta

III. The Hidden History of Walt Disney World by Foxx Nolte

No one writes about Disney theme parks like Foxx Nolte; no one rises above the trivia and goes beyond the mere sleuthing of historical facts, no one nails the essence of what makes these parks work – and fail.

The history of Walt Disney World is also a history of the American narrative from the 1960s to the turn of the millennium, especially once Epcot enters the picture and Disney sets out to market itself as a futuristic mirror to America and the world. There's a doomed plan to lead the nation in the provision of an airport for the largely hypothetical short runway aircraft that never materialized, the Disney company's love-hate affair with Florida's orange growers, and the geopolitics of installing a permanent World's Fair, just as World's Fairs were disappearing from the world stage.

In focusing on the conflicts between different corporate managers, outside suppliers, and the gloriously flamboyant weirdos of Florida, Nolte's history of Disney World transcends amusing anaecdotes and tittle-tattle – rather, it illustrates how the creative sparks thrown off by people smashing into each other sometimes created towering blazes of glory that burn to this day.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/15/disnefried/#dialectics

IV. Network Nation by Richard R John

An extremely important, brilliantly researched, deep history of America's love/hate affair with not just the telephone, but also the telegraph. It is unmistakably as history book, one that aims at a definitive takedown of various neat stories about the history of American telecommunications.

The monopolies that emerged in the telegraph and then the telephone weren't down to grand forces that made them inevitable, but rather, to the errors made by regulators and the successful gambits of the telecoms barons. At many junctures, things could have gone another way.

Most striking about this book were the parallels to contemporary fights over Big Tech trustbusting, in our new Gilded Age. Many of the apologies offered for Western Union or AT&T's monopoly could have been uttered by the Renfields who carry water for Facebook, Apple and Google. John's book is a powerful and engrossing reminder that variations on these fights have occurred in the not-so-distant past, and that there's much we can learn from them.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/18/the-bell-system/#were-the-phone-company-we-dont-have-to-care

V. A Natural History of Empty Lots by Christopher Brown

A frustratingly hard to summarize book, because it requires a lot of backstory and explanation, and one of the things that makes this book so! fucking! great! is how skillfully Brown weaves disparate elements – the unique house he built in Austin, the wildlife he encounters in the city's sacrifice zones, the politics that created them – into his telling.

This series of loosely connected essays that explains how everything fits together: colonial conquest, Brown's failed marriage, his experience as a lawyer learning property law, what he learned by mobilizing that learning to help his neighbors defend the pockets of wildness that refuse to budge.

It's filled with pastoral writing that summons Kim Stanley Robinson by way of Thoreau, and it sometimes frames its philosophical points the way a cyberpunk writer would.

The kind of book that challenges how you feel about the crossroads we're at, the place you live, and the place you want to be.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/17/cyberpunk-pastoralism/#time-to-mow-the-roof

GRAPHIC NOVELS

I. Death Strikes by David Maass and Patrick Lay

"The Emperor of Atlantis," is an opera written by two Nazi concentration camp inmates, the librettist Peter Kien and the composer Viktor Ullmann, while they were interned in Terezin, a show-camp in Czechoslovakia that housed numerous Jewish artists, who were encouraged to make and display their work as a sham to prove to the rest of the world that Nazi camps were humane places.

Death Strikes was adapted by my EFF colleague Dave Maass, an investigator and muckraker and brilliant writer, who teamed up with illustrator Patrick Lay and character designer Ezra Rose (who worked from Kien and Ullmann's original designs, which survived along with the score and libretto).

The Emperor's endless wars have already tried Death's patience. Death brings mercy, not vengeance, and the endless killing has dismayed him. The Emperor's co-option drives him past the brink, and Death declares a strike, breaking his sword and announcing that henceforth, no one will die.

Needless to say, this puts a crimp in the Emperor's all-out war plan. People get shot and stabbed and drowned and poisoned, but they don't die. They just hang around, embarrassingly alive (there's a great comic subplot of the inability of the Emperor's executioners to kill a captured assassin).

While this is clearly an adaptation, Kien and Ullmann's spirit of creativity, courage, and bittersweet creative ferment shines through. It's a beautiful book, snatched from death itself.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/23/peter-kien-viktor-ullmann/#terez

II. My Favorite Things Is Monsters Book Two by Emil Ferris

The long, long delayed sequel to the tale of Karen Reyes, a 10 year old, monster-obsessed queer girl in 1968 Chicago who lives with her working-class single mother and her older brother, Deeze, in an apartment house full of mysterious, haunted adults. There's the landlord – a gangster and his girlfriend – the one-eyed ventriloquist, and the beautiful Holocaust survivor and her jazz-drummer husband.

Ferris's storytelling style is dazzling, and it's matched and exceeded by her illustration style, which is grounded in the classic horror comics of the 1950s and 1960s. Characters in Karen's life – including Karen herself – are sometimes depicted in the EC horror style, and that same sinister darkness crowds around the edges of her depictions of real-world Chicago.

Book Two picks up from Book One's cliffhanger and then rockets forward. Everything brilliant about One is even better in Two – the illustrations more lush, the fine art analysis more pointed and brilliant, the storytelling more assured and propulsive, the shocks and violence more outrageous, the characters more lovable, complex and grotesque.

Everything about Two is more. The background radiation of the Vietnam War in One takes center stage with Deeze's machinations to beat the draft, and Deeze and Karen being ensnared in the Chicago Police Riots of '68. The allegories, analysis and reproductions of classical art get more pointed, grotesque and lavish. Annika's Nazi concentration camp horrors are more explicit and more explicitly connected to Karen's life. The queerness of the story takes center stage, both through Karen's first love and the introduction of a queer nightclub. The characters are more vivid, as is the racial injustice and the corruption of the adult world.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/01/the-druid/#

III. So Long Sad Love by Mirion Malle

Cleo is a French comics creator who's moved to Montreal, in part to be with Charles, a Quebecois creator who helps her find a place in the city's tight-knit artistic scene. The relationship feels like a good one, with the normal ups and downs, but then Cleo travels to a festival, where she meets Farah, a vivacious and talented fellow artist. They're getting along great…until Farah discovers who Cleo's boyfriend is. Though Farah doesn't say anything, she is visibly flustered and makes her excuses before hurriedly departing.

This kicks off Cleo's hunt for the truth about her boyfriend, a hunt that is complicated by the fact that she's so far from home, that her friends are largely his friends, that he flies off the handle every time she raises the matter, and by her love for him.

Malle handles this all so deftly, showing how Cleo and her friends all play archetypal roles in the recurrent missing stair dynamic. It's a beautifully told story, full of charm and character, but it's also a kind of forensic re-enactment of a disaster, told from an intermediate distance that's close enough to the action that we can see the looming crisis, but also understand why the people in its midst are steering straight into it.

Packed with subtlety and depth, romance and heartbreak, subtext that carries through the dialog (in marvelous translation from the original French by Aleshia Jensen) and the body language in Malle's striking artwork.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/25/missing-step/#the-fog-of-love

IV. Bea Wolf by Zach Wienersmith and Boulet

A ferociously amazingly great illustrated kids' graphic novel adaptation of the Old English epic poem, which inspired Tolkien, who helped bring it to popularity after it had languished in obscurity for centuries.

Weinersmith and Boulet set themselves the task of bringing a Germanic heroic saga from more than a thousand years ago to modern children, while preserving the meter and the linguistic and literary tropes of the original. And they did it!

There are some changes, of course. Grendel – the boss monster that both Beowulf and Bea Wulf must defeat – is no longer obsessed with decapitating his foes and stealing their heads. In Bea Wulf, Grendel is a monstrously grown up and boring adult who watches cable news and flosses twice per day, and when he defeats the kids whose destruction he is bent upon, he does so by turning them into boring adults, too.

The utter brilliance of Bea Wulf is as much due to the things it preserves from the original epic as it is to the updates and changes. Weinersmith has kept the Old English tradition of alliteration, right from the earliest passages, with celebrations of heroes like "Tanya, treat-taker, terror of Halloween, her costume-cache vast, sieging kin and neighbor, draining full candy-bins, fearing not the fate of her teeth. Ten thousand treats she took. That was a fine Tuesday."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/24/awesome-alliteration/#hellion-hallelujah

V. Youth Group by Bowen McCurdy and Jordan Morris

A charming tale of 1990s ennui, cringe Sunday School – and demon hunting.

Kay is a bitter, cynical teenager who's doing her best to help her mother cope with an ugly divorce that has seen her dad check out on his former family. Mom is going back to church, and she talks Kay into coming along with her to attend the church youth group.

But this is no ordinary youth group. Kay's ultra-boring suburban hometown is actually infested with demons who routinely possess the townspeople, and that baseline of demonic activity has suddenly gone critical, with a new wave of possessions. Suddenly, the possessed are everywhere – even Kay's shitty dad ends up with a demon inside of him.

That's when Kay discovers that the youth group and its corny pastor are also demon hunters par excellence. Their rec-rooms sport secret cubbies filled with holy weapons, and the words of exorcism come as readily to them as any embarrassing rewritten devotional pop song. Kay's discovery of this secret world convinces her that the youth group isn't so bad after all, and soon she is initiated into its mysteries, including the existence of rival demon-hunting kids from the local synagogue, Catholic church, and Wiccan coven.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/16/satanic-panic/#the-dream-of-the-nineties

VI. Justice Warriors: Vote Harder by Matt Bors and Ben Clarkson

Vote Harder sees Bubble City facing its first election in living memory, as the mayor – who inherited his position from his "powerful, strapping Papa" – loses a confidence vote by the city's trustees. They're upset with his plan to bankrupt the city in order to buy a laser powerful enough to carve his likeness into the sun as a viral stunt for the launch of his comeback album. The trustees are in no way mollified by the fact that he expects to make a lot of money selling special branded sunglasses that allow Bubble City (and the mutant hordes of the Uninhabited Zone) to safely look into the sun and see what their tax dollars bought.

So it's time for an election, and the two candidates are going hard: there's the incumbent Mayor Prince; there's his half-sister and ex-girlfriend, Stufina Vipix XII, and there's a dark-horse candidate Flauf Tanko, a mutant-tank cyborg that went rogue after a militant Home Owners Association disabled it and its owners abandoned it. Flauf-Tanko is determined to give the masses of the Uninhabited Zone the representation they've been denied for so long, despite the structural impediments to this (UZers need to complete a questionnaire, sub-forms, have three forms of ID, and present a rental contract, drivers license, work permit and breeding license. They also need to get their paperwork signed in person at a VERI-VOTE location, then wait 14 days to get their voter IDs by mail. Also, districts of 2 million or more mutants are allocated the equivalent of only 250,000 votes, but only if 51% of eligible voters show up to the polls; otherwise, their votes are parceled out to other candidates per the terms of the Undervoting and Apathy Allotment Act).

What unfolds is a funny, bitter, superb piece of political satire that could not be better timed.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/11/uninhabited-zone/#eremption-season

As I mentioned in the introduction to this roundup, I had three books out in 2024; a new hardcover, and the paperback editions of two books that came out in hardcover last year. There's more on the horizon – a new hardcover novel (PICKS AND SHOVELS) in Feb 2025, along with the paperback of my novel THE BEZZLE (also Feb 2025). I just turned in the manuscript for my next nonfiction book, ENSHITTIFICATION, which will also be adapted as a graphic novel. I'll also be shortly announcing the publication details for a YA graphic novel, a new essay collection and short story collection.

If you enjoy my work – the newsletter, the talks, the reviews – the best way to support me is to buy my books. I write for grownups, teens, middle-schoolers and little kids, so there's something for everyone!

I. The Lost Cause A solarpunk novel of hope in the climate emergency. "The first great YIMBY novel" -Bill McKibben. "Completely delightful…Neither utopian nor dystopian…I loved it" -Rebecca Solnit. A national bestseller!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause/

II. The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation A detailed disassembly manual for people who want to dismantle Big Tech. "A passionate case for 'relief from manipulation, high-handed moderation, surveillance, price-gouging, disgusting or misleading algorithmic suggestions. -Akash Kapur, New Yorker. Another national bestseller!

https://www.versobooks.com/products/3035-the-internet-con

III. The Bezzle. A seething rebuke of the privatized prison system that delves deeply into the arcane and baroque financial chicanery involved in the 2008 financial crash. "Righteously satisfying…A fascinating tale of financial skullduggery, long cons, and the delivery of ice-cold revenge." –Booklist. A third national bestseller!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle/

[ltash]

Pretty Little Teacher

Simon Ghost Riley x female reader

Warning: 18 plus, dubcon and noncon theme, dark themed, dark ghost, s*x and erotica, forced sex.

He loves me like a monster, all teeth and talk and hiding in the dark. That's my speciality, Men with strong bodies and fragile hearts, and if you hold them too tightly they will crumble beneath you like an avalanche that is waiting."

●●○~ Lindsey Hobart ~○●●

Ghost sat in his dimly lit room, the blue glow from the laptop screen casting sharp shadows across his masked features. Laswell's voice echoed in his ears, calm yet commanding.

"You have to go undercover to gather some intel," she instructed, her face a picture of seriousness on the screen. Ghost's fists clenched, his eyes narrowing as deep creases appeared at the corners. He remained silent, absorbing the gravity of the assignment.

"You'll be posing as a high school student. We have made all the arrangements. The principal and teachers are informed. We need important intel about a person working there. I'm sending you a report. Read it," Laswell said, her tone leaving no room for discussion. She hung up the video call before Ghost could utter a word.

"Fuck!" Ghost cursed, his frustration evident. "Now I have to become a fucking high schooler," he spat, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at him.

As a highly trained SAS soldier and an elite killing machine, Ghost was used to the most dangerous and covert missions. But this? This was entirely different. How the hell was he supposed to blend in as a high schooler with his massive height and muscular build? He would look like a fish out of water, a grown man playing dress-up.

He opened the report Laswell had sent, scanning through the details of his new identity and the target he needed to surveil. The mission was critical, he reminded himself. He had faced worse odds and more dangerous situations. But even as he reassured himself, the thought of navigating the social labyrinth of a high school filled him with a unique dread.

"Guess it's time to go back to school," he muttered under his breath, already strategizing how he would tackle this bizarre new mission.

Ghost scanned the report, eyes moving quickly over the lines of text. Someone from the office staff was involved in terrorist activity, and the school's security was compromised. The specifics were still murky, but the mission was clear: infiltrate, gather intel, and neutralize the threat.

As he read, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. It was Soap.

"Hey, high schooler! Need help picking out your backpack?" Soap's message read, followed by a string of laughing emojis.

Ghost growled in irritation. Soap had been making fun of him since he got the assignment. In truth, Ghost thought Soap was the one who was fit for this job. With his leaner build and younger appearance, Soap would blend in effortlessly. But orders were orders.

"You're just jealous you can't relive your glory days," Ghost shot back, though he knew Soap would get a kick out of his reply.

He closed the report and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. This mission was unlike any he had faced before. It required a different kind of camouflage, a different kind of patience. He was about to step into a world of teenage drama, cliques, and homework. But he would adapt, as he always did. He had no choice.

Monday morning arrived too quickly. Ghost stood in his small apartment, the usual grey hoodie and sweatpants hanging off his frame. Soap had helped him gather the essential school supplies: notebooks, pens, and a new backpack that didn't look out of place for a high schooler. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and slipped on his skull-printed balaclava. His identity had to be hidden at all costs.

He climbed into his Range Rover and drove to the school, parking a distance away to avoid drawing attention. With a deep sigh, he exited the vehicle and made his way to the school entrance.

The moment he stepped into the corridor, the contrast of his presence was stark. Teenagers milled about, chatting and laughing, but Ghost felt like a fish out of water. His height and build made him stand out like a sore thumb, despite the hoodie and balaclava doing their best to conceal his identity.

He pushed forward, reminding himself of the mission's importance. He needed to find his way to the office, get his bearings, and begin gathering intel. The corridor seemed endless, each step echoing with the sounds of lockers slamming and indistinct chatter.

"Fucking Hell," he muttered under his breath, trying to blend in as much as a heavily-built, masked adult could in a sea of high schoolers.

Ghost made his way to the last classroom on the K-12 hallway, assigned as a senior posing as an 18-year-old. Despite being 29 with a muscular build, he hoped to blend in with the 12th graders.

He opened the door and walked in, immediately feeling the curious eyes of his new classmates on him. Ignoring the stares, he scanned the room for any signs of the person he was here to investigate. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, looked up from her desk.

"You must be the new student," she said, motioning him to an empty seat near the back. "Welcome."

Ghost nodded and made his way to the seat, keeping his head down. He dropped his backpack on the floor and settled in, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. The other students eventually lost interest, returning to their conversations and distractions.

As the teacher began the lesson, Ghost's mind raced. He knew he had to keep a low profile while also staying alert for any signs of suspicious activity. His eyes roved over the room, memorizing faces and noting behaviors. The target could be anyone-an unsuspecting office staff member, a seemingly innocent teacher, or even a fellow student.

The day had been a tedious blur for Ghost, each monotonous class blending into the next. Used to the adrenaline of combat and the precision of sniper shots, he found the slow pace of high school unbearable. But all that changed when you entered the room.

Your presence was electrifying, a stark contrast to the dull atmosphere. The click of your red Louboutin pumps echoed in the silent classroom as you made your way to the front. Your black dress pants, stylishly slit, and button-up shirt under a sleek black blazer highlighted your figure. Long, blonde hair cascaded down your back, framing your big blue eyes and perfectly pink lips.

Ghost felt a surge of desire course through him, his mind racing with thoughts he knew he shouldn't entertain. He imagined gripping your tiny waist, pulling you close, feeling your petite frame against his as he lost himself in you. The urge to take you, to dominate you, was almost overwhelming.

"Hey! Newbie, are you listening?" Your voice cut through his fantasies, pulling him back to reality.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, his husky British accent barely masking his distraction.

"Your name?" you asked, standing near his desk, your eyes meeting his.

"Simon," he answered, using his real name to avoid any potential mistakes.

"Well, Simon, try to pay attention," you said with a faint smile before returning to the front of the class.

As you began the lesson, Ghost forced himself to focus, but it was a losing battle. His thoughts kept drifting back to you, and the way your presence stirred something primal within him. He needed to remember his mission, but in that moment, all he could think about was how desperately he wanted you.

The period ended, and Ghost watched you leave the classroom, struggling to control his thoughts. You stood out among the middle-aged teachers, looking so young, no older than 25. How could someone like you be teaching 12th graders? The question burned in his mind, but it was more than just curiosity; he was captivated by you.

He barely remembered the rest of the day, his mind fixated on you. As soon as he could, he retreated to his apartment. The urge to release the tension was overwhelming. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over his muscular frame. His cock was already hard, fueled by the image of your lips wrapped around him.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hand wrapping around his shaft. He imagined you on your knees, your pink, plump lips taking the full length of his cock in, your big blue eyes looking up at him with a mix of innocence and desire. His strokes quickened, his other hand gripping the air as he fantasized about it tangled in your long, blonde hair.

His body tensed, muscles straining as he neared the edge. The thought of you sucking him off, your pretty little mouth taking him deeper, his cum all over your face pushed him over. He climaxed hard, a guttural groan escaping him as he came, the pearly liquid mixing with the warm water and flowing down his thick thighs.

Leaning against the shower wall, he panted heavily, trying to catch his breath. The intensity of his release did little to quell the longing he felt. As the water washed away the evidence of his fantasy, he knew he was in trouble. This mission was supposed to be about gathering intel, but his thoughts kept drifting back to you. He needed to stay focused, but the image of your gorgeous face and enticing body lingered in his mind, a distraction he couldn't afford yet couldn't resist.

The next day, Ghost found himself eagerly anticipating school, though for entirely different reasons than his usual missions. From the moment he had first seen you, you became his muse, eclipsing the seriousness of his undercover assignment. Dressed in blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a sleek black leather jacket that concealed his tattoo sleeve, he waited through all six periods just for a glimpse of you.

When you finally entered the classroom, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Students greeted you warmly, but Ghost's attention was solely on you. You wore high heels that accentuated your figure, a casual T-shirt, and form-fitting pencil jeans that emphasized your curves. It was undeniable-you were the most stunning woman he had ever encountered.

As you distributed MCQ papers among the students, you approached Ghost's desk. Your curiosity got the better of you as you inquired about his mask. "Why are you wearing a mask?" you asked, your voice filled with genuine curiosity.

"I get sunburn," he replied smoothly, trying to maintain his cover.

You chuckled softly, the sound sending a thrill down Ghost's spine. "Weirdo," you whispered teasingly, but your words were loud enough for him to hear. The image of dominating you right there, bending you over the desk, fucking you from behind and hearing you begging to stop, flashed vividly in his mind, your body arched in his hands, pussy clenched around his length as he rails his full length till the hilt into you, ruin your pretty little cunt for everyone while you screaming out his name.

"Concentrate on your paper, weirdo," you mocked again as you moved away.

His jaw clenched with frustration, anger simmering beneath the surface. Despite the rush of desire coursing through him, he remained stoic and silent, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He knew indulging in these fantasies could compromise his mission, yet resisting the pull of attraction toward you seemed almost impossible. Ghost was torn between duty and desire, unsure how much longer he could keep his composure around you.

He had finished his paper along with the other students as the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. One by one, they handed their work to you, you seated at your desk. Ghost lingered, the last student to leave, quietly closing the door behind him. Remaining seated, he watched you intently.

Stealth was his forte, and he approached you silently. You were small compared to him, your back elegantly arched as you organized the papers into a neat pile. Standing right behind you, he suppressed the urge to touch you. Suddenly, you moved back, inadvertently brushing against the bulge in his pants. A squeak escaped your lips as you jumped, startled like a bunny, and turned around.

Leaning heavily against the table, you panted, eyeing the behemoth of a man standing before you at his full height for the first time. A shiver ran down your spine from the sensation of his arousal against you. He stood there with a menacing look in his eyes, extending his paper to you. With shaky hands, you took it, feeling a jolt as his gloved hand brushed against you.

Without a word, he turned and left the classroom.

Throughout the drive to his apartment, he couldn't shake the image of you, how your inadvertent touch had stirred a primal urge within him. How you bumped into his erect cock ready to sprung out. The urgency of his mission weighed heavily on his mind, but thoughts of you kept intruding.

Later that day, consumed by desire, he found himself jerking off imagining you once more. He couldn't help but picture your round ass, the sensation of you against him, his cock stretching your gummy walls as he fucks you doggy style, the fantasies growing more vivid with each passing moment. It was a distraction he couldn't afford, yet couldn't ignore.

The next day, he arrived at the school as usual, anticipation swirling within him. Your period had become his favorite, and he waited patiently until you appeared, as usual, with an air of cautious awareness. As the lesson progressed, you couldn't help but notice his chocolate brown eyes fixed on you through his balaclava.

He was no ordinary teenager - tall, dark, and undeniably handsome even with a balaclava on his face, with a presence that set him apart. You felt the weight of his gaze, the tilt of his head to the side like a predator sizing up its prey. Despite the distraction, you continued with your class routine, distributing checked papers to the students, your focus unwavering on your mission.

His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering, as if he had something more than mere curiosity driving his attention. You knew you couldn't afford to be distracted, not with what was at stake.

As you hurriedly left the classroom, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, you reached for your cellphone and stepped into the quiet solitude of the bathroom. With a hushed voice, you spoke into the receiver, "Yes! Tomorrow is the day. We will hunt another doe tomorrow."

Across the line, a voice crackled with excitement, "Perfect. After school, then?"

"Yes," you affirmed, nodding to yourself. "After school." With that, you hung up, slipping the phone back into your pocket.

Unbeknownst to you, Ghost known as Simon, the new student who had been quietly observing the dynamics of his new environment, had overheard your conversation.

From the first day of his undercover assignment, Ghost had sensed something amiss. How could a 25-year-old teacher be instructing seniors when others with more experience were available? It gnawed at him, a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into place. As he stood in the hallway, a vicious smirk spread across his face.

"So you are the one," he whispered to himself, the realization sinking in. "And now, there's nobody that can save you from me. Not even yourself." His mission had taken a dark turn. You are the one involved in human trafficking.

Tomorrow was the day Ghost knew he had to act swiftly. He slipped on his skull mask, adjusted his gear-blue jeans, black hoodie, and vest. His Beretta rested against his chest while his sniper rifle was ready on the passenger seat of his car.

He parked in the nearly deserted school lot, waiting patiently. It was nearly two hours past school hours when he spotted you approaching from the back of the building. You met with another person near a car.

"The girl is in the bathroom, I've hidden her there. Wait here, let me take her out," you said.

Without hesitation, Ghost aimed his sniper rifle at the man's head and took the shot. Skull fragments and brain matter scattered as the bullet found its mark. A scream tore from your lips as chaos erupted.

Ghost calmly placed the sniper rifle on the seat and stepped out of his car. You saw him approaching and instinctively ran. Darkness was descending, the winter chill settling in.

You ran for your life, heart pounding with fear, but Ghost closed the distance quickly. Desperation set in as you realized you had no weapon. You took out a pocket knife and attempted to attack, but Ghost deftly seized your wrist, disarming you.

You screamed and struggled, but he immobilized you, securing your wrists with a zip tie. With a forceful push, he slammed your back against a car, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

Fear and confusion engulfed you as Ghost stood before you, his identity finally revealed, and his intentions chillingly clear.

"Let me go," you tried to scream as he pinned you against the car, looming over you. His 6'4" frame towered over you, casting a dark shadow. The edge of his knife pressed against your throat qnd his hand on your chest kept you pinned against the car.

"Just got you. Now I can't let you go, won't let you go," he whispered in your ear with his husky voice. "How can I waste this pretty little cunt of yours, princess?"

You whimpered and squirmed, fear coursing through your veins. His hand traveled to your neck, his grip so firm that you could barely breathe. You struggled to breath. Your vision blurred as darkness enveloped you, and you melted into his arms like putty.

You went limp in his arms like a rag doll, a pretty little thing for him to play with. He strapped you into the passenger in his car seat and drove off, his mind racing with twisted excitement.

He stroked your hairs with his fingers while he drove. He just had got his little plaything.

Upon reaching his apartment, he carried you inside, laying you gently on the soft sheets of his bed. Even in your unconscious state, you looked so beautiful and irresistible. His excitement grew, his cock twitched from the anticipation building as he stood over you, lost in the dark allure of the moment.

You whimpered as you slowly opened your eyes. Ghost was perched on a couch in front of you. Sitting up slowly, you noticed your hands were still tied in your lap. Your tiny body shivered at the sight of him as he rose to his full height. The room seemed small, his eyes behind the skull mask full of menace, looking straight through you. Your lips quivered with fear as he approached.

"Wakey, wakey, Princess," he taunted, stepping out of the shadows. His blue jeans were tight around his thick thighs, and his black hoodie strained to contain his muscular physique. The skull mask shone dimly in the light. The tattoo peeked through the space between his sleeve and his gloved hand.

You gulped, "Who are you?" you asked in a small voice.

"Ghost. Heard the name before?" He tilted his head to the side, and realization hit you hard-it was Simon.

"What do you want?" you barely whispered.

"You," was his only reply as he stepped closer.

A whimper escaped your lips as you pulled yourself to the other side of the bed and stood up.

"Don't make this hard for yourself, Princess."

Panting, you frantically ran towards the door, but his hands were around your waist in no time. He slammed you against the wall, the impact sending pain throbbing through your back.

His hand smacked the wall beside your head. The barrel of his gun made contact with your chin.

"Look at me!" he shouted, his voice an order. You squeaked in response, your eyes meeting his.

"Good girl," he praised, his hot breath fanning against your face. "I'm a lieutenant, not your average student, and you have to comply-or else." The barrel of his Beretta poked under your ribs. "Choices have consequences," he said softly this time.

"I've been thinking about your body since the day I saw you." He stroked the soft skin of your chest with his gun, trailing it down the valley between your breasts. Your skin quivered under the touch of the cold metal.

"So irresistible, Princess." His husky voice sent shivers down your spine.

You gasped as he snapped your ziptie with a strength so brute it took only a second to come off. Your buttoned blouse came next as he snapped it apart. All the buttons came crashing down on thefloor. Your pearly necklace was snatched from your neck. The pearls came rolling down on the floor.

You gasped as he snapped your bra from the front. Your perky breasts liberated from the confines of the lacy material.

He pulled his mask upto his nose and his lips grazed your neck as his thumb met your nipples squeezing your breasts so hard it was almost painful. A painful moan mixed with pleasure escaped through your lips.

He held you close by your waist and he chuckled as your small waist fitted so easily in both his hands all while kissing your neck while his hands played with the soft skin of your back.

"So soft like plush in my hands." He said as he rubbed your nipples with his rough thumb. A sexy hiss escaped your lips as you threw your head back biting your lips.

"You gave in so easily princess." He whispered. His sexy voice made you moan.

He tossed you over the bed, with a squeak you fell, soft sheets cushioning your back as you landed with a gasp.

His eyes, filled with a hunger that mirrored your own, locked onto yours. "Been waiting to bend you over that goddamn desk in that class and fuck your needy little cunt, princess," he confessed, his voice low and husky with desire.

As he removed his hoodie, revealing a canvas of scars that gleamed against his muscular frame, you couldn't help but gasp. Each scar told a story of battles fought and survived, adding to the allure of his rugged demeanor. His predatory approach, intensified by the skull mask he wore, sent a thrill through your veins. He moved closer with a confident stride, his presence filling the room with a primal intensity that both thrilled and unnerved you.

You gasped as he closed the distance. His hands reached for the strap of your jeans, deftly unbuttoning them with a deliberate touch. With a smooth motion, he slid the denim down your legs, revealing your bare skin in the soft moonlight filtering through the curtains.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. You laid exposed before him, feeling both vulnerable and empowered by his gaze.

You knew you were powerless infront of him and he will have his way with you one way or another. Wetness had already pooled between your legs and you were trying hard to hide it by closing them.

He traced the barrel of his gun along the soft skin of your inner thighs. Shivers ran down your spine as you felt the cold metal against your sensitive skin.

"Open your legs Princess." He ordered slowly parting your thighs.

"So sensitive, aye?" he said with a mocking tone.

You hissed at the sensation. He slowly pressed the barrel against your clothed folds, eliciting a moan from your lips.

"Please! I beg you, don't do this," you pleaded, my voice trembling.

"Look at you! A wet, hot mess for me," he sneered.

He knelt before you, his hands reaching for your panties. With one tug, he tore the strap, leaving you completely exposed.

"You should thank me, princess, that I'm gentle with you. I'm not very gentle with women. They run from me after what I do to them," he laughed.

Your breath hitched in your throat. "Oh my god," you moaned.

He opened your legs slowly, his fingers parting your folds as he gently touched your swollen clit. Your body quivered with the sensation.

"So soft, so sensitive," he said, as he slid his rough fingers inside you.

A slow scream escaped your lips as your pussy clenched around his fingers. Your back arched, moans spilling from your mouth. He watched your face contort with pleasure as he leaned down, his tongue making circles around the buds of your nipples.

You clutched the sheets, your eyes shut tight as his fingers curled up, hitting just the right spot.

"You sound so pretty, love," he teased, his tongue continuing to play with your nipple. The sensation was heavenly, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

He adjusted himself between your thighs, kissing your entire body as he moved down toward your stomach and then your most sensitive part.

He gently kissed the inside of your thighs before his tongue met your folds. Screams of pleasure spilled from your pretty mouth as he nipped and sucked at your already swollen bud.

"Oh, fuck!" you moaned.

He kept teasing your folds with his tongue, sucking your wetness as he held your hips tightly in place.

He kept torturing you with his tongue until you couldn't take it anymore.

"I-I can't take it anymore," you begged.

"Ssh!" he whispered, placing a finger on your lips. "You're going to take it, just a little longer."

Your body trembled as he continued his relentless assault with his tongue, the pleasure overwhelming. He moved his finger from your lips to your clit, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles while his tongue continued its work.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice cracking with desperation.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Beg me," he commanded softly.

"Please, please, I need more," you cried out, your body aching for release.

A satisfied smirk played on his lips. "Good girl," he said, his voice low and husky. He increased the pressure of his tongue and finger, driving you closer to the edge. "Now, let go for me."

With his words, you felt the dam break, and waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Your back arched, and a guttural moan escaped your lips as you finally reached your climax. He continued his movements, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from your trembling body.

As you lay there, breathless and spent, he gently kissed your inner thighs before moving up to your face.

You were still high when he unzipped his pants.

"Been waiting for this ever since I laid my eyes on you," he said, taking his cock and positioning himself on top of you.

You looked at him with dazed eyes.

"Like what you see, princess?" he asked with a smirk.

"I-I can't do this," you pleaded.

"You can do this, and you will," he replied firmly.

He pressed his cock against your entrance, bending you down. Without warning, he pushed his entire length inside, pinning your wrists against the bed. You screamed as your walls wrapped around him, your body struggling to adjust to his size while he fucked you deeply, not giving you any time to acclimate.

You were completely at his mercy, a plaything for his desires.

"Fuck! Princess, you feel so tight around me," he growled, thrusting in deeply.

You were breathless, disoriented by the intensity of it all. He drove into you with unrelenting force, hitting inside you to the extreme. Your back arched under him as waves of pain and pleasure coursed through you. His cock was so big it made an impression inside your belly where it hit.

"How does it feel, me ruining your pretty pussy, love?" he growled, sitting back on his knees and gripping your waist tightly.

Your eyes rolled back as he railed into you with brute force, the sensations overwhelming and consuming.

Whimpers escaped your lips as his hips thrusted against your pelvis. Skin to skin, the intense connection between you sparked a fire that threatened to consume you both. You hid your face in the soft pillow, the tears mingling with your whimpers, your cries echoing in the room like a haunting melody.

He chuckled at the sight before him, the raw vulnerability and passion in your every movement only adding to the intoxicating air surrounding them. "Look at you, eh," he murmured, his voice a low growl filled with satisfaction. "Taking me so well."

With a sudden move, he lifted you up by your waist, your heart racing a mile a minute, your vision blurred with the overwhelming sensation of being completely lost in him. "Oh my god, I am gonna die," you whined, the words a mix of fear and ecstasy that only served to fuel the flames of desire burning between you both.

But he just chuckled, his hold on you firm and reassuring. "Not on my watch, luv," he whispered, his voice a comforting anchor in the whirlwind of emotions and pleasure that threatened to consume you.

He pulled out abruptly, spinning you around and delivering a stinging slap to your ass.

You clutched the sheets as he seized your hips, pulling you towards him and plunging deep inside once more. A primal groan escaped his lips as he grabbed your hair, tilting your head back and driving himself deeper with each thrust.

Your impassioned cries only fueled his intensity. With a firm grip on your waist, he pounded into you relentlessly, embodying the raw, primal desire of a man possessed. Your body arched and trembled on the bed as he pinned you down by your head, pressing your face into the bed.

"I can't do this anymore," you begged him.

He pulled you up onto your knees, his free hand gently gripping your neck while his other arm rested between the valley of your breasts. His hold on your neck was firm but not painful, asserting his control. With a strong grip on your waist, he thrust deep into you.

You leaned against his chest, your face turning towards him as you neared your release. He captured your lips in a hungry kiss, swallowing your moans.

His cock twitched and pulsed as he reached his climax. His movements grew erratic as he poured himself into you, filling you with his essence.

Exhausted, you collapsed onto the bed, eyes shutting tight as the waves of ecstasy washed over you.

He settled beside you, carefully tucking you under the sheets while you lay on your stomach, peacefully asleep.

"Sleep well, princess," he murmured, his fingers gently caressing your hair.

The next morning, you woke to find him already seated on the couch, wearing the same skull-printed balaclava, his eyes still filled with menace. Your whole body ached and marked with hickeys. Last nights encounter spiralled in your mind.

"Good morning, princess. I hope you're feeling well," he greeted you, tossing an oversized t-shirt in your direction.

Confusion and fear gripped you. "Who are you? Why did you do this to me? What were you even doing in my class?"

"I'm Lieutenant Simon Riley, also known as Ghost," he replied coolly. "I was in your class because we've been keeping an eye on you. Now, get dressed. You have visitors."

You rose silently and headed to the bathroom to change. As you finished, there came a knock at the door.

He opened it, and police officers entered the room.

"She's all yours," he stated with a smirk beneath his balaclava.

"You'll regret this! I'll make you pay for this!" you screamed as they cuffed you and led you away.

"Fuck you!" You screamed.

He chuckled darkly, watching as you were taken into custody.

"I just did." He winked as you were taken away.

[neeksparksg]

Sparks in conflict

The chill of the desert night was a sharp contrast to the simmering tension between the two Autobots as they sped across a desert. Arcee’s sleek blue motorcycle form hummed softly beside you, her engine purring like a cat. Your own form, a sports car with deep (f/c) detailing that glinted under the dim moonlight. You could feel her optics on you even now, filled with distrust and frustration.

“This is ridiculous,” Arcee muttered through the comms, her tone cutting like a blade. “I don’t understand why Optimus paired us together.”

“Believe me, it’s not my idea of a good time either,” you replied coldly, trying to keep your irritation in check. “I’d rather be anywhere but here, babysitting your self-righteous spark.”

“Babysitting? I’m the one in charge of the mission, don’t forget that you cold-constructed con,” she snapped. “You shouldn’t even be here. Optimus made a mistake by allowing you to stay”

Your grip on the metaphorical wheel tightened. It was obvious that the autoboots weren’t happy with working with you, but at least most of them have the decency to keep their discomfort to themselves but Arcee had always been vocal about it “I am no decepticon” you said with clear anger on your voice

“Doesn’t change what you are,” Arcee shot back. “You’re a weapon. A Decepticon-designed killing machine. With no regard for innocent lives, and no concept of loyalty, I don’t trust you not to try and kill us when Megatron gives the order” she say as both of you arrive at your destination changing into you alt forms

 “you know what?” you said with a smile of anger on your Faceplate “I may be a cold-constructed Freak as you so graciously remind me everyday, I may have been forged to serve the decepticons, but that doesn’t make you better than me” as you talk you walk closer to her, “Because unlike you I keep my partners Alive”

The silence that followed was to say the least uncomfortable. you could feel the weight of your words. Her optics glaring at you, she was seconds away to lose it

“Shut up” Arcee hissed, her voice low and venomous.

“or what? You are going to make sure I join the ongoing list of partners that have died at your side?” you teased, perhaps it wasn’t the best idea but you were tired of the autobots attitude towards you

Before she could respond, a blast went off close to the two

“Decepticons” you said, shifting towards the upcoming vehicons “Looks like this conversation have to wait"

Arcee didn’t respond, she just ready her weapons and start fighting back, that was all confirmation you needed.

---

The battlefield was chaos. Blaster fire lit up the dark sands, explosions illuminating the silhouettes of the Vehicons. You moved with precision, every shot and strike calculated, dispatching Vehicons was just to easy to you, you knew their maneuvers and tactics, you knew how to fight them it was one of the few things Shockwave made you do as training once you were completed. Arcee was a blur, her blades slicing through the enemy ranks with practiced ease. Yet, even in the heat of battle, the tension between you two lingered.

“Behind you!” you called, firing a shot that narrowly missed her shoulder to take out a drone creeping up behind her.

“I didn’t need your help!” she snapped, spinning to cut down another attacker.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you retorted, dodging a missile and returning fire.

Another wave of drones descended, forcing the two of you to fight back-to-back. Despite the hostility, your movements were synchronized, Yet, the argument continued, woven into the chaos.

“You know,” Arcee grunted as she drove her blade into a drone, “no matter how much you try, you’ll never be an autobot.”

“Funny,” you said, kicking a drone aside and firing point-blank into its chest. “Because I don’t remember asking for your approval. All I want is a bit of trust”

“You don’t get it,” she snarled, blocking an incoming strike. “We’ve fought your kind for eons. Trust isn’t something you can just earn overnight.”

“They are not my kind,” you shot back, your voice rising as you tore through another Vehicone, with perphaps more violence than needed. “I left behind everything I knew, I betrayed those who created me, risking everything to fight for something better. I'm nothing like them”

“Then prove it!” she shouted, her voice filled with frustration and pain.

“I’ve been proving it every day since I joined!” you yelled, the heat of the argument nearly drowning out the sound of battle. “But maybe you’re just too blinded by your own Prejudice to see it.”

The moment your words left your vocal processor, the ground shook as a Decepticon brute landed nearby, swinging a massive hammer. The force of its strike sent both you and Arcee flying. You hit the ground hard, your systems sparking in protest. Arcee wasn’t as lucky, a jagged piece of debris piercing her side as she landed.

“Arcee!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

“Stay back!” she hissed, her optics flickering as she tried to rise. The brute loomed over her, hammer raised for the killing blow.

Without thinking, you launched yourself at the Decepticon. The brute was tough, but a well-placed shot to its head, the brute crumpled to the ground.

Breathing heavily, you turned back to Arcee. She was slumped against a rock, energon pooling beneath her. Her optics narrowed as you approached.

“Don’t—” she started, but her voice faltered as pain overtook her.

“Shut up, You rust-headed glitch” you snapped, kneeling beside her. “I’m not letting you die out here.”

She flinched as you carefully examined her wound, her expression a mix of anger and reluctant acceptance. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, activating your repair tools. “Whether you like it or not, we’re on the same side now.”

Arcee grimaced but didn’t protest further, her optics fixed on you as you worked. The silence between you was heavy.

“Why?” she finally asked, her voice softer than before. “Why do you care?”

You paused, meeting her gaze. “I told you, I keep my partners Alive” you said quietly. “even you.”

For the first time, Arcee didn’t have a sharp reply. Instead, she simply nodded, the faintest hint of gratitude in her optics.

---

By the time the groundbridge open, Arcee was leaning heavily on you, her injuries slowing her down. When the rest of the team arrived, they looked between the two but no one said anything.

As the Ratchet rushed to tend to Arcee, she glanced back at you. “Maybe... maybe I was too harsh on you” she admitted reluctantly.

“Maybe,” you said with a small, tired smirk. “and Maybe I was a bit out of line with what I said”

Arcee huffed a faint laugh, the first sign of something other than disdain since you’d met her. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.